The Toxicologist
“The next port of call, Squire, will be Dr. Ardsley’s,” Sir Clinton
informed his companion as they seated themselves in the car. “And you
can put a bit of hurry into it, if you like.”
Wendover’s appearance had earned him the kindly nickname which the
Chief Constable used. He was one of those red-faced, hearty country
gentlemen who, on first acquaintance, give an entirely erroneous
impression of themselves. Met casually, he might quite easily have
appeared to be a slightly fussy person of very limited intellect and
even more restricted interests; but behind that façade lived a fairly
acute brain which took a certain sly delight in exaggerating the
misleading mannerisms. Wendover was anything but a fool, though he
liked to pose as one.
“All right,” he said, as the pace of the car increased. “It won’t take
long to get there. But what do you know about Ardsley? Never mentioned
him to you, so far as I can remember.”
“Well, don’t put off any longer. Tell me something about him now,”
suggested Sir Clinton. “All I know is that he’s an expert in poisons
or something of that sort.”
Wendover pricked up his ears.
“‘Poisons,’ sez you? You don’t think . . .”
But Sir Clinton was not to be drawn so easily.
“You’re quite right, Squire. I don’t think. I never caught the knack
of it, somehow. Just tell me all about Ardsley, will you, and put it
in a nutshell, for we haven’t much time.”
“Ardsley?” Wendover ruminated, “Ardsley’s one of these damned
vivisectionists. Doesn’t even need to do it for a living, either; just
cuts up dogs and cats for pleasure, I suppose, since he’s got a
private income. He’s one of these cold-blooded beggars, all brains and
no emotions, and that sort of thing. Swarms up mountains for
amusement, they say—quite good at it, too. Member of Alpine Club, I
believe. He’s a good fisherman; got an eye like a hawk and seems to
have the devil’s own luck in clearing the streams round about here. He
had a row with Roger Shandon over that, I remember.”
He pondered for a moment.
“That seems all about Ardsley.”
A fresh subject occurred to him.
“Not arresting anybody yet, Clinton? Seems funny to have two murders
and no arrests. Aren’t you afraid of letting the fellow slip through
your fingers?”
“Not very,” the Chief Constable reassured him. “I’m having Costock
shadowed—I gave instructions to the constable about it. The rest of
the Whistlefield people can’t budge either, for they’ll be wanted at
the inquest to give evidence.”
“But the fellow might bolt in the meanwhile.”
“He may—assuming he’s one of the house crowd. But if he’s one of them,
he’ll have to be fairly smart. I’ve got photographs of all the ones
who were at the Maze—took them under pretence of needing someone to
give the scale in the pictures. A photograph’s better than a
description, you know.”
Wendover was silent for a few seconds.
“I suppose you’re going to Ardsley about the poison on the darts?”
“Partly that, partly to gather impressions, if you must know.”
“Oh, well, he ought to be able to spot the thing for you. They say
he’s written a book on poisonology or whatever they call it.”
“Toxicology is the word you’re dredging for, I think.”
“Well, toxicology, then. That reminds me, do you think . . .”
“Never. Quite against my strictest principles. To-morrow I shall spend
a penny on the local paper. I shall read up what the crime expert in
it has got to say. Then I shall know all about it. Why should I bother
to think?”
Wendover thought that he had surprised the Chief Constable’s subject
of speculation. In spite of the hints he had received, he persisted in
his probing.
“Then you think that Ardsley may be . . .”
“There’s a law of libel, Squire; and you’re just twittering on the
edge of it at present. I tell you bluntly that I have no definite
ideas just now; and you’ll get nothing by all this hydraulic pump
business that you’re trying. If I ever get to the bottom of this
affair, I promise you I’ll spout like an artesian well of information.
Till then, the borings will show no results.”
Wendover accepted the rebuff placidly. Sir Clinton was grateful, and
showed it by his next words.
“The fact is, squire, I’m keeping an open mind and I don’t want to be
prejudiced. It’s as clear as print that you dislike this man Ardsley.
Hence it wouldn’t pay me to listen to you unconsciously discrediting
him beforehand. I tell you what. We’ll discuss the thing to-night when
I’ve got my mind cleared up a bit; and then you can say what you like.
But I don’t promise to give you much information, remember. I’m paid
to keep my mouth shut so long as a quiet tongue is necessary; and I’ve
got to earn my pay, you see.”
Wendover’s face cleared when this point of view was put before him.
“You can’t put it fairer than that, Clinton,” he admitted. “I hadn’t
looked at it quite in that light, you know.”
He said no more at the time, and soon the car reached the entrance to
the toxicologist’s grounds. At the house they learned that Dr. Ardsley
was at home; and they were shown into a room. He did not keep them
waiting long.
As he came forward to meet them, Sir Clinton saw a man of about fifty.
Ardsley’s hair was silvered, and his face showed heavy lines; but his
step was light and he was obviously in perfect condition. From below
heavy eyebrows his grey eyes seemed to examine the world coldly; and
the set of his mouth was sufficient to show more than a little
toughness in the disposition which had moulded it.
Sir Clinton rapidly explained the cause of his visit; and producing
the box of darts, he handed one of them to the toxicologist.
“I’m not sufficiently ignorant to expect you to tell me what this
stuff is on the spur of the moment, Dr. Ardsley; but I’m really
trusting to luck that you may be able to make a guess at what the
thing might be. If you can do even that, it may be of great importance
to us.”
Ardsley took the dart and examined it for a moment or two. Then he put
questions about the state of the bodies and the times, which Sir
Clinton was able to furnish.
“H’m!” he said at last. “I think, from what you say, that I might make
a guess at it. It’s obviously one of these arrow-poisons or something
of that sort; perhaps a strophanthus derivative or a member of the
strychnos group.”
“Can you give me anything more definite?” Sir Clinton demanded, rather
anxiously. “Time’s the main factor with me just now. I know these
vegetable things are the very devil to spot; but it’s honestly a
matter of life or death, and I want something definite if you can give
me it.”
Ardsley frowned slightly as he examined the dart.
“Can you spare this? I mean, to examine it, chemically—and otherwise.
I can’t promise to let you have it back intact, you know.”
“Give me information, that’s all I ask.”
“Very good.”
He paused for a moment.
“You won’t want to let this out of your sight, I suppose. Then you’d
better come along to my laboratory. Luckily I have a guinea-pig in
stock.”
He glanced under his eyebrows at Wendover.
“You’d rather stay here, I should think, Wendover. You dislike
vivisection. I’m only going to put a needle into the little
beast—quite painless; but you needn’t come and get your feelings
rasped.”
It was phrased politely enough; but it was quite evident from the way
in which it was said that Ardsley had no desire to let Wendover into
his laboratory. Leaving the Squire to kick his heels, the toxicologist
led Sir Clinton through the house to the research department.
“We’d better see exactly what phenomena the poison produces, first of
all. I’ll get the guinea-pig.”
He washed some of the poison from the dart with liquid, and introduced
the solution into a hypodermic syringe, by means of which he injected
a minute amount of the fluid under the guinea-pig’s skin.
“Dead already?” Sir Clinton asked in some astonishment. “It’s like a
thunderbolt.”
Ardsley had been experimenting on the animal and watching closely. His
face showed that he had found something definite.
“I think I can make a guess,” he said. “It happens to be something
with which I’m fairly familiar. Let’s confirm it.”
He made another extraction of the poison which he placed in a
test-tube. To this he added a few drops of solution from a bottle
which he took down from a shelf.
“Sulphovanadic acid,” he explained. “Just watch.”
On the addition of the reagent, the liquid in the test-tube turned
black.
“It ought to change to dark blue, and then to red after a time.”
“What do you make of it?” Sir Clinton demanded.
“Curare. I’m pretty sure of it. I’ve used it a lot and I feel fairly
safe in saying that. Of course, if you want me to swear to it, that’s
a different matter. This is only a rough test. I’d need to do a lot
more before I could go into the box and testify about it.”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“Of course, I know it by name,” he said. “South American arrow poison,
isn’t it? Can you tell me anything more about it?”
Ardsley was engaged in writing some notes. He looked up apologetically
for a moment.
“I have to enter up details of each experiment I carry out, you know,
Sir Clinton—even if it’s only a case of pricking a beast with a
needle. If you don’t mind, I’ll finish this entry. I like to have
things always ship-shape in that line, and the more so since I’ve got
the police on the premises.”
He smiled, not altogether pleasantly, as he turned again to his
writing. When he had finished, he suggested that they should rejoin
Wendover.
“I’m not going to give you a lecture on curare,” he said, when they
had returned to the other room, “but one or two points may be of use
to you. It’s a South American arrow poison, as you said. Its
physiological effect is a powerful paralysing action on the motor
nerve endings supplying striated muscle, but it has no action on the
excitability of the muscle. You saw the actual results in that
experiment.”
“I guessed something of the sort from the state of the two bodies,”
Sir Clinton explained. “It was pretty clear that neither of them had
struggled much before they died. I put that down to the swift action
of the poison; but from what you say, they must have been paralysed
when the stuff got into the blood-stream.”
Ardsley made no comment, but continued his exposition.
“It wouldn’t require a large dose to kill a man. Curare contains
various alkaloids. Paracurarine and protocurarine are amongst them. A
quarter of a grain of protocurarine would kill a ten-stone man quite
easily. There was far more than a fatal dose of curare on that dart.”
“Can you tell us anything about how the stuff comes on the market?”
Sir Clinton inquired.
“There are three brands of it to be had,” the toxicologist explained.
“Para curare you can buy in bamboo tubes; calabash curare is packed in
gourds; and what they call pot curare is sold in earthenware pots. The
stuff’s a crude product, you understand. One specimen differs from
another to some extent, though not materially for most purposes.”
“You have some of it in stock yourself for your experiments, perhaps?”
Ardsley smiled rather grimly.
“A man isn’t required to incriminate himself, is he? But I don’t mind
admitting that I have some of the stuff. You could have found that out
for yourself by examining my returns under the Act, you know, so I
lose nothing by frankness.”
Sir Clinton acknowledged the underlying meaning of Ardsley’s words by
a faint shrug of his shoulders, a completely non-committal gesture.
“You practically told me you had it, there in the laboratory,” he
reminded the toxicologist. “What’s more important at present is to
know if anyone else could have had access to it.”
Ardsley reflected for a moment or two before speaking again.
“There’s another source of supply close at hand,” he said, as though
the point had just come to his memory. “Roger Shandon had a sort of
museum up at Whistlefield—stuff he had picked up on his
travels—rubbish mostly. But I remember he had a pot of curare amongst
it.”
“Ah! That’s what I wanted to get at,” Sir Clinton broke in. “You’re
sure about that?”
“Quite. It slipped my memory at the time; but I’m quite certain about
it. It’s real stuff, undoubtedly. I remember that once, a while ago, I
ran short of curare and I borrowed Roger’s specimen and took some of
it. I returned it to him at once, of course; and I only took a trace
for use. But it’s real curare all right, without any doubt.”
“And that stuff’s lying up at Whistlefield now? Is it under lock and
key?”
“No,” Ardsley explained. “It’s just lying loose in an open
museum-case. Anyone could lay their hands on it.”
Sir Clinton’s face showed perplexity.
“It’s time that we’re up against,” he repeated; and he seemed to be
making some unsatisfactory calculation. “I wish I’d known about that
stuff an hour ago.”
He turned to Wendover.
“Look here, you must do this for me. I’ve other things to attend to
which must be put through immediately. Will you take Dr. Ardsley up in
your car to Whistlefield? He’ll identify the pot of curare for you;
you couldn’t be sure of it yourself. And then take charge of it. Quote
me, if anyone raises objections. And make a note of who objects, if
anyone does. Now it’s a matter of hurry, and more hurry. You must get
that stuff into your hands without a second’s delay, Wendover.”
The toxicologist wasted no time.
“I’ll get my coat now,” he said, going towards the door.
“We must stop any chance of further supplies at once, just in case of
more trouble,” Sir Clinton said, when their host had left the room.
Wendover was plainly astonished.
“Do you expect another crime? Surely two’s enough?”
“One never knows,” Sir Clinton affirmed, with a hint of trouble in his
tone. “I’d never forgive myself if I neglected the possibility—even
though it’s a very remote one. One can’t bring dead men back to life
with a few regrets, you know.”
Ardsley put his head in at the door.
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s get off,” said Sir Clinton. “Drop me in the village as we
pass, Wendover, I’ve something to do there. I’ll join you at
Whistlefield as quick as I can. Wait for me there. Now drive for all
you’re worth.”
As they came into the village, Sir Clinton gave a sigh of relief.
“Shops still open, I see. That’s all right!”
He got down from the car.
“Now, off you go. Don’t waste a moment!”
As the car moved off, the Chief Constable glanced along the street and
then, with deliberate restraint, he lounged over to the door of the
local ironmonger. All traces of hurry had disappeared. He seemed
merely a casual purchaser.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly to the man behind the counter. “You
seem to stock a fairly wide selection of things, to judge by your
window. I’m looking for a small drill, if you have one on the
premises. Could you let me see one or two?”
The ironmonger, it seemed, kept such things in stock.
Sir Clinton examined them.
“This seems to be what I want,” he said at last. “Have you a brace to
fit it?”
He fitted the drill to the brace, took out a penny and tried the
drill. Then, with the hole half-bored, he seemed to lose interest in
the matter.
“You don’t stock air-gun slugs, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, we do, sir. Mr. Hawkhurst of Whistlefield uses a
lot of them, and he persuaded me to keep a stock of them. Nobody else
has any need for them; but he buys quite a lot from time to time.”
“Perhaps you keep darts, too?”
“Yes, I’ve got some in stock.”
Sir Clinton considered for a moment.
“Let’s see. I’ll take a hundred slugs and a couple of dozen darts. You
might put the whole lot in one parcel—I’ll take the brace and drill as
well.”
While the man was packing up the articles, Sir Clinton made inquiries
as to the position of the druggist’s shop in the village; and on
leaving the ironmonger’s he made his way to it.
“Let’s see,” he reflected aloud, after he had had a few words with the
druggist on local gossip. “I’ll have a pennyworth of Condy’s Fluid
crystals. They’re a good antiseptic, aren’t they? And about threepence
worth of some carbolic solution, too. Have you any litmus, by any
chance—the solid stuff is what I want.”
It happened that the druggist had all these in stock.
“That will be all to-night, sir?” he inquired, as Sir Clinton took the
packets and paid for his purchases.
“That will be all for the present,” said the Chief Constable
absent-mindedly; and he left the shop after saying good-evening.
He made his way to the police station, where the sergeant-in-charge,
recognising him, came forward at once.
“Have you a room here that I can have to myself for ten minutes or so,
sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir Clinton. This way.”
“This will do all right,” the Chief Constable said, after a glance at
the place. “By the way, sergeant, send a man out at once to get me a
small table vice—you know these portable things—at the ironmonger’s. I
saw one in the window as I passed. And wait a moment—can you smoke
Navy Cut? Good. Then get a couple of small tins as well.”
Considerably mystified, the sergeant executed his orders; and when the
various articles had been procured, Sir Clinton closed the door behind
him and set to work. His task took him rather longer than he expected,
but at last it was done to his satisfaction. He called his subordinate
in again.
“A glass of water, sergeant, if you please.”
When this was brought, he shut the door again. Some minutes later he
came out and called the sergeant.
“Here’s your Navy Cut, sergeant. I’m sorry I can’t give you the tins.”
The sergeant, completely at a loss to understand these proceedings,
thanked him in a dazed fashion and began to sweep the tobacco from the
table into his pouch.
“How far is it to Whistlefield?” Sir Clinton inquired.
On learning the distance he borrowed a bicycle from one of the
constables.
“Send up to Whistlefield for it to-morrow—or in an hour, if you like.
I’ll leave word that you’re to get it.”
And with that the Chief Constable mounted the machine and rode off.
The sergeant watched him out of sight and then returned into the
police-station. He entered the room which Sir Clinton had been using
and looked at the debris of the unknown experiment.
“He’s had something clipped in that vice, I suppose. And there’s a
drill; I wonder where he picked that up. And he’s got some pinky stuff
in that glass of water, too. And he takes away the tins and he leaves
the tobacco to me. This is a rum kind of Chief Constable to have, for
sure. What’s he getting at?”