Ask For Ronald Standish

by Sapper

  “It’s a funny thing,” remarked Ronald Standish thoughtfully, “how near the primitive we all are. Had Tony had a gun then, he might easily have shot that swine dead. For from such a situation does murder so often arise.”

  “But they’d never have hanged him,” cried Anne.

  “No, Anne, they wouldn’t have hanged him. At least probably not. But they’d have given him a nice long spell at His Majesty’s expense. And you must always remember that in the eyes of the great British public, Tony is the villain of the piece. Sheila is Forfar’s wife. Do you feel like shaking a leg?”

  They rose to dance, and I sat on, watching covertly. Tony was being petted and cajoled into a better temper, but he was obviously still in a towering rage. And suddenly he saw me and came over.

  “Did you hear what that—said, Bob?” he asked.

  “I did, old boy,” I said. “I couldn’t help it. But don’t forget he’s half tight.”

  “I don’t give a damn whether he is or not,” he answered. “But he and I are going to have things out before the night is through.”

  He returned to his seat, and I glanced at Forfar’s table. He was still punishing the whisky, and it seemed to me that the woman was trying to get him to leave.

  “Very awkward,” said a voice in my ear. “What was it about?”

  Coombe was standing beside me.

  “Forfar barged into Elgin at a rate of knots,” I said, “and darned near knocked him down. But I think it was accidental. Do they often come here?”

  “Elgin very rarely. But that man Forfar is in here two or three times a week, and I wish to Heaven he’d stay away. He’s never actually given any trouble before, but the staff detest him.”

  “Who is the woman with him?” I asked perfunctorily.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “A new one on me,” he said. “What is it?”

  A waiter had come up, and for a moment or two I stared at him. Seldom have I seen a man who looked so desperately ill. His face was dead white, save for an angry spot of colour in each cheek, and his eyes glowed with unnatural brightness.

  “Mr Forfar wants to speak to me?” Coombe was saying. “All right; I’ll come.”

  “That waiter looks pretty sick,” I remarked as the man left.

  “I didn’t notice,” said Coombe. “They come and go, these fellows. I wonder what the deuce Forfar wants to see me about. Hallo! the lady is going.”

  I looked across the room. Coombe was right. She was standing up, putting on her wrap, and was obviously giving Forfar a bit of her mind. I grinned happily. Most assuredly was she of the type who would call a spade a spade. Also most assuredly was she doing so now.

  She paused, and evidently seemed to be giving him one last chance of going with her. But he shook his head sullenly and sat on. And with a snap of her fingers in his face, she swept out of the room just as Coombe approached the table. Then Anne and Ronald returned, and my attention wandered. Periodically during the next half-hour I saw him drinking morosely, with his heavy features set in a permanent scowl, but I was no longer interested.

  And then it happened. The whole thing was so sudden that it almost stunned one. No one was dancing; two entertainers were singing an extremely risqué song. The waiters were standing motionless at one end of the room; everyone was seated at their tables. Came the most dreadful bellow of pain, and John Forfar lurched on to the floor. His face was distorted with agony; animal-like noises were coming from his lips. Tottering, staggering, he got halfway across the floor towards Tony Elgin’s table. Then with a final croak of “You…murderer!” he pitched forward on his face and lay still.

  For a space there was silence, utter silence The whole room sat petrified, as if turned to stone. Then came a woman’s piercing scream, instantly stifled, as Coombe walked slowly up to the body and turned it over. Then abruptly he knelt down, and I saw him take a deep sniff.

  “Standish,” he said curtly. “Come here, will you?”

  Ronald crossed the floor, and Coombe whispered something in his ear.

  “Not a doubt about it,” answered Ronald gravely. “Will you tell them, or shall I? No one must leave the room.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Coombe quietly. “I’m afraid you will all have to remain here until the police come. I realised at once, and Mr Standish confirms it, that this is not a case of natural death. Mr Forfar has been poisoned with prussic acid, which means it is a question of suicide or – murder.”

  And as Ronald covered the dead man’s face with a pocket handkerchief, I noticed a piece of paper clutched in Forfar’s right hand.

  I have spent many unpleasant quarters of an hour in my life, but I think the one that elapsed before the arrival of the police was the worst. People talked in whispers, trying not to look at the thing that lay sprawling on the floor. And then some fool woman had hysterics, which might have started the whole lot off had not the man with her thrown a glass of water in her face and told her to shut up.

  “How did he do it?” asked Anne as Ronald came back to the table. She was sitting holding my hand very tight, and her eyes seemed enormous in her little face.

  “It’s in the whisky, Anne. The bottle reeks of it.”

  “But – but was it murder?”

  “I can’t tell you, dear. I don’t know. But it points that way.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because if Forfar had wished to commit suicide he’d have put the poison in the glass and not in the bottle.”

  “Who could have done it?” I barely heard the half-breathed question.

  “That,” said Ronald gravely, “is what the police will have to try to find out.”

  “Could it have been that woman who was with him?”

  “No,” I remarked. “It could not. I personally saw him drink at least three times from that bottle after she left him.”

  “You’re certain of that, Bob?” asked Ronald quickly.

  “Positive,” I said.

  “Because that is a very important piece of evidence. It conclusively lets her out. And I’m thinking this may be a question of elimination.”

  “You’ve dismissed the idea of suicide entirely?”

  “Not entirely. But as I said to Anne, why put the stuff in the bottle?”

  And at that moment Tony Elgin came over to our table.

  “May I interrupt?” he remarked gravely. “It’s rather important.”

  “Sit down, Tony,” said Ronald.

  “That note in Forfar’s hand. Is it necessary that the police should see it?”

  “Essential,” said Ronald. “It may have a very important bearing on the case.”

  “It hasn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I wrote it.”

  Anne’s grip tightened on my hand.

  “Sorry, Tony,” said Ronald after a pause.

  “But it would be quite out of the question to remove it now. Apart from any other reason, the whole room would see it being done, and someone would most certainly tell the police. Is there anything very private in it?”

  “Yes. A woman’s name.”

  And once again there was a pause. We all knew who the woman was.

  “I’m afraid it can’t be helped, old man,” said Ronald. “The police will have to see it. Incidentally, here they are now, with McIver in charge.”

  Inspector McIver, followed by two plain-clothes men and a uniformed constable, had entered the room and was talking to Coombe. Then with a curt nod he crossed the floor and bent over the body, while a breathless silence settled on the room. It was as if the curtain were going up on the first act of a play.

  His examination was brief but thorough. Then, prising open the dead man’s fingers, he extracted the note. He read it, and glanced round the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said quietly. “I gather that you realise what has happened. Mr Forfar has died as the result of swallowing prussic acid. It may have been self-administered; it may not.
May I ask, to start with, who is the writer of this note?”

  “I am,” said Tony, and McIver came over to our table.

  “Good evening, Mr Standish,” he remarked on seeing Ronald. “I take it you saw the whole thing?”

  “I did,” said Ronald. “It was I who told Captain Coombe that no one must leave till you came.”

  “Thank you. You did perfectly right. Now, sir,” he continued, turning to Tony, “you say you wrote this note. What is your name?”

  “Anthony Elgin.”

  “Who is the Sheila you refer to?”

  “Mrs Forfar.”

  “The dead man’s wife?”

  Tony nodded, and McIver gave him a penetrating glance from under his shaggy eyebrows.

  “You say in this note, Mr Elgin: ‘You foul blackguard, how dare you bandy Sheila’s name about in public?’ I gather you know the lady well?”

  “I do,” said Tony.

  “Am I to understand that it was tonight Mr Forfar was bandying his wife’s name about?”

  “That is so,” answered Tony.

  “What exactly took place?”

  “He barged into me while I was dancing, and then made the most offensive reference to Mrs Forfar.”

  “Yes. And what did he say?”

  “He asked me,” said Tony after a momentary pause, “to give her his love when I saw her again tonight.”

  Once again came that penetrating look from McIver.

  “Indeed. But that hardly seems to me to be very offensive, Mr Elgin.”

  Tony hesitated and Ronald cut in quietly:

  “Don’t try to hide things, Tony. It will do no good.”

  “Very well. It was peculiarly offensive, inspector, because Forfar knew that I had taken his wife home from a theatre, and that she had retired for the night.”

  “I see. May I ask if there is any reason why that remark should be peculiarly offensive to you personally?”

  “I am a very great friend of the lady,” said Tony curtly.

  McIver glanced at the note again.

  “You go on to say: ‘If you have the guts of a louse, come outside and take the thrashing you so richly deserve.’ Did you have any reply?”

  “No. I saw him come back into the room and read it. Then he picked up the bottle of whisky and took a drink neat. And the next moment he was dead.”

  “So that when you sent the note over to his table he was not in the room?”

  “I didn’t send it over. I took it myself.”

  “You took it yourself?”

  “I did. I wasn’t sure if he had gone for good, but when I saw his cigarette-case on the table I knew he hadn’t.”

  “So there was no one at the table?”

  “No one. The woman who was with him earlier in the evening had gone.”

  “There had been a woman with him, had there? Do you know who she was?”

  “Not an idea.”

  “She’s no help, McIver,” put in Ronald. “She left about half an hour before it happened, and Mr Leyton saw Forfar drink on two or three occasions out of the bottle after she had gone.”

  “That is so,” I corroborated.

  “Have you any idea,” McIver asked me, “how long it was before he died that he took his last drink in safety?”

  “I can’t say if it was his last,” I said, “but he certainly drank from that bottle a quarter of an hour before the end.”

  “One more question, Mr Elgin.” He turned back to Tony. “Do you remember if the cork was in or out of the bottle when you took the note over?”

  “I am almost sure it was out, but I would not swear to it.”

  “Thank you.” McIver closed his notebook, and Tony, getting up, went back to his own table.

  “I gather,” continued the inspector to Ronald, “that the dead man’s last words were ‘You…murderer!’ Have you any idea to whom he was speaking?”

  “To be perfectly frank, McIver, I think he was speaking to Mr Elgin,” said Ronald promptly. “I think he believed Elgin had poisoned him. Which, on the face of it, is absurd.”

  “Why, Mr Standish?”

  “My dear fellow, does one come to a place of this sort with a bottle of prussic acid in one’s pocket?”

  “Not a very good argument, Mr Standish, for someone evidently has done so. The prussic acid was not in the bottle a quarter of an hour before he died; it was there when he died. It can’t have got there by itself.”

  “I say, Inspector,” said Coombe, coming over to us, “can you let some of these people go now? They’re getting very restless.”

  “In a few moments, Captain Coombe. Just now I would like to speak to the waiter who was looking after Mr Forfar.”

  Coombe made a sign, and the same waiter whose appearance I had noticed before came up.

  “You were waiting at Mr Forfar’s table?” said McIver.

  “I was, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  “George Parsons.”

  “Now, Parsons, I want you to answer a few questions. After the lady who was with Mr Forfar left, who, if anyone, went to his table?”

  “I saw Captain Coombe, sir, talking to him.”

  “That is so,” interrupted Coombe. “He wanted to know when the singing was going to begin.”

  “And except for him,” continued the waiter, “I saw no one come to the table except that gentleman over there.”

  He indicated Tony.

  “Was Mr Forfar at the table then?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you see what that gentleman did?”

  “He put a note under Mr Forfar’s cigarette-case.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He took his handkerchief out of his pocket, sir.”

  “What do you mean? To blow his nose or what?”

  “No, sir. He did not blow his nose. I don’t know what he did with it, because he half turned his back to me.”

  “And how long did he remain with his handkerchief out of his pocket while his back was turned to you?”

  “A few seconds, sir.”

  “Have you no idea what he was doing?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Could he have picked up the bottle of whisky?”

  “He might have, but I can’t say that he did.”

  “When was the last occasion on which you saw Mr Forfar take a drink from the bottle in safety?”

  “Just before he left the room, sir. I brought him another siphon.”

  “Did anyone except Mr Elgin go to the table while Mr Forfar was absent?”

  “No, sir. Of that I am positive.”

  “All right, Parsons, thank you. That will do. You can tell your guests, Captain Coombe, that they may go now. Keep all the staff, and if you would care to stop, Mr Standish, I shall welcome your assistance.”

  He walked over to Tony’s table and said a few words to him. It was not difficult to guess their purport, for Tony turned as white as a sheet.

  “Surely he can’t think that Tony did it,” cried Anne indignantly.

  I said something reassuring, but I noticed that Ronald looked a little worried.

  “I wish he hadn’t gone over to the table when Forfar was out,” he said. “No one in their senses could believe he’d do such a thing, but the bald fact remains that somebody put the stuff in the bottle while Forfar was absent.”

  The room had emptied, and suddenly Tony got up and came to our table.

  “That police merchant suspects me,” he said quietly. “He hasn’t told me that he does in so many words, but it’s sticking out a yard. It’s farcical, Ronald,” he continued angrily. “A bloke doesn’t go to a night club with bottles of poison all over him. What the devil are they looking for now?”

  McIver and his satellites were making a thorough search of the seats and chairs, and I noticed that McIver himself was concentrating particularly on those at which Tony’s party had sat. And suddenly, to my unmitigated horror, he plunged his hand into the space between the seat and the back
and withdrew a small bottle. He took one sniff at it and then came over to us.

  “How do you account for this, Mr Elgin?” he asked gravely. “It is obvious from the smell that it contained prussic acid, and I found it just where you were sitting.”

  “I can’t account for it,” said Tony steadily. “I certainly did not put it there. And I can only say that whoever did is merely trying to throw suspicion on me. He knows I quarrelled with Forfar, and that’s why he has singled me out. Confound it all, Inspector, I didn’t even know Forfar was coming here tonight. So how could I have brought prussic acid to kill him? And I suppose you’re not going to suggest that I brought it to kill anyone else. The whole thing is a plant; it’s obvious.”

  “Of course it is, Tony,” cried Anne.

  “Look here, McIver,” said Ronald. “I’ve got an idea which may help us. Test the bottle of whisky, and that empty bottle in your hand for fingerprints. Not that you’ll get much, I’m afraid, but it can do no harm.”

  “I was naturally going to do that in any event, Mr Standish,” remarked McIver a little stiffly, and beckoning to the sergeant he crossed the room to Forfar’s table.

  “It’s a positive nightmare, Ronald.” said Tony. “God knows I had no cause to love the man, but to be accused of poisoning him seems like a fantastic dream. I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m awake.”

  “My dear Tony,” said Ronald, “don’t you get hit up about it. It is obvious, of course, that someone has taken advantage of an unusual set of circumstances to try to make you the scapegoat. We’ll euchre him somehow. Well, McIver, what luck?”

  “None, Mr Standish. I hardly expected it. On the empty poison bottle the only fingerprints are my own. On the whisky bottle, the only prints are Mr Forfar’s. Five perfect ones as clear as you could want. But naturally a glove or a handkerchief was used. What on earth is the matter?”

  For Ronald was standing up, literally shaking with excitement.

  “Five,” he shouted. “Only five.”

  “What more do you want? Four fingers and a thumb.”

  “And no others?”

  “No. Why should there be?”

  “McIver, you’re mad. Coombe – come here. You keep a record, I take it, of all the drinks bought each night?”