# The Death-Doctor/12

CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH A PATIENT GROWS CONFIDENTIAL
YOU may often, O most worthy brother-medico, persuade an old trout, even if he is not on the feed, to take a fly, by putting it over him time after time.
He seems to get tired of seeing the same old fly so often, and after following it down the stream many times he will ultimately rise at it, and then there's a fine old splash.
As in this delightful sport, so in my life, I have caught a wary old fish many a time by the above method. Living about two miles from Cromwell Road, in a lonely thoroughfare in the old part of Hammersmith, was one Michael Stone. His house, The Nook (save the word!), was a tumble-down old stone edifice, lying well back from the highway—an ugly, repulsive-looking dwelling in which "spooks," and such like, might well have their being.
​This dismal dwelling was inhabited by two people only, the old man above mentioned and his niece, a girl named Polly. The man had the reputation of being a miser, and certainly his appearance was suitable to the character. He was a tall, spare old man, with a long cadaverous face, a great aquiline nose, and straggling white hair. His niece was a short, buxom young woman with a nice manner and a soft, pleasing voice.
I was first called to The Nook to attend Mr. Stone for an attack of angina pectoris, a heart affection, which, as you know, is intensely painful, but not often fatal.
He was a difficult man to get on with—in fact he had no friends or visitors. I managed, however, to ingratiate myself both with uncle and niece, and went occasionally to the lonely old house to play draughts with my patient, a game to which he was very partial.
Now, as to the remarks about the trout and the fly. I regarded Michael Stone as a wary old fish, and I was constantly baiting him to let me into the secret of his supposed hoards of gold, if any, and if so, where? I was fairly certain that rumour did not speak falsely in the matter.
I was playing his favourite game with him ​in his only sitting-room one evening when he rose to my lure. His niece had gone to bed.
We had just finished a game, which I allowed him to win, and I got up as if to leave, when he stopped me, and said, "One moment, doctor; I have come to look upon you as a very honest and straightforward man." And he continued, "You have told me that sooner or later one of these horrible attacks of mine may be the end of me. I must, I suppose, make a will, and I want your assistance."
I had always treated him, during these attacks, with nitro-glycerine, but had never told him the name of the remedy or given him a prescription, in order, of course, to keep up a regular attendance upon him.
I mention this as a prelude to the incidents which occurred later.
"My dear Mr. Stone," I said, "of course if I can be of any use to you, I am always at your service."
"I felt sure you would help me, doctor," replied the old man. "Now I've been a saving man all my fife, and I've gold—gold I say—hidden. It is to go to my niece,—to Polly, but I want no lawyers prying round, and, mark you, no death duties. You shall ​help me, doctor, and you shall be paid for so doing. Listen to me. I've got my money in this house—but hush—let us talk in whispers—no one must hear us."
He bent over close to my ear and dropped his voice.
"Not a word to a soul, doctor. They think the poor old man has money. So he has," and here he gave another of his eerie cackles. "But they don't know how much. I love it, man, and Polly shall have it—but she doesn't know anything."
I had a shrewd idea that Polly did know something. But how much, I had to find out.
"Come with me, doctor," continued the old man.
He hobbled out of the room, his stick in one hand, a guttering candle in the other.
I followed with joy in my heart. I had at last achieved my end, at the cost of many a weary evening.
He reached the end of the corridor, opened a door which let in a rush of air, and we stepped into an empty stone-floored room, which had once, I thought, been a kitchen. The old man put the candle down on the empty hearth, and looked all around him. "Shut that door," said he, as he opened the ​old oven with shaking hands and drew out a bag, which—thanks be! gave forth the sound of coins.
"See here, doctor, this is gold, gold—all mine! I come here and count it—there are eight bags—eight hundred pounds." He was talking in an excited whisper, his eyes flashing and his hands trembling. "All mine—and nobody knows."
"I see," I said. "And all this is for Polly?"
"Yes! Yes! When I'm dead and gone. But this is not all. Come."
To make a short story of it, I followed him round the tumble-down old place into all sorts of queer and uncanny holes and corners, and by the time he had finished I was half-dazed with my luck.
He had just about seven thousand pounds in gold hidden away in that ramshackle old house, and this, except a small sum for Polly, would be a most acceptable addition to my very impoverished exchequer.
How much did Miss Polly know? How often had she followed her uncle in his midnight excursions? I must make it my business to find answers to these questions before assisting my patient across Styx.
​Shortly after showing me his money, Michael Stone had a bad attack of angina: I was often at the house, and consequently had the desired opportunity to become very friendly with the somewhat stolid and unconversational Polly.
I ultimately made her talk, and one day she confided in me that she knew her uncle had money hidden in the house.
"I saw him put a big bag up the old scullery chimney one night. The scullery is never used, you know."
"Did you find out what was in the bag, Polly?"
"Yes, I did, doctor, it was sovereigns."
"Keep an eye on that bag, Polly," I said. "It may be your fortune. But hasn't your uncle got more than that put away?"
"I haven't seen any more," she said. "There's a lot of money there."
This was a most satisfactory conversation. I could see my way clear.
I waste no time, when my way is straight, my dear Lanner-Brown, and on the day following my talk with Polly, I went to a motor establishment, and after much talking hired a small 12-14 horse-power car for a month.
I knew something of driving, but I obtained ​the services of a chauffeur, who knew the little car well, for a fortnight.
This deal, simple as it seemed, put the days of Mr. Michael Stone in this unhappy world at about twenty to thirty in number.
You see my plan?
Stone was to die; I was to remove the gold. Polly was to have what I thought safe and wise to leave.
The car turned out to be a little treasure, and in a week I could do anything with her in the way of driving. I dismissed the man; and for the future drove her myself.
I was now waiting.
Would the old man get ill, or had I to make him so?
He saved me the trouble.
Three weeks from the time I got the car I also got my opportunity.
About half-past eight in the morning of the day I mention, Polly sent me up a message, "Would I come at once?"
Would I come!
I sent word to her, "I would drive over as soon as I was dressed."
On arriving at the house, I left the car well inside the ramshackle old gate, and went right into the long, low sitting-room.
​On a shaky and ancient horse-hair sofa lay the miser, partly dressed. An expression of extreme agony—the fearful pain of angina—was on his face. The attack was a bad one—he might possibly die without assistance. Good! "He is very bad," I said to Polly. "I think I can relieve him for the time being, but I want a prescription made up. Will you go to the chemist, and get it?"
"Yes, doctor, but what about uncle?"
"Don't fear, I'll stay with him until you return," I answered. I gave her a note to give to the chemist—it was nothing important, but it got her out of the way.
It took me twenty minutes to put about five thousand pounds in gold into the car, and then I started on a search through the out-houses.
As I came back from my last journey I thought I would look at my patient.
As I entered the door of the room in which I had left him I felt a violent blow on my head; so severe was it that I dropped to the floor. I was not, however, knocked right out, and picking myself up, I looked round in a dazed, half sensible kind of way, wondering what had happened.
The figure of old Stone met my view. He ​was standing by the table—leaning on it with one hand, the other holding the heavy stick with which he had just attacked me.
His face was convulsed with fury. He tried to speak, but only the inarticulate sounds hissed out while he raised his stick as if to attack me again.
He had recovered temporarily from his seizure, although I could have sworn he was safe for an hour.
I stepped over to him, and, by a strong effort of will overcoming my repugnance at touching him, removed the stick from his hand. I had to use considerable force to take it, and then he tried hard to bite me, slavering over me in a most hateful manner that made me cross, and I hit him over the head hard enough to lay him out.
He dropped with a groan, and I immediately picked him up and carried him to his sofa.
Now, time was of the essence of the contract; Polly would soon be back.
Firstly, out came my chief friend, the dear little hypodermic, and into the shrivelled arm of the unconscious man went enough strychnine and cocaine for my purpose.
He should die in a fit. Then a run to the motor to see the gold covered up safely.
​Yes, all was well!
Now to put the room tidy and conceal any evidence of the unexpected conflict.
I looked at the old man's head. I had made a nasty bump on it which showed plainly. Why didn't the strychnine begin to act; then he could struggle and hurt himself!
He must have more. He was still quite quiet. Another injection and I sat down to wait.
Was the infernal stuff never going to act? I decided to go and meet Polly and delay her entrance to the room; she was due to be back.
I stopped her at the door, and said. "He's quiet and peaceful now; have you got the medicine?"
"Yes, doctor," she answered breathlessly.
At that moment, a fiendish scream rang through the house, and we both rushed to the old man.
He had started up from the sofa, and was in the midst of a severe convulsion, which very shortly brought his head and his heels almost together. The strychnine was at work.
"Oh, how awful," said Polly; "I never saw him like that before."
I did not attempt any treatment when Polly ​was there, she could not then say anything to my detriment in case any part of the day's work was discovered.
Michael Stone was now dying rapidly, and I told his niece this.
"I must go now," I said. "I am sorry I cannot do anything more to help you—but—but I will come over again later, and then we must see about your affairs. I will do all I can for you. Good-bye."
I was anxious to get the gold off the premises, and I wasted no time in starting the car.
I am not an expert in motors, and you can imagine my horror when I found the thing would not start.
Here was a pretty kettle of fish—after all my care and scheming to find myself utterly baulked by a beastly motor.
What was I to do?
The gold must come out—a big business; and where was it to go?
I glared around in an ecstasy of rage and desperation. If Polly were not about! I retraced my steps to the house, and found the girl watching the now rapidly dying man.
"Polly," I said. "my motor refuses to move; I must get a man out here to see to it. Will ​you take a message for me, if I sit here and look after your uncle?"
"I couldn't leave him now, doctor," she replied. "I hope you don't mind, but he's been kind to me in his way, and I should like to be with him till the end."
Nothing would go right.
"Very well," I answered. "I suppose I must go myself, but don't leave him for a second. You can't be too careful, Polly."
I went back to the old garden, and noticed lying in the evergreen shrubs a rusty old roller with a hollow drum.
This would do for a temporary hiding-place, and I proceeded rapidly to transfer the many bags of gold from the car to the interior of the roller. I then covered the open ends with some loose brambles, etc., and set off rapidly to get some one who knew enough about the vagaries of a car to come and help me.
When I returned in about an hour with a mechanic I found that death had released the wretched old man from his troubles.
I told the girl about her uncle's wishes, and that all he had was to go to her, after my bill had been paid. He owed no others.
"He's got his money hidden about, doctor. Do you know where it is?" she inquired.
​"No, Polly, I haven't an idea," I replied. "But to-night, if you like, I will come over and help you to find your fortune."
"Thank you very much; you are so good to me," she answered, her words punctuated with sobs.
I drove back again after dark, and found Polly restless and agitated; she had not yet found much money.
"I should so much like a cup of coffee, and I expect it would do you good," I suggested to her.
"I will make some at once," the girl replied, and in a few minutes returned with it.
I had some laudanum with me in a small glass phial, and took the opportunity of putting a fair dose into her cup when her back was turned.
I could not remove the gold in safety unless this restless girl was kept quiet.
"I feel very tired, doctor. I think I won't trouble you any more to-night," she said before long, and we went back to the room in which the miser had died, and in a few moments Polly was in a chair—fast asleep.
Now to work again. It had been a long, trying day—even my nervous system was feeling strained, and when the gold was once ​more aboard, and the 12-14 car was running smoothly home, I felt very thankful.
I saw Polly next day and she apologized for sleeping in the way she did.
Two thousand pounds, which was the amount she ultimately found, satisfied her thoroughly, but duty was paid on it, despite the wishes of the man who had collected and hoarded it to so little effect.
I'm afraid my "legacy" didn't last long. It's wonderful how money goes when you've got it in your pocket—at least, so far as I'm concerned.