The sergeant took out a thick black notebook and pencil, wetting it between his lips, and started to draw a very careful plan of the room. While he was doing this I wandered off down the room, admiring the jars full of powders and crystals of all the colours of the rainbow and several that the sky had not thought of, and the elaborate tangles of glass-tubing which looked as though they had originated in the brain of Heath Robinson, with a little assistance from the early H. G. Wells.
At length I arrived at the sink and looked at the apparatus which had been set up there. I wondered what sort of experiment it had been and looked idly at the bottles behind the glassware. I had never before believed that people could “nearly drop down dead from shock,” but I felt as though I could. The bottles were labeled plainly, in large red and black letters, DISTILLED WATER, SULPHURIC ACID and PRUSSIATE OF POTASH. My few minutes’ browsing in the Encyclopaedia Britannica came back at me like a boomerang. I hoped that I was wrong, but I did not feel that there was much doubt that someone had been having a shot at making prussic acid.
It occurred to me that, if I mentioned my discovery to the sergeant, there was very little doubt that he would jump to the unfortunate conclusion that I had been starting a private cyanide brewery. I did not want this to happen so I wandered back to him, looking as nonchalant as possible, to see how his labours of map-making were progressing. He wet his pencil after every stroke and in the middle of each he would pause, bite a chip off the blunt end, close one eye and lean back, looking reflectively at his handiwork. I leaned up against the bench to hide the fact that my knees were showing a slight inclination to knock together.
“Well,” I said cheerfully in a voice that sounded as though it was a couple of miles from my mouth, “how’s the job going, Sergeant? Nearly finished it? I’m beginning to feel that I could do with a cup of tea.” He looked up at me and blew out his cheeks. “I am finished, sir. Will you just put a cross where you sat?” I put my mark, thinking that the sergeant had succeeded in wasting ten minutes. We went out together and he moved the key from the inside of the door to the outside and locked it, putting the key away in his pocket.
I went over to the common room where I found my uncle seated alone at a table with a large pot of tea in front of him, blowing ferociously through his whiskers to frighten off the people who were obviously dying to ask him questions. He reminded me of one of those eighteenth-century prints of bull-baiting, with the hoary old bull presenting its lowered head to the snarling snapping terriers. When he saw me he bellowed, “Come over here, Andrew, where we can be uninterrupted by chitter-chatter!” This rebuke seemed to have its desired effect, for the gaping heads quickly were turned toward anchovy-toast and cakes. I tried his technique of snorting to avoid conversational openings and managed to get across the room without anyone having spoken to me.
“I had to send Silver off home,” my uncle rumbled. “He looks as though someone had kicked him in the pit of the stomach. I knew he was very attached to Porter, but I didn’t realise that it went as deep as all that. For about half an hour I had him here, throbbin’ like a turbine-engine, and I was afraid he was goin’ to go off his head, so I filled him up with whisky and put him in a taxi. I expect he’ll have got over it by tomorrow morning; he’ll have such a hangover that he won’t be able to think of Porter.” He looked at me and growled, “Now I think of it you’re a bit green yourself. What’s the matter? You haven’t been meeting the late doctor’s ghost, have you? I wouldn’t be surprised if he walked a bit.” He spoke with relish. “He’ll have a good deal to receive in the way of forgiveness before he’ll be allowed to enter heaven.”
I said, quietly in case anyone was eavesdropping, “There are several things I want to speak to you about, but I can’t do it here. I know where the poison came from.” He did not move but contented himself with grunting. I poured myself a cup of tea, nearly as black as Indian ink and so strong that I quite expected to see it burst the pot asunder.
We drank our tea in silence, broken only by the whine and wheeze of Uncle John’s pipe. When I had finished he hoisted himself out of his chair, mumbling, “I think we’ll go back to the White Lion. No one can interrupt us there, and you can give me a full list of your indiscretions, and misstatements, for I’ve no doubt but that you have been tyin’ yourself up in a net under the impression that you were makin’ things sound better.”
The Bentley seemed almost to drive itself, or, at least, I am sure that my uncle drove very nearly automatically. He seemed to be thinking and was quite unperturbed when we slid away from the sides of tram-cars or cut into the three or four feet separating two cyclists. He shot, unobserved, past several sets of traffic lights whose red eyes winked furiously and drew up, to the accompaniment of vigorous hooting from behind, for a green light to change to red before he proceeded. Without any pretence at nonchalance I sat beside him and prayed, quite sincerely, that the next corner might disclose an uninhabited stretch of road. My prayers were unanswered. Each stretch was fuller of hair-breadth escape than the last. When we drew up outside the hotel I was not surprised to feel that my collar was a damp and clammy pillory round my neck.
Uncle John stumped into the bar, booming for beer. We sat down in a corner and once the pint mugs had been replenished, he rumbled at me, “Come on, now, tell me your story. And don’t miss anything out. Begin where I left you with Peter and Swartz this mornin’, and go right up to teatime. Tell me everythin’.”
Chapter 5
Gimbling in the Wabe
“WELL NOW you’ve heard how Andrew here has messed things up I’d like to hear the stories you others have to tell.”
The voice of my uncle echoed enormously in the small private room where we were seated round a table covered with the debris of a gargantuan meal, built on the same lines as Uncle John. Mary and Peter did not appear to have quite recovered from the afternoon. They were still jumpy and showed an inclination to look into the corners of the room whenever there was a slight sound. As a concession to the occasion Dr. Swartz had replaced his unused corncob with a long thin unlighted cigar, which he was engaged in slowly eating as he rolled it from one corner of his mouth to the other. Occasionally he removed it from his mouth and, holding it between his finger and thumb, crackled it beside his ear and then, apparently satisfied, returned it to his teeth where the slow mastication continued.
My uncle roared and a waiter, who looked slightly frightened, appeared. He was ordered to bring a keg of brandy, or better still two kegs of brandy and several gallons of coffee. When this order had been transferred into the everyday language of the hotel and the waiter appeared with two bottles and a vast coffee pot, which looked as though it was an hotel heirloom, Uncle John beamed benevolently at him and roared, “That’ll have to do, I suppose. Now if I want anythin’ else I’ll ring for it. We don’t want to be disturbed.”
When the brandy had been distributed in bubble-glasses, chosen not for their original purpose but on account of their size, Uncle John turned to Dr. Swartz, “Now then, as it was your demonstration that was graced by the presence of Ian Porter’s departure for a place where he will be welcomed, I think I should start with you. Will you tell me everything that you did this morning. I’m not a policeman but as an avid reader of detective stories I don’t want anyone to be wrongly suspected if I can help it. Don’t be afraid to tell me anythin’ you like. I don’t mind if one of you did murder Porter, but if you did I hope you managed it in such a way that you won’t be found out. Anyhow, just treat my wish as the wish of an old man who has to be humoured.” Dr. Swartz took a drink of brandy and a new cigar and, leaning back in his chair, started. “Well, I won’t bother you with my breakfast and journey up to the university. Once I got there I went on arranging my demonstration which I started work on yesterday. I laid out the taste-testing material, measuring a little out of each of my bottles into the glasses. My assistants came in as I finished doing this and I was at work putting a label on to each vessel when Mary here arrived. I had
asked her if she would give me a hand as Miss Dorn, my usual assistant in blood-grouping, was knocked down by a bus in London and I was, in consequence, shorthanded. She did the taste-test out of curiosity and then several people came in to be grouped and to fill up the taste-test forms. Let me think,” he bit a piece off his cigar and took another sip of brandy, “there were, Von Friedlander, from the Kaiser Wilhelm Institut in Berlin, with him was Kobofsky; after that I had Powys, Cortot and then Silver.”
My uncle held up a hand like a policeman and his questions rumbled in his throat like distant thunder, “What time would this be?”
The American chewed at his cigar. “About ten forty-five or so. I wasn’t timing anything so I had no reason to look at either my watch or the clock.”
“Was he alone or had he Porter with him? What made him come? Had you asked him specially?”
With the air of one arranging a bundle of straws in order of their respective lengths, Swartz did some thinking. “Well, I had made no secret of the fact that I was doing my stuff as I wanted as many people as possible to come along and Silver was talking to Von Friedlander when I asked him to come along during the morning and I suppose he thought, as I meant him to, that he was included in the invitation. The reason for asking them along during the morning is that most demonstrations are slack until after lunch, when they are overworked. No, he hadn’t Porter with him, though he said that he would be along later. There was no reason for Porter to come. You know he worked with me in the States for some time and he knows all about the taste-testing. He and I used to do it nearly every day, just to see if our tastes altered at all. He had a much better sense of taste than I have and showed practically no variation from day to day.”
My uncle John grunted, something seemed to be worrying him, but all he said was, “He must have been seein’ if it had varied at all after a longish time. They found a paper half-filled in beside his body. It’s funny, though, if his taste was as good as all that, that he took a sip of cyanide without noticin’ it.” He shook himself like a spaniel after a swim. “Never mind, though, just go on with your story.” In spite of a few half-hearted protests he filled up the brandy glasses and then, after polishing them on the bottom of his waistcoat, settled his steel-rimmed glasses firmly on his nose and beamed round the table, like a cross between a jovial Dickens’s character and a more or less clean-shaven Santa Claus.
“There’s not very much more. I had one or two students in for the bag of tricks and then Andrew Blake came in, looking rather frightened as if he was afraid that we would kill him. While he was there Porter came in, to ask if he could use the room during lunch for some experiment with a new noncoagulant he’s been working on. I couldn’t see any reason for refusing his request so I told him I didn’t mind so long as he did not mess up the demonstration. The suggestion that he might interfere with my things stung him a bit, I think. After that I put Blake through the show and then tidied up a bit. When I left—at what time? Oh I suppose about five past one. When I left my assistants had just gone and Mary was tidying up the blood-grouping materials. I then, not feeling very hungry, walked down to Powys’s exhibit. I wanted to see his cross-bred dogs. He was there and I had lunch with him in an inn called The Seven Stars. You know it? Yes. Well, after lunch, a fairly quick one, I went back to the university, leaving Powys with his dogs. I met the others in the corridor and you know the rest.”
Uncle John opened his eyes and chuckled, “So you’ve got a pretty fair alibi, son, eh? I think that’s fairly simple. Now, on the principle of ladies first, you tell us your story, Mary.”
I will not bother to write down the whole of Mary’s account of how she spent her morning as the greater part of it was merely a duplication of the things we had already been told by Dr. Swartz. When she arrived at the departure of Swartz for lunch she hesitated and, after a quick sip at her almost untouched brandy, said, “Well then I met Peter and I think that’s all.”
My uncle looked at her over the top of his spectacles in a benevolent way, “Come, come, my dear,” he grumbled gently, “I want your version of what you did as well as Peter’s. No, no, don’t be silly. I’m not tryin’ to trap you. It’s only that I’d like to have your version as well as his, in case he misses anything that you noticed.” Mary had looked at him sharply, but as he spoke so gently she eased back in her chair.
“All right,” she said slowly. “After Dr. Swartz left the room I cleaned up the blood-testing things and laid them ready for the afternoon. I suppose that took me another three or four minutes. Then I went out into the corridor where I met Peter. He asked me if, before lunch, I would read through his paper as there were one or two points of which he was doubtful. We went in search of somewhere quiet and sat down in the room where the rat and mouse people have their exhibits, beside Cortot’s new travelling cage.”
She was interrupted by my uncle tapping on the table with the edge of his hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, my dear, but I just wondered what you thought of the cage.” His eyes twinkled disarmingly. Mary looked puzzled. “I didn’t look at it very closely but I thought it seemed a bit too elaborate, and I couldn’t see very many advantages from it, except on the grounds of neatness.” My uncle nodded wisely and said, “That’s all right. Will you please go on now?”
“I read Peter’s paper and thought it was pretty good. Peter wanted to wash his hands as he had been mucking about all morning and so I went on alone to the common room. I met you, you remember, just coming out.” My uncle nodded again and turned to Peter. “Well, sir, I think she’s told you everything. I washed my hands and ran across after her.” “Humph. Did either of you see anyone between the time you left the demonstration room and the time you went over to the common room for lunch?”
Peter lit a cigarette and looked thoughtful. “No, I don’t think I saw anyone. Unless, just wait a moment… I have a faint idea I saw Silver going along toward the demonstration room as I left the lavatory to run after Mary. If I did see him I suppose it was just about the time when he went along and found the body of that swine.”
He looked around the table pugnaciously as if seeking our reaction to his disregard of the de mortuis nihil nisi bonum taboo, but if he hoped for some contradiction it did not come. Uncle John wagged his shaggy head like an amiable dog. “Harrumph,” he snorted, “well we don’t seem to be much further on, do we? As far as can be seen the demonstration room was empty from about ten past one.” He drew a bundle of papers out of his pocket and, selecting an envelope not already covered with notes, started to scribble upon it with his fat fountain pen. “Until, say, twenty to two when Silver entered it and stumbled upon the body of Porter.” He wrote several names down the page and said, his voice suddenly booming like that of a faulty wireless, “Now, then, I’ll make a list of everyone that we know about at present, just to see who had the opportunity, motive and so on to murder Porter. I’ll put myself at the top of the list so that no one can say that I’m being unfair. This business of making a list is common to many of the best detective stories, so I don’t see why we should not follow their examples, do you?” No one said anything to show disapproval, so he started scribbling, in his small neat handwriting. The writing spread over the backs of several envelopes before he leaned back in his seat, beaming happily. “Now, lady and gentlemen,” he said, wagging the papers at us, “I’m going to pass these notes of mine round and I don’t want anyone to say anythin’ until I have them back, when I will receive all complaints, congratulations and corrections with gratitude.”
The papers ran as follows:
JOHN STUBBS. Motive: general dislike. Opportunity: not, at the moment, visible. Remarks: has been heard by Andrew Blake to state that it would not be a bad thing if Porter were to be murdered and also said that he hoped no one fumbled the job as if necessary he could manage it very cleverly. Motive is rather weak but as murders have been committed for a few shillings before now that need not matter. Principal objection: appears to have alibi; lunching in view of many
people in common room, and is not the size of person who would escape notice slipping in and out of room.
ANDREW BLAKE. Motive: dislike and a desire to fight other’s battles for them. Opportunity: shut up alone in laboratory in which there are the materials and apparatus for the production of prussic acid, which, also, he appears to know how to prepare. Unsupported statement that he only discovered method from Encyclopaedia this afternoon. Motive is weak but fact of fight last night shows willingness to use force; however, method employed is not that of man who will deal out blows.
MAXWELL SILVER. Motive: perhaps annoyance at Porter’s thieving. Opportunity: unknown (to be looked into). Remarks: unlikely, as he was Porter’s one really intimate friend. Probably possesses technical ability required in the preparation of cyanide.
HERMAN SWARTZ. Motive: dislike, or unknown. Opportunity: nil, according to his alibi. Remarks: seems to be impossible.
PETER HATTON. Motive: jealousy, and intense dislike. Opportunity: only in conjunction with Mary Lewis (see below). Remarks: method does not seem to be one that would be favoured by Hatton. If P. had been killed by violence there would have been strong reason to suspect him.
MARY LEWIS. Motive: hatred and anger at P.’s behaviour. Opportunity: see Hatton above. Remarks: “poisoning is a woman’s crime.” This statement is not true; percentage of women poisoners over men admitted but all the same method one used by large number of men.
X. Motive: unknown. Opportunity: unknown. Remarks: it is impossible to make remarks on an unknown quantity—except for the sake of making the remarks.
When the paper had gone round the table my uncle looked at us over the top of his glasses and beamed in a friendly way. “Hey,” he boomed and the frightened-looking waiter popped his head in at the door. “Beer in tankards.” When the beer had arrived and we were drinking it slowly, he looked up from the list and mumbled, “Well, I don’t know what you think, but for the present I’d like to keep our friend X out of it. He’s such a strange chap, and he only appears in the worst detective stories when the author cannot think of a way in which to link up one of the suspects with the murder, havin’ provided him with too good an alibi. So we come to the unpleasant fact that it would seem that one of us here, or Professor Silver, committed the murder, or, at least, we’ve got to prove that none of the people on this list could possibly have killed Porter. I’m sorry to be so blunt but it’s an unpleasant fact and we must face it, for you’ll find that the police will presumably come to the same conclusion. Of course, it would be pleasant if we could find an X or if, say, Silver during a brainstorm had decided to murder his best friend. But, an’ it’s a big but, this murder was fairly carefully planned.”
Unholy Dying Page 6