Flowering Death

by Angus MacVicar

  Joan half-rose, and then, with some confusion, settled back in her chair. She tried to hide the satisfaction in her eyes when the head of Department Q7 entered the room. And then she pursed her lips to prevent a gasp of astonishment from escaping between them.

  Spike Dorrance’s lean face was white as a sheet. His habitual poise and good humour were absent. There was a suggestion of despair about his trimly clad, strong body.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” he said. “We’ve been doin’ a bit of spade-work at the Yard — but we’ve not found any gold in the workin’s ... And there’s only a week. There’s only a week. Old Percy’s been dinning that into my ears all night. As if I didn’t realize it as well as he does ... ”

  He lit a cigarette and his long, capable fingers fumbled ever so slightly with the match.

  “What you need,” announced Aunt Margaret, rising to put away the table-runner, “is a good hot cup of coffee.”

  She had no notion of what he talked about; but she perceived the strain about his mouth and eyes and understood her duty.

  He nodded.

  “Good old Aunt Margaret!”

  *

  When the old lady left, the room to prepare a fresh brew, Joan laid a hand impulsively upon his arm.

  “Spike,” she said slowly; “this morning you hesitated to discuss the ease with me because, technically, I’m still under suspicion of murdering my guardian. Surely you have discovered now — from your investigations that I’ve nothing whatever to do with the hateful business. And in that case won’t you tell me what the trouble is exactly? Won’t you let me help you? You look absolutely tired out. I’m fresh. If you trusted me and talked to me I might be able to give you a new angle on the affair. I want to help you, Spike ... ”

  He looked at her from under black eyebrows and for a moment she thought he was going to remain silent. Then he grinned.

  “Duty be damned,” he said more cheerfully. “I do trust you. I’m going to trust you from now on. I — I know you have nothing to do with the beastly crime. I know that you are ... Well, now, I’ll tell you: to-day’s developments in the McIntee case point away from you. You’re so sweet, Joan ... ”

  She smiled a little tremulously. Then she became business-like.

  “Go on, Spike. There’s something worrying you. What is it?”

  After a tiny pause he said:

  “Matter of fact, Joan, the murder of your guardian seems to be a mere detail in a colossal work of villainy. And I’m dead seared that whoever the villain may be he’s going to beat us to it. He has capable allies ... This is my biggest ease so far, Joan; if I fail, McGonagle, Spring and I will be puffed out — like candles. I don’t care for myself; but if McGonagle and Spring are broken I’m goin’ to howl ... And there are lives at stake.”

  He seemed to be taking a grip of himself. The warmth of the fire and the light in Joan’s eyes were bringing back his natural good humour. He was beginning to forget Sir Percival Merridew’s repetition of the phrase: “Only a week.” He was beginning to forget the mysterious malady known as “The Pink Flowers of Solomon” and those sufferers who awaited with pathetic expectancy the discovery of an antidote. He was beginning to forget the grey-faced doctors who were working day and night on parts of the mysterious fungoid growths, vainly endeavouring to find a formula which might negative their malignancy. He was beginning to forget the students who pored over ancient tomes in the libraries and museums, striving to find an illuminating reference to “the cure of the knife and poison” mentioned by “Jimmy” Ram-Singh.

  “Tell me, Spike,” continued Joan, gently persistent, “about what you’ve been doing to-day. Don’t be a policeman ... ”

  He pondered for a moment. Suddenly unexpectedly, he said:

  “You’re not fed up with me, Joan, for breaking my promise to — er — to come home early and discuss things with you: are you?”

  She smiled up at him.

  “Why, Spike, of course not. I know you must have had something pretty important to do ... ”

  “I had to dine with the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders.”

  She became rigid, and a surge of quick, unreasoning anger rose in her heart. But valiantly she strove to crush it down. There came to her, however, little memories.

  “Indeed!” she said slowly. “Do you know, I remember Mr. Lancaster telling me yesterday that Miss Sanders and you were — er — once close friends.”

  Spike’s grey eyes became as hard as steel.

  “Kind of Mr. Lancaster to give you the information. As it happens it is not the truth. I knew the lady, certainly; but I was not friendly, and I shan’t even have the doubtful pleasure of her friendship in the future. Miss Sanders is dead.”

  Joan looked away.

  “Don’t be so bitter, Spike. It’s not like you in the least. I’m sorry if I spoke queerly ... Won’t you tell me now about your work on the case?”

  “You don’t think that I could be intimate with — er — the Hon. Nancy?”

  She shook her head and tried to hide her fear. She remembered something Aunt Margaret had said.

  “No, Spike,” she returned. “I’ve confidence in you ...”

  He showed white teeth in a smile. The physical and mental weariness which had almost overcome him suddenly disappeared from his attitude.

  And then, quickly, jerkily, he began to speak: about the truth of the paragraphs which had appeared in the Daily Star; about the threat to the Government by “Black and White”; about the continued silence of Mexico Madge and Italian George and the disappearance of their elderly accomplice; about Nan Li-San; about the knowledge that the rose “Lady Charlotte Hamilton” was a rare variety to be found, for example, in the garden of Sanders Grange; about Spring’s call at Arundel House and his discovery there of something queer to which he could not put a name; about the inquiries concerning Dr. McIntee, Seale, Lancaster and Fayne which were being made by the Indian and Burmese police; about the flowers sent by the Hon. Nancy, under the nom de plume of “a grateful patient,” to Dr. Fayne; about the flowers which Spring had found out were heaped at the feat of Lancaster, as Othello, on the evening before the murder; about his own visit to the Hon. Nancy’s home: (he made her laugh with a description of the parson’s wife); about the curious point that all those afflicted by the flower disease had been patients of Dr. Fayne; about the curious talc told by “Jimmy” Ram-Singh; about the rendezvous which he, McGonagle and Spring had arranged with the murderer on the following evening, and about the rather gallant death of the Hon. Nancy.

  “We’ve been trying to trace her murderer all evening,” said Spike slowly; “but we can find nothing definite to act upon. Between the departure of her car from Sanders Grange and its arrival at Harpagon’s there is a blank which we’ve failed to penetrate. That’s natural enough, of course, for she was driving her own car and we had no one watching her movements ... She left home, apparently, about seven o’clock. It was about eight-fifteen when she reached Harpagon’s in her Bianca — still alone. And the commissionaire is positive that no one could have shot her on the pavement or in the restaurant. The inference is, then, that at a point of her journey she stopped to speak to someone — either ‘Black and White’ himself or an agent — who shot her. At once she must have driven on in an effort to escape, perhaps not quite realizing at the time the seriousness of her wound ... The motive for killing her is clear; the murderer of your guardian must have learned of my visit to Sanders Grange and about the manner in winch I forced the Hon. Nancy’s hand. He must have discovered that she meant to betray him to me at Harpagon’s.”

  Joan nodded.

  “And did Miss Sanders try to tell you anything before — before she died?”

  “That’s a queer thing,” replied Spike. “She did. But we can’t make head or tail of it. She said something like this: ‘I have been shot. It was the muir’. Can’t think of what word she was trying to finish ... But listen, Joan! We’ve discovered something peculiar from Seale, he declares that about si
x o’clock to-night Lancaster had a phone message which seemed to upset him. Lancaster says it was from the Paternoster, regarding some hitch in the evening’s programme, and as a matter of fact we’ve discovered that just such a phone message was put through to Arundel House ... Shortly after six the actor went off to the theatre as usual, apparently in good spirits, and our men, watching the people in Arundel House, say that he was at the theatre, dressing and acting, from seven o’clock until eleven.”

  Joan shivered unaccountably.

  “And Fayne and Seale?”

  “Fayne returned to Arundel House from the hospital about seven. He wasn’t outside after that time. Seale also remained indoors. Our men are positive ... ”

  “Then it seems as if Lancaster, Fayne and Seale are all innocent of Miss Sander’s death?”

  He nodded. She saw the little muscles race along his lean jaw.

  “Sometimes,” he said quietly, “I believe we are completely on a false track. Sometimes I make myself believe that the murderer — Mr. ‘Black and White’ — is a person whom we haven’t even considered ... ”

  She did not agree or disagree with his theory.

  “At any rate,” she said, glancing straightly into his vivid blue eyes, “he must be a madman. No one but a madman could conceive of a scheme by which to hold a government to ransom.”

  “I don’t know, Joan ... We’ve been thinking at the Yard that because he demands the scrapping of the Naval Pact he must be in the pay either of a foreign power or of a firm of armament manufacturers.”

  “Spike!” she exclaimed. “I think that’s perfectly silly. I don’t agree with you or with your policemen. What government or what firm of armament manufacturers would dare to carry out a plan of this kind against the British Government? If they wanted to stop the signing of the Naval Pact they’d not leave the job to a single, obviously deranged, individual who’d be liable to give them away at any moment ... Men have always such melodramatic tendencies. You’re imagining ‘Black and White’ to be a kind of glorified agent. You’re imagining yourselves to be living in a novel ... You’re not living in a novel. Actually, in my opinion, you’re merely pitted against a completely abnormal person who, in the first place, murdered Dr. McIntee — probably for a personal reason — and then, finding himself unsuspected, was so filled with pride and confidence that he began to seek a further outlet for his powers ... Perhaps you’ll laugh at me, Spike; but I’ve been thinking over this case tonight till my head aches, and I’ve decided that ‘Black and White’ is someone who wants to prove his power — someone who doesn’t really care whether or not the Naval Pact is signed, but who wants to demonstrate the fact that, if he so desires, he can prevent it being signed. I’ve decided that he is the supreme egotist.”

  She saw Spike sitting upright in his chair. There was an eagerness in his expression which she could not fail to observe.

  “You’re a surprisin’ girl, Joan,” he grinned. “That’s a new angle, I’ll tell the world.”

  She smiled and then grew serious again.

  “The trouble with my notion is this: a madman such as I’ve described won’t stop at infecting one or two people with the germs of the flower-disease. He may send you the antidote if the Naval Pact is shelved; but I’m quite certain that he won’t let you into the secret of its manufacture. Soon he’ll be wanting to demonstrate his power once more ... Don’t you see, Spike? He’ll be able to make any kind of demand ... You must get him. You must get the formula for the antidote.”

  Just then Aunt Margaret came in with the coffee.

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER XVI

  WHEN the coffee had been drunk, Aunt Margaret complained of sleepiness and retired to her room. Joan and Spike still sat opposite one another on each side of the fire.

  “Spring told me that you’d remembered something,” said the head of Department Q7. “Think it’s important?”

  She looked away from him into the heart of the red coals.

  “You must judge for yourself,” she replied. “I’m afraid I’m beginning to believe it’s rather — well, trivial. Here is the story for what it’s worth. It may be what you’re looking for, Spike. It may be the thing which you believe it was dangerous to the criminal for me to know. It may have caused my abduction; but if it did, then it would appear as if the criminal were someone in Arundel House ...

  “After you — and Inspector McGonagle and Sergeant Spring — had left us yesterday morning, Dr. Fayne, Mr. Lancaster and I sat down to breakfast. Seale was in the room until the meal ended and Mary Daw was backwards and forwards from the kitchen most of the time. We were discussing the murder, of course, and Lancaster remarked suddenly that though he was the man’s own nephew he’d no idea where Dr. McIntee was born. It struck me then that the old man had once described to me the home of his parents, though I couldn’t remember the name of the place at the time. I knew definitely, however, that he was a Scot by birth as well as by name. I told Lancaster all this, saying that I was certain I should remember the name of his uncle's birthplace later in the day. He nodded carelessly; but it suddenly occurred to me that for about a couple of seconds after I spoke the room became strangely still, as if someone had been thunderstruck by what I’d said and had communicated his uneasiness to every other occupant of the dining-room. I remember Seale standing grim and silent by the sideboard, one hand arrested in mid-air holding a sausage on a fork, Mary Daw, slim and pale behind him, Lancaster looking suddenly disturbed and Fayne’s glance lowered to his plate. Then all of a sudden the tension was dissipated and I forgot all about the incident until a short time before Sergeant Spring called on me this morning. Then I remembered that Dr. McIntee had said he was born in Blaan, Argyllshire ... Don’t say I’m silly, Spike.”

  He shook his head gravely.

  “I’ve no intention of saying anything of the sort, Joan. It seems quite a trivial incident, I admit, and the tension you describe may have been in your own mind, followin’ the excitement of the morning. On the other hand it may have occurred just as you say: for I’ve often seen the concealed amazement or fear of one man affect everyone near him with a sense of excitement ... At any rate, I’m goin’ to act on your information. It’s queer, Joan; Spring discovered something odd at Arundel House yesterday, and on the morning of the murder I, too, found something odd there; yet neither of us can name our discoveries. You’ve beaten us. I wonder ... ”

  For a moment he sat, one hand on his forehead just below the black hair. Then he looked across at Joan.

  “Will you excuse me? I want to phone ... Please don’t go away before I come back. I know it’s darned late, but —”

  “I’ll be waiting, Spike.”

  He went outside into the hall and rang up New Scotland Yard.

  “Walsh is there, isn’t he? On duty? Good! Tell him to speak to me ... Hello, Walsh! I’m giving you a job on the McIntee case that may turn out to be important. On the other hand it may be quite useless to the investigation ... Go off duty now and get some sleep: I’ll make it all right with the A.C. Hire a fast ear in the morning and get yourself to Blaan — near Campbeltown in Kintyre, Argyllshire — as quickly as possible. Get in touch with the parish registrar and root out Dr. McIntee’s family history in the register. Pump any of the older natives that you happen to come across. Find out all you can about him — about his relatives — and keep your eyes skinned for anything odd. Report to me by telephone at the Yard the day after to-morrow — say about five o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll make a point of being there from four-forty-five until five-fifteen. And if I’m not there to speak to you ask for Sir Percival Merridew and give your findings to him. Got that? Fine ... Now, Walsh, this is your big chance: make the little grey cells work overtime ... Oh, rats! And for heaven’s sake call me Spike! Goodbye ... You should get there before darkness tomorrow if you leave about nine in the morning. Be fresh for your job on the following day ... ”

  Hanging up the receiver, he returned to the living-room, a littl
e smile about his lips. He thought he had explored every avenue in the case; but here was another, and there appeared a chance that even though the previous avenues had proved to lead into blind alleys this one might take him direct to Mr. “Black and White” ... And Joan was waiting.

  He sat down. She took a cigarette from him and for a while they smoked in silence.

  “Did you ever wonder,” asked Joan suddenly, “why the murderer calls himself ‘Black and White’?”

  He started from a reverie. He grinned.

  “I’m going to tell old Percy to sign you on. You’ve got new ways of looking at everything. You know, it hadn’t occurred to me to think there might be a reason for his nom de guerre ... Any suggestions?”

  She shook her head.

  “Just vague ones. A man in the habit of wearing morning or evening clothes might hit upon such a name. A half-caste might ... A parlour-maid might if she generally wore white aprons with her black dresses. Oh, there are hundreds of possibilities.”

  “I see ... Good Lord, Joan!” He bent forward and somehow she did not want to withdraw her hands when she found them enfolded in his, though there flashed through her mind the memory of what Lancaster had said concerning the Hon. Nancy. “I wish you weren’t mixed up in this business ... I wish it was over and finished with.”

  His spirits had sunk to such a low level that evening and they had been raised again so quickly by the ministrations of Joan that his emotional balance was gravely disturbed. His usual ability to regard Joan from a level-headed distance had deserted him: otherwise he would not have forgotten his duty so easily in order to tell her of his troubles. And now he was assailed by a strange desire he had never before experienced. He saw that she was trembling, even while she smiled to let him know that she would play her part in the tragic drama.

  “Spike,” she said with apparent irrelevance: “did you — er — did you love the Sanders girl?”

  He shook his head. He bent forward until he was on his knees before her.