The Isle of Devils (30 page)

“It does not appear to have been recently fired,” noted Dunkley.

“No,” agreed Nemcek. “I fortunately have had little need.”

“It is a French gun,” insinuated Dunkley.

Nemcek shrugged. “Yes, you could view it in that fashion, since Monsieur Lefaucheux was of course French. But I believe that his pistol design was very popular. Models were purchased by half the nations of Europe and both the Confederate and Federal forces in the American Civil War.”

“Si vis pacem para bellum,” I interjected, suddenly.

Nemcek glanced at me. “Exactly, Doctor. I would not say that I am in favor of war, or any form of violence for that matter, but I do believe in being prepared.”

I concluded from this little test that his Latin was excellent, as I would expect from any medical man. He certainly seemed authentic. But there was another method to test this, and that was to examine his satchel. The constable was clearly thinking along the same lines.

“And your medical bag, sir?” said Dunkley.

Dr. Nemcek handed over the satchel, which was a folding piece of nice brown leather with a silver clasp. From it Dunkley proceeded to extract various medical instruments, which by their worn nature were clearly the property of a busy physician. Amongst the other items in the ba
g
were a cannula, some clamps, a phial of iodoform, some nitrate of silver, cotton wadding, and numerous carbolized bandages. Dunkley was plainly not interested these items or Nemcek’s stethoscope, and he tossed them aside onto the bed. He paused abruptly when he brought forth an ebony-handled knife with a very delicate inflexible blade marked Evans & Co., London. Its tip was guarded by a
cork. “Now this is an interesting weapon, Doctor. I suspect that you could make a deep incision with this and leave barely a trace.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Constable. That is what we call a cataract knife. It is quite fine and used only for precise surgeries. It could not possibly be used as a weapon.”

“Unless the victim was asleep, perhaps drugged?” proposed Dunkley.

“Well, yes, I suppose that is possible” I agreed, reluctantly.

Nemcek grew warm and interrupted us. “Gentlemen! I must protest. I have already heard from Mr. Sims that the Frenchman was shot. Why are you so interested in my knife? Do you not have one too, Doctor?”

Before I could answer, Dunkley shook his head. “I am not really interested in the knife, Doctor. I am interested in this.” With a flourish, Dunkley drew a neat red goatskin gilded morocco case from the bag. Flicking open its hook, he flipped the lid to reveal a hypodermic syringe. He lifted the syringe from the case with nervous fingers and brought it up to his eyes for closer inspection. He touched the sharp tip with his finger and experimented with plunging the tiny piston. He measured the length of the needle, which plainly was sufficiently longer than that of a typical wine-bottle cork. “It appears to be clean.”

Nemcek shrugged. “Of course, I have had little need for it recently.”

“Then how do you explain these?” said Dunkley, holding up a pair of empty phials that he had removed from the satchel.

“Many ladies onboard the vessel with me suffered from seasickness during the passage to Bermuda. I have found that a low dose of morphia is often helpful in alleviating these symptoms.”

Dunkley turned and looked at me. “I agree with Dr. Nemcek,” I volunteered.

Dunkley snorted in exasperation. “Well then, Doctor, are you acquainted with any of the other guests of the Globe?”

“Certainly,” he nodded.

“You are?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course,” continued the man. “I’ve conversed with every person staying here, some more than others, Mr. Sims for example. And I’ve had little to say to the Marquesa, I suppose, but…”

“What I meant was: ‘did you know any of the other guests before your arrival upon Bermuda?’” said Dunkley, interrupting him.

“Oh no, definitely not,” replied Nemcek, assuredly.

Dunkley pursed his lips. “May we have a copy of your handwriting then, Doctor?” He fished the note already written upon by Sims and Cordeiro out of his breast-pocket. “Just the same as the others, if you please.”

Nemcek took the paper over to a small writing desk and carefully wrote out the prescribed phrase with a somewhat archaic nib pen. When complete, he picked it up and blew on the paper to assist in the drying process before handing it back to Dunkley. The inspector examined the paper and nodded to himself, before folding it up and replacing it in his pocket.

“That will be all for now, Dr. Nemcek.” With a nod to me, Dunkley exited the doctor’s room. He paused for a moment upon the upper landing and glanced at me as if to ascertain my opinion, which I obligingly provided.

“I have no doubt that he is a skilled physician. Therefore more than anyone else in the hotel he possesses the skill to add the optimal amount of laudanum to Sims’ bottle of wine that would permit the taste of it to pass undetected, and yet successfully stupefy all who drank from the bottle. And, of course, he had several empty phials.”

“But you are not convinced?” probed Dunkley.

I shook my head. “No, I am not. Yes, he trained in France and owns a French pistol. Thus it is certainly possible that he knew Dumas. But I still do not see a motive. For a physician to violate his Hippocratic Oath – ‘I will not give a deadly drug to anybody’ – would be a grave offense.”

Dunkley snorted. “It certainly was ‘grave’ enough for Dumas! You are too trusting, Doctor. History is unfortunately replete with physicians who have ignored their oath and committed the most foul of deeds. Dr. Webster of Harvard, for example.”

“Yes,” nodded I, in sad agreement, “I suppose that you are correct. We must keep Dr. Nemcek on the list of suspects. Whom do you plan to question next?”

Dunkley shook his head. “The most solid clue that we have is the burned Turkish slipper. Which of the guests strikes you as being the most likely to own such a slipper?”

I frowned in bafflement. “I suppose anyone could own a pair of Turkish slippers.”

“But are they not uncommon? I suspect that the most likely person to own something from Turkey would be someone from that country.”

“Ah, Mr. Bey, then?” said I, finally following his train of thought. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “Mr. Bey.”

§

Constable Dunkley and I made our way back down the creaking staircase to the dining room, where we found the assembled guests anxiously awaiting us. Dunkley surveyed the crowd before calling out, “Mr. Bey, if you would be so kind as to step into the parlor.”

Bey rose from his place at one of the tables and followed us quietly into our appropriated room of interrogation. As the three of us settled into our placed in the parlor, Bey in the settee facing us, I took his measure. He was a small, wiry man with the swarthy complexion typical of his countrymen. His hair and eyes were dark, yet he wore a sardonic grin that animated his eyes in such a way so as to instill a sense of companionship in all whom he beheld. His eyes were covered by grey-framed rounded glasses that imparted a scholarly air to his bearing. These rested upon his great curved nose, which in turn presided over his heavy moustache. He wore the same neat dark-grey suit that I had noted the first morning after my arrival, as well as his odd checked shepherd’s muffler. The only new piece of ornamentation was a silver necklace from which dangled a glass pendant with a series of concentric circles, first a deep blue outer rim, then white, then a lighter shade of blue, and finally a central black area, the combination of which greatly reminded me of a staring eye. If I thought to learn something profound from this inspection, however, I was greatly mistaken. The man and his passions were still a complete mystery to me.  

“Your papers, please,” said Dunkley, beginning the inquiry.

Similar to the actions of our other guests, Bey’s documents were rapidly provided without debate. Dunkley peered at them. “You are Mr. Mehmet Nazim Bey, born 1846 in Istanbul, Ottoman Empire?”

“
Evet
, yes, that is correct,” replied Bey in perfect English, but with enough of an accent to place him as a foreigner.

“And you are an engineer?”

“Yes. I specialize in locomotives. They are the future of transportation.”

Dunkley snorted. “Not in Bermuda!”

Bey shrugged. “Perhaps not. It is too small. But in larger countries they have become essential.”

“As an engineer, you must be familiar with many tools?” said Dunkley, probingly.

Bey’s eyebrows rose questioningly at this odd tack. “Of course.”

“If we were to search your luggage would we happen to find a tension wrench, a pick, a hook, or a rake?”

Bey’s mouth tightened as Dunkley pronounced this list. “Sir, those are not the tools of a railway engineer,” replied Bey heatedly. “They are the components of a pick-set. I am neither a locksmith, nor a burglar, and I would encourage you to examine my room immediately if you think otherwise.”

Dunkley nodded. “Perhaps we will, sir, perhaps we will. But tell me, why have you left Turkey, Mr. Bey?”

“Are you aware of the current political situation in the Ottoman Empire, Constable?”

Dunkley shook his head. “No, I am not.”

Bey shook his head, as if annoyed by ignorance of the constable. From his breast-pocket, he pulled out a pipe carved from a white stone, clearly meerschaum, and clapped it unlit between his teeth. “Then please allow me to enlighten you. Four years ago, Abdul-Hamid II assumed the throne after his brother, Murad V, suffered a mental breakdown. Abdul-Hamid is a cruel despot, who relies upon censorship and his secret police to keep the populace in line. Two years ago he dismissed the Parliament and suspended the constitution. Like a spider in his lair, he rules from the seclusion of his palace. Someday soon he will be deposed. But until that time, Turkey is no place for a man who seeks to use his brain and live in the modern world.”

“And where have you gone since then?”

“I have moved about seeking work. I was in Cairo for a time. From there I went to Paris briefly, then on to Greenwich, where I apprenticed for the firm of Venner and Matheson. Finally I went to London, where I worked for Mr. Stephenson’s Institution of Mechanical Engineers. The stamps on my passport should tell the story, I think.”

“So why are you in Bermuda? There is no locomotive here.”

“It is a stop-over. The great railways of Europe are essentially complete. I realized that I was no longer content to merely maintain what others had built. I wished to be on the frontier, where the rails were first being laid down. There is only one place that fits that description: the western United States. So I am headed there to find a position, hopefully with the Central Pacific Railroad Company. However, I realized that the western deserts will be a harsh place, so I decided to briefly indulge myself in this veritable oasis of pleasure before I continued with the final leg of my voyage.”

“I have a question, if I may,” I interjected.

Dunkley nodded, so I pressed on. “When we broke down the door to Dumas’ room, there were five of us present. Mr. Sims, Mr. Delopolous, and I were quite shaken by what we found. Mrs. Foster was so upset that she fainted. You alone appeared calm and collected. Some might suggest that is because you were already aware of what we would find behind that door?”