The Isle of Devils (29 page)

“Then how did the laudanum get into the bottle of wine?” asked Dunkley.

For several minutes I silently pondered this question. I tried to imagine how I would have accomplished such a feat, if I had been the murderer. And then an inspiration appeared in my brain. “I can think of a way to introduce the laudanum quickly, while leaving almost no trace upon the wax.”

“How?” inquired Dunkley, eagerly.

“We have already determined that the murderer is skilled in the art of picking locks, since that must be how he entered Monsieur Dumas’ room. If the murderer first broke into Mr. Sims’ room, he could have used a hypodermic syringe to inject the laudanum through the wax and the cork into the wine. A small hole would have remained in the wax, but a quick application of a candle could have melted the hole out of existence. The resulting imperfection would have been so small that Dumas could have easily missed it.”

“That is brilliant, Doctor,” said Dunkley, without a trace of mockery in his voice. “It would take a cool hand to go and do that, but it is possible.”

“And it would have been a very fast procedure. A bold man could have done it in less than a minute. They could have even been listening to our conversation below from the upper landing and raced to Sims’ room when it became clear that Dumas intended to join him in a drink.”

“So anyone lodging in a room upon the first floor would be a possible suspect.”

“Indeed,” remarked I, looking at Mrs. Foster’s map. “That includes Signore Aicardi, Mr. Warburton, Monsieur Dubois, and Dr. Nemcek.”

“Do not forget Mrs. Dubois and the Marquesa, Doctor.”

“A woman?” said I. “Surely not.”

“Whatever the motive was for last night’s murder, it was plainly a crime of passion. There is no other explanation for the number of gunshots, when one or two would have been sufficient. And where there is passion, I always suspect a woman may be involved.”

“Well, at least we can safely say that the Marquesa is not fit enough to carry out such a bold plan.”

“Perhaps,” nodded Dunkley. “Perhaps. But if your theory is correct, Doctor, I think we can narrow down the suspects even more. I can think of only one person, other than you, who is likely to possess a hypodermic needle.”

“Dr. Nemcek,” I said.

“Indeed,” agreed the constable. “I think it is time to pay the Doctor a visit, rather than the other way around, wouldn’t you say?”

§

Constable Dunkley and I rose from our chairs and decamped from the parlor. Exiting into the dining room, we found most of the guests of the hotel gathered there. Clearly, the constable’s instructions had been obeyed and no one was venturing far from the scene of the crime. Everyone looked at him with anxiety plainly stamped on their faces. My eyes involuntarily sought out Madame Dubois and found that she was looking at me with a long, questioning gaze. An absurd gush of hope rushed to my heart that she might share my feelings.

“Dr. Nemcek?” called out Dunkley.

“Yes?” replied my fellow physician. As he rose from his seat, I recalled when I had first seen this brother medico. Nemcek had been speaking intimately with Mr. Sims in this very room when I arrived at the Globe, though he had now removed the jacket from his neat suit and his top hat was nowhere to be seen. Despite the casual appearance of his dress, his person was still immaculately groomed.

“Doctor,” continued Dunkley, “we would like to talk with you in your room.”

“Certainly, sir.” If the man was discomforted by this thought, he hid it well. “It is upstairs.”

“Yes, the first on the right, I know,” said Dunkley, who had plainly memorized Mrs. Foster’s map. “I will lead the way, if you don’t mind.”

Nemcek and I followed the constable up the creaking stairs. As we reached the upper landing, Dunkley rounded upon the doctor. “Tell me, Dr. Nemcek, are you a heavy sleeper?”

The man looked surprised by the question, but quickly recovered. “No, absolutely not. Years of being roused in the middle of the night for medical emergencies have habituated me to waking at the slightest sound.”

“Have you noticed that these stairs tend to make loud noises when you walk upon them?”

“Of course, sir. The door to my room is not heavy, and I can certainly tell when someone is climbing the stairs.”

“Even during the night?” probed Dunkley.

“Absolutely,” replied Nemcek.

“And last night? Did anyone climb the stairs after you retired?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, there were three sets of steps, all together, about midnight.”

“How do you know it was at midnight?”

Nemcek shrugged nonchalantly. “I was still awake reading a recent edition of
The Lancet
. I glanced at my watch when I heard the steps, as I thought they were rather late.”

“And after those three?” said Dunkley, persistently.

Nemcek shook his head. “Nothing.” 

“You are certain of it?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, calmly.

“If you are such a light sleeper, Doctor, then why did you not hear the seven gunshots that rang out last night?”

Nemcek pursed his lips and shook his head again. “There are several walls between my room and that of the deceased. Surely these muffled the noise sufficiently enough as to cause me to confuse the shots with the sound of the booming thunder. You do agree, Constable, that the thunder was particularly loud last night?”

Dunkley failed to answer this rhetorical question and instead indicated for Nemcek to open the door to his room. Once that task had been accomplished, the three of us entered only to find the small space a bit cramped. Dunkley indicated that Dr. Nemcek should sit on his bed, while he and I stood. “Your papers, sir?”

Dr. Nemcek handed them over as requested. After a brief perusal, Dunkley looked up. “Leoš Nemcek, born 1847. You are a citizen of Austria-Hungary?”

“
Ano,
yes,” he replied tightly.

“From Prague?”

“Indeed. I am a Bohemian.”

I frowned and entered the interrogation. “I had always assumed that a Bohemian was one of the free-spirited artists that haunt the Montmartre district of Paris.”

The man laughed deeply, flashing a golden filling as he did so. “Very amusing, Doctor,” said he, suavely. “I am afraid that you have read a bit too much of Thackeray’s
Vanity Fair
. No, I must admit that I do not fully comprehend how those artists appropriated our name, but I am a Bohemian in the truest sense of the word. The lands of my ancestors have been distinct since the ninth century.”

“Are they not simply a Germanic nation?” interjected Dunkley.

“Mit der dummheit kämpfen götter selbst vergebens,” muttered Nemcek. 

“What was that?” said Dunkley, sharply.

“Nothing,” replied Nemcek, equivocatingly, obviously not suspecting that I was fully versed in my Schiller and well-conversant in German. I decided that the quotation was not very kind to the constable. ‘Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain,’ indeed!

“So it is Slavonic then?” continued Dunkley.

“Yes, the Bohemians are part of the western Slavs,” answered Nemcek, calmly, his irritation now apparently under control.

“But as an Austro-Hungarian, are not the French your natural rivals?” persisted Dunkley.

Nemcek smirked. “Hardly, Constable. The French may be vying with the Empire that rules Bohemia, but they are not my enemies. In fact, I took my medical degree in France.”

“Where?” I inquired.

“Montpellier,” the man replied with the name of one of France’s finest universities. “I studied there under Dr. Ainstree.”

“France, eh?” interjected Dunkley. “So you must have been familiar with Mr. Dumas?”

Nemcek shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, Constable, I had never met the man before my arrival upon your fair island. France is a big land, you know. And Montpellier is tucked down in the far south.”  

“And why are you visiting Bermuda, Doctor?” continued Dunkley.

Nemcek took off his glasses and used a piece of chamois leather to polish them as he replied. “I found that I no longer wished to live under the Austrian yoke, so I left Prague,” he explained. “After I completed my schooling, I initially spent some time in London with one of my uncles on my mother’s side
, by the
name
of
Antonín
Dvo
ř
á
k
. He keeps a large general store on the Commercial Road, and deals in items from the old country. Do you know the store, Doctor?
”

I admitted that
it
was unfamiliar to me. “I’m afraid that is Whitechapel. Royal London Hospital territory. My haunts were near the University by Russell Square and by St. Bart’s in Smithfield.”

“Yes, well, I found that my medical skills were not in great demand in London, as the British tend to want to be treated by one of their own,” continued Nemcek. “In correspondence with one of my cousins, Rudolph, he put forward that no such prejudices exist in America, so I am joining him there in Chicago. I had entrusted my belongings to the Aberdeen Shipping Company, which ultimately proved to be an unwise choice. Everything was delayed at Cherbourg, and rather than arrive in the chaos of New York without my trunks, I thought it wise to delay for a few days upon this fair isle.”

“Chicago is a rough town, Doctor,” interjected Dunkley. “It is filled with gangs of dangerous crooks.”

“Ah yes, I have heard as much. Fortunately, I have prepared myself.”

Dunkley’s eyebrows rose. “You have a pistol?” he inquired.

“Of course,” said Nemcek, off-handedly. “We Czechs invented them, back during the Hussite Wars, and a true Czech would never be without one in today’s dangerous world. You gentlemen may find it interesting that the word ‘pistol’ is, in fact, the only word in the English language derived from the Czech.”

“Indeed,” said Dunkley dryly, apparently uninterested. “May I see it?” he asked.

“Certainly.” Nemcek arose from his perch on the bed and moved to where his valise rested under the north window.

Before he could open it, however, Dunkley stopped him. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I would prefer to open it myself?”

Dr. Nemcek raised his hands in acquiescence. “But of course.”

Dunkley set the valise on the bed and flipped it open. Inside laid a quaint carved wooden pistol box. He drew this forth and opened it to reveal a six-shot open-framed revolver, loaded via a hinged gate on the right side of the frame, through which empty cartridges were ejected via a rod running along the barrel. “Ah, this is a Lefaucheux M1858, is it not?”

“That is correct. You know your guns, Constable.”