The Nursing Home Murder (12 page)

“So I imagined,” remarked the inspector. “I shall be delighted to see the minx again.”

“She’s thrilled at the prospect herself,” Nigel declared. He made up the fire, glanced anxiously at his desk and made an effort to tidy it

“I’ve just been writing you up,” he informed Alleyn.

“What the devil do you mean? What have I got to do with your perverted rag?”

“We’re hard up for a story and you’ve got a certain news value, you know. ‘The case is in the hands of Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick Alleyn, the most famous crime expert of the C.I.D. Inspector Alleyn is confident— ’ Are you confident, by the way?”

“Change it to ‘inscrutable.’ When I’m boxed I fall back on inscrutability.”

“Are you boxed?” asked Nigel. “That, of course, is why you’ve come to me. What can I do for you, inspector?”

“You can take that inordinately conceited look off your face and compose it into its customary mould of startled incredulity. I want to talk and I can think of no one who would really like to listen to me. Possibly you yourself are too busy?”

“I’ve finished, but wait until Angela comes.”

“Is she to be trusted? All right, all right.”

Nigel spent the next ten minutes telling Alleyn how deeply Miss Angela North was to be trusted. He was still in full swing when the young woman herself arrived. She greeted Alleyn as an old friend, lit a cigarette, sat on the hearth, and said:

“Now — what have you both been talking about?”

“Bathgate has talked about you, Miss Angela. I have not talked.”

“But you will. You were going to, and I can guess what about. Pretend I’m not here.”

“Can Bathgate manage that?”

“He’ll have to.”

“I won’t look at her,” said Nigel.

“You’d better not,” said Angela. “Please begin, Inspector Alleyn.”

“Speak!” said Nigel.

“I will. List, list, oh list.”

“I will.”

“Don’t keep interrupting. I am engaged on a murder case in which the victim is not a relation of yours, nor yet, as far as I know, is the murderer your friend. In view of our past experiences, this is very striking and remarkable.” [See
Enter a Murderer
and
A Man Lay Dead
.]

“Come off the rocks. I suppose you mean the O’Callaghan business?”

“I do. The man was murdered. At least three persons assisting at his operation had sufficient motive. Two of them had actually threatened him. No, that is not for publication. No, don’t argue. I’ll let you know when it is. I have reached that stage in the proceedings when, like heroines in French dramas, I must have my confidante. You are she. You may occasionally roll up your eyes and exclaim ‘
Hélas, quelle horreur
!’ or, if you prefer it, ‘Merciful Heaven, can I believe my ears?’ Otherwise, beyond making sympathetic noises, don’t interrupt.”

“Right ho.”

Alleyn smiled amiably at him.

“You’re a patient cove, Bathgate, and I get much too facetious. It’s an infirmity — a disease. I do it when I’m bothered and this is a bothering case. Here’s the cast of characters, and, look here, the whole conversation is confidential.”

“Oh murder!” said Nigel. This was a favourite ejaculation of his. “It hurts, but again— Right you are.”

“Thank you. As you know, O’Callaghan either took or was given an overdose of hyoscine. At least a quarter of a grain. He never recovered consciousness after his operation. As far as the experts can tell us, the stuff must have been given within the four hours preceding his death, but I’m not fully informed on that point. Now — dramatis personae. You’ll know most of them from the inquest. Wife — the ice-maiden type. Knew her husband occasionally kicked over the traces. Too proud to fight. Urged inquest. Sister — rum to a degree and I think has gone goofy on a chemist who supplied her with patent medicines. Urged patent medicines on brother Derek on bedder-sickness in hospital prior to operation. Now very jumpy and nervous. Private secretary — one of the new young men. Semi-diplomatic aroma. All charm and engaging manners. Friend of Mr. Bathgate, so may be murderer. Name, Ronald Jameson. Any comment?”

“Young Ronald? Gosh, yes. I’d forgotten he’d nailed that job. You’ve described him. He’s all right, really.”

“I can’t bear the little creature,” said Angela vigorously. “Sorry!” she added hurriedly.

“Surgeon — Sir John Phillips. Distinguished gent. Friend of victim till victim took his girl away for a week-end and then dropped her. Severed friendship. Visited victim and scolded him. In hearing of butler expressed burning desire to kill victim. Wrote letter to same effect. Subsequently operated on victim, who then died. That makes you blanch, I see. Injected hyoscine which he prepared himself. Very unusual in surgeons, but he always does it. No real proof he didn’t give overdose. No proof he did. Assistant surgeon — Thoms. Comedian. Solemn warning to Inspector Alleyn not to be facetious. Injected serum with thing like a pump. Was in the theatre alone before operation, but said he wasn’t. This may be forgetfulness. Could have doctored serum-pump, but no known reason why he should. Anaesthetist — Dr. Roberts. Funny little man. Writes books about heredity and will talk on same for hours. Good taste in books, pictures and house decoration. Nervous. Very scared when murder is mentioned. In past killed patient with overdose of morphia, so won’t give any injections now. Matron of hospital — Sister Marigold. Genteel. Horrified. Could have doctored serum, but imagination boggles at thought. First theatre nurse — Banks, a Bolshie. Expressed delight at death of O’Callaghan, whom she considered enemy of proletariat. Attends meetings held by militant Communists who had threatened O’Callaghan. Gave camphor injection. Second theatre nurse — Jane Harden. Girl friend mentioned above. Spent weekend with deceased and cut up rough when he ended affair. Brought anti-gas syringe to Thoms. Delayed over it. Subsequently fainted. You may well look startled. It’s a rich field, isn’t it?”

“Is that all — not that it isn’t enough?”

“There’s his special nurse. A nice sensible girl who could easily have given him poison. She found out about Miss O’Callaghan handing out the patent medicine.”

“Perhaps she lied.”

“Oh, do you think so? Surely not.”

“Don’t be facetious,” said Nigel.

“Thank you, Bathgate. No, but I don’t think Nurse Graham lied. Jane Harden did, over her letters. Well, there they all are. Have one of your celebrated lucky dips and see if you can spot the winner.”

“For a win,” Nigel pronounced at last, “the special nurse. For a place the funny little man.”

“Why?”

“On, the crime-fiction line of reasoning. The two outsiders. The nurse looks very fishy. And funny little men are rather a favourite line in villains nowadays. He might turn out to be Sir Derek’s illegitimate brother and that’s why he’s so interested in heredity. I’m thinking of writing detective fiction.”

“You should do well at it.”

“Of course,” said Nigel slowly, “there’s the other school in which the obvious man is always the murderer. That’s the one you favour at the Yard, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” agreed Alleyn.

“Do you read crime fiction?”

“I dote on it. It’s such a relief to escape from one’s work into an entirely different atmosphere.”

“It’s not as bad as that,” Nigel protested.

“Perhaps not quite as bad as that. Any faithful account of police investigations, in even the most spectacular homicide case, would be abysmally dull. I should have thought you’d seen enough of the game to realise that. The files are a plethora of drab details, most of them entirely irrelevant. Your crime novelist gets over all that by writing grandly about routine work and then selecting the essentials. Quite rightly. He’d be the world’s worst bore if he did otherwise.”

“May I speak?” inquired Angela.

“Do,” said Alleyn.

“I’m afraid I guess it’s Sir John Phillips.”

“I’ve heard you say yourself that the obvious man is usually the ace,” ruminated Nigel after a pause.

“Yes. Usually,” said Alleyn.

“I suppose, in this case, the obvious man
is
Phillips.”

“That’s what old Fox will say,” conceded Alleyn with a curious reluctance.

“I suppose it’s hopeless to ask, but have you made up your mind yet, inspector?”

Alleyn got up, walked to the fireplace, and then swung round and stared at his friend.

“I regret to say,” he said, “that I haven’t the foggiest notion who killed Cock Robin.”

Tuesday, the sixteenth. Night.

Of course,” said Angela suddenly, “it may be the matron. I always suspect gentily. Or, of course— ”

She stopped.

“Yes?” asked Alleyn. “There’s still some of the field left.”

“I knew you’d say that. But I
do
mistrust people who laugh too much.”

Alleyn glanced at her sharply.

“Do you? I must moderate my mirth. Well, there’s the case, and I’m glad to have taken it out and aired it. Shall we go to the Palladium?”

“Why?” asked Nigel, astonished.

“There’s a sketch on the programme that I am anxious to see. Will you both come? We’ll only miss the first two numbers.”

“We’d love to,” said Angela. “Are you up to. one of your tricks?” she added suspiciously.

“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Angela. Bathgate, will you ring up for seats?”

They went to the Palladium and enjoyed themselves. Mr. Thoms’s sketch was the third number in the second half. It had not run three minutes before Nigel and Angela turned and stared owlishly at the inspector.

The sketch was well cast and the actor who played the surgeon was particularly clever. Alleyn sensed a strange feeling of alertness in the audience. Here and there people murmured together. Behind them a man’s voice asked: “Wonder if Sir John Phillips goes to the Palladium?”

“Ssh,” whispered a woman.

“The great British public twitching its nose.” thought Alleyn distastefully. The sketch drew to a close. The surgeon came back from the operating theatre, realistically bloody. A long-drawn “Ooooo” from the audience. He pulled off his mask, stood and stared at his gloved hands. He shuddered. A nurse entered up-stage. He turned to face her: “Well, nurse?”

“He’s gone.” The surgeon walked across to a practical basin and began to wash his hands as a drop curtain, emblazoned with an enormous question-mark, was drawn down like a blind over the scene.

“So that’s why we came?” said Angela, and remained very quiet until the end of the show.

They had supper at Alleyn’s flat, where Angela was made a fuss of by Vassily.

“Curious coincidence, that little play, didn’t you think?” asked Alleyn.

“Very rum,” agreed Nigel. “When did you hear about it?”

“Thoms told me that he and Phillips discussed it before the operation. Thoms seemed so anxious not to talk about it I thought it might be worth seeing. I can’t help wondering if he meant to convey precisely that suggestion.”

“Had Sir John seen it?” inquired Angela.

“No. Thoms told him about it?”

“I say,” said Nigel. “Do you think that could have given Phillips the big idea?”

“It might be that.”

“Or it might be — something quite different,” added Angela, watching him.

“I congratulate you, Miss Angela,” said Alleyn.

“Did Mr. Thoms tell you quite frankly about their conversation?”

“No, child, he didn’t. He flustered like an old hen.”

“And what did you deduce from that?” asked Angela innocently.

“Perhaps he was afraid of incriminating his distinguished colleague and senior.”

“Oh,” she said flatly. “What’s he like in other ways?”

“Besides being a bit of a buffoon? Well, I should say either rather forgetful or a bit of a liar. He says he came out of the theatre with Phillips after the latter had prepared the hyoscine injection. Phillips, matron and Banks say he didn’t.”

“Oh,” said Angela, “they do, do they.”

“I haven’t the least idea what you’re driving at, Angela,” complained Nigel. “I should like to hear more about the funny little man. Didn’t he behave at all queerly?”

“He behaved very queerly indeed,” said Alleyn. “He was as scary as a rabbit whenever the murder was mentioned. He’s obviously very frightened whenever he thinks of it. And yet I don’t think his alarm is purely selfish. He said it was, I believe. Thoms, in that asinine way of his, made very merry over Roberts’s alarm when he rang up.”

Alleyn looked steadily at Angela.

“Roberts is the man, depend upon it,” pronounced Nigel. “I’ll back him with you for a quid.”

“I won’t,” said Angela. “I’ll back— ”

“I’m afraid the official conscience won’t allow me to join in this cold-bloomed gamble,” said Alleyn. He looked at them both curiously. “The attitude of the intelligent layman is very rum,” he observed.

“I lay you two to one the field, bar Roberts, Angela,” said Nigel.

“Done,” said Angela. “In guineas,” she added grandly. “And what were you saying, inspector?”

“I was only reflecting. Does the decision rest with the judge?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well — if it does, you are betting on a man or woman who, if you’re right, will presumably be hanged. I can’t imagine you doing this over any other form of death. That’s what I mean about the attitude of the layman.”

Angela turned red.

“That’s the second time in our acquaintanceship you’ve made me feel a pig,” she said. “The first was because I was too sensitive. The bet’s off, Nigel.”

“You can be pretty cold-blooded yourself, Alleyn,” said Nigel indignantly.

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn, “but I’m an official.”

“Anyway,” argued Angela, “I was betting on Dr. Roberts’s innocence.”

“So you were.”

“And, anyway,” said Nigel, “I think he did it”

“How?”

“Er — well — somehow. With an injection.”

“He gave no injections.”

“Who
could
have done it?” asked Angela. “I mean who had the opportunity?”

“Phillips, who prepared and gave an injection. The special, who was alone with the patient. Ruth, ditto. Banks, who prepared and gave an injection. Thoms gave an injection, but did not prepare it. He was alone in the theatre for a few minutes if Phillips and the matron are telling the truth. He used the big syringe, and as he quite frankly pointed out, he could hardly have palmed another. Jane Harden had time to empty it and refill with hyoscine.”

“Which of them do you say were alone in the theatre before the operation?”

“All the nurses, Thoms and Phillips had the chance to be there, I suppose.”

“Not Roberts?” asked Nigel.

“I think not. He went straight to the anæsthetic-room, where he was joined by the special with the patient.”

“Bad luck, darling,” said Angela. “It really looks as though he’s the only man who couldn’t have murdered Sir Derek.”

“Then he’s a certainty,” declared Nigel. “Isn’t it true that when there’s a cast-iron alibi the police always prick up their ears?”

“Personally, I let mine flop with a thankful purr,” said Alleyn. “But you may be right. This is scarcely an alibi. Roberts was there; he merely had no hypodermic to give and no syringe to use.”

“And no motive,” added Angela.

“Look for the motive,” said Nigel.

“I will,” said Alleyn. “There’s precious little else to look for. Has it occurred to you, if the lethal injection
was
given during the operation, how extraordinarily favourable the
mise en scène
was for the murderer? As soon as a patient is wheeled away they set to work, and as far as I can see, they literally scour out the theatre. Nothing is left — everything is washed, sterilised, polished. The syringes — the dishes — the instruments— the floor — the tables. Even the ampoules that held the injections are cast into outer darkness. If you wanted to think of a perfect place to get rid of your tracks, you couldn’t choose a likelier spot.” He got up and looked at his watch.

“He wants us to go,” remarked Angela calmly.

“It’s only eleven o’clock,” murmured Alleyn. “I wondered if you’d both care to do a job of work for me?”

“What sort of job?” they asked.

“Attend a Bolshevik meeting at midnight.”

“To-night?”

“To-night.”

“I’d adore to,” said Angela quickly. “Where is it? What’s the time? What do we do?”

“It’ll be a bit of copy for you, Bathgate,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Nicholas Kakaroff, agent of a certain advanced section of Soviet propagandists, is holding a meeting at Lenin Hall, Saltarrow Street, Blackfriars. Lenin Hall is a converted warehouse. Mr. Kakaroff is a converted minor official, originally from Krakov. I feel sure Kakaroff is a made-up name. ‘Kakaroff of Krakov’—it’s too good to be really true, don’t you feel? There’s an air of unreality about his whole gang. As far as we know, they are not officially recognised by Russia or any other self-respecting country. Your genuine Soviet citizen is an honest-to-God sort of chap in his own way, once you get past his prejudices. But these fellows are grotesques — illegitimate offsprings of the I.W.W. You’ll see. Nurse Banks attends the meeting. So do we. Myself disguised and feeling silly. Banks might penetrate my disguise, which would not be in the great tradition, so you sit next to her and get her confidence. You have been given your tickets by one Mr. Marcus Barker, who will not be there. He’s an English sympathiser at present in custody for selling prohibited literature. He has a bookshop in Long Acre. Don’t talk about him; you’d get into a mess if you did. I want you to pump the lady. You are enthusiastic converts. Let her hear that from your conversation together and leave it to her to make friends. If you can do it artistically, rejoice over O’Callaghan’s death. Now wait a moment — I want to ring Fox up. Here, read this pamphlet and see if you can get down some of the line of chat.”

He looked in his desk, produced a pamphlet bound in a vermillion folder, entitled “The Soviet Movement in Britain, by Marcus Barker.” Angela and Nigel sat side by side and began to read it.

Alleyn rang up Fox, who was at the Yard.

“Hullo, Brer Fox. Any news?”

“Hullo, sir. Well, I don’t know that I’ve got any thing much for you. Inspector Boys checked up on that heredity business. It seems to be quite O.K. Sir Derek’s father was what you might call a bit wanting, very queer old gentleman he seems to have been. There’s a great-uncle who fancied he was related to the Royal Family and did himself in a very peculiar manner with a hedger’s knife, and a great-aunt who started some religious affair and had to be shut up over it. She was always undressing herself, it seems.”

“Really? What about Ruth?”

“Well, as soon as you rang off, I called at Miss O’Callaghan’s house to inspect the hot-water cistern and I had a cup of tea with the cook and the housemaid. They were both rather talkative ladies and full of
l’affaire O’Callaghan
,” said Fox with one of his excursions into French. “They like Miss O’Callaghan all right, but they think she’s a bit eccentric. It seems she was very much attached to her brother and it seems she’s very thick with this chemist affair — Mr. Harold Sage. It seems he visits her a great deal. The housemaid gave it as her opinion that they were courting. Miss O’Callaghan takes a lot of his medicines.”

“Say it with soda-mints? Anything more?”

“One useful bit of information, sir. Mr. Sage is a Communist.”

“The devil he is! Bless me, Fox, that’s a plum. Sure?”

“Oh, yes — quite certain, I should say. He’s always leaving his literature about. Cook showed me a pamphlet. One of the Marcus Barker lot, it was.”,

Alleyn glanced through the study door at Nigel and Angela sitting very close together, their heads bent over the vermilion leaflet.

“Did you gather if Miss O’Callaghan sympathised with these views?” he asked.

At the other end of the telephone Fox blew his nose thoughtfully.

“Well, no; it seems not. Nina, that’s the housemaid, said she thought the lady was trying to influence him the other way. She gave it as her opinion that Sir Derek would have had a fit if he’d known what was going on.”

“Highly probable. You’ve done a good bit of work there, Fox. What a success you are with the ladies!”

“I’m more at home below-stairs,” said Fox simply, “and the cook was a very nice sort of woman. Is that all, sir?”

“Unless you’ve any more gossip. See you later.”

“That’s right, sir.
Au revoir
.”

“Bung-oh, you old devil.”

Alleyn returned to the study and repeated the gist of Fox’s information. “See if you can hear anything of this Sage who is Miss O’Callaghan’s soul-mate,” he said. “He may be there to-night. Bathgate, I’m just going to change. Won’t be five minutes. Ask Vassily to call a taxi and give yourself a drink.”

He vanished into his tiny dressing-room, where they heard him whistling very sweetly in a high key.

“Darling,” said Nigel, “this is like old times. You and I on the warpath.”

“I won’t have you getting into trouble,” said Angela. “You did last time, you know.”

“That was because I was so much in love I couldn’t think.”

“Indeed? And I suppose that no longer applies?”

“Do you? Do you?”

“Nigel — darling, this is no moment for dalliance.”

“Yes, it is.”

Alleyn’s whistling drifted into the silent room. “Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, tell me how thy lady does,” whistled the inspector. In a very short time he was back again, incredibly changed by a dirty chin, a very ill-cut shoddy suit, a cheap-smart overcoat, a cap, a dreadful scarf, and pointed shoes. His hair was combed forward under the cap.

“Oh!” exclaimed Angela, “I can’t bear it — you always look so frightfully well turned out and handsome.”

To Nigel’s amusement Inspector Alleyn turned red in the face, and for the first time in their acquaintance seemed at a loss for an answer.

“Has no one ever told you you are handsome, inspector?” pursued Angela innocently.

“Fox raves over me,” said Alleyn. “What are you standing there for Bathgate, with that silly grin on your face? Have you ordered the taxi? Have you had a drink?”

Nigel had done neither of these things. However, this was soon remedied and in a couple of minutes they were in a taxi, heading for the Embankment.

“We’ll walk the last part of the way,” said Alleyn. “Here are your tickets. We got these three with a good deal of difficulty. The brethren are becoming rather exclusive. Now do be careful. Remember
The Times
criticised me for employing Bright Young People in the Frantock case. Repeat your lesson.”

They did this, interrupting each other a good deal, but giving the gist of his instructions.