CALL MR FORTUNE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Highwayman
The Gamesters
The Young Lovers
Barry Leroy
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
CALL MR. FORTUNE
BY
H. C. BAILEY
[Illustration: publisher's mark]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CASE I
The Archduke’s Tea
CASE II
The Sleeping Companion
CASE III
The Nice Girl
CASE IV
The Efficient Assassin
CASE V
The Hottentot Venus
CASE VI
The Business Minister
CALL MR. FORTUNE
CASE I
THE ARCHDUKE’S TEA
Mr. Reginald Fortune, M.A., M.B., B.Ch., F.R.C.S., was having a
lecture from his father.
“You only do just enough,” Dr. Fortune complained. “Never brilliant.
No zeal. Now, Reginald, it won’t do. Just enough is always too
little. Take my word for it. And do be attentive to the Archduke. God
bless you!”
“Have a good time, sir,” said Mr. Reginald Fortune, and watched his
father settle down in the car (a long process) beside his mother and
drive off. They were gone at last, which Reginald had begun to think
impossible, and the opulent practice of Dr. Fortune lay for a month
in the virgin hands of Reginald.
“Beautifully patient the mater is,” Reginald communed with himself as
he ate his third muffin. “Fretful game to spend your life waitin’ for
a man to get ready. Quaint old bird, the pater. Death-bed manner for
a tummy-ache. Wonder the patients lap it up.”
But old Dr. Fortune was good at diagnosis, and he had his reasons for
saying that Reggie lacked zeal. At Oxford, at his hospital, Reggie
did what was necessary to take respectable degrees, but no more than
he could help. It was remarked by his dean that he did things too
easily. He always had plenty of time, and spent it here, there, and
everywhere, on musical comedy and prehistoric man, golf and the newer
chemistry, bargees and psychical research. There was nothing which he
knew profoundly, but hardly anything of which he did not know enough
to find his way about in it. Nobody, except his mother, had ever
liked him too much, for he was a self-sufficient creature, but
everybody liked him enough; he got on comfortably with everybody from
barmaids to dons.
He was of a round and cheerful countenance and a perpetual appetite.
This gave him a solidity of aspect emphasized by his extreme
neatness. Neither his hair nor anything else of his was ever ruffled.
He was more at his ease with the world than a man has a right to be
at thirty-five.
It is presumed that he had never wanted anything which he had not
got. Old Dr. Fortune possessed a small fortune and a rich practice,
and Reggie enjoyed the proceeds and proposed to inherit both. The
practice lay in that pleasant outer suburb of London called
Westhampton, a region of commons and a large park, sacred to the
well-to-do, and still boasting one or two houses inhabited by what
auctioneers call the nobility.
In Boldrewood, the best of these places, there lived at this moment
in Reggie Fortune’s existence the Archduke Maurice, the heir-apparent
to the Emperor of Bohemia. You may remember that the Archduke came to
live in England shortly after his marriage. It is, however, not true,
as scandal reported, that his uncle the Emperor sent him into exile.
There is reason to believe that the Archduchess, a woman equally
vehement and beautiful, was not liked in several European courts. On
her return from the honeymoon she made a booby trap for that drill
serjeant of a king, Maximilian of Swabia, and for some weeks the
Central Powers were threatening to mobilize. But she was a Serene
Highness of the house of Erbach-Wittelsbach, which traces its descent
to Odin, and had an independent realm of nearly two square miles,
with parliament and army complete, and even the Emperor of Bohemia
could not pretend that Maurice had married beneath him. History will
affirm the simple truth that the Archduke and the Archduchess sought
seclusion in England because they were bored to death by the Bohemian
court, which was perpetually occupied in demonstrating that you can
be very dull without being in the least respectable. The Archduke
Maurice was a man of geniality and extraordinarily natural tastes.
His garden--a long walk--a pint of beer in one of the old Westhampton
inns made him a happy day. The Archduchess was not so simple, for she
loved to drive her own car, a ferocious vehicle. But Archduchesses
may not do that in Bohemia.
Reggie, having eaten all the muffins, lit his pipe and meditated on
the cases left him by his father. Old Mrs. Smythe had her autumn
influenza, and old Talbot Browne had his autumn gout, and the little
Robinsons were putting in their whooping-cough. A kindly world! . . .
He was dozing in the dark when the telephone bell rang.
Was that Dr. Fortune? Would he come to Boldrewood at once--at once.
The Archduke had been knocked down by a motor-car and picked up
unconscious.
“Poor old pater!” Reggie grinned, as he put his tools together. The
pater would never forgive himself for being out of this. He loved a
lord, did the pater, and since he had been called in to remove a fish
bone from the archducal throat he could not keep the Archduke out of
his conversation. The royal geniality of the Archduke, the royal
disdain of the Archduchess--Dr. Fortune had been much gratified
thereby, and Reggie was prepared to loathe their Royal Highnesses.
Thank Heaven, the pater was safe on his holiday! If his head swelled
so over an archducal fish bone, he would have burst over an archduke
knocked down.
Reggie was practical, if without sympathy; he made haste in his neat
way, and the sedate chauffeur of Dr. Fortune was horrified by
instructions to let the car rip. The streets of Westhampton are not
adapted to this. The district has tried hard to keep itself rural
still, and its original narrow winding lanes remain ill-lighted and
overhung by trees. Boldrewood stands high, and its grounds border
upon Westhampton Heath, across which there is one lamp per furlong.
Just as Reggie’s car swung round to the heath it was stopped with a
jerk.
“What’s the trouble, Gorton?” Reggie said to the chauffeur.
Gorton was leaning sideways and peering into the gloom of the gutter.
A gleam from the sidelight winked at a body which lay still. “Give me
a turn,” Gorton muttered. His face showed white. Reggie jumped out,
but Gorton was quicker. “Lumme, it’s the Archduke!” he said, and his
voice went up high.
“Don’t be futile, Gorton.” Reggie bent over the body. “Get the lamps
on him.”
Gorton backed the car and the body came into the light. Its face was
crushed. Gorton gasped and swallowed. “But it’s not him neither,” he
muttered.
After a minute Reggie stood up. “He was a fine chap about an hour
ago,” he said gently.
“All over, sir?” Reggie nodded. “Some hog done him in?”
“As you say, Gorton. Running-down case. Big car. Took him in the
back. Went over his head. But I don’t see how he got into the
gutter.” He walked round the body, moved it a little, and picked up
two matches--unusual matches in England--very thin vestas with dark
blue heads. “Why did you think he was the Archduke, Gorton?”
“Such a big chap, sir. Not many his measure. And there’s something
about the make of the poor chap that’s very like. But thank God’s
it’s not the Archduke, anyway.”
“Why?” said Reggie, who was without reverence for Archdukes. “Well,
let’s take him along.”
They brought the dead man to the lodge at the main gates of
Boldrewood, and there left him with a message to be telephoned to the
police.
The hall at Boldrewood is in the Victorian baronial style, absurd but
comfortable. Reggie was still blinking at the light when a woman ran
at him. His first notion of the Archduchess Ianthe was vehemence. She
came upon him, a great fur cloak falling away from her speed,
panting, black eyes glowing, and then stopped short, and her pale
face was distorted with passion. “Dr. Fortune! You are not Dr.
Fortune!” she cried.
“Dr. Fortune, Junior, madame. My father is away, and I am in charge
of his practice.” She muttered something in a language he did not
know, and looked as if she was going to kill him. His second notion
of her was that she was wickedly beautiful. A Greek perfection in the
pale face, but, Lord, what a temper! The daintiest grace of body, but
it moved and quivered like a whip lash.
“My dear Ianthe!” A man came smiling from behind the screen by the
fire. He was tall and slight and dandyish: a lot of colour in his
clothes, an odd absence of colour in him. A bright blue tie with an
emerald in it, a bright blue handkerchief hanging half out of the
pocket of the silver-grey coat. But his face had a waxy pallor, his
hair, his moustache, and little pointed beard were so fair that they
looked like patches of paint on a mask. “We are much obliged by Dr.
Fortune’s coming so quickly.”
The Archduchess whirled round. “He is too young,” she said in German.
“Look at him. He is a boy.”
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said Reggie in the same language. “May I
see the patient?”
The man laughed. “I am sure we have every confidence in your skill,
Dr. Fortune.” All the laughter was smoothed out of his face. “And
your discretion,” he said in a lower voice. “I am the Archduke
Leopold. You may be frank with me. And rely upon my help.”
Reggie bowed. “How did the accident happen, sir?”
The Archduke turned to his sister-in-law. “You know that I do not
know,” she cried. “I was out in the car.”
“As my sister says, Dr. Fortune, she was out in the car.” The
Archduke paused. “She drives herself. It is with her a little
passion. My brother was out walking alone.”
“Those long walks! How I hate them!” the Archduchess broke out.
“Again, it is with him a little passion. Well, he did not come back.
I grew anxious. I am staying here, you understand. My sister was late
too. I sent out servants. My brother was found lying in the road not
far from the gate of the lodge. He remains unconscious. I fear----”
He spread out his hands.
“You--you always fear!” the Archduchess cried. They exchanged glances
like blows.
“May I go up, madame?” Reggie said solemnly. She whirled round and
rushed away.
“The Archduchess is much agitated,” said the Archduke.
“It is most natural,” Reggie murmured.
“Most natural. Pray follow me, Dr. Fortune. I will take you to my
brother.”
The Archduke Maurice lay in a room of austere simplicity. A
writing-table, a tiny dressing-table, three chairs, and a narrow iron
bed were all its furniture. Only three small rugs lay on the floor.
At the head of the bed a man stood watching. The Archduchess was on
her knees, her face pressed to her husband’s body, and she sobbed
violently.
The Archduke Leopold looked at Reggie, made a gesture towards her,
and said, “My dear Ianthe!”
She looked up flushed and tear stained.
“I beg your pardon, madame. This is dangerous to the patient,” Reggie
said.
She gave a stifled cry and rushed out of the room.
The Archduke Leopold seemed to intend to stay, but in a moment the
voice of the Archduchess was heard calling for him. “Better go to
her, sir. Keep her out of here,” Reggie said, and turned to his
patient. It was obvious that the Archduke did not relish so brusque
an order. But the passionate voice was not to be denied.
The man by the bed and Reggie took each other’s measure. “English?”
said Reggie.
“Yes, sir. Holt, I am. The Archduke’s valet.”
“You undressed him?”
“Yes, sir. Was that wrong?”
“Depends how you did it.” Reggie began his examination.
The Archduke Maurice was a big man. That is a habit in his family. He
had their fairness, but even in coma his cheeks showed more colour
than his brother Leopold’s, and his yellow hair and beard had a
reddish glow. A bold, honest face with plenty of brow. Reggie went
over his body with an anatomical enthusiasm for so splendid a
specimen.
“Get me some warm water, will you?” Holt went out of the room. Reggie
bent over the broad chest. From it, from just above the heart, he
drew out a thin sliver of steel. He made a face at it and put it
away. Holt came back, and there was sponging and bandaging.
“You washed him before, I see. Any one else touched him but you?”
“Only carrying him, sir. I’ve been with him the whole time. I found
him.”
“Oh. Lying on his face, I suppose?”
“No, sir. On his back. Just like he is now.”
“Oh. Notice anything?”
“No, sir, I wish I had. I’d like to have the handling of the bounder
that did it.”
“Well, well, we mustn’t get excited. Preserve absolute calm, Holt.
He’s well liked, is he?”
“Why, sir, we’d do anything for him. He--oh, he’s a gentleman.”
“Quite so. You mustn’t leave him a moment. No one--see, no one--is to
come into the room. I’ll be back soon.”
“Very good, sir. Beg pardon, sir.” The good Holt flushed. “What’s the
verdict?”
“It’s not all over yet!” Reggie went downstairs.
And it appeared to him that he interrupted the Archduke and the
Archduchess in a quarrel. But the Archduke was very pleased to see
him, effusive in offering a chair, and so forth. Reggie was not
gratified. “I must have nurses, sir,” he announced. “I should like
another opinion.”
“You see!” the Archduchess cried. “It is as I told you. This boy!”
“The Archduchess is naturally anxious,” the Archduke apologized. “By
all means nurses. But another opinion--you must have confidence in
yourself, my good friend.”
“I have. But I want Sir Lawson Hunter to see the case.”
The Archduke shrugged. “It is serious then, Dr. Fortune? We do not
wish a great noise. Is it not so, Ianthe?”
“I would give my soul to be quiet,” she cried.
“Quite,” said Reggie.
“Very well. Discretion, then, you understand, my good friend.”
“I’ll telephone to Sir Lawson at once.”
“Indeed? It is serious, then?”
“It’s a bad concussion.” Reggie bowed and made for the door.
“You--Dr. Fortune----” the Archduchess cried. “Will he--what will
happen?”
“There’s no reason we shouldn’t hope, madame,” Reggie said, and
paused a moment watching them. Emotion plays queer tricks with faces.
They were both in the grip of emotions.
Sir Lawson Hunter is rather fat and his legs are rather short. His
complexion is greyish and his eyes look boiled. People call him
dyspeptic, though his capacious stomach has never known an ache: or
imagine that he drinks, though alcohol and physicians are his chief
abominations. His European reputation as a surgeon has been won by
knowing his own mind.
Reggie met him at the door and took him upstairs before that puzzling
pair, the Archduke and the Archduchess, had a sight of him. “Glad you
could come, sir. It’s an odd case.”
“Every case is odd,” said Sir Lawson Hunter.
“He was knocked down by a car. The--”
“If he was, I can find it out for myself. Damme, Fortune, don’t bias
me. Most unprofessional. That’s the worst of general practice. You
fellows must always be saying something.”
Reggie held his peace. He knew Sir Lawson’s little ways, having been
his house surgeon. The faithful Holt was turned out of the room. Sir
Lawson Hunter went over the senseless body with his usual speed and
washed his hands.
“Splendid animal,” he remarked. “They run to that, these Pragas. I
remember his uncle’s abdominal muscles. Heroic. Well. He was walking.
A big car driven fast hit him from behind on the right side,
fractured two ribs, and knocked him down. Impact of his head on the
road has caused a serious concussion. That car should have stopped.”
Reggie smiled. “Oh, one of the odd things is that it didn’t.”
“There’s a damned lot of road hogs about, my boy.” said Sir Lawson
heartily. He was himself fond of high speed. “Well. They sent out, I
suppose. Found him lying on his face unconscious.”
“No, sir.”
“What?” Sir Lawson jumped.
“He was lying on his back.”
“Oh, that’s absurd.”
“Yes, sir. But I’ve seen his valet who found him.”
“These fellows have no observation,” Sir Lawson grunted, but there
was some animation in his boiled eye. “Damme, Fortune, he ought to
have been on his face.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miracles don’t happen.”
“No, sir.”
“Now these abrasions on the legs. As if the car had been driven at
him again while he lay. A queer thing. Or have there been two cars at
him?”
“And there is this too, sir.” Reggie held out the sliver of steel.
“I saw the puncture. I was coming to that. Humph! Whoever put this in
meant business.”
“And didn’t know his job. It slipped along the bone and missed
everything.”
Sir Lawson turned the thing over. “A woman’s hatpin. About half a
woman’s hatpin.”
“Fresh fracture. Broke as it was pushed in.”
“They’re a wild lot,” said Sir Lawson, and smiled. “You have no
nerves, Fortune?”
“I believe not, sir.”
“This ought to be the making of you. You want shaking up. You must
stay in the house. By the way, who’s in the house?”
“The Archduchess, of course----”
“Ianthe. Yes. Aunt’s in a mad-house. Ianthe. Yes. Crazy on motoring.
Drives her own car. And have you see Ianthe--since?” Sir Lawson
nodded at the body on the bed.
“She is very excited.”
“Is she really?” Sir Lawson laughed. “Is she, though? How surprising!”
“She is surprising, sir.”
“What? What? Be careful, my boy. Handsome creature, isn’t she?”
“Yes, sir.” Reggie declined to be amused. “The Archduke Leopold is
staying with them.”
“Leopold. He’s the dandy entomologist. He’s tame enough. Well, he’s
the head of the house after this fellow. Better tell him.” He blinked
at Reggie. “You have nurses you can trust? Well, we’ll stay in the
room till one comes, my boy. Our friend of the hatpin won’t miss a
chance. These Royal families they’re a criss-cross of criminal
tendencies. Hohenzollerns, Hapsburgs, Pragas, Wittelsbachs--look at
the heredity.”
“There was another running-down case here tonight. The man was
killed--fractured skull. He was left on the road too. And another
queer thing--he was much the same build as the Archduke Maurice.”
“Good Gad!” Sir Lawson was startled out of his omniscient manner, an
event unknown in Reggie’s experience. “There’s something devilish in
it, Fortune. One murder--the wrong man dead--and then try again at
once the same way. Imagine the creature looking at that poor dead
wretch and jumping on the car again to drive it on at the other man.
Diabolical! Diabolical!”
“I don’t think I have much imagination, sir,” said Reggie, who was
not impressed by ineffective emotion.
There was a gentle tap at the door, a nurse came and was given her
instructions, and the two men went down to the Archduke Leopold.
He had changed his clothes. He was now in a claret-coloured velvet
which did violence to his complexion and his pale beard. He sat in
the smoking-room with a book on the entomology of Java and a glass of
eau sucrée. He smiled at them and waved them to chairs.
“I have to tell you, sir, that your brother lies in grave danger,”
said Sir Lawson.
Reggie looked at him sideways.
“Ah, the concussion! It is serious, then? I am deeply distressed.”
“The concussion is most serious. There’s another matter. In your
brother’s chest above the heart, at which it must have been aimed, we
have found--this.”
“Mon Dieu! It is a hatpin--a woman’s hatpin. But it is incredible! It
is murder.”
“Attempted murder.”
“But what do you suggest, sir? Do you accuse some one?”
“Not my function. That pin was driven at your brother’s heart by some
one. Can you tell me any more, sir?”
The Archduke buried his face in his hands. “I will not believe it,”
he muttered--“I will not believe it.” After a little he controlled
himself. “Gentlemen, you have a right to my confidence. I will tell
you everything. I trust you to do all that is possible for my poor
brother and for the honour of our family, which to him, as to me, is
dearer than life. You know that he is the heir to the throne of
Bohemia. My uncle, the Emperor, has long been vexed with his living
in England. I came here to persuade my brother to go back to his
country. My poor brother had made his home here at the wish of the
Archduchess, who dislikes the duties of royalty. He was passionately,
madly, in love with her. But, alas! in these love marriages there is
often difficulty. They were not of the same mind upon many things,
and the Archduchess is of a vehement temper. I fear--but you will
forgive me if I say no more. I take one small thing. My brother loved
to go walking. The Archduchess is passionately fond of her motor-car,
drives it herself, loves wild speed. My brother detested motor-cars.
I fear that my coming gave them cause for fresh quarrels. My brother
was ready to go back to Bohemia. The Archduchess was violently
opposed to it. I confess to you, gentlemen, I have feared some
scandal, some madness. I thought she would leave him. But this--it is
appalling.”
“The Archduchess was out in her motor-car tonight?” Sir Lawson said.
“Yes. Yes. It is true. But this--must we think it?”
“We have to think of nothing but our duty to our patient,” said Sir
Lawson.
The Archduke grasped his hand. “You are right. I thank you. I shall
not forget your fidelity.”
The Archduchess whirled into the room. She, as Reggie remarked, had
not cared to change her clothes. She had not even touched her hair,
which was escaping in a wild disorder from under her hat. “They will
not let me see him,” she cried. “Leopold----”
“It is by my instructions, madame,” Sir Lawson said. “I am
responsible for the Archduke’s safety.”
She bit her lip. “Is he so hurt?” she said unsteadily.
“He lies in very grave danger, madame. I permit no one in his room.”
She stared at him, her throat quivering, her great eyes bold and
bright. Then with a little shrug she turned away and, plucking at the
gold things which jingled from her waist, took out a cigarette and
lit it. Reggie saw one of those foreign matches with the violet heads.
Sir Lawson made his bow, and Reggie went with him to his car. “Why
did you tell them that the Archduke was in grave danger?” he said.
“He’ll be safer if they believe he is going to die,” said Sir Lawson.
“Oh, do you think so?” said Reggie, as the car shot away.
Then he made an excellent supper and slept sound.
He found his patient peaceful in the morning. No sign of
consciousness yet, but more colour in the cheeks, a deeper breathing
and a stronger pulse, more warmth. “The Archduchess has come twice in
the night to ask about him, doctor,” the nurse said. “I told her he
was no better.”
“Did she make a noise?” Reggie frowned.
“No, she was very good.”
Reggie went out to take the air, and the air is not bad on the
Westhampton heights. He made a good pace under the great beeches of
Boldrewood, and came out on the open road across the heath. Just
there he had found the dead man. A dull red stain could still be
seen. It was farther on that the Archduke was struck. Just beyond the
turn to Brendon. He found the place. There was a loosening of the
road, as if a heavy car had been brought up sharply or made a violent
swerve. He walked to and fro scanning the ground. Another of those
foreign matches.
He was just picking it up when a motor-car stopped a few yards away.
Two men jumped out and came towards him. One was middle aged and
singularly without distinction. The other had a youthful and very
jaunty air, and it was only when he came near that Reggie saw the
fellow was old enough to be his father. An actor’s face, with that
look of calculated expression, and an actor’s way of dressing, a
trifle too emphatic. His present part was the gay young fellow.
“Dr. Fortune, I think?” He smiled all over his face.
“I am Dr. Fortune.”
“Reconstructing the crime, eh? Oh, you needn’t be discreet. I’m
Lomas--Stanley Lomas--Criminal Investigation Department, don’t you
know? Sir Lawson Hunter came round to me last night. Patient’s doing
well, I see. That’s providential. Just a moment--just a moment.” He
skipped away from Reggie to his companion, and they went over the
ground. But Reggie thought them very superficial. Lomas skipped back
again. “He didn’t bleed, then. The other man did, though--the man you
found.”
“In the middle of the road. And I found him dead in the gutter.”
“It’s quaint what the criminal don’t think of. I’m surprised every
time. Did you find anything here?”
Reggie held out his match. “There were two more like that by the
other man.”
Lomas turned it over. “Belgian make. You buy them all over the
Continent, don’t you know.”
“The Archduchess carries them.”
“Now, that’s very interesting. If you don’t mind I’ll walk up to the
house with you.” Upon the way he praised the beauties of nature and
the quality of the morning air.
As they came to the door of Boldrewood a big car passed them with the
Archduchess driving alone. Lomas put up his eyeglass. “She’s not
overcome with grief, what?”
“Not quite.”
“Might be bravado, don’t you know.”
“I don’t know.”
“It takes some of them that way,” Lomas said pensively. He turned on
the steps of the house and looked after the car as it wound in and
out among the beeches. “Striking woman. Yes. I’ll come up to your
room, if you don’t mind.”
“I thought you wanted to say something,” Reggie said.
Lomas did not answer till they were upstairs. “Well, no. Not to say
anything,” he resumed, and lit a cigarette. “I want another opinion,
as you fellows say. Sir Lawson Hunter has made up his mind.”
“Oh, he always does that.”
Lomas lifted an eyebrow. “Well, look at it. Somebody in a car laid
for our Archduke. The other poor devil was cut down by mistake. And
the somebody had nerve enough to go on. That’s striking. The
Archduchess comes of pretty wild stock. In love or out of love she
wouldn’t stick at a trifle. You find her matches by each body. You
find a hatpin in the Archduke. That’s a blunder, what? Yes, but it’s
a woman’s blunder. She finds he isn’t quite dead after all her
trouble, she is desperate, and--_voilà_.” He made a gesture of
stabbing.
“So you’ve made up your mind too, Mr. Lomas?”
Lomas blew smoke rings. “I’m wasting your time, doctor. I want to
know--has it occurred to you--the Archduchess and the Archduke
Leopold--working it together? If she’s fallen in love with Leopold.
That straightens it out, don’t you know.”
“Guess again,” Reggie said.
Lomas lit another cigarette. “Well, that’s what I want to know. You
saw them together just after the crime.” He lifted an eyebrow.
“Nothing doing,” said Reggie.
“I’m afraid so. I’m afraid so. It’s a disturbing case, doctor.
Nothing doing, as you say. If I had all the evidence in my hands, I
expect there’s no one I could touch. You can’t indict royalty. The
Archduke’s smash--well, let’s say it’s all in the family. But this
poor devil they killed! Who’s to pay for him? These royal dagoes come
over and run amuck on an English road, and I can’t touch them.
Disheartening, what? That’s the trouble, doctor.”
Reggie nodded and, as his breakfast made its appearance, Lomas rose
to go. He would not have even coffee. “Better get busy, don’t you
know. We must see if we can put the fear of God into them. If they’ll
go scurrying back to Bohemia it’s the best way out.” He skipped off,
his jauntiness put on again like a coat.
Reggie was standing at the window with his after-breakfast pipe when
the Archduchess brought her car back. She was very pale in spite of
the morning air, and her face had grown haggard. “Something’ll snap,”
Reggie was saying to himself, when a voice behind him said aloud,
“Nice car, sir.” He jumped round and saw standing at his elbow the
insignificant little companion of Mr. Lomas. “After all, there’s
nothing like an English car,” said the little man.
“Oh. You’ve noticed that?” Reggie said. “You do notice something,
then?”
“Of course we aren’t gifted, sir. But we’re professional. Something
in that, don’t you think? Yes, sir, as you say: we have noticed
something. It was a foreign car, and foreign tyres did the trick last
night. And the Archduchess drives English. And yet--did you know we
had the other half of the hatpin? I picked it up last night.” He held
out a scrap of steel with a big head of wrought silver. “German work,
they tell me.”
“Viennese,” Reggie said.
“You know everything, sir. Such a convenience. But Vienna being quite
near Bohemia, as I’ve heard--looks awkward, don’t it?”
“Is that what you came to say?”
“Not wholly, sir. No. I am Superintendent Bell. Mr. Lomas sent me to
you. He considered you might find it convenient to have some one in
the house who could keep an eye open.”
“Very kind of Mr. Lomas.”
There was a tap at the door. The Archduke Leopold’s valet appeared.
The Archduke Leopold was much surprised that Dr. Fortune had not
brought him news of the patient. The Archduke Leopold desired that
Dr. Fortune would come to him immediately.
“Really?” Reggie said. “Dr. Fortune’s compliments to the Archduke,
and he is much occupied. He can give the Archduke a few moments.”
The valet, having the appearance of a man who has never been so
surprised in his life, retired.
“It’s a gift,” Superintendent Bell murmured. “It’s a gift, you know.
I never could handle the nobs.”
Reggie began to get together some odds and ends: a bottle full of
tiny white tablets, a graduated glass, a jug of water, a hypodermic
syringe. “You’d better clear out, you know,” he said to
Superintendent Bell.
“Will he come?”
“He’ll come all right,” Reggie said, and took off his coat. When he
turned, Superintendent Bell had vanished.
“Just setting the stage, sir?” said a voice from behind the curtain.
“Confound your impertinence,” Reggie growled. “Here----”
But the Archduke came in. He was now a decoration in a russet brown.
“You are very mysterious, Dr. Fortune,” he complained. “I expect more
frankness, sir.”
“My patient is my first consideration, sir.”
“I desire that you will consider my anxieties. Well, sir, how is my
brother?”
“You may give yourself every hope of his recovery, sir.”
The Archduke looked round for a chair and was some time in finding
one. “This is very good news,” he said slowly, and slowly smiled.
“_Mon Dieu_, doctor, it seems too good to be true! Last night you
told me to fear the worst.”
“Last night--was last night, sir,” Reggie said. “This morning we
begin to see our way. All the symptoms are good. I believe that in a
few hours the patient will be able to speak.”
“To speak? But the concussion? It was so dangerous. But this is
bewildering, doctor.”
“Most fortunate, sir. You might talk of the hand of Providence. Well,
we shall see what we shall see. He may be able to tell you something
of how it all happened. You’ll pardon me, I’m anxious to prepare the
injection.” He dropped a tablet in the glass and poured in water.
“Fact is, this ought to make all the difference. Wonderful things
drugs, sir. A taste of strychnine--one of these little fellows--and a
man has another try at living. Two or three of ’em--just specks,
aren’t they?--sudden death. Excuse me a moment. I must take a look at
the patient.”
He was gone some time.
When he came back the Archduke was still there. “All goes well,
doctor?”
“I begin to think so.”
“I must not delay you. My dear doctor! If only your hopes are
realized. What happiness!” He slid out of the room.
Reggie went to the table and picked up the glass of strychnine
solution. From behind the curtain Superintendent Bell rushed out and
caught his arm. “Don’t use it, sir,” he said hoarsely. Superintendent
Bell was flushed.
“Don’t be an ass,” said Reggie. He put the glass down, took up the
bottle of tablets, turned them out on a sheet of paper, and began to
count them.
“Good Lord!” said Superintendent Bell. “You laid for him, did you?
What a plant!”
“You know, you’re an impertinence,” Reggie said, and went on counting.
“I’ll get on to Mr. Lomas, sir,” said the Superintendent humbly.
“Don’t you telephone or I’ll scrag you.”
“Telephone? Not me. I say, sir, you’re some doctor.” He fled.
Reggie finished his counting and whistled. “He did himself proud,”
said he. “The blighter!” He shot the tablets back into their bottle,
found another bottle and poured into it the solution, and locked both
away. “Number one,” he said, with satisfaction. “Now for number two.”
He went off to his patient and spent a placid half-hour chatting with
the day nurse on dancing in musical comedy. But it was hardly half an
hour before the Archduchess tapped at the door.
Reggie opened it. “This way, if you please, madame.” He led the way
to his room. “I have something to say.” She stood before him, fierce,
defiant, and utterly wretched. “I can promise you that the Archduke
will recover consciousness.”
She caught at her breast. “He--he will live?” It was the most piteous
cry he had ever heard.
“He will live, madame!”
She trembled, swayed, and fell. Reggie grasped at her, took her in
his arms, and put her in a chair and waited frowning. . . . She
panted a little and began to smile. Then faintly, softly, “No, no. No
more now. Ah, dearest.” It was in her own language. She opened heavy
eyes. “What is it?”
“The Archduke has spoken, madame. He said--your name.”
Then she began to cry and, holding out both hands to Reggie, “Let me
go to him--please--please.”
“Not now. Not yet. He must have no emotions. You will go to your room
and sleep.”
“You--you are a boy.” She laughed through her tears, and thrust her
hands into Reggie’s.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” Reggie said stiffly. The creature was
absurdly adorable.
“You? Oh--Englishman.” It was made plain to him that he was expected
to kiss her hand. He did it like an Englishman. Then the other was
put to his lips.
He cleared his embarrassed throat. “I must insist, madame, you will
say nothing of this to any one. It’s necessary the household should
suppose the Archduke still in danger.”
“Why?” A spasm crossed her face. “You are afraid of Leopold!”
“And you, madame?” Reggie said.
“Afraid? No, but”--she shuddered--“but he is not a man.”
“Have no anxieties, madame. I have none,” Reggie said, and opened the
door. Then, “She’s a bit of a dear,” he said to himself, and rang for
his lunch.
Four times that afternoon the Archduke Leopold sent to ask for news
of his brother, and each time Reggie answered that the patient was
much the same. “Leopold will be doin’ some thinking,” Reggie
chuckled. “Happy days for Leopold.”
Towards tea-time the Hon. Stanley Lomas arrived jauntier than ever.
“Well, doctor, been enjoying yourself, what?” He shook hands
heartily. “Best congratulations and all that. Sound scheme. Ve--ry
sound scheme. Well, I expect you’ll be glad to be rid of Leopold,
what? I conceive I can put the fear of God into him now. Free hand,
don’t you know. Let’s take him on.”
It was announced to the Archduke Leopold that the Hon. Stanley Lomas
of the Criminal Investigation Department desired to confer with him.
The Archduke, who was drinking tea, was pleased to receive Mr. Lomas.
He also received Reggie. “Dr. Fortune? You have something to tell me?”
“There is no change, sir.”
“No change yet! And you gave me such hopes this morning. These are
anxious hours, Mr. Lomas.”
“I can imagine it, sir. But I hope to relieve some of your anxieties.
I believe we shall discover who was responsible for last night’s
outrage.”
“So! And so soon! But you are wonderful, you English police. You will
sit down, Mr. Lomas.” He looked at Reggie, whose lingering naturally
surprised him. “Is there anything more, Dr. Fortune?”
“Dr. Fortune is part of my evidence, sir,” said Lomas.
“Is it possible? But you interest me--you interest me exceedingly.
Permit me one moment.” He slid out of the room.
Lomas turned in his chair and lifted an eyebrow at Reggie, who was
settling his tie before an old Italian mirror. “Probably gone to
change his clothes,” Reggie said. “He’s only worn one suit to-day.”
A footman brought in more tea-things, and a moment after the Archduke
came back.
“I am all impatience, Mr. Lomas. But pray take a more comfortable
chair. Dr. Fortune--I recommend the chair by the screen. Let me give
you some tea.” He was all smiles.
“Have you made arrangements to leave England, sir?” Lomas said
sharply.
“Mr. Lomas!”
“You have time to catch the mail to-night.”
“I hope that I do not understand you, sir. You appear insolent.”
“Oh, sir, there will be no delicacy in handling the affair. You went
to Dr. Fortune’s room this morning.” The Archduke gave a glance at
Reggie, who sat intent on stirring his tea. “He was preparing an
injection of strychnine for his patient.”
“Hallo, what’s that?” Reggie cried, and nodded at the window. “Oh, I
suppose it’s the car, Lomas. Your fellows will have found her and
brought her round.”
“The car, sir?” the Archduke said, and Lomas put up his eyeglass.
“The car that did the deed.”
The Archduke slid across to the window. Lomas, too, stood up and
looked out. They turned and stared at Reggie, who was sipping his
tea. Lomas frowned. “There’s nothing there, Fortune.”
The Archduke smiled. “Dr. Fortune has hallucinations,” and he pulled
out his handkerchief and dabbed his face, sat down, and drank his tea
in gulps.
“We’ll keep to the point, if you please.” Lomas was annoyed. “Dr.
Fortune told you that two of his strychnine tablets would kill a man.
He went out of the room. While he was gone you dropped half a dozen
tablets into the injection prepared for your brother. I have to
demand, sir, that you leave England by the next boat.”
The Archduke burst out laughing. “The good Dr. Fortune! As you have
seen, he has hallucinations. He hears what is not, dreams what never
was. But if I were a policeman, Mr. Lomas, I should not make Dr.
Fortune a witness. You become ridiculous.”
“He is not the only witness, sir. One of my men was behind the
curtain.”
The Archduke poured himself out another cup of tea. “May I give you
some more, Dr. Fortune? No? I fear you are malicious, my friend.” He
laughed a little. “And you, sir. We sometimes find a policeman
corrupt in our country. We do not permit him to trouble us.”
“You brought a German car into England, sir,” Lomas said. “Where is
that car?”
“Your spies do not seem very good, Mr. Lomas. Come, sir, enough of
this. I----” The Archduke started from his seat with a cry. His body
was bent in a bow. A horrible grin distorted his face. He fell down
and was convulsed. . . . He gasped; his pale cheeks became of a dusky
blue. He writhed and lay still. . . .
“So that’s that,” Reggie said. “I wondered what he wanted with half a
dozen.”
“What is it?” Lomas muttered.
“Oh, strychnine poisoning. He’s swallowed a grain or so.”
“My God! Can you do anything?”
Reggie shrugged. “He’s as dead as the table.” . . .
After a while, “Well! It’s a way out,” Lomas said. “But I can’t
understand the fellow.”
“Oh, I don’t understand it all,” Reggie admitted. “He was out to kill
his brother. That meant being Emperor. But why kill him now more than
before? And the Archduchess. She is straight enough, I know. But just
how she was to this fellow I don’t see.”
“There’s not much in that,” Lomas said. “Maurice couldn’t stand the
Court, and it was common talk he meant to resign the succession.
While he was quiet over here in England Leopold felt safe. But lately
they tell me Maurice has been making up his mind to go back. Duty to
his country, don’t you know? The Archduchess was strong against it.
She hates all the business of royalty. But Maurice is a resolute sort
of fellow even with a woman. Leopold came over to see what he could
do. I suppose he set the Archduchess on to make Maurice give up the
idea and stay quiet. They worked together--or that’s the notion at
the Bohemian Embassy. She’s a gipsy, what, but she’s straight. She is
not in this. It wasn’t her car. Well, when Leopold found there was
nothing doing he set about the murder. He was a bad egg, don’t you
know? There was a woman in Rome--they kicked him out there. But it
was a sound scheme. He had it all straight--except the wrong tyres on
his car. Good touch, the hatpin. Seemed like a woman in a rage. He
knew a lot about women--one kind of woman.”
There was a tap at the door. The two walked forward.
“Sir Lawson Hunter, sir.” The footman tried in vain to see the
Archduke.
“Yes, bring him up,” Reggie said.
Sir Lawson bustled in. “New case for you, sir.” The two men moved
apart and Sir Lawson saw the body.
“Poisoned himself. Taken strychnine,” Lomas said.
“Oh, don’t bias him,” said Reggie. “He doesn’t like that.”
“Good Gad!” Sir Lawson’s eyes bulged.
“Yes, that beats me, Fortune.” Lomas waved his hand at the body. “I
would have sworn he hadn’t the pluck.”
“Oh, he hadn’t. He meant it for me. I changed the cups.”
“You----” Lomas stared at him. “That was when you heard the car!”
“That was why I heard the car.”
“And you let him take the dose!”
“Yes. Seemed fair. You see, I picked up that poor fellow he smashed
last night.”
“Good Gad!” said Sir Lawson.
The footman was again at the door. Dr. Fortune was wanted at the
telephone. “There’s one here, isn’t there? Put me through.” The
footman, hardly able to speak at the sight of the dead Archduke,
retired gulping.
The bell rang. Reggie took up the receiver. “Yes. Yes. At once,” and
he put it down. “I must be going. Serious case. Mrs. Jones’s little
girl may have German measles.”
CASE II
THE SLEEPING COMPANION
Birdie screamed like a sea-gull and leapt on to the stage. The
audience rumbled the usual applause, and Dr. Reginald Fortune put up
his opera-glasses. He considered himself a connoisseur in the art of
music halls, and Birdie Bolton was unique and bizarre. She was no
longer young, and had never been pretty. A helmet of black hair, a
gaunt face which never smiled, a body as lean as a boy’s, which
sometimes slouched and sometimes jerked--such were her charms. She
wore nothing much above the waist but diamonds, and below it barbaric
flounces in a maze of colour. She began to sing in a voice wildly
unfit for the strange creature she looked--a small, sweet voice--and
what she sang was a simple ditty about her true love forsaking her.
And then she went mad. There was a shrieking chorus--can you imagine
a steam whistle playing rag-time?--and a dance of weird, wild
vehemence. The lean body was contorted a dozen ways at once, the long
white arms whirled and stabbed. She seemed to be a dozen women
fighting, and each of them a prodigy of force. It was not a pretty
dance, but it had meaning.
Birdie sank down panting on her crazy rainbow flounces and nodded at
the audience which thundered at her.
Dr. Reginald Fortune shut up his opera-glasses. “She’s a bit of a
wonder, you know,” he said to the naval lieutenant who was his
companion.
“It’s a wild bird,” the lieutenant agreed, and as the rest of the
revue was merely frocks and the absence of frocks they went off to
supper.
In the morning, which was Sunday, Birdie Bolton came to see Dr.
Reginald Fortune. It was her remarkable creed that she could not live
in a noise, and so for years she had owned a house in the still rural
suburb of Westhampton where Reggie and his father practised. The
elder Dr. Fortune at first looked after her, but when Reggie came on
the scene Miss Bolton, declaring with her usual frankness that she
liked her doctors young, turned herself over to him.
By daylight Miss Bolton dressed, and even overdressed, the part of a
brisk British spinster. She was very tailor-made and severely tweedy,
and thus looked leaner than ever. But her eyes retained a gleam of
devilment.
“You gave us a great show last night,” Reggie said.
“Were you in front?” said Miss Bolton, and made a face. “Oh, Lord!
Sorry. I was rotten.”
Reggie understood that his professional interest was required.
“What’s the trouble?” he said cheerfully.
“That’s your show,” said Miss Bolton. “Put me through it.”
The conversation then became confidential and dull upon the usual
themes of a medical examination. At last, “Well, you know, we don’t
get to anything,” Reggie said. “This is all quite good and normal.
What’s making you anxious?”
“Dreams,” said Miss Bolton. “Why do I have dreams? I never dreamed in
my life till now.”
“What sort of dreams?”
“Oh, any old sort. Bally rot. One night it was a motor-bus chivvying
me on the stage. One night May”--May Weston was her companion--“May
would keep parrots in the bathroom. Then I hear a noise and wake up
and there isn’t any noise.”
“Do you have this every night?”
“Snakes! Not much. Now and again. But I say, doc, it’s not fair. I
don’t drink and I don’t drug. But I’ll be seeing pink rats if this
goes on.”
“Is there anything worrying you just now?”
Was it possible that Miss Bolton blushed? Reggie could not be sure.
“You’re a bright boy, doc. Be good!” She shook hands and gripped like
a man. The big emerald she always wore ground into his fingers.
“Birdie, the strong girl. Bye-bye,” she laughed.
On the next morning Reggie was just out of his bath when he was told
that Miss Bolton’s housekeeper had rung up. Miss Bolton had had an
accident and would he go at once. “Tell Sam,” said Reggie, and jumped
into his trousers. Samuel Baker, a young taxi-driver whose omniscient
impudence had persuaded Reggie to enlist him as chauffeur and
factotum, had the car round and some sandwiches inside it by the time
Reggie was downstairs. Neither he nor Reggie lost time.
Normanhurst, Miss Bolton’s house, stands by itself in an acre or so
of garden, and is in the mid-Victorian or amorphous style. As Reggie
jumped out of the car, the housekeeper opened the door. She was a
brisk, buxom woman; she looked, and perhaps was, just what a
housekeeper ought to be.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Betts?” Reggie said.
“It’s very serious, sir. This way, please.” She led the way to Birdie
Bolton’s boudoir, stopped, took a key from her apron pocket, and
unlocked the door.
“Hallo!” Reggie said.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have a shock, sir,” said Mrs. Betts, and
opened the door for him.
Reggie went in. The sunlight flooded Birdie Bolton’s face, which was
white. She lay on a sofa. She was in evening dress. There was an open
wound in one side of her throat, and from it a red line lay across
her bare shoulder, down her arm, to a purple stain on the carpet.
Reggie went across the room in two strides and bent over her. She had
been dead for hours.
“Who found her, Mrs. Betts?”
“The upper housemaid, sir. She’s been having hysterics ever since.”
“Bah! Was the room just like this?”
“No, sir. Miss Weston was asleep in that chair.”
“What?” Reggie stared. The mistress murdered and the companion
placidly asleep by her side--perhaps that would not have startled his
calm mind. But he knew May Weston, and had written her off as a dull,
simple creature--a cushion of a girl.
“Miss Weston was asleep in that chair,” the housekeeper repeated. “I
saw her myself. I came in, sir, when Amelia--when the housemaid
screamed. Miss Weston was in evening dress too. She didn’t wake at
the screaming either--just stirred. I went to her and shook her, and
‘Miss Weston,’ I said, ‘whatever’s this?’ I said, and she woke up and
looked round her, sort of heavy, and she saw Miss Bolton lying there
and the blood, and she screamed out, ‘I did it--oh, I did it,’ and
she looked at me very queer and she fainted.” Mrs. Betts stopped and
stared at Reggie, waiting for him to express horror.
“So what did you do with her?” said Reggie. Mrs. Betts swallowed. “I
had her carried to her room. Dr. Fortune,” she said with dignity. “I
am told she’s come to and been crying.”
“Well, that’s natural, anyway,” said Reggie.
“Natural, indeed!” Mrs. Betts tossed her head.
“And what did you do next, Mrs. Betts?”
“I had nothing touched, sir. I locked up the room. And I telephoned
to you and the police.”
“I’m sure you behaved admirably, Mrs. Betts,” Reggie murmured.
Mrs. Betts was appeased. “I could hardly bear it, sir. Such a sweet,
good mistress as she was. A perfect lady with all her little ways, as
you know, sir. And that Miss Weston! So soft and quiet as she seemed.
I don’t mind saying, sir, I felt as if I was stone. Oh!” She
shuddered and shook. “Vicious, I call it.”
Reggie was looking round the room. “I suppose it is murder, sir?”
said Mrs. Betts in a tone that suggested she would like to have the
hanging of Miss Weston.
“I suppose it is,” Reggie said. He crossed to the chair in which Miss
Weston had been found sleeping and picked up from the floor close by
a pair of scissors and a pointed bodkin with an ivory handle. Both
were clotted with blood. Ugly things.
“Ah!” Mrs. Betts said. “That’s what did it. Put ’em down, sir. I left
them there by her chair for the police to see.”
“You think of everything, Mrs. Betts,” said Reggie, and put them down
and went back to the body of Birdie Bolton.
That stab in the throat, it was “not so deep as a well, nor so wide
as a church door”; it was a small wound to be mortal. A small neat
wound which had rare luck to slit the jugular vein. Reggie looked
back at the bodkin and the scissors. He noticed that Mrs. Betts had
gone out.