Flowering Death Page 8

  “I agree,” said Spike, and his faithful lieutenants saw the cold, harsh side of his character come uppermost. “But what that connection is I can only guess.”

  “You have a theory?”

  “Only a tentative one, sir ... Might I see the letter which you have received?”

  Sir Percival Merridew handed to him a plain white envelope. Typed in black, it was addressed to the Assistant Commissioner. It bore a Western District postmark, and a time-stamp showed the posting to have been done before seven o’clock that morning. As far as Spike could see the envelope would be productive of no clue regarding the identity of the sender.

  McGonagle and Spring moved over to his side as he withdrew gingerly the sheet of paper inside and spread it out on the desk in front of him. The inspector gave vent to an unnatural whistle, while Spring’s hand gripped one of Spike’s broad shoulders.

  The quarto sheet of ordinary typewriting paper bore this message, in capitals which Spike believed to have been made on a Royal Portable machine:

  *

  WARNING!

  YOU HAVE SEEN THE NEWS. UNLESS THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT FOREGO THE NAVAL PACT WITH FRANCE AND THE U.S.S.R. THE FLOWERING DEATH WILL CLAIM MANY VICTIMS. BUT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER THE GOVERNMENT FORMALLY RENOUNCES THE PACT I SHALL PLACE THE UNFAILING CURE IN YOUR HANDS. I ALONE IN THE WORLD HAVE KNOWLEDGE OF THAT CURE. YOU HAVE SEVEN DAYS IN WHICH TO DECIDE — BLACK AND WHITE.

  *

  Spike glanced up at his companions.

  “Can’t you see it all now?” he said in a low, hard voice. “Can’t you see the whole damnable story unfolding itself before your eyes? All the victims mentioned by Peter Todd have been infected with the bacillus of the disease.”

  The Assistant Commissioner frowned.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “What are we to do? This threat —”

  “Apparently,” returned Spike, who seemed to rouse himself from a kind of reverie, “apparently Mr. ‘Black and White’ means business. If there is a cure for the flower-disease in existence, quite probably he alone is aware of it. I will stake my reputation that no honest doctor alive possesses such knowledge.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know of a cure,” burst in Sergeant Spring with excitement. “Maybe the whole thing is a gigantic bluff.”

  Spike shook his head.

  “I don’t think so ... And even though it may prove to be bluff, we can’t work upon that assumption. We are goin’ to find Dr. McIntee’s murderer — and I’m certain that when we do so we shall have found Mr. ‘Black and White’. At any rate we have — seven days ... Sir Percival, will you please tell us something about this Naval Pact?”

  The Assistant Commissioner polished his eyeglass. His thin lips were pursed. He felt lonely and a little hopeless, though he endeavoured with courage to conceal the fact. To his disturbed imagination it seemed that Spike and he held within the hollow of their hands the lives of countless people.

  “There is not much to tell,” he said precisely. “You have probably read of the pact in the newspapers. Mr. Armstrong Douglass, the Foreign Secretary, is the prime mover in the affair, and he is being supported powerfully by the Naval Minister, Lord Eustace Sanders. The pact has been suggested principally to combat the threat of alliance between Hitler and Mussolini. It is also being mooted so that the British Fleet, at present sadly depleted, may be strengthened in the ease of an emergency by the alliance of the French and Russian battleships. The pact, it is proposed, should remain in existence until the programme of British naval rearmament is complete. As you will readily understand there have been strenuous attempts made by the envoys of certain governments to bring discord into the various preliminary conferences. The Secret Service, I believe, has made discoveries leading to several arrests. But so far nothing so drastic as the plan adopted by Mr. ‘Black and White’ was suspected, and the conferences, in spite of interruptions, have shown steady progress towards the goal desired. The pact will be ratified at a Council of the three powers concerned, to be held in the Foreign Office five days from this date. That is, unless —”

  “I see,” replied Spike. “Unless Mr. ‘Black and White’ has his way. Unless we fail ... Now I wonder why the murderer chose to call himself ‘Black and White’?”

  The point seemed to interest the head of Department Q7; but Sir Percival did not allow him time to ponder.

  “We must not fail!” he cried, bringing down his hand, fingers spread, upon the desk. “Spike! McGonagle and Spring! We must not fail! Don’t you see? It’s life or death for our country. If our unknown opponent succeeds now, he will not stop there. Britain will be on her knees to him ... ”

  Suddenly Spike grinned. It was as if in the midst of a tensely tragic scene upon the stage one of the actors had made a broad joke. The Assistant Commissioner gazed at him with horror. McGonagle and Spring brightened visibly. And, after a moment, Sir Percival felt that a great part of his responsibility was being lifted from his shoulders.

  “What’s the funny thing, Spike?”

  “The funny thing, Sir Percival, is that Mr. ‘Black and White’ has overlooked one little item in his cunning arrangements.”

  “What item?”

  “The charmin’ rose called ‘Lady Charlotte Hamilton’ ... Don’t you worry, sir. McGonagle and Spring and I are fit for half-a-dozen ‘Black and Whites’. But first of all I must see Mr. Peter Todd of the Daily Star. I’m goin’ to rap his fingers and tap his knowledge. All this stuff must be kept out of the papers or we’re done. Britain’s done ... You’ll see to the editors and news agencies, Sir Percival? Get them to say that the flower-death business is nothing more than a variety of measles. Call it Italian measles for choice. Threaten them with death and destruction if they refuse. I’ll slay young Todd with my own hands rather than let him continue with his sensation-mongering.”

  A light of battle appeared in the Assistant Commissioner’s eyes. He did not notice that it was Spike who was giving orders. The personality of the young doctor gave him encouragement and blinded him to his own position in the case.

  “Right-oh, Spike. If we win out of this hole I’ll — I’ll —”

  “Make McGonagle a superintendent,” suggested Spike, “and Spring an inspector.”

  Sir Percival glared.

  “It’s a promise,” he growled, “you ... humbug!”

  “And, sir!”

  “Yes.”

  “You will, of course, be sending cables to the Bombay Police to confirm the antecedents of the murdered man and those of Lancaster and Seale?”

  “Certainly. They have already been sent. And I have initiated inquiries regarding Fayne’s father ... I have notified the Burmese Police ... ”

  *

  Outside in the corridor Spike’s exalted mood was evident to his faithful lieutenants; and it was a mood all the more strange because of his obvious anxiety a few moments previously. Under its sunny influence, the two policemen felt prepared to tackle scourges and murderers of all descriptions.

  They knew that he had lit upon some concrete theory relating to the death of Dr. McIntee and to the “Black and White” letter. They knew that at last he was following a trail. And, being aware of his characteristics, they knew that he would not slacken now until he had made certain of his quarry. He had the tenacity of a Scot and the energy of his English training. His good humour made them forget the gravity of the situation and the terrible threat which hung over the people of the British Isles like an impending sword. They forgot that they had only a week to save the prestige of the country. They forgot that one man, and one man alone, could save the lives of those afflicted with the flower-disease. They forgot that this person had already committed one murder ... And who knows but that Spike purposely used his personality to make them forget?

  “‘Into the breach, dear friends,’” he exclaimed. “‘Now there will be no rest’ ... It’s a fight to a finish, me lads! McGonagle, you will this moment proceed to Limehouse, and if you don’t find that Chinese girl for me withi
n a couple of hours I’ll denounce you publicly as a fraud. ’Phone me up at the offices of the Star — with a report of your progress — at eleven o’clock to the minute. I’m goin’ there now to strafe young Todd ... Spring, you will spend your mornin’ between Arundel House and my flat. At two o’clock this afternoon you will be here — at the Yard. You will report to me then the exact movements, the day before the murder, of Miss Nevinson, of Fayne, Lancaster, Searle, Mrs. Parkinson and Mary Daw. You will discover the contents of all parcels delivered at the house during the twenty-four hours previous to the death of old McIntee. And for the Lord’s sake use your little grey cells if anything else should suggest itself to you ... Good morning, dear children. Good morning to you.”

  He strode off, whistling, and, after a significant nod to each other, McGonagle and Spring proceeded to carry out their various tasks. And as Spring knocked at the door of Arundel House and as McGonagle, dressed in ragged clothes, boarded a bus which was moving in the direction of Limehouse, Spike was ushered into the presence of the smartest young news-hound in Fleet Street.

  *

  Peter Todd’s private sanctum was on the ground-floor of the great yellow building which housed the Daily Star and the Evening Comet. It was tastefully and comfortably furnished; but the pictures on the drab walls, representing as they did all kinds of sensational events, caused even the cold-blooded Spike to shudder. He tore his eyes from the photograph of a man whose face had been eaten away by vitriol and regarded soberly the youthful occupant of the sole armchair in the apartment.

  “Peter,” he said gravely, “that was a ‘scoop’ you had this mornin’!”

  Mr. Todd, aged twenty-five, was six feet in height. He weighed some fifteen stones and his corporation was revolting for a man of his tender years. His pink cheeks, however, glowed with health and good humour. His thin flaxen hair glinted in a shaft of sunlight which came through the big bay windows.

  “Wasn’t it, Spike!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, his blue eyes flashing. “I’m working it up now for the Comet this afternoon.”

  “You’re not,” observed Spike. “Positively you’re not!”

  Mr. Todd crossed one immense, flannel-clad leg over the other.

  “What’s the big idea? I’ll buy it.”

  “Just this, Peter. If your paper publishes one more word regardin’ the flower-disease I’ll have you whinin’ in the gutter in a week.”

  The fat, good-humoured face hardened, and Mr. Todd did not look quite so young. The blue eyes became dour.

  “Are you mad, Spike, old boy?”

  “No, Peter. I’m in deadly earnest. You’ve been a damned sight too clever for once. I don’t say it’s your fault entirely; but the next time you propose to publish a story like the one which appeared in the Star to-day you will be pleased to let me know first ... And now I say you’ve got to repair the damage you have done ... First of all, however, read this.”

  Spike’s eyes held those of the newspaperman, and Mr. Todd repressed a shiver. Then he took the paper from his visitor’s hand.

  “ ‘Warning’,” he muttered. “ ‘You have seem the news. Unless the British Government ... ’ ” When he had finished reading Mr. Todd’s cheeks were pasty, the pink gloss having departed from them. He returned his property to Spike and huddled back in his chair.

  “You understand?” queried Spike.

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Todd. “I have just glimpsed the greatest ‘scoop’ of the century.”

  “And,” murmured Spike in more friendly fashion, “that ‘scoop’ will be yours — if, for the space of a week, you do as I tell you.”

  Vitality and power seemed to have left Mr. Todd. He might cringe, at any moment, before Spike’s level gaze.

  “All right,” he muttered. “You have given me your promise, Spike. I’ll give you mine. What’s the programme?”

  “This afternoon in the Evening Comet you must deny the truth of your article in the Daily Star. You must say that the outbreak is one of Italian measles.”

  “But I can’t. My reputation —”

  “My dear Peter! You’re not backin’ out on me, are you?”

  Again the steely glitter came into Spike’s eyes.

  “All right. But my boss —”

  “Never mind your boss. Old Percy is attending to him. He is also attending to all the other newspapers ... You’ve had your ‘scoop’. You’ll have another by and by. So why worry? Your name may be mud among certain classes of your readers this afternoon and to-morrow; but in a week the laugh will be on your side.”

  “But the hospitals? Everyone will know that there’s something queer —”

  “The medical authorities are being warned. The flower-disease will be forgotten in a couple of days. Italian measles will take their place. And no one ever dies of Italian measles. People will lose interest ...”

  “But —”

  “Will you listen to me, Peter! What put you on the track of the various eases of the flower-disease?”

  The stout young man leaned forward. His whole bearing pleaded for leniency.

  “I had a ’phone message late last night — about twelve o’clock — just an hour before the paper was due to be put to bed. I can’t tell you who was my informant. All I know is that he was a man. He spoke slowly and he had, I remember, a queer kind of accent. I took little heed of it at the time, but now I believe it had a certain Eastern sibilance about it. At the moment I was too excited by his news to pay much attention to him. He asked me to inquire at various hospitals regarding the health of Archibald Tyrone, Mrs. Parkinson, the Rev. Alfred Davidson and the rest. He said I should get an interesting story — and I did. I made the wires hum and I had my stuff ready just in time ... ”

  “We couldn’t trace the call?”

  “I’m afraid not. I get scores each night. And even though you did trace it, you’d probably find it came from a ’phone-box.”

  Spike pondered. His chin was set.

  “And I suppose Mr. ‘Black and White’ chose you to tell his story to the world, simply because of your reputation as the most sensationally silly blighter in the length and breadth of Britain. At the Yard, Peter, you will be —”

  The telephone on Mr. Todd’s desk began to tinkle, and Spike, glancing at his wrist-watch, saw that the time was just, eleven o’clock.

  Mr. Todd thrust the instrument towards his visitor.

  “For you! Inspector McGonagle speaking ... ”

  Spike heard the muffled voice of his friend.

  “I’ve found her, Spike, I think. Lives in a house in Livingstone Street by the dockside ... Perseverance did it! I went down to Limehouse looking for wet ground and an ailing coloured woman in the same vicinity. By asking questions and by tramping about ten miles I was successful ... She’s just a girl — Chinese as you thought. There’s been a burst pipe in an adjoining tenement and the clothes-green, by which her flat may be reached, has been damp for two days. The neighbours say that an old, white-bearded man in black clothes visited her the day before yesterday ... She’s dying, I believe. And she was — well, you know, Spike: not any better than she might be. I’m damned sorry for the poor kid ... I’ll meet you at the corner of Livingstone Street and Queen’s Gate at any time within the next two hours.”

  CHAPTER X

  WHILE Spike was hastening to his rendezvous with Inspector McGonagle, Spring was having an alarming experience at Arundel House. The worthy sergeant, indeed, was so impressed by what he saw and heard that the ultimate solution of the problem caused him to become lyrical in his praise of the criminal’s ingenuity.

  He had been fortunate enough to find both Kenneth Fayne and Mervyn Lancaster at home, while Seale intimated that he would be at the policeman’s disposal at any time before twelve o’clock, when preparations would have to be made for lunch.

  The doctor bowed the visitor towards a chair in the drawing-room, his dark inscrutable eyes searching the sergeant’s face. Spring thought he observed a hint of fear in their limpid depths
; but then, he knew, the expression might have been caused by Fayne’s reasonable anxiety regarding his own position. He had been, to a considerable extent, dependable upon the late Dr. McIntee’s financial assistance, and at the moment his little world must have appeared precarious and unstable.

  Mervyn Lancaster, fresh cheeks slightly paler than usual, fair hair sleekly brushed, lounged against the marble mantelpiece, filling his pipe.

  He was anxious concerning the exact whereabouts of Miss Nevinson, and Spring, watching closely as was his duty, could have sworn that the actor’s whole expression lit up as he mentioned her name.

  “She is safe enough — now,” explained the sergeant. “She is at Dr. Dorrance’s flat with half-a-dozen men detailed to keep guard upon her. There will be no more kidnapping ... Now, if you please, gentlemen, I should like some information. Could you both tell me exactly how you passed the day before yesterday — the day before the murder? Mr. Lancaster?”

  The actor lit his pipe with deliberation, his fair forehead contracted in a frown of remembrance. Spring noticed the bulge which the full tobacco-pouch made in the pocket of the man’s beautifully cut blazer.

  “Let’s see, sergeant,” murmured Lancaster. “In the morning I had breakfast here as usual, lounged about until lunch-time. My usual procedure, you know. I work in the latter part of the day.”

  For the first time Spring was aware of the man’s charming smile. Having successfully raked his memory, Lancaster was now regarding him with a cheerful expression which seemed to infer that Spring was a man of the world like himself and would understand any nuances of speech which might occur in his explanation.

  “After lunch I went down to the theatre, where we are rehearsing Macbeth for autumn production. I had dinner with our leading lady, Miss Senga de Montfiore, who will vouch for my presence with her at the Mulmaison Restaurant and afterwards in the theatre — the Paternoster Theatre, you know — until the conclusion of our evening presentation of Othello shortly before eleven o’clock ... Seale let me in when I arrived home here at eleven-fifteen. I was very tired that night and had refused an invitation to supper with the other members of the cast.”