MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE
MR. FORTUNE'S
PRACTICE
BY
H. C. BAILEY
AUTHOR OF “CALL MR. FORTUNE”
[Publisher's Mark]
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
26 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published (Crown 8vo) . . . May 17th 1923_
_Second Edition (Cheap Form) . . . July 1924_
_Third Edition (Cheap Form) . . . June 1927_
_Fourth Edition (F'cap 8vo, Cheap Form) . 1934_
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
CASE PAGE
I THE ASCOT TRAGEDY . . . . . 1
II THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO . . . 33
III THE YOUNG DOCTOR . . . . . 64
IV THE MAGIC STONE . . . . . 98
V THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY . . . . 126
VI THE LEADING LADY . . . . . 153
VII THE UNKNOWN MURDERER . . . . 185
CASE I
THE ASCOT TRAGEDY
THAT is what it would have been called in the evening papers if they
had known all about it. They did not. They made the most of the
mystery, you remember; it was not good for them or you to know that
the sequel was a sequel. But there is no reason why the flats should
not be joined now.
So let us begin at Ascot on the morning of that Cup Day. One of our
fine summers, the course rather yellow, the lawns rather brown, a
haze of heat over the distant woodland, and sunshine flaming about
the flounces and silk hats. There were already many of both in the
Royal Enclosure (it was a year of flounces), and among them, dapper,
debonair, everybody’s friend, the youngest middle-aged man in Europe.
He, of course, is the Hon. Sidney Lomas, the Chief of the Criminal
Investigation Department, though mistaken by some outsiders for a
comic actor of fame. Tripping back from a joke with the stewards, he
discovered, sprawling solitary on the end of one of the seats, Mr.
Fortune, the adviser of him and all other official and important
people when surgery, medicine or kindred sciences can elucidate what
is or is not crime. No one looks more prosperous than Reginald
Fortune. He is plump and pinkly healthy, he and his tailor treat each
other with respect, his countenance has the amiability of a nice boy.
But on this occasion Lomas found fault with him. “Why, Fortune,
you’re very pensive. Have you lost the lady of your present
affections? Or backed a wrong ’un?”
“Go away. No fellow has a right to be as cool as you look. Go quite
away. I feel like the three fellows in the Bible who sang in the
furnace. How can you jest, Lomas? I have no affections. I cannot
love, to bet I am ashamed. I always win. Half-crowns. Why is the
world thus, Lomas?”
“My dear fellow, you’re not yourself. You look quite professional.”
Reggie Fortune groaned. “I am. This place worries me. I am
anatomical, ethnological, anthropological.”
“Good Gad,” said Lomas.
“Yes. A distressing place, look at it”; he waved a stick.
The people in the Royal Enclosure were as pleasant to behold as
usual. Comely girls and women who had been comely passed in frocks of
which many were pretty and few garish; their men were of a blameless,
inconspicuous uniformity.
“What is he?” said Reggie Fortune. “I ask you. Look at his feet.”
What Lomas saw was a man dressed like all the rest of them and as
well set up, but of a darker complexion. He did not see anything
remarkable. “The big fellow?” he said. “He is a little weak at the
knee. But what’s the matter with him?”
“Who is he?” said Reggie Fortune.
Lomas shrugged. “Not English, of course. Rather a half-caste colour,
isn’t he? From one of the smaller legations, I suppose, Balkan or
South American.” He waved a hand to some elegant aliens who were at
that moment kissing ladies’ hands with florid grace. “They all come
here, you know.”
“I don’t know,” said Reggie Fortune peevishly. “Half-caste? Half what
caste? Look at his feet.” Now the man’s feet, well displayed beneath
white spats, were large and flat but distinguished by their heels,
which stuck out behind extravagantly. “That is the negro heel.”
“My dear Fortune! The fellow is no more a negro than I am,” Lomas
protested: and indeed the man’s hair was straight and sleek and he
had a good enough nose, and he was far from black.
“The negro or Hamitic heel,” Reggie Fortune drowsily persisted. “I
suspect the Hamitic or negro leg. And otherwise up above. And it’s
all very distressing, Lomas.”
“An Egyptian or perhaps an Arab: probably a Foreign Office pet,”
Lomas consoled him. “That would get him into the Royal Enclosure.”
Lomas was then removed by a duchess and Reggie Fortune tilted his hat
still farther over his eyes and pondered whether it would be wise to
drink before lunch and was dreamily aware of other people on his
seat, an old man darkly tanned and soldierly in the custody of a
little woman brilliantly dressed and terribly vivacious. She
chattered without a pause, she made eyes, she made affectionate
movements and little caresses. The old man though helpless seemed to
be thinking of something else. And Reggie Fortune sketched lower and
still lower estimates of human nature.
They went away at last when everybody went away to gather in a crowd
at the gates and along the railings for the coming of the King. You
will please to observe that the time must have been about one o’clock.
Reggie Fortune, one of the few, remained on his seat. He heard the
cheering down the course and had sufficient presence of mind to stand
up and take off his hat as the distant band began to play. Over the
heads of the crowd he saw the red coats of the postilions and a gleam
of the grey of the team as the King’s carriage swept round into the
enclosure. The rest of the procession passed and the crowd melted
away. But one man remained by the railings alone. He was tall and
thin and he leaned limply against the railings, one arm hanging over
them. After a little while he turned on his heel and fell in a heap.
Two of the green-coated wardens of the gate ran up to him. “Oh,
Lord,” Reggie Fortune groaned, “why did I be a doctor?” But before he
could get through the flurry of people the man was being carried away.
The gift of Lomas for arriving where he wants to be displayed itself.
Lomas slid through the crowd and took his arm, “Stout fellow! Come
along. It’s Sir Arthur Dean. Touch of sun, what?”
“Arthur Dean? That’s the Persia man, pundit on the Middle East?”
“That’s the fellow. Getting old, you know. One of the best.”
Into the room where the old man lay came the shouting over the first
race. By the door Lomas and an inspector of police talked in low
tones, glancing now and then at Reggie, who was busy.
“Merry Man! Merry Man! Merry Man!” the crowd roared outside.
Reggie straightened his bent back and stood looking down at his
patient. Lomas came forward. “Anything we can get you, Fortune? Would
you like some assistance?”
“You can’t assist him,” said Reggie. “He’s dead.”
“Merry Man!” the crowd triumphed. “Merry Man!”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “Poor fellow. One of the best. Well, well,
what is it? Heart failure?”
“The heart generally fails when you die,” Reggie mumbled: he still
stared down at the body and the wonted benignity of his face was lost
in expressionless reserve. “Do you know if he has any people down
here?”
“It’s possible. There is a married son. I’ll have him looked for.”
Lomas sent his inspector off.
“I saw the old man with a woman just before he died,” Reggie
murmured, and Lomas put up his eyeglass.
“Did you though? Very sudden, wasn’t it? And he was all alone when he
died.”
“When he fell,” Reggie mumbled the correction. “Yes, highly sudden.”
“What was the cause of death, Fortune?”
“I wonder,” Reggie muttered. He went down on his knees by the body,
he looked long and closely into the eyes, he opened the clothes . . .
and to the eyes he came back again. Then there was a tap at the door
and Lomas having conferred there came back and said, “The son and his
wife. I’ll tell them. I suppose they can see the body?”
“They’d better see the body,” said Reggie, and as Lomas went out he
began to cover and arrange it. He was laying the right arm by the
side when he checked and held it up to the light. On the back of the
hand was a tiny drop of blood and a red smear. He looked close and
found such a hole as a pin might make.
From the room outside came a woman’s cry, then a deep man’s voice in
some agitation, and Lomas opened the door. “This is Mr. Fortune, the
surgeon who was with your father at once. Major Dean and Mrs. Dean,
Fortune.”
Reggie bowed and studied them. The man was a soldierly fellow, with
his father’s keen, wary face. But it was the woman Reggie watched,
the woman who was saying, “I was with him only half an hour ago,” and
twisting her hands nervously.
“Most of that half-hour he has been dead. Where did you leave him,
madam?” Reggie said.
Husband and wife stared at him. “Why, in the Royal Enclosure, of
course. In the crowd when the King came. I--I lost him. Somebody
spoke to me. Yes, it was Sybil. And I never saw him again.”
Reggie stepped aside from the body. She shuddered and hid her face in
her hands. “His eyes--his eyes,” she murmured.
Major Dean blew his nose. “This rather knocks one over,” he said.
“What’s the cause of death, sir?”
“Can you help me?” said Reggie.
“I? What do you mean?”
“Nothing wrong with his heart, was there?”
“Never heard of it. He didn’t use doctors. Never was ill.”
Reggie stroked his chin. “I suppose he hadn’t been to an oculist
lately?”
“Not he. His eyes were as good as mine. Wonderful good. He used to
brag of it. He was rising seventy and no glasses. Good Lord, what’s
that got to do with it? I want to know why he died.”
“So do I. And I can’t tell you,” said Reggie.
“What? I say--what? You mean a post-mortem. That’s horrible.”
“My dear Major, it is most distressing,” Lomas purred. “I assure you
anything in our power--sympathize with your feelings, quite, quite.
But the Coroner would insist, you know; we have no choice.”
“As you were saying,” Reggie chimed in, “we want to know why he died.”
Major Dean drew a long breath. “That’s all right, that’s all right,”
he said. “The old dad!” and he came to his father’s side and knelt
down, and his wife stood by him, her hand on his shoulder. He looked
a moment into the dead face, and closed the eyes and looked long.
From this scene Reggie and Lomas drew back. In the silence they heard
the man and woman breathing unsteadily. Lomas sighed his sympathy.
Mrs. Dean whispered, “His mouth! Oh, Claude, his mouth!” and with a
sudden darting movement wiped away some froth from the pale lips.
Then she too knelt and she kissed the brow. Her husband lifted the
dead right hand to hold it for a while. And then he reached across to
the key chain, took off the keys, slipped them into his pocket and
helped his wife to her feet.
Reggie turned a still expressionless face on Lomas. Lomas still
exhibited grave official sorrow.
“Well--er--thanks very much for all you’ve done,” Major Dean
addressed them both. “You’ve been very kind. We feel that. And if you
will let me know as soon as you know anything--rather a relief.”
“Quite, quite.” Lomas held out his hand; Major Dean took it. “Yes,
I’m so sorry, but you see we must take charge of everything for the
present.” He let the Major’s hand go and still held out his own.
Dean flushed. “What, his keys?”
“Thank you,” said Lomas, and at last received them.
“I was thinking about his papers, you know.”
“I can promise you they’ll be safe.”
“Oh, well, that settles it!” Dean laughed. “You know where to find
me,” and he took his wife, who was plainly eager to speak to him,
away.
Lomas dandled the keys in his hand. “I wonder what’s in their minds?
And what’s in yours, Fortune?”
“Man was murdered,” said Reggie.
Lomas groaned, “I was afraid you had that for me. But surely it’s not
possible?”
“It ought not to be,” Reggie admitted. “At a quarter to one he was
quite alive, rather bored perhaps, but as fit as me. At a quarter
past he was dead. What happened in between?”
“Why, he was in sight the whole time----”
“All among the most respectable people in England. Yet he dies
suddenly of asphyxia and heart failure. Why?”
“Well, some obscure heart trouble----” Lomas protested.
“He was in the pink. He never used doctors. You heard them say so. He
hadn’t even been to an oculist.”
“A fellow doesn’t always know,” Lomas urged. “There are all sorts of
heart weakness.”
“Not this sort.” Reggie shook his head. “And the eyes. Did you see
how those two were afraid of his eyes? Your eyes won’t look like that
when you die of heart failure. They might if an oculist had put
belladonna in ’em to examine you. But there was no oculist. Dilated
pupils, foam at the mouth, cold flesh. He was poisoned. It might have
been aconitine. But aconitine don’t kill so quick or quite so quiet.”
“What is aconitine?”
“Oh, wolf-bane. Blue-rocket. You can get it from other plants. Only
this is too quick. It slew him like prussic acid and much more
peacefully. Some alkaloid poison of the aconite family, possibly
unclassified. Probably it was put into him by that fresh puncture in
his hand while he was packed in the crowd, just a scratch, just a jab
with a hollow needle. An easy murder if you could trust your stuff.
And when we do the post-mortem we’ll find that everything points to
death by a poison we can’t trace.”
“Thanks, so much,” said Lomas. “It is for this we employ experts.”
“Well, the police also must earn their bread. Who is he?”
“He was the great authority on the Middle East. Old Indian civilian
long retired. Lately political adviser to the Government of Media.
You know all that.”
“Yes. Who wanted him dead?” said Reggie.
“Oh, my dear fellow!” Lomas spread out his hands. “The world is wide.”
“Yes. The world also is very evil. The time also is waxing late. Same
like the hymn says. What about those papers son and co. were so keen
on?”
Lomas laughed. “If you could believe I have a little intelligence, it
would so soothe me. Our people have been warned to take charge of his
flat.”
“Active fellow. Let’s go and see what they found.”
It was not much more than an hour before a policeman was letting them
into Sir Arthur Dean’s flat in Westminster. An inspector of police
led the way to the study. “Anything of interest, Morton?” Lomas said.
“Well, sir, nothing you could call out of the way. When we came, the
servants had heard of the death and they were upset. Sir Arthur’s
man, he opened the door to me fairly crying. Been with him thirty
years, fine old-fashioned fellow, would be talking about his master.”
Lomas and Reggie looked at each other, but the inspector swept on.
“Then in this room, sir, there was Sir Arthur’s executor, Colonel
Osbert, getting out papers. I had to tell him that wouldn’t do.
Rather stiff he was. He is a military man. Well, sir, I put it to
him, orders are orders, and he took it very well. But he let me see
pretty plain he didn’t like it. He was quite the gentleman, but he
put it to me we had no business in Sir Arthur’s affairs unless we
thought there was foul play. Well, of course, I couldn’t answer that.
He talked a good deal, fishing, you might say. All he got out of me
was that I couldn’t allow anything to be touched. So he said he would
take it up with the Commissioner and went off. That’s all, sir.”
“Who is he?” said Reggie.
“His card, sir. Colonel Osbert, late Indian Army.”
“Do you know if he was who he said he was?” Lomas asked.
The inspector was startled. “Well, sir, the servants knew him. Sir
Arthur’s man, he let him in, says he’s Sir Arthur’s oldest friend. I
had no reason to detain him.”
“That’s all right, Morton,” said Lomas. “Well, what time did you get
here?”
“Your message came two o’clock, sir. I should say we were here by a
quarter past.”
Lomas nodded and dismissed him. “Quick work,” he said with a cock of
his eye at Reggie.
“We can time it all by the King. He drove up the course at ten past
one. Till the procession came Sir Arthur was alive. We didn’t pick
him up till five minutes after, at the least. No one knew he was dead
till you had examined him. No one knew then but me and my men. And
yet Colonel Osbert in London knows of the death in time to get round
here and get to work on the dead man’s papers before two-fifteen. He
knew the man was dead as soon as we did who were looking at the body.
Damme, he has very early information.”
“Yes. One to you, Lomas. And a nasty one for Colonel Osbert. Our
active and intelligent police force. If you hadn’t been up and doing
and sent your bright boys round, Colonel Osbert might have got away
with what he wanted. And he wouldn’t have had to explain how he knew
too much.”
“When was the poison given? Say between five to one and ten past. At
that time the murderer was in the Royal Enclosure. If he had his car
waiting handy, could he get here before two-fifteen?”
“Well--if his car was a flier, and there were no flies on his
chauffeur and he had luck all the way, I suppose it’s possible. But I
don’t believe in it. I should say Osbert didn’t do the job.”
Lomas sprang up and called the inspector. He wanted to know what
Colonel Osbert was wearing. Colonel Osbert was in a lounge suit of
grey flannel. Lomas sat down again and lit a cigarette. “I’m afraid
that will do for an alibi, Fortune,” he sighed. “Your hypothetical
murderer was in the Royal Enclosure. Therefore----”
“He was in topper and tails, same like us. The uniform of
respectability. Of course, he could have done a change in his car.
But I don’t think it. No. Osbert won’t do. But what was he after?”
Lomas stood up and looked round the room. It had the ordinary
furniture of an old-fashioned study and in addition several modern
steel chests of drawers for filing documents. “Well, he set some
value on his papers,” Lomas said.
“Lots of honest toil before you, Lomas, old thing.” Reggie smiled,
and while Lomas fell to work with the keys he wandered about picking
up a bowl here, a brass tray there. “He kept to his own line,” he
remarked. “Everything is Asiatic.”
“You may well say so,” Lomas groaned, frowning over a mass of papers.
But Reggie’s attention was diverted. Somebody had rung the bell and
there was talk in the hall. He made out a woman’s voice. “I fancy
this is our young friend the daughter-in-law,” he murmured.
Lomas looked up at him. “I had a notion you didn’t take to her,
Fortune. Do you want to see her?”
“God forbid,” said Reggie. “She’s thin, Lomas, she’s too thin.”
In a moment or two a discreet tap introduced Inspector Morton. “Mrs.
Dean, deceased’s daughter-in-law, sir,” he reported. “Asked to see
the man-servant. I saw no objection, me being present. They were both
much distressed, sir. She asked him if Colonel Osbert had been here.
Seemed upset when she heard he was here before us. Asked if he had
taken anything away. The servant told her we weren’t letting anything
be touched. That didn’t seem to satisfy her. She said something nasty
about the police being always too late. Meant for me, I suppose.”
“I rather fancy it was meant for me,” said Reggie. “It’s a bad
business.”
“I don’t think the Colonel got away with anything, sir. He was
sitting down to the diary on the table there when we came in.”
“All right.” Lomas waved him away. “Damme, it is a bad business. What
am I to do with this, Fortune?” He held up papers in a strange
script, papers of all sorts and sizes, some torn and discoloured,
some fresh.
Reggie went to look. “Arabic,” he said. “And this is Persian.” He
studied them for a while. “A sort of dossier, a lot of evidence about
some case or person. Lomas old thing, you’ll have to call in the
Foreign Office.”
“Lord, we can translate them ourselves. It’s the mass of it!”
“Yes, lot of light reading. I think I should have a talk to the
Foreign Office. Well, that’s your show. Me for the body.”
Lomas lay back in his chair. “What’s in your head?”
“I won’t let anything into my head. There is no evidence. But I’m
wondering if we’ll ever get any. It’s a beautiful crime--as a crime.
A wicked world, Lomas old thing.”
On the day after, Reggie Fortune came into Lomas’s room at Scotland
Yard and shook his head and lit one of Lomas’s largest cigars and
fell into a chair. “Unsatisfactory, highly unsatisfactory,” he
announced. “I took Harvey down with me. You couldn’t have a better
opinion except mine, and he agrees with me.”
“And what do you say?”
“I say, nothing doing. He had no medical history. There was nothing
the matter with the man, yet he died of heart failure and
suffocation. That means poisoning by aconitine or a similar alkaloid.
But there is no poison in the price list which would in a quarter of
an hour kill quietly and without fuss a man in perfect health. I have
no doubt a poison was injected into him by that puncture on the hand,
but I don’t know what it was. We’ll have some analysis done, of
course, but I expect nothing of that. There’ll be no trace.”
“Unique case.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You remember I thought General Blaker was
poisoned. He was mixed up with Asiatics too. There were queer
circumstances about the death of that Greek millionaire in Rome two
years ago. The world’s old and men have been poisoning each other for
five thousand years and science only began to look into it yesterday.
There’s a lot of drugs in the world that you can’t buy at the
chemist’s.”
“Good Gad,” Lomas protested, “we’re in Scotland Yard, not the Arabian
Nights. What you mean is you can’t do anything?”
“Even so. Can you? Who wanted him dead?”
“Nobody but a lunatic. He had no money to leave. He was on the best
terms with his son. He was a popular old boy, never had an enemy. He
had no secrets--most respectable--lived all his life in public.”
“And yet his son snatched at his keys before he was cold. And his
dear old friend Osbert knew of his death before he was dead and made
a bee-line for his papers. By the way, what was in his papers?”
Lomas shrugged. “Our fellows are working at ’em.”
“And who is Osbert?”
“Well, you know, he’s coming to see me. He put in his protest to the
Commissioner, and they were going to turn him down, of course. But I
thought I’d like to listen to Colonel Osbert.”
“Me too,” said Reggie.
“By all means, my dear fellow. But he seems quite genuine. He is the
executor. He is an old friend, about the oldest living. Not a spot on
his record. Long Indian service.”
“Only son and daughter don’t seem to trust him. Only he also is a bit
Asiatic.”
“Oh, my dear Fortune----” Lomas was protesting when Colonel Osbert
came.
You will find a hundred men like him on any day in the service clubs.
He was small and brown and neat, even dapper, but a trifle stiff in
the joints. His manner of speech was a drawl concluding with a bark.
Reggie lay back in his chair and admired the bland fluency with which
Lomas said nothing in reply to the parade-ground demands of Colonel
Osbert. Colonel Osbert wanted to know (if we may reduce many
sentences to one) what Lomas meant by refusing him possession of Sir
Arthur Dean’s papers. And Lomas continued to reply that he meant
nothing in particular.
“Sudden death at Ascot--in the Royal Enclosure too,” he explained.
“That’s very startling and conspicuous. The poor fellow hadn’t been
ill, as far as we can learn. Naturally we have to seek for any
explanation.”
So at last Osbert came out with: “What, sir, you don’t mean to say,
sir--suspect foul play?”
“Oh, my dear Colonel, you wouldn’t suggest that?”
“I, sir? Never entered my head. Poor dear Arthur! A shock, sir. A
blow! Getting old, of course, like the rest of us.”
“Ah, had he been failing?” said Reggie sympathetically.
“Well, well, well. We none of us grow younger, sir.” Colonel Osbert
shook his head. “But upon my soul, Mr. Lomas, I don’t understand the
action of your department.”
“I’m so sorry you should say that,” Lomas sighed. “Now I wonder if
you have particular reason for wanting Sir Arthur’s papers at once?”
“My good sir, I am his executor. It’s my duty to take charge of his
papers.”
“Quite, quite. Well, they’re all safe, you know. His death must have
been a great shock to you, Colonel.”
“Shock, sir? A blow, a blow. Poor dear Arthur!”
“Yes, too bad,” Lomas mourned: and voice and face were all kindly
innocence as he babbled on: “I suppose you heard about it from his
son?”
Colonel Osbert paused to clear his throat. Colonel Osbert stopped
that one. “Major Dean? No, sir. No. Point of fact, I don’t know who
the fellow was. Some fellow called me up on the ’phone and told me
poor dear Arthur had fallen down dead on the course. Upon my soul, I
was knocked over, absolutely knocked over. When I came to myself I
rushed round to secure his papers.”
“Why, did you think somebody would be after them?”
“My dear sir!” Colonel Osbert protested. “Really, now really. It was
my duty. Arthur was always very strict with his papers. I thought of
his wishes.”
“Quite, quite,” Lomas purred, and artless as ever he went on: “Mrs.
Dean was round at the flat too.”
“God bless my soul!” said Colonel Osbert.
“I wonder if you could tell me: is there anyone who would have an
interest in getting hold of his papers?”
Colonel Osbert again cleared his throat. “I can tell you this, sir. I
don’t understand the position of Mrs. Dean and her husband. And I
shall be glad, I don’t mind owning, I shall be very glad to have poor
dear Arthur’s papers in my hands.”
“Ah, thank you so much,” said Lomas, and with bland adroitness got
Colonel Osbert outside the door.
“He’s not such a fool as he looks,” Reggie murmured. “But there’s
better brains in it than his, Lomas old thing. A bad business, quite
a bad business.”
And then a clerk came in. Lomas read the letter he brought and said:
“Good Gad! You’re an offensive person, Fortune. Why did you tell me
to go to the Foreign Office? Here is the Foreign Office. Now we shall
be in the affair for life. The Foreign Office wants me to see His
Excellency Mustapha Firouz.”
“Accompanied by Sindbad the Sailor and Chu Chin Chow?” said Reggie.
“Who is he?”
“Oh, he’s quite real. He’s the Median Minister. He--Why what is it
now?” The question was to the clerk, who had come back with a card.
“Says he’s anxious to see you immediately, sir. It’s very urgent, and
he won’t keep you long.”
“Major Dean,” Lomas read, and lifted an eyebrow.
“Oh rather. Let ’em all come,” said Reggie.
It was Major Dean, and Major Dean ill at ease. He had a difficulty in
beginning. He discovered Reggie. “Hallo! I say, can you tell me
anything?” he blurted out.
“I can’t,” said Reggie sharply. “I don’t know why your father died,”
and Major Dean winced.
“I thought you had something to tell us, Major,” Lomas said.
“Do you believe he was murdered? I’ve a right to ask that.”
“But it’s a very grave suggestion,” Lomas purred. “Do you know of
anyone who had a motive for killing your father?”
“It’s this filthy mystery,” the Major cried. “If he was murdered, I
suppose he was poisoned. But how?”
“Or why?” said Reggie.
The Major fidgeted. “I dare say he knew too much,” he said. “You know
he was the adviser to the Median Government. He had some pretty
serious stuff through his hands. I don’t know what. He was always
great on official secrecy. But I know he thought it was pretty
damning for some one.”
“Ah, thanks very much,” Lomas said.
But the Major seemed unable to go.
“I mean to say, make sure you have all his papers and stick to ’em.”
Lomas and Reggie studied him. “I wonder why you say that?” Lomas
asked. “The papers would naturally pass to Colonel Osbert.”
“I know. Osbert was the guv’nor’s best pal, worse luck. I wouldn’t
trust him round the corner. That’s what I mean. Now I’ve done it, I
suppose”; he gave a grim chuckle. “It is done, anyway”; and he was in
a hurry to go.
Reggie stood up and stretched himself. “This is pretty thick,” said
he, “and we’ve got His Excellency the Pasha of Nine Tales on the
doorstep.”
Into the room was brought a man who made them feel short, a towering
man draped in folds of white. Above that flowing raiment rose a
majestic head, a head finely proportioned, framed in hair and beard
of black strewn with grey. The face was aquiline and bold, but of a
singular calm, and the dark eyes were veiled in thought. He bowed to
each man twice, sat down and composed his robe about him, and it was
long before he spoke. “I thank you for your great courtesy”: each
word came alone as if it was hard to him. “I have this to say. He who
is gone he was the friend of my people. To him we turned always and
he did not fail. In him we had our trust. Now, sir, I must tell you
we have our enemies, who are also, as it seems to us, your enemies.
Those whom you call the Turks, they would do evil to us which would
be evil to you. Of this we had writings in their hands and the hands
of those they use. These I gave to him who is gone that he should
tell us what we should do. For your ways are not our ways nor your
law our law. Now he is gone, and I am troubled lest those papers fall
again into the hands of the Turks.”
“Who is it that Your Excellency fears? Can you tell me of any man?”
Lomas said.
“I know of none here. For the Turks are not here in the open and this
is a great land of many people. Yet in all lands all things can be
bought at a price. Even life and death. This only I say. If our
papers go to your King and the Ministers of your King it is well and
very well. If they are rendered to me that also may be well. But if
they go I know not where, I say this is not just.”
“I can promise Your Excellency they will go before the Foreign
Office.”
The Median stood up and bowed. “In England I never seek justice in
vain,” he said.
And when he was gone, “Good Gad, how little he knows,” said Lomas.
“Well, Fortune?” but Reggie only lit a cigar and curled himself up on
the sofa. “What I like about you is that you never say I told you so.
But you did. It is a Foreign Office touch,” and still Reggie silently
smoked. “Why, the thing’s clear enough, isn’t it?”
“Clear?” said Reggie. “Oh Peter! Clear?”
“Well, Sir Arthur had in his hands papers damaging to these
blood-and-thunder Young Turks. It occurred to them that if he could
die suddenly they might arrange to get the papers into their hands.
So Sir Arthur is murdered, and either Osbert the executor or Major
Dean the son is bribed to hand over the papers.”
“In the words of the late Tennyson,” said Reggie,
“And if it is so, so it is, you know;
And if it be so, so be it.
But it’s not interesting, Lomas old thing.”
“It would be interesting to hear you find a flaw in it,” said Lomas.
Reggie shook his head. “Nary flaw.”
“For my part,” said Lomas with some heat, “I prefer to understand why
a crime was committed. I find it useful. But I am only a policeman.”
“And so say all of us.” Reggie sat up. “Then why talk like a
politician? Who did it and how are we going to do him in? That’s our
little job.”
“Whoever it was, we’ve bilked him,” said Lomas. “He has got nothing
for his pains. The papers will go before the Foreign Office and then
back to the Median Legation. A futile crime. I find a good deal of
satisfaction in that.”
“You’re easy pleased then.” Reggie’s amiability was passing away. “A
futile crime: thanks to the active and intelligent police force. But
damn it, the man was murdered.”
“My dear Fortune, can I help it? It’s not the first and it won’t be
the last murder in which there is no evidence. You’re pleased to be
bitter about it. But you can’t even tell me how the man was murdered.
A poison unknown to the twentieth-century expert. No doubt that
annoys you. But you needn’t turn and rend me. There is also one more
murderer unknown to the twentieth-century policeman. But I can’t make
evidence any more than you. We suspect either Osbert or Major Dean
had a hand in it. But we don’t know which and we don’t know that
either was the murderer. If we could prove that they were mixed up
with the Young Turks, if we knew the man they dealt with we should
have no case against them. Why, if we could find some Young Turk
hireling was in the Royal Enclosure we should have no proof he was
the murderer. We couldn’t have,” Lomas shrugged. “Humanly speaking,
it’s a case in which there can be no conviction.”
“My only aunt, don’t I know that?” Reggie cried. “And do you remember
what the old Caliph said, ‘In England I never seek justice in vain’?
Well, that stings, Lomas--humanly speaking.”
“Great heavens, what am I to do? What do you want to do?”
Reggie Fortune looked at him. The benign face of Reggie Fortune was
set in hard lines. “There’s something about the voice of a brother’s
blood crying from the ground,” he said slowly.
“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow, if you are going to preach,”
Lomas protested.
“I’m not. I’m going to tea,” said Reggie Fortune. “Elise has got the
trick of some new cakes. They’re somewhat genial.”
They did not meet again till the inquest.
It was horribly hot in court. The newspaper reporters of themselves
would have filled, if given adequate space, a larger room. They sat
in each other’s pockets and thus yielded places to the general
public, represented by a motley collection of those whom the
coroner’s officer permitted himself to call Nosey Parkers: frocks
which might have come out of a revue chorus beside frocks which would
well become a charwoman. And the Hon. Sidney Lomas murmured in the
ear of his henchman Superintendent Bell, “I see several people who
ought to be hanged, Bell, but no one who will give us the chance.”
Mr. Reginald Fortune, that eminent surgeon, pathologist and what not,
called to the witness-box, was languid and visibly bored with the
whole affair. He surveyed the court in one weary, dreamy glance and
gazed at the coroner as if seeking, but without hope, some reason for
his unpleasant existence. Yes, he had seen Sir Arthur immediately
after death. He had formed the opinion that Sir Arthur died of
asphyxia and heart failure. Yes, heart failure and asphyxia. He was,
however, surprised.
From the reporters’ table there was a general look of hungry
interest. But one young gentleman who had grown fat in the service of
crime breathed heavily in his neighbour’s ear: “Nothing doing: I know
old Fortune. This is a wash-out.”
Mr. Fortune had lost interest in his own evidence. He was looking
sleepily round the court. The coroner had to recall his wandering
mind. “You were surprised, Mr. Fortune?”
“Oh, ah. Well, I couldn’t explain the suddenness of the attack, the
symptoms and so forth. So with the assistance of Dr. Harvey I made a
further examination. We went into the matter with care and used every
known test. There is no evidence to be found that any other factor
was present than the natural causes of death.”
“But that does not explain the sudden failure of the heart.”
“I don’t explain it,” said Reggie. “I can’t.”
“Medicine,” said the coroner sagely, “still has its mysteries. We
must remember, gentlemen, that Sir Arthur had already completed our
allotted span, the Psalmist’s threescore years and ten. I am much
obliged to you, Mr. Fortune.”
And after that, as the fat young gentleman complained, there was
nothing in it. The jury found that Sir Arthur’s death was from
natural causes and that they sympathized with the family. So much for
the Ascot mystery. There remains the sequel.
When the court broke up and sought, panting, the open air, “He is
neat, sir, isn’t he?” said Lomas’s henchman, Superintendent Bell.
“Very adroit, is Mr. Fortune. That couldn’t have been much better
done.” And Lomas smiled. It was in each man’s simple heart that the
Criminal Investigation Department was well rid of a bad business.
They sought Reggie to give him lunch.
But Reggie was already outside; Reggie was strolling, as one for whom
time has no meaning, towards the station. He was caught up by the
plump young reporter, who would like you to call him a crime
specialist. “Well, Mr. Fortune,” he said in his ingratiating way,
“good morning. How are you, sir? I say, you have put it across us in
the Dean case.”
The crime specialist then had opportunities for psychological study
as Mr. Fortune’s expression performed a series of quick changes. But
it settled down into bland and amiable surprise. “My dear fellow,”
said Mr. Fortune, “how are you? But what’s the trouble? There’s
nothing in the Dean case, never was.”
“No, that’s just it. And we were all out for a first-class crime
story. After all the talk there’s been, natural causes is pretty
paltry.”
Reggie laughed. “Sorry, sorry. We can’t make crimes for you. But why
did you talk? There was nothing to talk about.”
“I say, you know, that’s a bit thick,” the crime specialist protested.
“My dear chap,” said Reggie modestly, “if the doctor on the spot
hadn’t happened to be me, you would never have thought of the case.
Nothing else in it.”
“Oh, well, come now, Mr. Fortune! I mean to say--what about the
C.I.D. holding up all the old man’s papers and turning down his
executor?”
Reggie was not surprised, he was bewildered. “Say it again slowly and
distinctly,” he entreated, and when that was done he was as one who
tries not to laugh. “And very nice too. My dear fellow, what more do
you want? There’s a story for you.”
“Well, it’s never been officially denied,” said the young man.
“Fancy that!” Reggie chuckled.
“But between ourselves, Mr. Fortune----”
“It’s a great story,” Reggie chuckled. “But really--Well, I ask you!”
and he slid away.
In the hotel lounge he found Bell and Lomas and cocktails. “Pleasure
before business, as ever,” he reproached them, and ordered one for
himself.
“And what have you been doing, then?” Lomas asked.
“I have been consoling the Fourth Estate. That great institution the
Press, Mr. Lomas, sir. Through one of Gilligan’s young lions. Out of
the mouths of babes and sucklings----”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk to reporters,” Lomas complained.
“You’re so haughty. By the way, what was Ludlow Blenkinhorn doing
here?” He referred to a solicitor of more ability than standing.
“Osbert was here and his solicitor, the young Deans and their
solicitor. Who was old Blenkinhorn representing?”
Bell and Lomas looked at each other. “Didn’t see the fellow,” said
Lomas.
“Mr. Fortune’s quite right, sir. Blenkinhorn was standing with the
public. And that’s odd, too.”
“Highly odd. Lomas, my dear old thing, I wish you’d watch
Blenkinhorn’s office and Osbert’s flat for any chaps who look a bit
exotic, a bit foreign--and follow him up if you find one.”
Lomas groaned. “Surely we’ve done with the case.”
“Ye-es. But there’s some fellow who hasn’t. And he has a pretty taste
in poisons. And he’s still wanting papers.”
“We’ve nothing to act on, you know,” Lomas protested.
“Oh, not a thing, not a thing. But he might have.” Lomas nodded and
Superintendent Bell went to the telephone.
When Mr. Fortune read “The Daily Post” in the morning he smiled upon
his devilled kidneys. Its report of the inquest was begun with a
little pompous descriptive work. “The mystery of the Ascot Tragedy
was solved yesterday. In the cold sanity of the coroner’s court the
excitement of the last few days received its quietus. Two minutes of
scientific evidence from Mr. Fortune--” and so on until young
omniscience worked up to its private little scoop. “The melodramatic
rumours of sensational developments in the case have thus only
availed to expose the fatuity of their inventors.” (This was meant
for some rival papers.) “It may now be stated bluntly that nothing in
the case ever gave rise to speculation among well-informed people,
and that the stories of impounding documents and so forth have no
foundation in fact.”
But about lunch time Mr. Fortune received a curt summons from the
Hon. Sidney Lomas and instantly obeyed it. “Well, you know, I thought
I should be hearing from you,” he smiled. “I felt, as it were, you
couldn’t live without me long.”
“Did you, by Jove!” said Lomas bitterly. “I’ve been wishing all the
morning you had been dead some time. Look at that!” He tossed across
the table a marked copy of “The Daily Post.”
“Yes, I was enjoying that at breakfast. A noble institution, the
British Press, Lomas. A great power. If you know how to use it.”
“I wish to God you wouldn’t spoof reporters. It’s a low taste. And
it’s a damned nuisance. I can’t contradict the rag and----”
“No, you can’t contradict it. I banked on that,” Reggie chuckled.
“Did you indeed? And pray what the devil are you at? I have had
Osbert here raving mad----”
“Yes, I thought it would stir up Osbert. What’s his line?”
“Wants the papers, of course. And as you very well know, confound
you, they’re all at the Foreign Office, the cream of them, and likely
to be. He says we’ve no right to keep them after this. Nonsense, of
course, but devilish inconvenient to answer. And at last the old man
was quite pathetic, says it isn’t fair to him to give out we haven’t
touched the papers. No more it is. He was begging me to contradict it
officially. I could hardly get rid of him.”
“Busy times for Lomas.”
“Damme, I have been at it all the morning. Old Ludlow Blenkinhorn
turned up, too.”
“I have clicked, haven’t I?” Reggie chuckled.
“Confound you. He says he has a client with claims on the estate and
is informed by the executor that all papers have been taken by us.
Now he has read your damned article and he wants to know if the
executor is lying.”
“That is a conundrum, isn’t it? And who is Mr. Ludlow Blenkinhorn’s
client?”
“He didn’t say, of course.”
“What a surprise. And your fellows watching his office, do they say?”
Lomas took up a scrap of paper. “They have sent us something. A man
of foreign or mulatto appearance called on him first thing this
morning. Was followed to a Bayswater lodging-house. Is known there as
Sherif. Mr. A. Sherif. Thought to be an Egyptian.”
“The negro or Hamitic heel!” Reggie murmured. “Do you remember, Lomas
old thing?”
“Good Gad!” Lomas dropped his eyeglass. “But what the devil can we
do?”
“Watch and pray,” said Reggie. “Your fellows watch Sherif and
Blenkinhorn and Osbert and you pray. Do you pray much, Lomas?”
They went in fact to lunch. They were not long back when a detective
speaking over the telephone reported that a man of mulatto appearance
had called on Colonel Osbert. Reggie sprang up. “Come on, Lomas.
We’ll have them in the act and bluff the whole thing out of them.”
“What act?”
“Collusion. This Egyptian-Syrian-negroid-Young Turk and the
respectable executor. Come on, man.”
In five minutes they were mounting to Colonel Osbert’s flat. His
servant could not say whether Colonel Osbert was at home. Lomas
produced his card. “Colonel Osbert will see me,” he announced, and
fixed the man with a glassy stare.
“Well, sir, I beg pardon, sir. There’s a gentleman with him.”
“At once,” said Lomas and walked into the hall.
The man still hesitated. From one of the rooms could be heard voices
in some excitement. Lomas and Reggie made for that door. But as they
approached there was a cry, a horrible shrill cry, and the sound of a
scuffle. Reggie sprang forward. Some one rushed out of the room and
Reggie, the smaller man, went down before him. Lomas clutched at him
and was kicked in the stomach. The fellow was off. Reggie picked
himself out of the hatstand and ran after him. Lomas, in a heap,
gasping and hiccoughing, fumbled in his pocket. “B-b-blow,” he
stammered to the stupefied servant, and held out a whistle. “Like
hell. Blow!”
A long peal sounded through the block of flats.
Down below a solid man strolled out of the porter’s lodge just as a
gentleman of dark complexion and large feet was hurrying through the
door. The solid man put out a leg. Another solid man outside received
the gentleman on his bosom. They had then some strenuous moments. By
the time Reggie reached them three hats were on the ground, but a
pair of handcuffs clasped the coffee-coloured wrists.
“His pockets,” Reggie panted, “his waistcoat pockets.”
The captive said something which no one understood, and struggled.
One of the detectives held out a small white-metal case. Reggie took
from it a hypodermic syringe. “I didn’t think you were so
up-to-date,” said Reggie. “What did you put in it? Well, well, I
suppose you won’t tell me. Take him away.”
He went back to find Lomas and the servant looking at Colonel Osbert.
Colonel Osbert lay on the floor. There was froth at his lips and on
his wrist a spot of blood. Reggie knelt down beside him. . . .
“Too late?” Lomas said hoarsely.
Reggie rose. “Well, you can put it that way,” he said. “It’s the end.”
In Lomas’s room Reggie spread himself on a sofa and watched Lomas
drink whisky and soda. “A ghastly business,” Lomas said: he was still
pale and unsteady. “That creature is a wild beast.”
“He’ll go where he belongs,” said Reggie, who was eating bread and
butter. “All according to plan.”
“Plan? My God, the man runs amuck!”
“Oh, no, no, no. He wanted those papers for his employers. He
contracted with Osbert to hand them over when Dean was dead. He
murdered Dean and Osbert couldn’t deliver the goods. So I told him
through the papers that Osbert had them. He thought Osbert was
bilking him and went to have it out with him. Osbert didn’t satisfy
him, he was sure he had been done and he made Osbert pay for it. All
according to plan.”
Lomas set down his glass. “Fortune,” he said nervously, “Fortune--do
you mean--when you put that in the paper--you meant the thing to end
like this?”
“Well, what are we here for?” said Reggie. “But you know you’re
forgetting the real interest of the case.”
“Am I?” said Lomas weakly.
“Yes. What is his poison?”
“Oh, good Gad,” said Lomas.
CASE II
THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO
MR. REGINALD FORTUNE lay in a long chair. On his right hand a
precipice fell to still black water. On his left the mountains rose
into a tiara of snow. Far away in front sunlight found the green
flood of a glacier. But Mr. Fortune saw none of these things. He was
eating strawberries and cream.
The Hon. Sidney Lomas, Chief of the Criminal Investigation
Department, disguised as a bloodthirsty fisherman, arrived stiffly
but happy, and behind him a large Norwegian bore the corpses of two
salmon into the farm-house. “The lord high detective,” Reggie
murmured. “An allegorical picture, by the late Mr. Watts.”
“Great days,” Lomas said, and let himself down gingerly into a chair.
“Hallo, has there been a post?” He reached for one of the papers at
Reggie’s feet. “My country, what of thee?”
“They’re at it again, Lomas. They’ve murdered a real live lord.”
“Thank heaven I’m not there. Who is it?”
“One Carwell. In the wilds of the Midlands.”
“Young Carwell? He’s a blameless youth to slay. What happened?”
“They found him in his library with his head smashed. Queer case.”
Lomas read the report, which had nothing more to tell. “Burglary, I
suppose,” he pronounced.
“Well, I have an alibi,” said Reggie.
Neither the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department nor his
scientific adviser saw any reason to end a good holiday for the sake
of avenging Lord Carwell. The policemen who dealt with the affair did
not call for help. Mr. Fortune and Mr. Lomas continued to catch the
salmon and eat the strawberries of Norway and let the world go by and
became happily out of date. It was not till they were on the North
Sea that they met the Carwell case again.
The Newcastle packet was rolling in a slow, heavy rhythm. Most of the
passengers had succumbed. Lomas and Reggie fitted themselves and two
chairs into a corner of the upper deck with all the London newspapers
that were waiting for them at Bergen. Lomas, a methodical man, began
at the beginning. Reggie worked back from the end. And in a moment,
“My only aunt!” he said softly. “Lomas, old thing, they’re doing
themselves proud. Who do you think they’ve taken for that Carwell
murder? The cousin, the heir, one Mark Carwell. This is highly
intriguing.”
“Good Gad!”
“As you say,” Reggie agreed. “Yes. Public Prosecutor on it. Old
Brunker leading for the Crown. Riding pretty hard, too. The man Mark
is for it, I fear, Lomas. They do these things quite neatly without
us. It’s all very disheartening.”
“Mark Carwell? A harum-scarum young ruffian he always was.”
“Yes. Have you noticed these little things mean much? I haven’t.”
“What’s the case?”
“The second housemaid found Lord Carwell sitting in the library with
his head smashed. He was dead. The doctor came up in half an hour,
found him cold, and swears he had been dead five or six hours. Cause
of death--brain injury from the blow given by some heavy, blunt
instrument. No one in the house had heard a sound. No sign of
burglary, no weapon. There was a small house-party, the man Mark, the
girl Carwell was engaged to, Lady Violet Barclay and her papa and
mamma, and Sir Brian Carwell--that’s the contractor, some sort of
distant cousin. Mark was left with Lord Carwell when the rest of them
went to bed. Lady Violet and papa and mamma say they heard a noisy
quarrel. Violet says Carwell had told her before that Mark was
writing to him for money to get married on, and Carwell didn’t
approve of the girl.”
“I don’t fancy Carwell would approve of the kind of girl Mark would
want to marry.”
“Yes, that’s what the fair Violet implies. She seems to be a good
hater. She did her little best to hang Mark.”
“Why, if he killed her man, can you wonder?”