DR. COOPER.
I caught my breath. There was nothing strange in the information; for
all I knew Mr. Nisbet might have been in London for years, as ignorant
of my existence as, until lately, I had been of his; but the
accidental discoveries of the last few hours seemed to me to be
pregnant with important possibilities.
"I am glad you have lost no time in telling me," I said. "How did you
discover it?"
"Almost by accident. I have a partner, whose methods are of the quiet
order, I being the active worker in our business, and it is he who
made the discovery--almost by accident, as I have said. Nisbet is not
a very uncommon name, but tack Oliver to it, and it becomes
exceptional. Yesterday there arrived from the Continent a gentleman
bearing those two names, and he is now at the Hôtel Métropole."
This destroyed the hypothesis that Mr. Nisbet had been a constant
resident in London since my introduction to the skeleton cat.
"From what part of the Continent?" I inquired.
"Lastly from Paris; but by way of Paris from any one of a hundred
different places. Can you give me a personal description of the
gentleman?"
"No," I replied, "I have never seen him; but I can obtain it for you."
"Do so, and let me have it as soon as possible. At present my partner
is shadowing him, and he will not be lost sight of. You will never
guess where I have just come from, Mr. Emery."
"I shall be glad to hear."
"In the course of such a business as ours," said Mr. Dickson, "we
become acquainted with strange things, which, as a rule, we keep to
ourselves, secrecy being an integral part of our operations. Some
cases take hold of us, some do not, and I confess that my curiosity--a
human weakness, you know--has been excited in this particular case.
So, after leaving your house, the idea entered my mind of strolling to
Lamb's Terrace and having a look at No. 79. That is where I have just
come from."
"You have not been inside the house," I said, rather startled, as I
thought of Bob and Barbara.
"How could I get inside," he retorted, "without the key? What a
melancholy, Heaven-forsaken place! I will tell you what occurred to
me, if you like."
"Yes, tell me."
"Just the spot for a crime, thought I as I wandered about; just the
spot to carry out a deep-laid scheme in comparative safety. I have no
wish to pry into your secrets, Mr. Emery; but one cannot help what
comes unbidden into one's mind, and men engaged in such pursuits as
mine are more open to suspicion than others. We see shadows behind
locked doors, we work out theories in the dark, and sometimes we come
upon unexpected results. However, it is no affair of mine, as my own
personal interests are not involved in it."
"If they were," I hazarded, "you would follow it up."
"Undoubtedly. I could not possibly evade the duty, with three such
links as a sudden death, a cremation instead of a burial, and a vast
fortune on the issue."
"And if you were to add," I thought, "the experiences I have gone
through, you would be still less inclined to rest till the mystery was
unraveled." Aloud I said, "Do not let the matter flag for a few
pounds. I am most anxious to work it out, if there is a possibility of
doing so."
"It shall not flag. The mischief of it is, the most important clews
are destroyed. Only through the principal agent can the crime--if one
has been committed--be brought to light."
"Or through an accomplice," I suggested.
"Quite so. But where to look for this accomplice--there lies the
difficulty. Still it is the unexpected that often happens. Well,
good-day, Mr. Emery; I hope to hear from you to-morrow."
Theobald's Row, South Lambeth, if not so desolate a neighborhood as
Lamb's Terrace, was sufficiently depressing in its general aspect to
cause one to resolve to give it a wide berth unless special business
called him to the spot. There were sad, melancholy railway arches
which might serve for a chapter in a modern "Inferno"; there were
timber yards stacked high with discolored lumber, which appeared to be
piled up not for purposes of trade, but to add one more melancholy
feature to a worn-out, dilapidated locality; there were workingmen's
lodging houses, whose flat surface of stone walls resembled prisons in
which every vestige of brightness in life was hopelessly entombed;
there were rows of houses as hopeless and despairing, and as
poverty-stricken and irremediably shabby; and there was the most
leaden atmosphere of which even London could boast. The men, women,
and children I saw there were in keeping with their surroundings; the
youngsters were playing listlessly and with no heart in their games;
the men smoked pipes and haunted street corners or wandered in and out
the beer shops and public houses; the worn-faced women conversed
jadedly and dispiritedly; and everywhere the spirit of discontent
proclaimed itself. Even the dogs nosing the gutters were infected with
the prevailing gloom.
In the center of Theobald's Row, which consisted of sixteen small
houses, eight on each side, and all of a flat dead level, I came upon
Dr. Cooper's place of business, a parlor window, with two large
dust-covered bottles displayed therein, whose ghostly colors were
green and red. Half a dozen ragged children were disporting themselves
on the doorstep, and as I approached the shop a slatternly woman came
to the door and swooped them all into the house. As she was turning to
follow them I accosted her.
"Is Dr. Cooper at home?"
"What do you want of him?" she retorted.
"I wish to see him on a matter of business."
I had stepped into the shop, and as I looked around at the nearly
empty shelves, dotted here and there with a few miserable fly-blown
bottles, I thought that a man in search of health or of a remedy for a
bodily ailment could not have found a more unlikely place for relief.
"Is it opening medicine?" said the woman. "I can serve you."
"My business is not professional," I replied.
She cast a suspicious glance at me, and I guessed that she supposed me
to be a dun.
"It may be something of advantage to him," I observed.
She brightened up instantly.
"My husband is not in," she said; "but you may find him at the
George."
"At the George?"
"Or the Green Dragon," she added.
"Where are they? Far from here?"
"Oh, no, not far; he has to keep himself handy in case he is called in
anywhere. The George is at the corner of the next street, and the
Green Dragon is at the opposite corner. If he is not at either of
those places he is sure to be at the Britannia. Anybody will tell you
where that is."
As I walked to "the corner of the next street" I could not help
smiling at the idea of Dr. Cooper being so considerate as to pass his
time in a public house, within convenient hail of his place of
business, in case he might be "called in anywhere"; but I pitied those
who needed his assistance in a case of sickness. He was not at the
George, and I was advised to try the Green Dragon; he was not at the
Green Dragon, and I was advised to try the Britannia; and at the
Britannia I found him.
He was a washed-out, weedy man, with an inflamed countenance, and when
I presented myself he was in the act of clinking pewter pots with some
boon companions, who, according to my judgment, were standing treat to
him. He drained his pot to the dregs, and turned it upside down on the
counter, with a thirsty air about him notwithstanding the long draught
he had just taken. I am not a teetotaler, nor an advocate of
teetotalism, but it has always been a matter of regret to me that the
persevering search for enlightenment on the part of the British public
at the bottom of pewter pots does not lead to more encouraging
results.
At the moment of my entrance he and his companions were discussing a
criminal case which had excited great interest and had largely
occupied the newspapers for several days past. It was a supposed case
of poisoning, and the person charged--it was a woman--had been
acquitted after a long trial. Her husband had been the victim; but the
medical evidence was inconclusive, and she had been given the benefit
of the doubt. The woman and her husband had been on proved bad terms,
and she had much to gain by his death. There was a man in the case,
the woman's lover, and there was a strong suspicion that he was
implicated; but, guilty or not guilty, he was not arraigned because no
direct evidence could be brought against him. Only on the previous
night had the case been concluded, and the result was published in the
Sunday morning's papers, the jury having been locked up for eight
hours before they arrived at their verdict.
"She's escaped by the skin of her teeth," said one of the topers. "If
I'd been on the jury she'd have had the rope."
"Law's law," said a half-tipsy Solon, "and justice is justice. I don't
believe in hanging a woman upon presumption. My opinion is that he
poisoned himself to get rid of her."
"That's a queer way of getting rid of a nuisance," was the reply.
"Besides, there was no poison found in the body."
"You're all at sixes and sevens," said a third speaker. "The doctors
disagreed, and the weight of evidence was in favor of the woman. She's
as artful as you make 'em; but that's no reason for hanging her."
"The man was killed," persisted the first speaker. "He didn't die a
natural death."
"Nothing was proved," said the third speaker, "and when nothing's
proved you can't bring anyone in guilty. This is a free country, I
believe."
What struck me in the expression of these opinions--if opinions they
could be called--was their utterly illogical bearing. It was like a
lot of weathercocks arguing; and when the half-tipsy Solon said, "Ask
the doctor," they turned toward him, as though a direct question had
been put to him, which he, as a weighty authority, could answer in a
word, and thus settle the whole matter.
"What I say is," said Dr. Cooper thirstily and with indistinct
utterance, "that there are more ways of killing a man than one."
"Ah," they all observed in effect, "Dr. Cooper knows."
What it was that Dr. Cooper knew with respect to the case was not very
clear. What I knew, when I heard him speak, was that he was drunk.
Quickly came to my mind the suggestion whether he would be of more
service to me drunk than sober.
"Who's going to stand treat?" he inquired, with a nervous fingering of
his pewter pot.
"Your turn, doctor," they said.
"If it's my turn," he replied pettishly, "you'll have to wait."
They laughed, and left him one by one. Then he asked for liquor across
the counter; but the barman shook his head and devoted himself to
ready-money customers. I saw my opportunity, and advancing toward him,
asked if he would join me in a friendly glass.
"In a friendly glass," he said, "I would join Old Nick himself."
A declaration which, frank as it was, could scarcely be said to be a
recommendation. It was a peculiar feature of Dr. Cooper's tipsy
condition that, although his speech was thick and somewhat indistinct,
he did not slur or clip his words, which denoted that he still
preserved some control over himself.
"Beer or whisky, doctor?" I asked.
"Whisky for choice," he said. "Irish."
Whisky it was, and Irish; I spilled mine on the floor, and filled my
glass with water. Dr. Cooper dealt with his as he dealt with the beer;
it was evidently not his habit to take two bites at a cherry.
"Another?" I suggested.
"You're a gentleman," he said.
When he had disposed of this second portion in a similar manner to the
first, I opened the ball, and inwardly took credit to myself for
rather artful tactics.
"I came down this way, doctor," I said, "especially to see you."
He seized my wrist with one hand, and put the other into his waistcoat
pocket, removing it immediately, however, with a husky cough and an
angry shake of his head.
"No, no, doctor," I said, laughing, as he fumbled at my pulse, "I do
not need professional advice to-day. The fact is, I have come to pay
an old debt."
He retained my hand, as though to prevent my escaping him.
"You're one of the lot that has brought me down," he growled. "How
much is it, and how long has it been due?"
"It has been due a long time past," I replied; "and the amount is two
shillings, for two bottles of medicine and advice."
"Are you sure it isn't more?"
"Quite sure. I should have paid you before to-day, but when I went to
your place--a long while ago, I must tell you--I found you had gone.
You practiced in the north of London, you know."
"I do know; I have reason to know. If I had got my rights I should not
be as I am. I should be practicing in Belgravia, and driving in my
carriage. I'll take another whisky." I nodded at the barman, who
refilled the glass, which he instantly emptied again. "What do we
slave for? What do we study for? What do we waste the midnight oil
for? To be taken in, to be robbed and swindled, to have promises made
to us that are never fulfilled."
"Unfortunately," I said, sympathizing with him, "it is the way of the
world. It is the simple-minded and the honest that are defrauded."
"You know how it is. Five shillings, you said."
"No; it is two shillings I owe you."
"Interest added, makes it three. You can't object to that."
"I don't object; here is the money."
He took it, and dropped it in his pocket. We had each of us only one
disengaged hand, as he still kept hold of my wrist.
"A feeble pulse," he said, shaking his head with tipsy gravity, "a
very feeble pulse. Needs a stimulant."
"Irish whisky?"
"Irish whisky," he echoed; and disposed of his fourth glass, while I
spilled mine as I had done before.
These rapid potations had the effect I desired; they weakened his
self-control, they loosened his tongue.
"That was an interesting discussion you were having," I observed,
"when I came in. What was it you said? That there are more ways than
one of killing a man. How true that is! But it is only those who are
experienced in such matters that can speak with authority. Do you
suspect, doctor, that the woman is guilty?"
"I will take my oath she is guilty."
"But the fact of poison being administered was not absolutely
established."
He snapped his fingers. "That for being established! There are poisons
and poisons; there are way and ways. Did you ever take a sleeping
draught?"
"Never."
"Well, when you want one, come to me, and I will give you something
that will make you sleep so sound that you will never wake up again."
"Declined with thanks. But would it not be discovered?"
"It might or it mightn't. Suppose it is discovered that you died of an
overdose. Then comes the question, who administered it? When a man
suffers from insomnia he doses himself as a rule, and if he overdoes
it he has only himself to blame. There's the bottle at his bedside
empty. There are the people who are interested--generally two, a man
and a woman. If there are servants in the house they are asleep. What
have they to do with it? The man, or the woman, does not wake up
again. Now prove that the man, or the woman, who is left alive forced
the sleeping draught down the other one's throat. You can't do it. I
can tell you where you can buy some effervescent sleeping globules
that you put in your mouth, and fall asleep while they are dissolving.
One makes you sleep for six hours, two makes you sleep for ten hours,
three makes you sleep for twenty, four makes you sleep forever. Some
of us doctors have secrets that we keep to ourselves; make you as wise
as we are, and where should we be? There was a case--I mention no
names--of a man suffering under a painful disease which might run its
course for months, perhaps years, before it prove fatal. Wife suggests
that it would be a mercy to kill him, and so put him out of pain. A
little syringe, a slight injection while the man is sleeping; it is
done in a moment; the man is dead. The woman comes into a fortune, and
marries her lover. Medical testimony, the disease from which the man
has been suffering, and which _must_ prove fatal some time or other.
Quite natural. Everybody's happy, and nothing more is heard of the
matter. There are other ways. Charcoal, which English people don't
take to; escape of gas"--I caught my breath, but fortunately my sudden
spasm passed unnoticed--"quite as easy, quite as natural. For one
murder discovered, how many undiscovered? Work that out!"
"An interesting study for statisticians," I said.
"If they had the facts before them; but they can't get hold of them.
There are liquid poisons that can be mixed with food, and are
tasteless and colorless; they can be administered for months, and
nobody the wiser. You may find a trace in the body after death, but
not sufficient to account for what has taken place, not a twentieth
part sufficient to account for it. There are others to weaken not only
the body but the mind, to destroy memory, to make one oblivious of the
past. Perfectly pleasant and painless. Now, what do you think of a man
who knows what I know being in such a position as I am."
"It is disgraceful," I said.
"It is infamous. You are struggling, you are poor, you have a large
family, you are fond of the pleasures of life. A person--again I
mention no names--comes to you, and says such and such a thing--never
mind what thing. This person is rich; you are in debt. I am only
supposing a case, you know."
"Of course."
"The person says, there's a sudden death in my house--an accident, say
by charcoal, say by gas. A pure accident, most lamentable. A doctor's
testimony is required, for formality's sake. Any doctor will do. You
are in the neighborhood. Will you testify? Fee, so many guineas, and
afterward a lift up in life, a chance to get along. As our national
poet expresses it, 'My poverty, but not my will, consents.' You do no
wrong; the person is a gentleman, and you take his word; you testify
at the inquest, and all is smooth sailing. The affair is forgotten.
You receive your few guineas, and you wait for the chance to get along
in life, for the lift up that will bring you a lucrative practice. It
never comes. The person shrugs his shoulders, contradicts you, jockeys
you. What's the consequence? Your suspicions are excited. The person
inherits a great sum of money by the death. You ferret that out; your
suspicions grow stronger. You go to the person, and you mention your
suspicions. He says, 'You are putting yourself in danger; if you have
given false evidence, the law will make you suffer for it; you are a
fool and a knave. Get out!' You are bound to submit. What are your
feelings toward the person who has treated you so shamefully? What
would you do him if it was in your power?"
"I would certainly--supposing this not to be a hypothetical case----"
"Which it is," interposed Dr. Cooper, "purely hypothetical."
"Exactly. How could it be otherwise? But such conversations are most
interesting to an outsider like myself. Supposing then, this not to be
a hypothetical case, I would certainly be glad of any chance to be
even with the person who has imposed upon me. Carrying the hypothesis
further, what should you say became of the body of the--did you say a
lady?"
"No, I don't think I said a lady; but let it be a lady, for the sake
of argument."
"What became of the body--though that's a stupid question, because, of
course, it was buried in the usual way?"
"It might not have been. There's such a thing as cremation."
What turn the conversation would have taken after this startling
observation it is out of my power to say, for the slatternly wife of
the doctor made her appearance here, and told my tipsy companion that
a patient required his immediate attention.
An hour afterward I was once more in Lamb's Terrace.