beat a finicky tattoo on the crown of his hat.
“Oh yes,” said Alleyn.
“As no doubt you are aware, Inspector Alleyn, I was the late Sir Derek O’Callaghan’s solicitor. I am also his sister’s, Miss Catherine Ruth O’Callaghan’s, solicitor, and of course his wife’s—his wife’s—ah, solicitor.”
Alleyn waited.
“I understand from my clients that certain representations made by Lady O’Callaghan were instrumental in prompting you to take the course you have subsequently adopted.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. I understand that is the case. Inspector Alleyn, this is not, strictly speaking, a professional call. Lady O’Callaghan is my niece. Naturally I have a personal as well as a professional interest in the matter.”
He looked, thought Alleyn, as though he was incapable of any interest that was not professional.
“Of course, sir,” said Alleyn.
“My niece did not consult me before she took this step. I must confess that had she done so I should—I should have entertained grave doubts as to the advisability of her action. However, as matters have turned out, she was fully justified. I was, of course, present at the inquest. Since then I have had several interviews with both these ladies. The last took place yesterday afternoon and was—was of a somewhat disquieting nature.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes. It is a matter of some delicacy. I have hesitated—I have hesitated for some time before making this appointment. I learn that since the inquest Miss O’Callaghan has visited you and has—has suggested that you go no further with your investigation.”
“Miss O’Callaghan,” said Alleyn, “was extremely distressed at the idea of the post-mortem.”
“Quite. Quite so. It is at her request that I have come to see you myself.”
“Is it, by Jove!” thought Alleyn.
“Miss O’Callaghan,” continued Mr. Rattisbon, “fears that in her distress she spoke foolishly. I found it difficult to get from her the actual gist of her conversation, but it seems that she mentioned a young protégé of hers, a Mr. Harold Sage, a promising chemist, she tells me.”
“She did speak of a Mr. Sage.”
“Yes.” Mr. Rattisbon suddenly rubbed his nose very hard and then agitated his tongue. “She appears to think she used somewhat ambiguous phrasing as regards the young man, and she—in short, inspector, the lady has got it into her head that she may have presented him in a doubtful light. Now I assured her that the police are not to be misled by casual words spoken at a time of emotional stress, but she implored me to come and see you, and though I was disinclined to do so, I could scarcely refuse.”
“You were in a difficult position, Mr. Rattisbon.”
“I am in a difficult position. Inspector Alleyn, I feel it my duty to warn you that Miss Ruth O’Callaghan, though by no means non compos mentis, is at the same time subject to what I can only call periods of hysterical enthusiasm and equally hysterical depression. She is a person of singularly naïve intelligence. This is not the first occasion on which she has raised an alarm about a matter which subsequently proved to be of no importance whatever. Her imagination is apt to run riot. I think it would not be improper to attribute this idiosyncrasy to an unfortunate strain in her heredity.”
“I quite appreciate that,” Alleyn assured him. “I know something of this family trait. I believe her father—”
“Quite so. Quite,” said Mr. Rattisbon, shooting a shrewd glance at him. “I see you take my point. Now, Inspector Alleyn, the only aspect of the matter that causes me disquietude is the possibility of her calling upon you again, actuated by further rather wild and, I’m afraid, foolish motives. I did think that perhaps it would be well to—”
“To put me wise, sir? I’m grateful to you for having done so. I should in any case have called on you, as I shall be obliged to make certain inquiries as regards the deceased’s affairs.”
Mr. Rattisbon appeared to tighten all over. He darted another glance at the inspector, took off his glasses, polished them, and in an exceedingly dry voice said:
“Oh, yes.”
“We may as well get it over now. We have not yet got the terms of Sir Derek’s will. Of course, sir, we shall have to know them.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Perhaps you will give me this information now. Just the round terms, you know.”
It is perfectly true that people more often conform to type than depart from it. Mr. Rattisbon now completed his incredibly classical portrait of the family lawyer by placing together the tips of his fingers. He did this over the top of his bowler. He then regarded Alleyn steadily for about six seconds and said:
“There are four legacies of one thousand pounds each and two of five hundred. The residue is divided between his wife and his sister in the proportion of two-thirds to Lady O’Callaghan and one-third to Miss Catherine Ruth O’Callaghan.”
“And the amount of the entire estate? Again in round terms?”
“Eighty-five thousand pounds.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Rattisbon. Perhaps later on I may see the will, but at the moment that is all we want. To whom do the legacies go?”
“To the funds of the Conservative Party, to the London Hospital, to his godchild, Henry Derek Samond, and to the Dorset Benevolent Fund, one thousand in each instance. To Mr. Ronald Jameson, his secretary, five hundred pounds. To be divided among his servants in equal portions of one hundred each, the sum of five hundred pounds.”
Alleyn produced his notebook and took this down. Mr. Rattisbon got up.
“I must keep you no longer, Inspector Alleyn. This is an extremely distressing affair. I trust that the police may ultimately—um—”
“I trust so, sir,” said Alleyn. He rose and opened the door.
“Oh, thank-yer, thank-yer,” ejaculated Mr. Rattisbon. He shot across the room, paused, and darted a final look at Alleyn.
“My nephew tells me you were at school together,” he said. “Henry Rattisbon, Lady O’Callaghan’s brother.”
“I believe we were,” answered Alleyn politely.
“Yes. Interesting work here? Like it?”
“It’s not a bad job.”
“Um? Oh, quite. Well, wish you success,” said Mr. Rattisbon, who had suddenly become startlingly human. “And don’t let poor Miss Ruth mislead you.”
“I’ll try not to. Thank you so much, sir.”
“Um? Not at all, not at all. Quite the reverse. Good morning. Good morning.”
Alleyn closed the door and stood in a sort of trance for some minutes. Then he screwed his face up sideways, as though in doubt, appeared to come to a decision, consulted the telephone directory, and went to call upon Mr. Harold Sage.
Mr. Sage had a chemist’s shop in Knightsbridge. Inspector Alleyn walked to Hyde Park Corner and then took a bus. Mr. Sage, behind his counter, served an elderly lady with dog powders, designed, no doubt, for a dyspeptic pug which sat and groaned after the manner of his kind at her feet.
“These are our own, madam,” said Mr. Sage. “I think you will find they give the little fellow immediate relief.”
“I hope so,” breathed the elderly lady. “And you really think there’s no need to worry?”
The pug uttered a lamentable groan. Mr. Sage made reassuring noises and tenderly watched them out.
“Yes, sir?” he said briskly, turning to Alleyn.
“Mr. Harold Sage?” asked the inspector.
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Sage, a little surprised.
“I’m from Scotland Yard. Inspector Alleyn.”
Mr. Sage opened his eyes very wide, but said nothing. He was naturally a pale young man.
“There are one or two questions I should like to ask you, Mr. Sage,” continued Alleyn. “Perhaps we could go somewhere a little more private? I shan’t keep you more than a minute or two.”
“Mr. Brayght,” said Mr. Sage loudly.
A sleek youth darted out from behind a pharmaceutical display.
/> “Serve, please,” said Mr. Sage. “Will you just walk this way?” he asked Alleyn and led him down a flight of dark steps into a store-room which smelt of chemicals. He moved some packages off the only two chairs and stacked them up, very methodically, in a dark corner of the room. Then he turned to Alleyn.
“Will you take a chair?” he asked.
“Thank you. I’ve called to check up one or two points that have arisen in my department. I think you may be able to help us.”
“In what connection?”
“Oh, minor details,” said Alleyn vaguely. “Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. It’s in connection with certain medicines at present on the market. I believe you sell a number of remedies made up from your own prescriptions—such as the pug’s powders, for instance?” He smiled genially.
“Oh—quayte,” said Mr. Sage.
“You do? Right. Now with reference to a certain prescription which you have made up for a Miss Ruth O’Callaghan.”
“Pardon?”
“With reference to a certain prescription you made up for a Miss Ruth O’Callaghan.”
“I know the lady you mean. She has been a customer for quite a while.”
“Yes. This was one of your own prescriptions?”
“Speaking from memory, I think she has had several of my little lines—from tayme to tayme.”
“Yes. Do you remember a drug you supplied three weeks ago?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember off-hand—”
“This is the one that contained hyoscine,” said Alleyn. In the long silence that followed Alleyn heard the shop-door buzzer go, heard footsteps and voices above his head, heard the sound of the Brompton Road train down beneath them and felt its vibration. He watched Harold Sage. If there was no hyoscine in any of the drugs, the chemist would say so, would protest, would be bewildered. If there was hyoscine, an innocuous amount, he might or might not be flustered. If there was hyoscine, a fatal amount—what would he say?
“Yes,” said Mr. Sage.
“What was the name of this medicine?”
“‘Fulvitavolts.’”
“Ah, yes. Do you know if she used it herself or bought it for anyone else?”
“I reely can’t say. For herself, I think.”
“She did not tell you if she wanted it for her brother?”
“I reely don’t remember, not for certain. I think she said something about her brother.”
“May I see a packet of this medicine?”
Mr. Sage turned to his shelves, ferreted for some time and finally produced an oblong package. Alleyn looked at the spirited picture of a nude gentleman against an electric shock.
“Oh, this is not the one, Mr. Sage,” he said brightly. “I mean the stuff in the round box—so big—that you supplied afterwards. This has hyoscine in it as well, has it? What was the other?”
“It was simply a prescription. I—I made it up for Miss O’Callaghan.”
“From a doctor’s prescription, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the doctor?”
“I reely forget. The prescription was returned with the powder.”
“Have you kept a record?”
“No.”
“But surely you have a prescription-book or whatever it is called?”
“I—yes—but—er—an oversight—it should have been entered.”
“How much hyoscine was there in this prescription?”
“May I ask,” said Mr. Sage, “why you think it contained hyoscine at all?”
“You have made that quite clear yourself. How much?”
“I—think—about one two-hundredth—something very small.”
“And in ‘Fulvitavolts’ ?”
“Less. One two-hundred-and-fiftieth.”
“Do you know that Sir Derek O’Callaghan was probably murdered?”
“My Gawd, yes.”
“Yes… With hyoscine.”
“My Gawd, yes.”
“Yes. So you see we want to be sure of our facts.”
“He ’ad no hoverdose of ’yoscine from ’ere,” said Mr. Sage, incontinently casting his aitches all over the place.
“So it seems. But, you see, if he had taken hyoscine in the minutest quantity before the operation we want to trace it as closely as possible. If Miss O’Callaghan gave him ‘Fulvitavolts’ and this other medicine, that would account for some of the hyoscine found at the post-mortem. Hyoscine was also injected at the operation. That would account for more.”
“You passed the remark that he was murdered,” said Mr. Sage more collectedly.
“The coroner did,” corrected Alleyn. “Still, we’ve got to explore the possibility of accident. If you could give me the name of the doctor who prescribed the powder, it would be a great help.”
“I can’t remember. I make up hundreds of prescriptions every week.”
“Do you often forget to enter them?”
Mr. Sage was silent.
Alleyn took out a pencil and an envelope. On the envelope he wrote three names.
“Was it any of those?” he asked.
“No.”
“Will you swear to that?”
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
“Look here, Mr. Sage, are you sure it wasn’t your own prescription that you gave Miss O’Callaghan?”
“‘Fulvitavolts’ is my own invention. I told you that.”
“But the other?”
“No, I tell you—no.”
“Very well. Are you in sympathy with Comrade Kakaroff over the death of Sir Derek O’Callaghan?”
Mr. Sage opened his mouth and shut it again. He put his hands behind him and leaned against a shelf.
“To what do you refer?” he said.
“You were at the meeting last night.”
“I don’t hold with the remarks passed at the meeting. I never ’ave. I’ve said so. I said so last night.”
“Right. I don’t think there’s anything else.”
Alleyn put the packet of ‘Fulvitavolts’ in his pocket.
“How much are these?”
“Three and nine.”
Alleyn produced two half-crowns and handed them to Mr. Sage, who, without another word, walked out of the room and upstairs to the shop. Alleyn followed. Mr. Sage punched the cash register and conjured up the change. The sleek young man leant with an encouraging smile towards an incoming customer.
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Mr. Sage, handing Alleyn one and threepence.
“Thank you. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Alleyn went to the nearest telephone-booth and rang up the Yard.
“Anything come in for me?”
“Just a moment, sir… Yes. Sir John Phillips is here and wants to see you.”
“Oh. Is he in my room?”
“Yes.”
“Ask him to speak to me, will you?”
A pause.
“Hullo.”
“Hullo. Is that Sir John Phillips?”
“Yes. Inspector Alleyn—I want to see you. I want to make a clean breast of it.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Alleyn.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The “Clean Breast” of Sir John Phillips
Wednesday to Thursday.
PHILLIPS STARED AT Chief Inspector Alleyn’s locked desk, at his chair, at the pattern of thick yellow sunlight on the floor of his room. He looked again at his watch. Ten minutes since Alleyn had rung up. He had said he would be there in ten minutes. Phillips knew what he was going to say. There was no need to go over that again. He went over it again. A light footstep in the passage outside. The door handle turned. Alleyn came in.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting.” He hung up his hat, pulled off his gloves and sat down at his desk. Phillips watched him without speaking. Alleyn unlocked the desk and then turned towards his visitor.
“What is i
t you want to tell me, Sir John?”
“I’ve come to make a statement. I’ll write it down afterwards if you like. Sign it. That’s what you have to do, isn’t it?”
“Suppose I hear what it’s all about first,” suggested Alleyn.
“Ever since you went away yesterday I’ve been thinking about this case. It seems to me I must be suspected of the murder. It seems to me things look very black for me. You know what I wrote to O’Callaghan. You know I injected a lethal drug. I showed you the tablets—analysis will prove they only contain the normal dosage, but I can’t prove the one I gave was the same as the ones you analysed. I can’t prove I only gave one tablet. Can I?”
“So far as I know, you can’t.”
“I’ve thought of all that. I didn’t kill O’Callaghan. I threatened to kill him. You’ve seen Thoms. Thoms is a decent little ass, but I can see he thinks you suspect me. He’s probably told you I used a lot of water for the injection and then bit his head off because he said so. So I did. He drove me nearly crazy with his bloody facetiousness. Jane—Nurse Harden—told me what you’d said to her. You know a hell of a lot—I can see that. You possibly know what I’m going to tell you. I want her to marry me. She won’t, because of the other business with O’Callaghan. I think she believes I killed him. I think she was afraid at the time. That’s why she was so upset, why she hesitated over the serum, why she fainted. She was afraid I’d kill O’Callaghan. She heard Thoms tell me about that play. D’you know about the play?”
“Thoms mentioned that you discussed it.”
“Silly ass. He’s an intelligent surgeon, but in other matters he’s got as much savoir-faire as a child. He’d swear his soul away I didn’t do it and then blurt out something like that. What I want to make clear to you is this. Jane Harden’s distress in the theatre was on my account. She thinks I murdered O’Callaghan. I know she does, because she won’t ask me. Don’t, for God’s sake, put any other interpretation on it. She’s got a preposterous idea that she’s ruined my life. Her nerves are all to blazes. She’s anæmic and she’s hysterical. If you arrest me, she may come forward with some damn’ statement calculated to drag a red herring across my trail. She’s an idealist. It’s a type I don’t pretend to understand. She did nothing to the syringe containing the serum. When Thoms cursed her for delaying, I turned and looked at her. She simply stood there dazed and half fainting. She’s as innocent as—I was going to say as I am, but that may not carry much weight. She’s completely innocent.”