Flowering Death Page 12

  Spike’s wrist-watch showed the time to be shortly after four when he turned the Bentley sharp to the right between the ornate pillars which flanked the gravelled entrance to Sanders Grange. And he was glad to discover, driving the car slowly forward along the curved avenue, that there were no signs of a house-party on the flat green lawns and in the flaming garden which he glimpsed behind the square, solid building. Had there been guests at the place, it would have been inconvenient — perhaps even impossible — to secure a private talk with the girl.

  He remembered, however, a remark which had been made by one of the fellows at the Yard:

  “Lord Eustace is too busy, Lady Sanders too lazy and the Hon. Nancy too much suspect for entertaining to be carried on by the family on a large scale. There are week-end parties, of course, when the parents are in Town ... ”

  And then, quite suddenly, while he meditated upon the possibilities of the “Lady Charlotte Hamilton” rose, found in the library at Arundel House, having come from the gay garden behind the Grange, Spike espied a little white figure in a deck-chair. She had laid down a magazine on the turf by her side and was gazing in surprise at the approach of the big car. The head of Department Q7 whistled softly to himself, applied the brakes and descended, hatless and immaculate in grey flannels and checked tweed jacket, to the lawn. The Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders, her cheeks slightly flushed and the dainty silk scarf about her throat rustling uneasily, surveyed his advance between half-closed eyes.

  Spike bowed as he stood towering above her. She did not, he observed, offer him her hand; and there was a hard expression in the usually liquid, innocent brown eyes.

  He though cynically of the alluring qualities of her beauty. The gracious lines of her figure were concealed by the short, tight-bodiced, wide-skirted tennis frock, and the slim silken legs were such as would have caused an ordinary man a moment of gratitude. Her face, tanned a little, was rather broad; but its contours were sweet and smooth. Her dark, curly hair lay about her head in reckless beauty. The white silk scarf that she wore may have been employed to hide the sole flaw in the perfection of her physical appearance — the tiny scar on her neck.

  She remained, half-reclining, her body taut as a wand, in the deck-chair; and she spoke so casually that Spike would have been deceived, had he not been aware of the tensity of her attitude.

  “Good afternoon. Dr. Dorrance. You wish to see me?”

  He nodded, the sun glinting on his crisp black hair. He strove to eradicate from his mind the unpleasant memory of their last meeting.

  “I do, Miss Sanders,” he said slowly, bright blue eyes on her face. “There are several questions that I wish to ask you in connection with the murder of Dr. Abraham McIntee.”

  Now, as he explained the purpose of his visit, he endeavoured to catch some hint of emotion in her features. He was disappointed. The expression of slight boredom on her lovely face did not change. The hard light burned steadily in her eyes. Quite clearly, he decided, there were difficulties ahead.

  “Won’t you sit down, Dr. Dorrance?”

  He flung his long length on the dry turf and grinned up at her. She did not return his smile. Spike had a notion that she was afraid to move a muscle, in ease such an action would betray her inward thoughts.

  “Thanks,” he murmured. “Now, Miss Sanders, will you tell me why you sent those flowers to Dr. Fayne the day before yesterday?”

  His eyes were turned away from her in drowsy contemplation of the stately elms which fringed the lawn; but to his satisfaction he heard a quick intake of breath behind him. And the Hon. Nancy did not attempt to deny his charge.

  “I sent them,” she said, “because of a small favour which Dr. Fayne did for me — some time ago. He attended to me professionally.”

  Spike rolled over on his side and held her eyes.

  “The queer thing,” he explained deliberately, “is that Dr. Fayne denies havin’ met with you.”

  The fixed outline of her face still did not alter. She returned his glance straightly.

  “That is peculiar,” she said. “Or ... wait! Perhaps it is not so peculiar after all. Dr. Fayne must have many patients. My ailment was trifling, and he spent only ten minutes in my room — at our London house. As a matter of fact he sent no account for his services, and, incidentally, that was my reason for sending the flowers ... So, you see, the incident may have gone completely from his mind.”

  Spike had his doubts. And he expressed a hint of them.

  “Any man who has met you once, Miss Sanders, is not liable to forget you.”

  She reddened, and her companion suddenly observed that the hard expression in her eyes had distilled into a look of bitter hatred. He was not surprised. When she spoke, however, it was with an ordinary intonation.

  “Thank you, Dr. Dorrance, for your pretty compliment. You always had the gift of flattery strongly developed ... The fact remains, however, that one man at least has paid little attention to my physical and moral attractions. And don’t you think that Dr. Fayne, being a busy professional man, has some excuse?”

  Spike noted with some satisfaction how she laboured the point of Fayne’s forgetfulness. He noted, too, the shade of anxiety which crept into her voice as she put the question.

  Later he thought of the manner in which she had greeted him. That she loathed him from the depths of her being he had little doubt; and yet her welcome had been civil enough, if a trifle cold. He came to believe that her complicity in the affair, however slight it might be, was certain.

  And though he had no intention of disclosing at the moment his knowledge of the “Lady Charlotte Hamilton” rose, he had another question in his mind with which to test her good faith.

  “Of course,” he said slowly, “you must be right, Miss Sanders. Forgive my inquisitive nature.”

  “Being a policeman,” she returned, “is naturally not the work of a gentleman.”

  A sudden spark flared up in Spike’s eyes. And then, as suddenly as it had been born, it died. The head of Department Q7 gazed aloft at a seagull hovering in the blue.

  “I am afraid,” he murmured, “that with a girl like yourself a gentleman has little chance ... By the way, the butler at Arundel House tells me that within the last fortnight you paid a visit to the late Dr. McIntee.”

  Out of the corner of one eye he watched her. And he was amazed at the change which came over her whole attitude. It seemed that he had uncovered the one chink in her armour. Her slim body grew lax, the malice and anger departed from her eyes. The adorable mouth drooped. And like marble the knuckles gleamed white.

  She responded in a whisper.

  “It is untrue.”

  There was the sound of another car upon the avenue, and Spike, concealing his annoyance at the interruption, climbed slowly to his feet.

  “You will tell me your story,” he said firmly, “or I am afraid that the good McGonagle will shortly be placin’ manacles upon your fair wrists.”

  She rose, not sinuously and alluringly as was her wont, but with an awkward, uncertain motion.

  “I have people coming for afternoon tea. A damned old parson and his wife. That is their car now ... Dine with me at Harpagon’s this evening. Eight o’clock. I will tell you — what you want to know.”

  Small and slim, her lovely face pathetic and appealing, she stood before Spike. For a moment he wondered if she were acting; but almost immediately he had dismissed the consideration.

  Then a memory had come to him of a remark made by Spring:

  “Miss Nevinson told me that something had occurred to her but that recollection wasn’t quite complete. She hopes you will be able to return home fairly early tonight, so that she may have a long talk with you.”

  The head of department Q7 struggled desperately with a human desire. He looked down at the girl before him with disgust. What the deuce would Joan say if she learned he had declined the chance of a long talk with her in order to spend an evening with the Hon, Miss Nancy Sanders? Would she understand the posit
ion? Or should he tell the Hon. Nancy to wait until the morrow? Should he ...

  Spike thrust the temptation behind him. His jaw tightened. He bowed.

  “I shall be delighted to entertain you, dear lady,” he said. “I shall reserve a table away from the band for eight o’clock.”

  *

  He turned on his heel and retraced his steps across the lawn to the Bentley. As he climbed in an Austin Ten passed him on its way to the ornate front entrance of Sanders Grange. Inside Spike glimpsed a white dog-collar and a lady of skinny aspect. He grinned slightly at the thought of the company to be entertained by the Hon. Nancy for the next hour. But there was no great amusement in his heart.

  He was bitterly disappointed that the evening which he had planned to spend alone with Joan Nevinson and his aunt had been spoiled. And upon reaching the Yard his temper was not of the best. He ’phoned his flat and was answered rather joyously by Joan herself. When he told her that he would be working late that night on the McIntee case he detected coldness in her conventionally regretful answer.

  This tended to make his questions to McGonagle and Spring, when they reported to him at seven o’clock, rather curt and unfriendly. The two policemen, who had laboured mightily throughout the afternoon, were distressed by his lack of sympathy for them in the difficulties they had encountered.

  Spring reported watertight the depositions given by Fayne, Lancaster, Seale, Mrs. Parkinson and Mary Daw regarding the manner in which they had spent the day previous to the murder. None of them had been discovered in a lie. The patients enumerated by Dr. Fayne had all turned out to be genuine cases. Their timing of his visits had dovetailed perfectly and accounted for his complete working day. Actors, actresses and stage-hands at the Paternoster Theatre corroborated Lancaster’s story of his movements and had spoken of the great reception given to his acting and to that of his leading lady at the close of that evening’s presentation of Othello. With Miss Senga de Montfiore, the lovely Desdemona, he had received great bunches of flowers from members of the audience; but it seemed that all of these had been distributed among the female members of the cast. When he returned to Arundel House, Seale declared, the actor had been carrying no parcels.

  “Ah!” murmured Spike as if interested. “I’m curious about the flowers received by Lancaster. Make more inquiries, Spring ... I gather that for the sake of his art, as he puts it, Lancaster is not allowing his uncle’s death to prevent him playing each night at the Paternoster?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  Then McGonagle cleared his throat.

  “I haven’t discovered, Spike,” he said taking up the talc, “how the germs of the flower-disease were administered to the victims. But there is one significant fact to which I should like to draw your attention. Every one of those afflicted with the malady was a patient of Dr. Fayne’s. And every one of them had recently taken medicine prescribed by him.”

  Spike leaped to his feet, startled for a moment out of his evil mood.

  “My God!” he muttered. “Fayne! So that’s why he was so tense and afraid this afternoon. I can scarcely believe it. Too darned obvious ... Never mind! Get a warrant prepared for his arrest. And have the men watch him like hawks ... But we can’t take him until there is more evidence. Do you hear! We must have more evidence!”

  “I know, Spike,” returned McGonagle quietly and patiently. “Too many folks have been arrested lately on suspicion ... Begorra, if another ‘murderer’ was found innocent old Percy would throw a fit! We’ll wait until we analyse the contents of the medicine bottles he gave to his patients.”

  “Right! Put the Yard chemist on to the business at once ... Get off with you now. Cheek up again on the depositions given by Fayne, Lancaster and Seale and report to me at midday to-morrow. Remember to put that advertisement in the Daily Star, McGonagle ... Now, listen, Spring! Don’t be so damned lugubrious! Do you know that I’m dinin’ with the lion. Miss Nancy Sanders to-night? Think of that and don’t pity yourself so much!”

  It was then that McGonagle and Spring understood.

  As they left the apartment Spike had begun to dress. For emergencies he always kept a little wardrobe at the Yard.

  CHAPTER XIV

  AT mid-summer Harpagon’s is a delightful place for those who have worked, jaded, in the heat of the day. By means of hidden electric fans, the atmosphere is kept untainted; and the marble pillars of the grill-room, the splashing fountain near the bandstand and the greenery with which the apartment is decorated bring a sense of cool ease to the diners. The dancing-floor made of glinting glass in various shades, completes the illusion of some northland palace.

  When Spike conferred with the head waiter, securing a table near the main door, the room was fairly busy. Several couples were already jazzing to the soft music of Hector’s Rome’s famous wireless orchestra, and the dapper little band leader was beaming upon the gathering.

  The head of Department Q7, glancing about him as he sat down to await the corning of the Hon. Nancy, recognized many well-known people in the company, among them a youthful Indian prince with whom he had studied medicine at Glasgow University. He smiled broadly to his old friend.

  Observing Spike, “Jimmy” Ram-Singh rose from the table at which he had been eating in solitary state and came speeding across the glass floor, a grin of delighted welcome on his narrow dark face. His slim figure tautened as he bowed in mock humility.

  “By Jove, ‘Jimmy’!” exclaimed Spike jumping to his feet. “I’m glad to meet you again. How long is it since we emulated Burke and Hare at Gilmorehill?”

  “Five years, Spike, old fellow.” “Jimmy” spoke in the sibilant, ultra-correct manner of the educated Indian. “And I am so happy that you are famous now ... ”

  “Famous! ‘Jimmy’, you’re a great ass. What about yourself?”

  The young Indian shrugged as he accepted a cigarette.

  “Listen, Spike,” he said presently. “I am a prince. I’ve got millions of money in a very good bank in India. And yet I’d give all of it to buy a practice in London.”

  “Your people won’t stand for it, I suppose?”

  “That is the truth. And my training at the finest medical University in the world has been wasted ... When my reverend uncle died, just after our final examination, I had to return to my country. Now I play the noble lord over half-a-million toughs, and I can only snatch a month off now and again to visit London ... Spike! You're a lucky dog!”

  “Maybe I am! Been readin’ about the McIntee case?”

  “Yes, my old friend. And I’m interested. I wanted to discuss it with you.”

  Spike laughed softly. And he offered up a silent prayer that the Hon. Nancy might be a little late for their appointment.

  “Come on, ‘Jimmy’!” he smiled. “What’s on your mind? You’re pantin’ there like a hart after the water brooks!”

  “Jimmy” Ram-Singh allowed his gaze to rest frankly on Spike’s face.

  “It’s about that flower-disease. The papers this evening deny the reports in the daily editions; but — I’m not so sure.”

  Spike came to a decision; for he had an idea that his friend was keen to impart same information which might be useful to him. And if he kept the official secret he might lose a valuable clue to the facts behind Dr. McIntee’s murder. There would be no necessity of course, to acquaint “Jimmy” with the threat made against the Government by “Black and White.”

  “You’re a level-headed customer, ‘Jimmy’,” said Spike slowly. “I’ll tell you the truth. The first reports were correct.”

  “I thought so. And thank you for giving me your confidence, old fellow. You shan’t regret it ... The fact is, I came across an ancient manuscript volume in my uncle’s library last year which interested me immensely. It dealt with obscure eastern diseases and when I learned yesterday of the fleshy flower which had been found at Arundel House and, to-day, of the alarming spread of the malady, certain facts referred to in the old book returned to my mind ... But I expec
t you know all about the flower-disease already.”

  “On the contrary, ‘Jimmy’, I know nothing whatever about it, except the fact of its existence. Further, I know that if we don’t hit upon a cure within a week there’s going to be the devil to pay. We have doctors workin’ like mad to find a remedy, but I’m not hopeful.”

  “Neither am I, Spike. There can be only one cure, and according to my information, the knowledge of that cure has been lost for centuries.”

  “No. You’re wrong there, I think. We have established almost beyond doubt that Dr. McIntee was aware of it; and we have a tentative theory that the old man was killed so that he might not be able to employ his knowledge. The murderer is now in possession ... Tell me, ‘Jimmy’: what do you know?”

  The Indian tapped a length of ash from his cigarette, and Spike glanced surreptitiously at his wrist-watch. It was five minutes past eight. Already the Hon. Nancy was somewhat late ... Hector Rome’s orchestra was giving a spirited rendering of the latest “hill billy” melody.

  “I’m afraid,” said “Jimmy” at last, “that my information may not be very helpful to you as a policeman. It may, however, give the doctors some hint as to the nature of the cure; though I regret that, even with my own medical knowledge, I fail to see light. And a week is so short a time ... ”

  Spike nodded, concealing his impatience. Every moment he expected to see the Hon. Nancy come into the restaurant.

  “Never mind how unimportant your information appears to be, ‘Jimmy’. Tell me.”

  The Indian gained more confidence.

  “My uncle’s old book,” he began, “was written, queerly enough, in English; and the author, who seems to have penned every word of it in his own round, characteristic hand, was obviously a medical missionary of some kind. I rather think he would be an inmate of a monastery in the hill country not far distant from the Himalayas, for his dissertations upon little-known maladies are interspersed with pious writing and particularly vivid descriptions of snow-clad heights visible from the window of the room in which he worked ... It may be that he was attached to one of the trading expeditions which were so common in India about the middle of the seventeenth century.”