Flowering Death

by Angus MacVicar

  It had caused him, for instance, to hesitate by the side of Henryson on the previous night when the detective had been shot, and thus to miss any small chance he might have possessed of overtaking “Black and White.” It was causing him now to hesitate over his arrangements for the last episode in the case. He was being racked by sentiment. His brilliant hatred for “Black and White” was clouded by a sudden pity ...

  Then it occurred to him that his final admission of love for Joan had actually been the turning point in the case. Sentiment, perhaps, has triumphed after all.

  Duty — hard reason — had indicated that he should not discuss his business with Joan. On account of his love he had thrust duty aside and had spoke with her of his difficulties. And it had been that talk which had first returned his faltering feet to the proper track. It had been his conversation with her, on the night he had told her of his love, that had shown him how the murderer could be identified.

  He sat up and tossed aside the coverlet. He loved Joan. Very well then. He hated “Black and White.” Very well then. He must separate these issues in his brain. Because he loved Joan he must not become soft-hearted about the end of Stranger.

  He grinned. His mind was made up. He would go through that day as he had already planned. Nothing — not even his love for Joan — would interfere with his task until it had been completed according to his scheme.

  He found her alone in the dining-room when he went downstairs. He knelt before her, where she sat in one of the big arm-chairs. He kissed her. She smoothed back his crisp dark hair.

  “Darlin’,” he said: “to-night I’ll come home and everything will be over. Will you marry me next month? We’ll have a holiday ... ”

  He felt her tremble.

  “Oh, Spike. It’s too — it’s too lovely. Say it’s real.”

  He grinned.

  “Just wait!”

  “What about Aunt Margaret?”

  “You don’t mind if she lives with us?”

  “Of course not ... I think she’s a wonderful old lady.”

  “Then that’s settled. Where shall we get married?”

  “I’d like a church, dear. You won’t — you won’t mind if we have a church wedding?”

  “Good Lord, no. I’d not consider myself properly married unless we went to church ... St. Leonard’s suit? The Rev. Alfred Davidson will be better by then.”

  She nodded. She took his lean face between her hands and kissed his mouth.

  “Oh, my dear. Take care to-day. Don’t let us miss our happiness ... ”

  He rose, smiling.

  “Nothing will cause us to miss our happiness.”

  She had never seen him so gentle or so careful about the words he used.

  *

  An hour later he bade Joan and his aunt good morning. They would see him, he surmised, before midnight. This time they’d have to wait up for him. He’d bring news.

  At the Yard he spoke with Sir Percival for five minutes and took charge of the search warrant for Arundel House. He glanced narrowly at his superior.

  “You haven’t been sleepin’, sir?”

  “What the devil —”

  “You shouldn’t worry so much, Sir Percival. It’s all quite simple, really.”

  “Damn your insolence! I heard about the miserable Wallace Common affair.”

  “ ’Fraid I made rather a mess of that —”

  “And McGonagle — and Spring and Henryson — made a mess of it as well!”

  “No. I cannot agree, sir.” Spike shook his head with great deliberation. “They were all actin’ under my orders ... Matter of fact, the lightning helped the criminal to escape. You know how, after a flash of lightning, the darkness is quite impenetrable. We lost sight of him on these occasions and he zigzagged a great deal. Furthermore —”

  But the Assistant Commissioner was not to be side-tracked in this instance by mere babbling talk.

  “I tell you, Dorrance, I’m surrounded by incompetent clowns!” He polished his eyeglass and twitched his little sandy moustache. “I wish to God I could go out myself. Damme, I’d have this Stranger — this ‘Black and White’ — I’d have him in the cells, I say, before you people had the sleep rubbed from your eyes!”

  Spike perceived the ravages that insomnia and worry had caused in Sir Percival’s good nature. He had sympathy with this man upon whom there rested the whole responsibility of the case. He realized that in order to bring calm to the Assistant Commissioner he would have to mention his definite suspicion as to the murderer’s identity and give his reasons for it, lame though they might sound at the present juncture.

  “I have no doubt, sir,” he said suavely, “that you’d do much better than any of us in the work of detection. We are all aware of your magnificent record in the Secret Service ... By the way, sir, would you like to know exactly whom I suspect?”

  The Assistant Commissioner sat up with a jerk. He lifted the china cat on his desk and brought it down with a dangerous bang.

  “Good God!” he muttered. “Why ask such a damn silly question?”

  “I’m afraid,” said Spike, “that you may find the grounds on which I base my conclusions rather fanciful. But when we have the cables from Burma and Bombay — and Walsh’s message from Blaan — I think they will bear out what I’m goin’ to tell you.”

  He spoke for ten minutes. At the end of that time Sir Percival Merridew was smiling. He had not, he remarked, found Spike’s reasoning fanciful. He rose and patted his special investigator on the back. He had forgotten completely his ill-humour.

  “Stout work, old boy!” he grinned, his mobile mouth slanting sideways. “You’re a genius, Spike! I knew it ... Hell! Won’t I wade into that Home Secretary!”

  He was like a boy. Never in his long career of tactful deception had Spike caused the Assistant Commissioner to become friendly in so short a time.

  “I’d give something to hear you flay him, sir,” laughed Spike. “I know how well you’ll do it ... ’Fraid I must be goin’ now. You’ll not forget the promotions for McGonagle, Spring and Walsh?”

  “Don’t worry, Spike! They deserve promotion after this ... By the way, hadn’t I better prepare a fresh warrant for arrest?”

  “I’d be glad if you would, sir.”

  “What — er — when will you require it?”

  “There’s plenty of time, sir ... If it’s ready for this evening, I think that ought to meet the case.”

  “I’ll see to it, Spike.”

  The Assistant Commissioner was too happy to perceive the casual manner of his expert with regard to the important document.

  *

  The head of Department Q7 entered his room to find McGonagle and Spring pacing the carpet. There was suppressed excitement in the sergeant’s face; and McGonagle strove valiantly to appear self-possessed. Both policemen were aware that when this day closed they would know everything that was to be known concerning the McIntee case. And it had been so bizarre, so unusual in many of its aspects, that they were prepared for it to end on a note of drama. They were prepared for odd things to happen.

  They studied Spike’s face as he entered, to see if they could discover a message there. But he grinned at them in his usual friendly way.

  “The hawks are gatherin’,” he murmured. “‘Black and White’s’ cars must be hot at this moment ... I’d be glad if you’d do something for me, Spring.”

  “Good Lord, Spike, I’ll do anything. I’m getting all sticky under the collar for want of something to do ... Never felt like this before in a big case.”

  “Well, nip down to Arundel House and let me know when Fayne, Lancaster and Seale are all out ... There’s a phone-box on the railing in Park Square. And when you see me go inside, it’s up to you to find an excuse to keep any one of them — any one of them, I tell you — out of the way until I leave.”

  Spring’s yellow curly hair was hidden by the suddenly donned grey hat. He made his exit.

  “And McGonagle,” said Spring, “
would you do this ... ?”

  When the head of Department Q7 had explained the mission, the inspector’s protruding eyes were steady on the face of his young colleague.

  “So that’s how the land lies, begorra?”

  “That’s how the land lies, old scout.”

  *

  Spike picked up the receiver on his desk.

  “That you, Spring? ... Oh, good! I’ll be right over.”

  In Park Square, outside Arundel House, he found the sergeant talking to a small, dapper individual, whose name appeared to be Crickmay and who was the “pal” referred to on the previous evening by the wounded Henryson.

  “Fayne’s been out since breakfast,” explained Spring. “Private patients, you know, Spike. Lancaster’s gone to keep a date with Miss Senga de Montfiore, his leading lady. Seale apparently had a phone message about ten minutes ago and he’s gone off somewhere — man at his heels, of course. Mary Daw blabbed to Crickmay.”

  “Fine ... Now you wait here, old lad. I’m goin’ inside.”

  Spike was admitted by Mary Daw, whose slim little body trembled when she recognized her visitor. He spoke kindly to her and showed her the warrant he had procured to search the premises.

  “Now, Mary,” he said gently, “I want you to promise me that when I go away you will tell nobody — nobody, do you understand? — that I’ve been here. If you speak we may never capture the man who killed Dr. McIntee.”

  “I promise, sir.”

  She showed him the various rooms; but as he had expected, he did not find without trouble that for which he sought.

  At last, however, in the apartment to which he had given most of his attention, he discovered, by knocking, that a portion of the panel beneath the mantelpiece was hollow. He fingered the ornamental carving on the panel and the wooden shutter finally sprang outwards. In the cavity behind he saw a black, japanned box. The lock of the casket he turned with a skeleton key. Inside he discovered two documents, one a single sheet, the other a series of typewritten pages secured by a paper-clip.

  Spike’s heart beat strongly when he studied the single sheet and observed the various medical symbols. The writing he recognized as that of the late Dr. McIntee. The paper was fairly fresh. At the top he noted certain instructions for the culture of the flower-disease bacillus. Beneath this he discovered a list of ingredients headed, POISON. And at the foot of the page his eyes fell upon another list of medical hieroglyphics under the title, ANTIDOTE.

  “Thank God!” muttered Spike. “Flyin’, broadcastin’ and English literature — after all you’re goin’ to suffer no loss ... ”

  He glanced for a few seconds at the longer document and his lean jaw hardened ... Finally he thrust the papers into the inner pocket of his jacket and relocked the japanned casket. He put it back into the dark cavity.

  Then, a thought striking him, he rummaged carefully behind the box. His fingers touched something cold. Withdrawing this object he found it to be a tall stoppered jar holding a colourless liquid. Floating on the surface of the liquid were myriads of tiny solid globules.

  The head of Department Q7 was now aware of the manner in which the murderer had been able to infect his victims. He was looking upon a pure culture of the flower-disease bacillus, floating upon and fed by human blood from which the red corpuscles had been taken ... The jar had probably been removed with the japanned box from Dr. McIntee’s library — or, more likely, confiscated directly from the safe in the dispensary.

  Spike sighed and returned the jar to its place behind the box. He rummaged again and found a false beard — a black, straggling beard. This also he replaced.

  Then he touched the hidden knob among the carving. The shutter closed.

  He saw Mary Daw in the kitchen and pressed a ten shilling note into her hand.

  “Remember!” he advised. “I wasn’t here this morning.”

  She nodded and smiled, thinking about the new hat which she might now buy.

  *

  Spike and Spring walked back to the Yard. They talked of cricket. Spring captained the C.I.D. XI, and on the following afternoon an important match was due to be played by the policemen against a team of colts from the Middlesex ground.

  “Thought I might miss it,” observed Spring. “I was devilish glad to hear you say the case would be over to-night,”

  “You’ll not miss it,” returned Spike. “I’m goin’ to bring Miss Nevinson and Aunt Margaret along to see you make a century.”

  The sergeant blushed.

  “If I make a century,” he grinned, “it will be as surprising as England’s first win over Australia in the Tests last December ... Is Miss Nevinson keen on cricket?”

  “I’m sure she is ... By the way, I think she’ll want you for an usher, Spring, at the wedding. It’s to be in St. Leonard’s in about a month.”

  Spring’s face was now ruddy like a harvest moon. His hand shot out. He forgot that he was speaking to the great investigator.

  “Good man, Spike!” he exclaimed and shook heartily his companion’s hand. “McGonagle and I saw it — er — coming.”

  He finished lamely, appalled by his own temerity; but Spike, apparently, was equally confused.

  “McGonagle will be best man, of course,” he said quickly. “And there will be lots of flowers in the church ... ”

  The inspector returned to the Yard on the heels of his two friends. He reported his morning’s work to Spike. The latter seemed satisfied with the information.

  “The evidence,” he murmured, “is pilin’ up now with a vengeance ... And I’ve just discovered ‘Black and White’s’ basic motive for the murder of Dr. McIntee.”

  The trio went out and had lunch as usual at Spendel’s Restaurant. They did not discuss further the McIntee case until the coffee had been served.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  AT half past four in the afternoon, Spike, McGonagle and Spring were summoned to the room of the Assistant Commissioner. Before complying with Sir Percival’s request, the head of Department Q7 strolled across to the Information Room and spoke with Sergeant Gillies, in charge of the control panel.

  “If a call comes for me from Detective Walsh — I’m expectin’ it in about half an hour — will you please put it through to the A.C.?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Then Spike returned to his room, collected his redoubtable lieutenants and went towards the apartment of the Assistant Commissioner. As he knocked at the door he said to his companions:

  “This is the big show-down, my merry lads. Hold tight to your chairs when you get inside.”

  McGonagle and Spring exchanged glances.

  Sir Percival Merridew sat calmly behind his desk.

  “Sit down, men.” He waved his visitors to scats and smiled affectionately at Spike when the latter draped a leg in characteristic fashion over the arm of an easy chair. “You wanted a conference. Dr. — er — Spike?”

  “I did, sir. I wanted to discuss with you the whole evidence as to the identity of Stranger ... McGonagle, Spring and I have made further discoveries since I spoke with you this morning. I have just learned, too, that the cables from Bombay and Burma have arrived.”

  “They have,” assented Sir Percival. “They are vastly illuminating.”

  “I was sure they’d turn out to be of interest ... I can see, sir, that you’re goin’ to keep their contents from us until we let you know of our discoveries.”

  The Assistant Commissioner chuckled.

  “You kept me waiting for a whole day, Spike,” he returned with malice. “Surely you won’t mind waiting for half an hour?”

  The head of Department Q7 gave vent to a sigh.

  “I knew you’d have your revenge, sir ... Well, then: first of all I discovered this document in a certain room at Arundel House. It was hidden behind a secret panel in the mantelpiece, along with the details of a cure for the flower-disease, a culture of the flower-disease bacillus and a false beard.”

  Spike withdrew the series of typewritten
pages from his pocket.

  “It is signed by Abraham McIntee,” he continued. “There’s no doubt about the handwriting. I’ve had our experts look it over. The text amounts, actually, to a confession of murder.”

  McGonagle and Spring, sitting stiff and upright, stirred uneasily in their chairs.

  “I think,” suggested Spike, “that for the benefit of us all I should read it aloud — slowly. You can study it more carefully later, sir.”

  Sir Percival nodded,

  “Fire ahead!”

  “Right ... ” This is the document which Spike began to read:

  *

  WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF KONRAD FEATHERSTONE, BROTHER OF WILLIAM FEATHER STONE, DECEASED: Dated this twenty-fourth day of October, 1933.

  Abraham McIntee, M.B., Ch. B., admit without reservation that in September 1924, I caused the death of William Feather stone, solicitor in Bombay, by infecting him with the bacillus of the flower-disease and, though knowledge of the cure was in my possession, making no effort to employ this knowledge for the benefit of the said William Featherstone.

  “I admit that I infected William Featherstone with the disease while he was a patient of mine. I put the bacillus into his medicine bottles. Once I thought he suspected me; but he died quickly.

  “I admit that I am the only man in the world to have knowledge of the bacillus of the flower-disease and of the cure. I learned of the cure from a dying Pathan. The story of this man, whom I attended for dropsy in August 1924, was that the knowledge had been retained a secret in his family for generations. He gave me the parchment with the details of the cure, because he had no money to pay for my services and because no member of his family was near. Then he died.

  “I became interested in the rare disease and by dint of much inquiry I gained the following week a knowledge of the bacillus by analysing a sample of blood from the body of a woman whom I discovered had died from the flower-disease. I experimented on the bacillus with the mixture of poisons indicated on the Pathan’s parchment. The poison killed the bacillus. Then I experimented with the poison on a live cat. The antidote cured it. From that date I have always kept beside me a culture of the flower-disease bacillus for further experiments.