Flowering Death Page 2

  “Human flesh,” he muttered. “A growth of some sort plucked out by the root. The red spots are assuredly blood.”

  Mervyn Lancaster’s blue eyes were bright. He adopted an actor’s pose of horror.

  “But the thing’s just like a flower. How could it possibly grow upon a human body?”

  The doctor shrugged. Then suddenly his sallow face became vivacious.

  “Inspector,” he snapped, “have you been reading your newspapers lately?”

  “Sure, doctor. It’s part of my job.”

  “Well — haven’t you read of the British soldier in India who was attacked by a strange disease which baffled the doctors? It consisted of the growth of fleshy protuberances like flowers upon his feet. No matter how quickly they were removed they grew up again in a single night. Medical science all over the world has been intrigued ... I don’t pretend to understand, Inspector, even though I’ve some little experience of tropical ailments. But I know that the facts are true enough. Once the growths reach the vicinity of the heart — and from the feet they do so, apparently, in about a week — the sufferer must die.”

  “Like flowers!” muttered McGonagle, rubbing his square blue chin. “Yes, I remember. And there is no known remedy ... Flowers! Flowers! Flowers! This case seems to depend entirely upon flowers.”

  He took the pink object from the doctor and wrapped it carefully in a piece of cotton-wool which he discovered in his attaché-case. Sergeant Spring observed signs of irritation about his superior and felt some sympathy for Mervyn Lancaster, who seemed to have forgotten to pose in sheer bewilderment.

  “Shall I phone for the cameraman and the doctor now, sir?”

  “Aye, Spring, do. And when you’re at the job leave a message for Spike Dorrance to come around.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  *

  The sergeant left the room in the wake of Kenneth Fayne and Mervyn Lancaster. In his heart there was a warm glow of anticipation; for the presence of Spike Dorrance in a case conducted by Inspector McGonagle had always meant excitement and a good deal of queer drama.

  William Spiker Dorrance had become an institution at New Scotland Yard. Scarcely more than thirty and apparently a confirmed bachelor, he was a medical graduate of Glasgow University, his special subject being tropical diseases. But besides his medical skill, Spike had an unerring aptitude for criminal matters, and, on more than one occasion, after having been called in purely as a medical specialist, he had helped the police to unravel mysteries which had proved difficult and out of the common.

  By such means he had gradually gained the confidence of the Assistant Commissioner, until at length a special Department, entitled Q7, had been formed at Scotland Yard under his direction. Its particular care were cases which promised research into the practice of little-known medical skill.

  Sergeant Spring, therefore, was conscious of being the transmitter of interesting tidings — even to the Yard — when he remarked casually over the phone to a junior colleague:

  “And get in touch with Dr. Dorrance at once, please. He is urgently required at Arundel House.”

  There was the sound of a soft whistle at the other end of the wire and Sergeant Spring grinned. He would not have grinned had he known how tortuously difficult the case was to become, and how, in the end, it was to be the subject of grave questions in parliament and of headlines in every newspaper published in the British Isles.

  CHAPTER II

  INSPECTOR MCGONAGLE and Sergeant Spring were completing their examination of the flower-strewn library in which Dr. Abraham McIntee had been murdered when a large young man put his head round the door. It was a very presentable head, covered with crisp black hair, and the face, though not of film-star beauty, possessed qualities of determination and humour. The broad chin, the big, rather snub nose, and the steady grey eyes beneath a high forehead indicated courage and intelligence in their owner.

  “Roses, roses all the way,” murmured Spike Dorrance as he surveyed the unusual scene. “Mornin’, McGonagle and Spring. Nice fellows you are to spoil my beauty-sleep! McGonagle hath murdered sleep —”

  “Come inside,” interrupted the inspector who knew his man. “Someone hath murdered Dr. Abraham McIntee.”

  Spike’s big mouth widened into a smile as he came gingerly into the apartment. He had seen death too often to allow it to have an effect upon his spirits. It was his creed that only a hypocrite shows sadness at the sight of a dead stranger.

  “You should have said: ‘Come into the garden, Maud’,” he remarked pleasantly. “Then my illusion of unreality would have been complete.”

  “Can you make anything of it, Spike?”

  Sergeant Spring was gazing at the young man as if he expected the notable Yard expert to solve the mystery merely by a short ocular examination of the room. The sergeant was a great admirer of Spike’s, and his respect had not diminished in the slightest when that unconventional individual, on his assuming the directorship of Department Q7, had let it be known that he wished to be addressed by all and sundry as “Spike.” Rather had it increased.

  Spring would have gone to the ends of the earth with Spike and Inspector McGonagle as leaders. Had not the inspector been indirectly responsible for his promotion? Had not Spike once saved him an unholy wigging from the Assistant Commissioner by blandly taking all the blame on his own broad shoulders? He remembered with awe the manner in which the Assistant Commissioner had glared at his expert on that occasion, and how, under the blandishments of Spike’s tongue, he had, ten minutes later, roared with laughter and invited him to lunch at his club.

  In spite of Spring’s regard, however, the man was not omniscient.

  “My dear youth,” replied Spike who was about two years older than the sergeant, “I see flowers and a body. That’s all. What do the pair of you want me to do?”

  “Well, Spike, it’s like this.” McGonagle rubbed his blue chin. “The body was found by the butler all covered with flowers —”

  “The body or the butler?”

  “Begorra, don’t be an ass, Spike ... The butler reported his find about half-past five to the household, and Dr. Fayne, the late Dr. McIntee’s partner —”

  “Who lives here?”

  “Dr. Fayne, who lives here, made an immediate examination. He is of the opinion that the old man had been killed not more than fifteen minutes before he saw the body. When Dr. Allenson came across from the Yard — he left just before ye arrived, Spike — he confirmed Dr. Fayne’s notion as to the time of the murder. He states that Dr. McIntee was shot in the back at a range of about a foot. The old man’s pyjama-jacket — he wasn’t even wearing a dressing-gown, begorra — is burned slightly. The bullet is from an automatic Browning, of which there are about half-a-million replicas in London. But, Spike, there’s nothing to be found in this room — no fingerprints except those of the people in the house, no sign of burglary, no weapons, no nothing ... Except these darned flowers — and this.”

  Like a conjurer the inspector produced from his attaché-case a wad of cotton-wool, unrolled it and displayed for Spike’s benefit the queer fungoid growth which had been discovered among the flowers. He mentioned Kenneth Fayne’s theory as to its nature.

  Spike was silent for about two minutes, an unusual phenomenon. His brows contracted as he fingered the pink object and studied the minute red stains at its root. Suddenly he straightened and looked the inspector straight in the eye.

  “Dr. Fayne was right, I think. I’ve seen a woman afflicted by the flower-death — once. Did Allenson say whether this — er — this thing was torn from Abraham McIntee’s body?”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “M’m.” Spike handed back the flower-like growth. “Wanted — the man who was a garden. Find the man with flowers growin’ from his feet, McGonagle, and we’ll hang him.”

  Sergeant Spring goggled and scratched his fair head. He wasn’t quite sure whether the expert was in earnest or merely being playful. He was seldom sure.

>   “I can scarcely believe it, Spike,” muttered the sergeant.

  “Can assure you the thing’s feasible enough, old boy ... No one in the household with flowers stickin’ out of his ears?”

  McGonagle grinned. Then he shook his head gloomily.

  “I don’t think it was an inside job. Miss Nevinson was the old man’s ward, and though she doesn’t seem over-grieved by his death, she acts innocently enough. Dr. Fayne, the partner, is a mysterious-looking customer; but if my guess is true he stands to lose McIntee’s financial backing. Mervyn Lancaster is a relative and will now probably have to give up a comfortable home; while Seale, the butler, has been in the old man’s service, here and in India, for thirty years. The housekeeper and the slavey are surely out of the question. They wouldn’t have the nerve. ... Besides, there’s that window.”

  The green blind still flapped loosely against the raised sash. Spike snapped out the electric light and raised the blinds. He looked out on to Park Square and saw that anyone leaving the house by the window could easily gain access to the quiet, tree-fringed pavement. A clamber over low railings would present the only obstacle; and no footmarks would be left on the cement of the area. Then he glanced at the aperture left by the raising of the sash.

  “Did it ever strike you, McGonagle,” he murmured, “that no one but a very thin person could gain an exit by this window?”

  McGonagle’s protruding eyes seemed likely to pop from their sockets.

  “Begorra, now! Spring! Try and get through that window.”

  The fair-haired young policeman, who was slenderly built, had difficulty in getting even his head and shoulders out into the fresh air.

  “Of course,” continued Spike blandly, “the escapin’ murderer may have half-closed the sash behind him ... Well, now: aren’t you goin’ to interview the tragic ménage? Ménage, Spring, is a French word used by the crime-novelists to denote ‘household’ and to indicate at the same time, their own deep erudition.”

  “You’ve no human sympathy, Spike,” grumbled the inspector. “Come on, then ... By the time we’ve finished with them, our men should have removed — er — this to the mortuary.”

  He led the way across the hall and, having knocked softly on the drawing-room door, pushed it open. Inside there were congregated all the members of the household.

  *

  Now, Spike Dorrance had the reputation at the Yard of being the most cold-blooded man in Britain as far as women were concerned. And the episode of the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders, a daughter of the Minister for Naval Affairs, and the loveliest debutante of her season, may be quoted as having been the basis for the idea.

  This wealthy young lady had not long ago conceived a violent passion for Spike, during his investigation into the death by poisoning of the Japanese delegate to the Naval Conference. McGonagle and Spring, who knew the reputation of the girl better than the most expert gossip-writer, watched with growing uneasiness what they imagined might prove to be the beginning of their colleague’s downfall. And when, in the end, The Hon. Nancy retired to the country, trembling with rage, and Spike continued blandly with his duties in town, the faithful pair danced a hornpipe with each other. For they knew that the daughter of the Minister for Naval Affairs, who was as alluring as a dream and as beautiful as the Madonna, had caused one young man, when she tired of him, to commit suicide and three others to journey disconsolate to various outposts of the Empire. And to their delighted ears had come the rumour that on the previous night, in her sumptuous flat, after having seemed about to succumb to her seductive wiles, the very unconventional Spike had produced a long leather belt and had applied it, not too vigorously, to an appropriate part of the importunate young lady’s anatomy. But rumour, as Spike himself remarked, is often a lying jade, and no one, with the exception of his colleagues at the Yard and one close friend of the girl’s, suspected his association with the Hon. Nancy.

  Taking these facts into consideration, therefore, it struck both McGonagle and Spring as strange that when he was introduced to Joan Nevinson their respected bachelor colleague should suddenly become tongue-tied and even a little flushed. They saw, too, how his grey eyes grew bright. They saw him hold her hand for a slightly longer period than was necessary.

  “Miss Nevinson,” he said quietly, “we’ll make everything as easy as possible.”

  Joan liked his lean, masculine appearance, though she had doubts as to his being a very efficient policeman.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and the perfume that she used caused Spike to stifle a sigh. “Will you please ask any questions of us that you may consider necessary.”

  “Yes ... Carry on, Inspector.”

  Recovering from surprise at his colleague’s demeanour towards the girl, McGonagle cleared his throat. Spring produced a note-book. And Spike sat in shadow by the window, watching Joan’s profile.

  The statements which were laboriously compiled within the next hour did not seem to offer the slightest hint of sensational evidence; and as far as the events of the morning were concerned, McGonagle was inclined to believe that their rather remarkable dovetailing proved the truth of each of them.

  Seale, the butler, had been roused, it appeared, by a noise which came from the direction of the library. It had sounded like a shot.

  Mrs. Parkinson, the housekeeper, who slept with the little maid-of-all-work, Mary Daw, in the adjoining room, had also been wakened by the noise and had heard the butler get up to investigate. The butler had flung on his clothes and gone along to the library. Mrs. Parkinson, rousing Mary Daw, had wrapped her ample form in a dressing-gown and, with the maid, had followed Seale. The two women had seen him open the door of the library, pause, gasp and rush upstairs to rouse Miss Joan. In several minutes Seale had come down again, followed by his young mistress and by the two young gentlemen, dishevelled and sleepy in their dressing-gowns.

  According to their evidence, neither Joan. Dr. Fayne, nor Mervyn Lancaster had heard the sound of a shot, for their bedrooms lay in the west wing, a considerable distance away from the position of the library. Joan had wakened with a start at the sound of Seale’s heavy knocking, and, as she dressed sketchily, had heard him rouse Dr. Fayne and Mr. Lancaster ... No, she had not been aware that her guardian, who slept in the room next to hers, had gone downstairs.

  It was Spike who suggested that Joan should give a short account of her guardian’s movements within the last few years.

  She smiled wistfully.

  “I’m afraid I know very little about poor Dr. McIntee,” she said. “My father and mother both died in Bombay and, having got to know Dr. McIntee intimately — he had a large practice in that town for many years — they had made him a trustee of their estate and appointed him my guardian in the event of their deaths. I was at school here when Dad and Mother were killed in a railway accident near Dhulia, and I met the old man for the first time two years ago when he returned to London. I lived here quite happily, though I’m afraid Dr. McIntee and I never became real friends. He was kindly and I had everything I wanted; but some kind of worry always seemed to be hanging over him ... About twelve months ago my guardian decided to retire and offered Dr. Fayne a partnership in the practice which he had bought. He had met Dr. Fayne at St. Clement’s Hospital” — Kenneth Fayne inclined his dark head gravely as the girl glanced at him for confirmation — “and had become enthusiastic about his medical skill. About a month later Mr. Lancaster arrived home from Bombay and took up residence here. My guardian told me that Mr. Lancaster was a nephew of his own and that as he liked the company of young people he had invited him to stay ... Mr. Lancaster is the famous actor, you know.”

  “I thought so,” returned Spike. “Mr. Lancaster’s performance in this week’s production of Othello is masterly.”

  “Thank you,” murmured the fair young man. “I can only say that, being Dr. McIntee’s sole surviving relative, I sincerely hope his murderer will speedily be brought to book.”

  “By the way,” said Spike, dr
eamily glancing at Joan’s shining, wavy hair which gleamed with gold in the strong sunlight, “did Dr. McIntee have many visitors?”

  “Scarcely any in a social capacity,” replied Joan: “though a fortnight ago there was a woman, wasn’t there, Seale?”

  “Yes, Miss Joan.” The butler turned to the policemen. “Rather an exotic type, if I may say so, gentlemen. I remember having been surprised at the time that she should call, for I am certain my master had never before received a social visit from her, either in Bombay or in London, and she did not seem the sort of person to be — er — familiar with the dead master.”

  McGonagle frowned.

  “What name did she give? And what was she like?”

  “She would give no name, sir. Refused me point-blank. But she stayed with Dr. McIntee in the library the better part of an hour ... She was small, slim and dark and had, if I may say so, sir, a most adorable face. But her eyes were shifty and she was dressed — well, it was Parisian, sir, I think.”

  A quick smile vanished from Spike’s face. He leaned forward suddenly. For the first time he seemed to forget the presence of Joan.

  “Did you notice, by any chance, Seale, if this lady had a tiny scar on the left side of her neck?”

  “Now that you come to mention it, sir, I did.”

  Sergeant Spring sighed; for he knew that the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders, of unpleasant memory, had been the possessor of a similar scar. And what the deuce could the Hon. Nancy have had to do with the late Dr. Abraham McIntee?

  *

  Before the three Yard men left the house at midday they had satisfied themselves that, as far as the building and its occupants were concerned, no more information could be gained at the moment with regard to the crime.

  On their return to New Scotland Yard, however, Spike detailed certain of his men to keep an eye on Arundel House. Others he sent on a round of the hospitals to find out if any recent cases of the flower-disease had been reported. Inspector McGonagle gave orders that the managers of every florist’s shop in London should be questioned about large sales of flowers which had taken place during the previous day.