Wallace of the Secret Service (11 page)

‘Have you ever had reason to suspect that Professor Mason was addicted to drugs?’ he asked.

‘Good gracious, no, sir,’ she returned in astonishment. ‘Why do you ask?’

He smiled.

‘Great chemists often are,’ he observed in non-committal tones. ‘And, as far as I can make out, the professor usually worked all night. It is quite likely, therefore, that he may have taken drugs to ward off fatigue or strain on his nerves.’

‘I don’t think he was given to that sort of thing, sir. He was always so bright and cheerful; not at all the sort of man I should imagine a drug taker would be.’

Sir Leonard stood in thought for a few seconds; then ‘Did he have any refreshment on the nights he worked in his laboratory?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. I always prepared a tray with a plate of sandwiches and a coffee boiler with, of course, milk and sugar.’

‘When did you take it to him?’

‘He used to carry the tray in when he went to the laboratory, sir. None of us were ever allowed inside.’

‘What became of the tray that he took with him last night?’

‘I removed it during the morning.’

‘Have the coffee boiler and other articles been washed?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Wallace abruptly took the small bottle from his pocket, and held it up before her eyes.

‘Ever seen this before?’ he asked sharply.

Her face paled, and she gazed at the bottle as though fascinated.

‘Yes, sir,’ she murmured. ‘Where did you find it?’

He ignored the question.

‘Is it yours?’ he demanded.

She damped her lips; then nodded as though too overcome to speak.

‘Will you kindly tell me what it was doing in the professor’s medicine cupboard, if it belongs to you?’

‘I-I don’t know,’ she stammered after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I lost it two days ago, and wondered what could have happened to it.’

‘How could you lose it?’ he queried sarcastically. ‘It is hardly the kind of thing one leaves about, is it? And in any case it couldn’t have walked from your room to the professor’s.’

‘Perhaps he borrowed it, sir.’

‘I presume he would have asked you if he wanted to do that. He wasn’t in the habit of walking into your room and helping himself to your belongings, was he?’ She shook her head dumbly. ‘There’s another thing, Mrs Holdsworth,’ he went on. ‘Professor Mason had quite enough drugs in the laboratory to stock a chemist’s store. Why should he take one which you had in your possession?’

‘I don’t know,’ she murmured again.

‘What did you have it for?’

‘I have suffered from toothache for several weeks, and the only way I could get any rest was by using it.’

‘Whereabouts in your room did you keep this bottle?’

‘On the washstand, sir.’

‘Not even locked up? That was extremely careless of you. It’s dangerous stuff to leave about, you know, Mrs Holdsworth.’

He asked a few more questions; then took aside Brien, who had listened to the catechising with interest.

‘Keep an eye on her, Bill,’ he whispered, ‘and don’t let anybody come upstairs until I return.’

‘What’s all this got to do with the murder?’ asked Brien.

‘Quite a lot.’

‘What’s in the bottle?’

‘Smell!’ He uncorked the phial, and held it up to his friend’s nose. ‘Recognise it?’

‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed Brien. ‘I should think I do.’ He watched Wallace run up the stairs. ‘Things are getting curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say,’ he murmured to himself.

It seemed to him that Mrs Holdsworth had an air more of perplexity than of guilt. That she should be in any way connected with the murder seemed absurd, and he wondered what was at the back of Wallace’s mind. He had made no attempt himself to solve the mystery, knowing well enough that if his chief ’s astute mind failed, his had little chance of succeeding. Yet he thought deeply enough about the extraordinary circumstances of the murder, and was puzzled by the line Sir Leonard was taking. To him it seemed rather aimless wandering about rooms looking for clues when probably the assassin, if indeed the professor had been murdered, had long before crossed to the Continent. There had, in all likelihood, been a boat of some kind waiting for him below the cliff and, as soon as his foul work was completed, he had set sail in her, and was by that time well out of reach of Great Britain’s Secret Service. Brien began to think, as he waited at the foot of the stairs, that this case would prove to be one of Sir Leonard Wallace’s rare failures.

‘It seems to me,’ he soliloquised, ‘that he is not showing his usual skill. This worrying about trivialities will, as far as I can see, lead us nowhere.’

It was quite half an hour before Wallace appeared again;
then he came slowly down the stairs, his face set in an expression which Brien thought almost suggested dismay. He went straight to the laboratory and, standing by the table on which the keys rested, looked upwards. High up in the adjacent wall was a large ventilator and, for some minutes, he stood gazing at it as though it fascinated him. Eventually he left the laboratory, and walked out of the house. He calculated where the exterior of the ventilator should be and, having found it, went in search of a ladder. He was not long in discovering one lying in an outhouse, and carried it back with him. As he placed it against the wall of the laboratory, he noticed a stain on one of the rungs, similar smears were to be seen elsewhere as he ascended, while a large one was on the embrasure into which the ventilator was set.

Standing at the top of the ladder he examined the appliance. It possessed three iron slats between two of which, when open, there was plenty of room to insert an arm and, at the same time, look down into the room. Within his field of vision was the end of the marble table where lay the keys. The door and the place where the body of the professor had been were also visible. Having satisfied himself on that point, Wallace turned his attention to the slats of the ventilator, inspecting them carefully; then slowly he descended the ladder, and replaced it in the outhouse. Two or three minutes later he was back in the hall of the house, where Brien stood talking to Mrs Holdsworth.

‘Have you communicated with the professor’s relations?’ he asked the woman.

‘As far as I know there is only a brother living at Gloucester, sir,’ she replied. ‘I sent a telegram to him as soon as I knew of the – the tragedy. His reply came just before you reached here. He said he was coming at once.’

‘Good. Then there is no reason why we should stay down here after the surgeon from Scotland Yard has arrived and made his examination. The local police will take charge this evening.’

Brien followed him into the drawing room, where he wearily threw himself into a chair, and subjected him to a string of questions.

‘For the Lord’s sake, leave me alone for a little while, Bill,’ he pleaded. ‘I want to think.’

He filled and lit his pipe, and lay back in the chair with his eyes half-closed. His whole attitude appeared to denote lassitude and, feeling decidedly intrigued, Brien left the room and took a turn in the neglected garden. He had become by now convinced that Wallace felt himself unable to unravel the mystery. To his mind there could only be one solution, and that was that the professor had committed suicide. What had become of the revolver was, of course, a puzzle, but there was a possibility that Mason, being an inventor, had shot himself in a manner not at once apparent to those who looked only for the weapon. With that idea in his mind Brien started to investigate on his own, eager to prove that suicide was the only feasible solution, and thus to succeed where Wallace, who had completely ignored such a contingency, had failed.

He commenced his search by crawling under the marble slabs, thinking that perhaps the revolver had been fixed beneath one of them and the trigger manipulated in some ingenious manner. But neither had anything underneath to which the weapon could have been fastened. There was not even a ledge. He was sitting on the floor between the tables, feeling rather disappointed, when Wallace entered and stared at him.

‘Hullo, Billy,’ he observed, ‘reconstructing the crime?’

‘I don’t believe there has been a crime at all,’ declared Brien obstinately; ‘at least not the crime of murder. I suppose suicide is a crime, as it is forbidden by law.’

‘You still think the professor committed suicide?’

‘I thought that he might have fastened the revolver under the table, sat down on the floor and pulled the trigger by means of a string, or something.’

Sir Leonard laughed.

‘Why should he do that?’ he asked.

‘He may not have had the courage to hold a revolver to his head and fire. Pulling a string is, after all, not so cold-blooded. Perhaps he didn’t want it to be known that he had killed himself.’

‘But, my dear fellow, such a contrivance would have been discovered sooner or later. In fact it would have been found immediately, for the string would have given it away. No; he didn’t commit suicide I can assure you. I wish he had,’ he added with deep feeling.

‘Then you have discovered something?’

Wallace nodded.

‘As far as I am concerned,’ he replied, ‘the case is practically finished.’

Brien looked at him admiringly; then hastily rose to his feet. Now that Wallace was with him he began to feel that his efforts at investigation were astonishingly absurd. He decided in his own mind that he had made himself appear ridiculous.

‘I feel an ass,’ he confessed, ‘I actually thought I was going to steal a march on you, and triumph where you had failed.’

‘I wish you had, Billy,’ returned Wallace seriously. ‘Knowing what I know now, nothing would have given me greater pleasure.’

‘What do you mean?’

Sir Leonard was about to answer, when a car was heard to drive up, and he hurried out to meet the doctor from Scotland Yard.

‘Hullo, Sir Leonard,’ greeted the latter, an alert, good-looking man of early middle-age. ‘You have work for me I believe?’

‘I have, Hastings,’ was the reply, ‘but it won’t take you more than a few minutes.’

He told him of the tragedy, took him into the laboratory, and described the position in which the body had been lying. The doctor listened attentively, asked a few pertinent questions; then glanced round him with an air of appreciation.

‘Fine laboratory,’ he commented. ‘So this is where Veronite was created? The Commissioner told me some of the facts before I left,’ he added by way of explanation of his knowledge. ‘Have you discovered yet how the murder was committed?’

‘The professor was shot through the head,’ put in Brien.

‘Yes; I know that,’ smiled the doctor. ‘I meant to say: have you discovered how the assassin got in here?’

Wallace nodded.

‘That and more,’ he observed grimly.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to recover the formula?’ asked Brien eagerly.

‘I hope so. Do you want to see the body right away, Hastings?’

‘Please. Where is it?’

Sir Leonard led the way up the stairs and, entering the professor’s bedroom, removed the sheet that covered all that remained of a famous scientist. Deftly, quickly, the police surgeon conducted his examination, while Wallace and Brien stood by watching him. Five minutes passed; then he straightened himself, and looked at Sir Leonard.

‘He was drugged before he was shot,’ he announced sharply,

‘Exactly what I thought,’ returned Wallace. ‘That is why I brought you down. The local doctor quite failed to notice that the pupils of the eyes were dilated.’

‘He must be a fool,’ commented Dr Hastings.

‘He is,’ agreed Wallace with feeling. ‘What drug do you think was used?’

‘Some preparation of opium,’ was the prompt reply.

‘Laudanum?’

‘Yes; very likely laudanum.’

Wallace produced the small bottle from his pocket, and held it out to the doctor.

‘This is where it was taken from,’ he said quietly. ‘A few drops were poured from this bottle into either the coffee pot or milk jug that Mason took into the laboratory with him last night.’

‘Good Lord!’ blurted out Brien. ‘Do you mean to say that Mrs Holdsworth was the murderess?’

‘S’sh!’ warned Wallace.

He had caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and presently the housekeeper passed by the open door. He went out to the corridor, and looked after her. She entered her own room farther along, and shut herself in.

‘Well, I’m damned!’ swore Billy softly, as his colleague came back to the bed. ‘She is about the last person one would have suspected. I suppose the agent of some foreign power got at her. But still I don’t understand how she got in and out of the laboratory.’

‘What is more puzzling to my mind,’ observed the doctor, ‘is why Professor Mason was drugged.’

‘That is easily explained,’ asserted Sir Leonard. ‘In the first place there was no intention of murdering him, but the dose of laudanum was not of sufficient strength, and he was probably
beginning to regain consciousness while the criminal was searching for the formula. The latter then shot him while he lay on the floor to which he had slipped under the effects of the drug. If you examine the back of his head, Hastings, you will find no bruise of any kind there. He was lying flat on his back and, if he had been standing when shot, he would have fallen with such force that his head would have struck the hard floor violently, and certainly been bruised. Am I not right?’

After an examination of the back of the dead man’s head, the police surgeon nodded.

‘There’s not a doubt of it,’ he agreed. ‘In slipping to the floor under the effects of the laudanum he went down too gently to hurt himself. Probably he first sank to his knees, all the time making an effort to fight against the drug; then rolled over onto his back as it overcame him.’

‘What a dastardly crime!’ ejaculated Brien. ‘Great Scott!’ he added. ‘I see now why you were puzzled by the fact that the keys had not been left in the open door of the safe. It wasn’t opened by the professor’s keys at all, but by the duplicate set which the Holdsworth woman must have obtained somehow or other. Probably—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘I am going a bit too far,’ he said in rather a sheepish voice.