The Hon. Nancy, he said, had amazed him. She had gasped at the impact of the bullet. Her face had gone grey. But then she’d let in the clutch with a jerk. Her assailant had been flung from the footboard. She’d driven away ... The whole incident had passed within half a minute. No traffic had gone by during this time, which, as the cross-roads concerned were not on a main route into London, was scarcely surprising.
Passos admitted that until he saw the newspapers in the morning he imagined he’d made a fool of his job. He admitted also his admiration for the courage and physical toughness of the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders.
*
“Clear case against Passos, at any rate,” observed the Assistant Commissioner, surveying Spike with some animation. “Pity he knows nothing of ‘Black and White’ ... You said Mexico Madge had a similar story?”
“She had. Some time — when you’ve got a free moment — I’ll get one of the men to play over for your benefit the phonograph record of her remarks ... Obviously sincere evidence, I think you’ll agree, sir.”
The chaste, black and silver clock on the mantelpiece struck thrice. Sir Percival fingered his china cat.
“You’re sure — er — Spike, that you can lay hands on — er — this Stranger?”
Spike nodded.
“We have, you know, only four days now.” The animation of the Assistant Commissioner had gone. “The Home Secretary was with me an hour ago — disturbed my lunch, damn him! — and he made the most devilish insinuations.”
Sir Percival’s mouth twitched beneath the little sandy moustache. His monocle seemed to require a great deal of polishing. The head of Department Q7 made a sympathetic sound.
“I pleaded with him,” continued Sir Percival, “to try and have the signing of the Naval Pact postponed; but he states definitely that it will be ratified in four days. If we don’t find a cure by that time he says that the blood of the flower-disease victims will be on our hands ... Our hands — the damned old melodramatic hypocrite! He kept on muttering about Mr. Armstrong Dunglass, the Foreign Secretary, and Lord Eustace Sanders, the Naval Minister. After the tragic death of his daughter, Sanders is pretty much of a broken man, and he seems to be inclined to shelve the whole business of the Pact — for a period at any rate — so that the lives of British citizens may be saved. But Dunglass is determined, apparently, to bring the Pact into existence at once. He wants the democratic countries in line immediately — against the threat of Fascism. And it’s now or never, in his opinion. Mind you, I don’t altogether blame the fellow. By itself, in the event of a dust-up with Germany and Italy — or with Germany and Japan — our Navy would make a pretty poor show at the present time ... But good God, Spike! It’s going to be at an overwhelming price. That is — unless we win out ... And we’ve only four days ... ”
Spike rose. Old Percy did keep harking on this business of time ... Nerve-rackin’, it was!
“I think I can present you with Stranger,” he said, “in thirty-six hours. Perhaps sooner. That will solve each and every one of your problems, sir ... I’m goin’ out now to see the invalids. You know: Mrs. Parkinson, best-seller Rank, Tyron, broadcaster Davidson and the rest. I’m goin’ to tell them of my hopes. I’m goin’ to be a little ray of sunshine ... ”
The Assistant Commissioner sighed. The remark with which he supplemented his sigh was peculiar, considering that he himself had been speaking solidly for an hour.
“And if you talk as much to those poor people as you talk in the Yard, they’ll probably die of shock long before the flower-disease can claim them ... Look here, Spike! I’m only joking. I’m depending on you. ... Last night questions were asked in the House based on the conflicting reports published about the flower-disease. A Scottish M.P. had a notion that the Italian measles business was eye-wash. Prime Minister put him off ... But he won’t be able to put the Labour Party off much longer. Rumour is growing. In four days, Spike ... ”
The door banged. Spike knew well enough that Sir Percival was getting jumpy and that he had little control over his words when in such a state. He was also aware that if the Assistant Commissioner spoke further about “four days” there was no saying what he, Spike, might accomplish in the way of another murder ... It was better that he should depart hurriedly from the room.
Outside in the cool corridors he felt better, and by the time he had reached the courtyard where his Bentley stood, polished and gleaming, his spirits had again risen to cheerful heights.
He whistled the air of Annie Laurie as he flung his ash-stick into the tonneau and pressed the self-starter. Two young constables on duty at the pillared gates saluted as the car swerved out upon the sunlit street. And when the Bentley had disappeared into the kaleidoscope of traffic the policeman with the incipient moustache said to his companion:
“He looks happy. Somebody’s going to get hurt.”
As a matter of fact, Spike was on a mission of a contrary nature. He meant to bring some healing to the minds of about a score of suffering men and women. He had also another purpose in view ...
*
His first call was at St. Clement’s Hospital, where, for some time, he spoke with Kenneth Fayne. The Eurasian doctor was having a cup of tea in the room of one of the Sisters. When Spike announced his intention to tell the victims of the flower-disease that he might discover a cure by the following evening — or sooner — Fayne agreed readily to introduce him to the Rev. Alfred Davidson and Mr. Archibald Tyrone, both of whom had private wards in the building.
As they paced along the rubber-floored passage which led to the west wing of the hospital, the head of Department Q7 spoke quietly to his companion.
“We have a warrant prepared for your arrest, Fayne. The flowers sent to you by Miss Nancy Sanders, who was obviously involved in the McIntee murder, were found in the library of your patron. Furthermore, we have discovered that the infection was conveyed to the victims of the flower-disease through the bottles of medicine which you dispensed for them.”
The dark face of the doctor became yellow. Spike saw the deep lines which the horror of the past three days had stamped upon the man’s features. He saw the clenching hands. But when Fayne replied his voice was controlled.
“I have been expecting arrest,” he said. “I realized last night that all those afflicted by the disease were patients of mine ... Is there any use my putting forward the theory that someone — the murderer — put the germs into my bottles and persuaded Miss Sanders to send the flowers, so that suspicion should be directed against me?”
Spike grinned. He patted the other’s shoulder. And quite suddenly the doctor’s slim body seemed to recapture lost strength.
“Your theory,” remarked the head of Department Q7, “is an interestin’ one, old lad; though I may say that it’s scarcely original ... The warrant may be ready, but we’re not arrestin’ you just yet. But, mind you, K. Fayne will have to watch his step or there may be trouble for him. I can’t keep my watch dogs on the leash for ever.”
The doctor smiled. It was an obsequious, servile smile, and Spike detested it; but, realizing the mental agony which must have tormented the Eurasian, he tried to give no sign that he disliked the manners of his companion.
“I must thank you for your trust,” murmured Fayne. “It seems —”
Spike interrupted.
“Don’t worry yourself, pal! I’m not trustin’ you at all. But one can’t refute observation and deduction, can one?”
The other bowed again.
“Look here!” continued Spike. “You’ve a dispensary at Arundel House. We had a look at it that first morning ... Do you keep the door locked?”
“No.”
“So that anyone in Arundel House could have entered the room and tampered with your bottles?”
“Yes ... Even casual patients might have done so, for they were always shown into the dispensary when they visited Dr. McIntee or myself. Sometimes my master and I kept them waiting for a considerable time.”
“H’m. Bit
careless, eh?”
“I agree. But then thousands of doctors throughout the length and breadth of Britain are similarly careless.”
“By the way, did Dr. McIntee ever keep any special bottles of germ culture in the dispensary?”
“He had a culture — once. He did not tell me of which bacillus, and I never asked. He kept it as a rule in his safe. He told me to be careful not to touch it.”
“The bottle’s not there now?”
“No. I missed it recently.”
“When?”
“I can’t say exactly. I don’t often open the safe, and I wasn’t particularly interested. Dr. McIntee was always making queer experiments.”
“It might have disappeared about the same time as the murder was committed?”
“I can’t remember.”
“All right ... You’ve no — er — suspicions, Dr. Fayne, as to the person who might have infected your medicine?”
The Eurasian hesitated.
“I have no suspicions,” he said at last. “And now, sir, this is the Rev. Alfred Davidson’s room ... Mr. Tyrone is next door. I shall introduce you to them both and then I must leave. I am very busy. I have a major operation due in half an hour ... A trepanning.”
*
The Rev. Alfred Davidson struggled to sit higher on his pillows. His neck was swathed in bandages and Spike noticed beneath the bedclothes the outline of a little wooden erection which protected the clergyman’s feet.
He was a man of middle age. thin to the point of emaciation, having thick black hair grey about the temples; but when he spoke the head of Department Q7 heard the sweet, melodious voice that was known and loved by listeners in every part of Britain.
“I am glad to see you, Dr. Dorrance. I have heard about you. of course. Is there — is there any hope for us all?”
Deep brown eyes gazed up into Spike’s. There was resignation and courage in those eyes; but they held, too, a light of horror.
“I came here,” replied Spike, “to tell you that there is hope. I came here to tell you that your suffering may be alleviated — to-morrow.” His big mouth widened into a grin. “I see from the newspapers that you are expected to broadcast again a fortnight on Sunday ... Well, I think you will. I shall be listenin’.”
“I prayed,” murmured the Rev. Alfred Davidson. “But I — I doubted God to-day.”
Spike gripped the clergyman’s bloodless, weakening fingers and went outside.
*
In the room of Mr. Archibald Tyrone he found a lean-faced man with the nose of a hawk and the sensitive hands of a born flyer. He found the airman, grey-faced, determinedly studying a map. His throat was bandaged. There was a little wooden erection over his feet ...
“Damned odd — this business!” remarked Mr. Archibald Tyrone in a carefully careless voice. “Seems that unless a cure is found within four days about a score of us are for the big jump ... How are things going?”
“Excellently,” answered Spike. “Dropped in to let you know that we may find a cure — to-morrow.”
The hard light died away from the vivid blue eyes of the airman. He shivered. The man who had braved death over the wintry Atlantic and over the hot sands of the African deserts almost broke down.
“My God!” he said. “Don’t taunt me, Dorrance!”
“Taunt, my foot! Oh, and by the way: thanks for that interview you gave Peter Todd.”
“Rats! By heaven, old man, if you get me ready for the Cape flight next month I’ll dance a reel at your wedding.”
“Offer accepted!” grinned Spike. “We’ll turn on Athlone for you ... ”
He left St. Clement’s Hospital, lashed the Bentley into a frenzied roar and came ultimately to the Cambridge Hospital where the majority of the flower-disease victims were being attended.
*
After bringing cheer to a number of less noted sufferers he was introduced to Miss Elizabeth Rank, the authoress.
Spike had frequently studied her photograph. He had once remarked to McGonagle and Spring that her features resembled those of a horse. She had a powerful frame and the ordinary man might have been excused for imagining her to be a person of considerable character and courage. It certainly seemed that her books, filled with rapes, prostitutions, sadism, inhibitions, complexes, nudist colonies, University culture and blasphemy, required considerable courage to plan and considerable character, on account of their inordinate length, to complete.
Miss Rank, however, must have been a born writer; for it was brought home forcibly to Spike, immediately he set eyes on her in the flesh, that she had neither character nor courage. She was, in fact, an extremely selfish and timorous woman.
Her great bandaged body lay crouched in the bed. She shrilled at Spike.
“Can’t you do anything? I’m dying. You know I’m dying. And yet you go parading around here ... You inspect me as if I were an exhibit in a museum. You parade instead of attempting to find the cure. You must find that cure ... My God! If I die the blow to English literature —”
“Madam,” said Spike, feeling as if he wanted to keep the news from her, “you are not, I think, going to die. And as for English literature —”
The change which came over the writer was amazing. She sat up, feebly clawing at the bandage about her scraggy neck. She caught Spike’s hand and kissed it. She interrupted his remark on English literature — a remark which, Spike was afraid, might have caused him to defend a slander action had he been allowed to complete it.
“Oh, Dr. Dorrance! Do you mean it? Say you mean it. I have been so terrified. I’ve been weeping, thinking of the annihilation of my art.”
“Good-bye,” said Spike curtly and hauled his hand away from her talons. “You have, I fear, a good chance of being alive when the autumn publishing season comes along ... ”
She made a sound like a cat spitting.
*
In an adjoining room, forgetting the ill-humour with which he had been threatened after conversing with Miss Elizabeth Rank, the head of Department Q7 smiled down upon stout and florid Mrs. Parkinson, housekeeper from the McIntee home. She lay still while he spoke of his bright hope that he would save her and the others.
Like all those afflicted with the flower-disease, she still possessed some physical strength, though her legs and — in her particular case — her cheeks must have been painful; new flower-like growths sprang up on three parts of her body each day, sapping her blood.
When Spike ceased talking her smile came through the bandages.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said simply. “I feel better already. It was a fair-knock-out when I discovered I was taken ill with the flowers ... I read about them not long ago in a Sunday paper.”
“Mrs. Parkinson,” inquired Spike, “can you tell me who, as a rule, tidied up Dr. Fayne’s dispensary?”
“It was generally Mary Daw. And Seale. Mary did the dusting and the polishing. Seale saw to the fire and the arrangement of the doctor’s books and papers.”
“Thanks very much,” said Spike. “I’ll have to go now ... By the way — er — would you like to know a little bit of gossip?”
She almost pricked up her ears.
“I should like to hear a bit of gossip, sir. It’s dull in here. At least it was dull before you brought me the wonderful news ... What are you going to tell me now, sir?”
“Miss Joan and I are practically engaged.”
“Coo!” breathed Mrs. Parkinson. “You’ll be good to her, won’t you, sir? They told me you were a terror ... But I don’t know ... ”
Spike was chuckling as he climbed into the Bentley and shot away for the Yard.
*
Following a cup of coffee in his room, he ’phoned his old medical friend, “Jimmy” Ram-Singh, at Harridge’s. The Indian prince, who had told Spike the legend of “The Pink Flowers of Solomon” and had witnessed with the head of Department Q7 the death of the Hon. Nancy on the previous evening, responded with delight to the invitation.
Whe
n he reached New Scotland Yard, Spike conducted him down into the laboratory which was the pride of Department Q7. Various white-coated men, pale and with over-bright eyes, were working in this place, which, to an outsider, would have appeared like a saleroom for Bunsen burners, retorts, test-tubes, beakers, balances and bottles of every shade and size.
For an hour Spike and his friend made a study of the numerous experiments being made to discover a cure for the flower-disease. Success did not seem to be in sight.
“Looks pretty hopeless, Simpson,” said Spike once to an oldish man with very white hair. “You haven’t completely analysed the flower-death bacillus, have you? The bacillus found in Fayne’s medicine bottles, I mean?”
“No, Spike. We’ve no similar bacillus to use as a basis for analysis. It seems to resist every kind of known poison that we apply ... Lives at almost any temperature. Feeds on the white corpuscles of human blood. ... Damned vital stuff.”
About six-thirty Spike turned to “Jimmy” Ram-Singh.
“I’m goin’ to leave you here, old scout. Give my chaps all the help you can. They’ll appreciate a fresh mind on the job. They’ve refused to sleep ... Seems from your story that we’ve got to find a poison made from the bark of ‘a rare African tree’ and an antidote to that poison. The lads have been workin’ on these lines. As you saw a minute ago, they’ve discovered in a sample of Nan Li-San’s blood traces of an unknown vegetable poison; but they can’t locate its ingredients. And I’m afraid the origins of the antidote are completely wrapped in mystery ... Well, see what you can do, ‘Jimmy’. I spoke with all the sufferers this afternoon. I told them we’d find a cure. We’ve got — four days …”
The Indian smiled with a flash of brilliant white teeth.
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