# The Death-Doctor/14

CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH THE AVENUE ROAD MYSTERY IS EXPLAINED
Y OU will, perhaps, recall, my dear Brown one warm evening when you met me in the lounge of the Empire Theatre. I was with a thin, pasty-faced boy of nineteen in dinner-clothes, and with tuberculosis written plainly upon his countenance. You had just come back to London that day, after a month in Switzerland.
That night, I recollect, you chided me for ordering absinthe in the bar. I was highly amused. You believed, just as the world believed, that I was a staid and sober family-practitioner. Not so long ago such men as you and I wore coats of broad-cloth, like the family-lawyer, or the undertaker. Truly ours is a smug profession still, though we no longer affect the broadcloth and have exchanged the silk hat for the vulgar "bowler" of commerce.
​I remember how that night you described to me the merry "carryings-on" of some members of a musical comedy company you had met at Zermatt, and you invited me to tea at the "Carlton" with two of your lady-friends.
True, I took absinthe that night. Three hours before—in the Café de l'Europe next door—I had taught the boy how to drink it—with a motive.
Well, I suppose I may as well tell you the story now that I have laid bare to you the secrets of my eventful life. Patients repose confidence in me, men of my own profession like yourself consult me, and women call me their "dear doctor." I wear a mask—as impenetrable as the Sphinx, I believe. And yet, Brown, I daily curse myself as a brute—and worse.
But a man must hve in these hard times. The profession is over-crowded. You fellows, who lead a merry easy-going life at sea, away from letters and duns, with an ever-changing crowd of passengers and an "old man" who winks at your flirtations, can never fully realize the dreary drudgery of the unfortunate devil who practises medicine.
Nobody dreams that I practise a special—a very special—branch of it, namely toxicology. ​Yes, I practise it as other men practise bone-setting or surgical operations. I know my drugs, I know my doses, and, best of all, I know the effects—all by practise. But, unfortunately, the patients I have been compelled to practise upon till I had attained proficiency have, in many cases, been carried to their grave, and there interred upon my own certificate.
But I was telling you of the boy Ronald Snell, who was with me that night in the Empire.
Well, it happened in this way.
One August morning, about half-past ten o'clock, I was in the surgery of my old friend, Doctor Thring, in Alexandra Road, St. John's Wood. He had been called up to Dundee to see his brother who was dying, and had wired asking me to look after his practice for three days. He had a large one in and around Regent's Park, Chalk Farm, Kilburn and Hampstead, and in addition held the oflice of divisional surgeon of police. I had known him ever since our old days at Guy's, where Golding-Bird had picked him out as a coming surgeon—and so he was. He had already made his mark, while I—well, I had, perhaps, left my mark in another direction.
​I had just finished a batch of patients when the maid entered, telling me that a police-inspector in plain clothes wished to see me, and I, of course, gave orders for him to be admitted.
He was a dark-bearded, broad-shouldered man in a dark grey suit and a green Homburg hat, and on entering he told me that his name was Inspector Wills of the headquarters of the S Division of Metropolitan Pohce at Hampstead.
"I've called, doctor, to ask you to accompany us to a house in Avenue Road," he said. "Half an hour ago we received this by post at the station," and he handed me a single sheet of note-paper, upon which the following words were type-written:
"If the Superintendent of Police will have search made at Baronsviere House, Avenue Road, he will make a discovery. Circumstances have forced the writer to take his life, rather than face exposure and hear the punishment."
"Suicide, eh?" I remarked, handing back the letter to the inspector. "Very well, I'll come with you."
And I put on my hat and went forth into the road, where a constable in plain clothes—whose name I afterwards learnt was Saunders—stood awaiting us.
​A short walk through Boundary Road and St. John's Wood Park brought us into Avenue Road, where, half-way down on the left, Wills halted, saying:
"Here we are. This is the house—the house of the mystery! I wonder what we shall find!"
"The place has been to let furnished for nearly a year, sir," Saunders remarked. "See! the board is still up. I was on this beat three months ago and, funnily enough, one night, though the place was closed, I could have sworn that I saw a light in one of those upper windows. But afterwards I decided that it was only a reflection upon the glass."
The house, a large old-fashioned detached one, stood back behind a high wall. Above its iron gate was displayed a weather-worn board, announcing that the place was to let furnished, while, seen from the road, the premises bore a faded, neglected air. The garden-paths were weedy, the beds entangled and over-grown, while the yellow blinds, all of which were drawn, were limp, dirty and discoloured.
Smartly painted well-kept houses were on either side, their gardens bright with geraniums, ​dahlias and flowering creepers, therefore the dwelling in question looked very shabby and neglected in contrast.
My two companions, who had stopped before the gate, glanced apprehensively up and down the road, for they did not wish to attract attention in entering.
"It certainly does look a house of mystery," I said, when, after pretending to chat together at the kerb for a few moments, the inspector suddenly unlatched the gate and stepped inside the neglected garden.
Wills leisurely ascended the dirty moss-grown front steps; I following, while his subordinate went round to the servants' entrance. Then Wills pulled the big knob.
The bell could be heard clanging loudly within. But there was no response.
Another bell rang. It was Saunders at the back door.
Again and again the two officers rang and knocked, but nothing stirred, though both men stood listening intently, their ears strained at the doors.
I glanced around and there saw traces of recent footsteps where we stood. There was the mark of a muddy boot upon the step of the door. It must have been made by some ​intruder a month before, because no rain had fallen in London during that period.
Upon the steps, and in the garden, were wisps of straw and pieces of waste paper, the drift of the London street, blown there by the wind. Old boots and rags, tossed over the wall, lay about, and amid the tangle some stunted roses, defying the disorder, were blooming.
In a few moments we went to the rear of the premises, and at the inspector's orders Saunders produced from his pocket a putty knife, and made an attempt to push back the catch of the scullery window. But the sash could not be lifted. It had been secured by two long screws passing through the sashes.
Three windows we tried, and each gave the same result, whereupon the inspector said: "We must force the door."
From his inner pocket Saunders produced a short but business-like steel jemmy of the type used by burglars—indeed, it was, they told me, one which had been found upon a member of that fraternity—and quickly commenced work upon the back door.
At first he could make no impression upon it, but after about ten minutes there was a sound of the cracking of wood, and the ​sockets of the bolts being wrenched off under the leverage, the door flew open. Then we all three entered.
The kitchen showed signs of recent occupancy, for upon the table stood dirty plates and dishes, while in the range were dead cinders, and upon it stood several dirty pots and pans, showing that a meal had recently been cooked there.
"I always thought the house was empty!" exclaimed Saunders.
"We have it on the list as unoccupied," declared the inspector. "Whoever is here certainly has no right to be. Let's go on."
We ascended the kitchen stairs and searched the ground-floor rooms, finding a large, old-fashioned, heavily-furnished dining-room, where stood the remains of a meal of which three persons had partaken. The drawing-room furniture was covered with a pretty pink-and-white chintz of old design, while the library was cosy and well appointed.
In the bright sunshine of that August morning, however, the place presented a very dirty and neglected appearance. As Saunders drew up the blinds, dirt and disorder were everywhere revealed. The place had not been cleaned for many months, and the neglect ​became the more apparent when we ascended the wide, well-carpeted staircase to the bed-rooms above. Searching one room after another, we saw that all the beds had been slept in, the soiled bed-linen having been flung back without the beds being re-made.
Entering one of the front rooms, both men gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, for there, in the semi-darkness, lay the crouching figure of a man upon the carpet near the fire-place.
Saunders drew up the blind, allowing the sunlight to stream in, when several strange features became revealed. The dead man's face, as he lay turned towards them, was white as marble, but shrivelled and distorted out of all recognition, while grasped in his hand was a heavy Browning revolver, one chamber of which had been discharged, the tell-tale bullet having lodged just above the heart.
I fell upon my knees and quickly examined him.
"Suicide!" I said at last. "He's been dead nine or ten hours, I should say."
"He's quite unrecognizable. Dr. d'Escombe," remarked Wills. "I've seen a good many suicides in my time, but I've never seen ​such a transformation in the face before. Look at his eyes. They are narrow and drawn—like a Chinaman's!"
"Yes," I answered, calmly reflectmg. I saw at once that the case was a mysterious one, though I kept my own counsel.
I judged the deceased to be about thirty. He was in well-cut evening clothes, and wore upon his finger a fine ruby ring, while in his shirt-front were two diamond studs.
Quickly the two police-officers bent and searched the body, establishing the fact that the tabs bearing the tailor's name had been cut out of the man's clothes, thus revealing a determination upon his part not to be identified.
"He'd committed some crime and feared arrest," I remarked; "that is quite apparent from his letter. Therefore, he has taken every precaution to conceal his identity."
"Didn't wish to bring scandal and disgrace upon his friends, I suppose," said Wills. "We'll search the room, Saunders."
Then, as he turned towards the dressing-table, he saw, lying upon it, a note, addressed also in type-writing, "To the Police."
He tore it open and within found a twenty-pound note, together with a slip of paper, ​upon which were the words: "To defray the cost of my interment in Woking Cemetery."
I was at that moment crossing the room, when my eye caught a small ball of paper, which had been screwed up and flung into the fire-place.
I picked it up and on smoothing it out, found the words, written in a bold, round hand:
"Riddle:—The Wasp can no longer sting." Wills, to whom I handed it, read and re-read the cryptic words.
"I wonder what that means, doctor? Can this be the wasp?" he asked, glancing at the dead man. "Or did he wish to show his defiance of somebody known as 'The Wasp'—that he can no longer be stung by him!"
"'The Wasp' is perhaps some spiteful person," I remarked.
"Yes," replied the inspector; "there seems a good deal of mystery regarding this affair."
Both my companions made a tour of the bedrooms, and the attics upstairs, but discovered nothing else to attract their attention. Saunders was sent to the station to report the gruesome find.
When he had gone Wills unlocked the front-door, and then re-ascended with me to where the dead man lay.
​He was, I found, a careful and painstaking officer, popular with his men, but not particularly shrewd in the detection of crime.
Being in the uniformed branch of the service, he left investigation to the officers of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to the head-quarters of his Division.
But several facts struck me as curious in this case. And as we stood there, in the presence of the dead, I tried to form some theory as to the reason of that unknown man's suicide.
The body was quite cold, therefore death must have occurred many hours before. Who was he? Why had he intruded there in that empty house, when he apparently had had money at his command, as witnessed by the twenty-pound note upon the dressing-table? And why was he so anxious to announce his defiance?
While standing there in silence in the presence of that dead man with the queerly distorted face—contracted it seemed into a weird, hideous grin—I formed the conclusion that, whoever he was, he had actually been in imminent peril of arrest. Somebody, probably the person referred to as "The Wasp," had given away his secret. And his open defiance was ​now shown by that scrap of paper. "The Wasp can no longer sting!" Why? Because his victim was dead.
But that distorted countenance puzzled me greatly.
Again I examined the wound, and saw at once that it was a mortal one. The muzzle of the pistol had been held close against the shirt front, the hole in which was brown and blackened.
By the remains of food in the dining-room, he had had two companions there. Who were they? Surely they would come forward and make some statement.
"It's a complete mystery, Dr. d'Escombe, isn't it?" exclaimed the inspector, turning to me.
It certainly was, and it had greatly aroused my curiosity. But, determined to investigate matters myself, I affected indifference and said:
"Merely a case of suicide during temporary insanity. I'll make the post-mortem this afternoon, if you'll have the body removed to the mortuary."
"Very well, sir," was the man's reply.
"But you didn't go up into the attics, doctor, did you?"
I replied in the negative.
​"I'd like you to see one room, doctor, if you don't mind coming up," he said, and I followed him to the top of the house, where we entered a long room, with sloping roof, in which I saw some steel cog-wheels and several pieces of frames of machines, the nature of which it was impossible to determine.
"It looks as though this was used as a workshop," I said.
"Yes, that's just the point, doctor."
"An inventor's workshop—a mad inventor, probably," I said.
"I must call Syms, our C.I.D. man," the inspector said, "and I shall leave it to him."
"There's little to leave," I declared with a laugh. "The man was evidently wanted on a criminal charge and simply shot himself to escape arrest, giving your people notice of his intentions. He says so in his letter to the Superintendent. He was probably some crank inventor."
"All we have to determine is the cause of death," Wills remarked.
"That's easily settled," I said. "Bullet-wound, self-inflicted."
And with my pronouncement the estimable official expressed himself entirely satisfied.
​I walked back to Thring's house in Alexandra Road, full of serious reflections.
The word "Riddle" kept recurring to me. I had certainly seen it several times recently, but where, I could not for the life of me recollect.
Suddenly, just as I entered the house, I remembered. I had noticed it in an advertisement in the Morning Post.
I rushed into the waiting-room, where a copy of that day's paper lay upon the table and searched it.
Yes! In the "agony" column was an advertisement—a copy of those very words written upon that discarded scrap of paper—a declaration that "The Wasp" could no longer sting!
Half an hour later I drove in Thring's car down to the office of the paper in the Strand, and there searched diligently through the files for the past six months.
In them I found nearly a dozen different cryptic communications to "Riddle," but so carefully worded that of none could the actual meaning be determined.
Unknown to Wills, I had, while in that house of mystery, made one discovery. I had found in one of the leather seats of the ​dining-room chairs a hair-pin, which went to show that one of the man's companions at that last meal of which he had partaken had been a woman. In addition, Wills had failed to notice that, behind the couch in the drawing-room, there lay a crumpled piece of pale salmon coloured ribbon-velvet. It had a hook on one end and an eye on the other.
Therefore, it had been worn around the woman's hair, and had probably fallen off unnoticed.
Who was the woman?
With the assistance of a local medical man named Neale I made a post-mortem, and we at once declared it to be a case of suicide—a verdict which the coroner's jury returned unanimously next day.
But nobody knew that, for the purposes of further investigation, I had preserved in a phial a small quantity of the blood of the unidentified suicide.
Inspector Syms, the officer of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to the head-quarters of the S Division at Hampstead, told me that the owner of the house called Baronsmere was a retired stockbroker named Charlesworth. It had been let three years ago on a ten years' lease to a German importer ​named Heinrich Otto, who, unknown to the owner, was apparently trying to sub-let it furnished. Otto, who paid the rent regularly, had returned to Hamburg a year before, leaving the house in the hands of local agents, while Mr. Charlesworth resided somewhere down in Cornwall.
Herr Otto was described as a short, stout, fair-headed man of forty-five, who wore round, gold-rimmed spectacles. But even though the features of the suicide were so distorted, they could not have in any way resembled those of the German.
The mystery, though dismissed by police and public, was, to me, a most remarkable and interesting one, because I had established one amazing fact most clearly—a fact utterly unsuspected and yet astounding.
I had made a discovery, and saw that, if I exercised a constant vigil, I might possibly turn my knowledge to considerable monetary advantage.
You know, my dear Brown, that I'm in a chronic state of being hard-up. I was then. I wanted money, and I had devised a deep scheme to secure it.
Well, that night, and for a good many nights afterwards I haunted the Avenue Road. ​Fortunately the papers were too occupied with the Camden Town mystery to take any notice of a mere suicide in an unoccupied house, hence no public curiosity had been aroused, and I was able to pursue my nocturnal vigils without let or hindrance.
Thring had buried his brother and returned, therefore I had gone back to my own practice in Cromwell Road, and each evening, after I had seen the last of my patients, I changed my attire and took a taxi up to St. John's Wood to continue my weary watch.
It was a mere toss-up. I might succeed, if only my usual good luck would follow me. But there were a great many chances against me.
By Jove! I was desperately hard-up at the time. The fine pearl pin I wore in my cravat only cost half a crown and my emerald ring—the one you admired so much one day—was bought for a sovereign. All the little bits of jewellery I possessed had gone to safe keeping.
Really, I don't know what our most honourable profession is coming to when a hard-working man like myself—and a favourite among the ladies—can't get a living. If it had not been for my trusty little hypodermic I should have gone under long ago.
​I daresay that, having read my confessions so far, you have begun to feel that I was a dangerous man. But not half so dangerous, I assure you, as some men who practise medicine—and profit by it. Know your drug, know your dose, and know its effect, and you can, with the aid of your hypodermic, play with men and women just as you please. The world itself is but a plaything in the hands of the clever practitioner who specializes in toxicology. Oh, yes. Brown! I could tell you some things even stranger than those I have written down here in the silent watches of the night. But I have refrained, because I fear that certain unscrupulous persons who may read these lines might be tempted to make similar experiments upon their fellow-men.
My little hypodermic, which lies here in its well-worn case as I write, has been my best friend throughout my career. It has brought to me more money in five seconds than I can earn by practise in five years. By its marvellous aid I can make the old feel young, and the miser generous; the sad will yell with side-splitting laughter, and the merry will become full of grief; the careful will gamble, and the good staid woman will cast virtue to the winds. Can any weapon be more terrible in ​the hands of a man who is hard-up, and who is not hampered by conscience?
Ah, Brown, I often think how many practitioners are, like myself, compelled to keep up appearances upon a limited income, and in addition, most probably, have some secret feminine entanglement. To the doctor are confessed the family secrets, and well—in many cases, he can, if he so wishes, profit very considerably by his knowledge.
I was telling you, however, of how I watched that dark, unlit, neglected house in Avenue Road—watched it nightly from dark until dawn—and yet without result.
I suppose quite a fortnight must have gone by when one overcast night, at about half-past one, while in a shabby suit and golf-cap, I lounged at the corner of Avenue Road, I saw a taxi stop about a hundred yards away, and from it there descended a man, with an old woman in a black bonnet and shawl.
They paid the driver, and the cab having moved off, the pair strolled along slowly towards where I was standing in the shadow, and suddenly entered the gate of the tenantless house.
Their actions surprised me, and my curiosity being aroused, I crept along the pavement ​and watched them silently ascend the front steps and carefully let themselves in with a latch-key.
When the door had closed, I stood wondering what course to pursue. Here, most certainly, were the intruders who came at night to that empty house with some secret design.
As I watched, I saw upon the blinds of the dining-room the flash of an electric torch. The light showed from room to room. They appeared to be searching the house. The situation was a peculiar one. If I alarmed the police, then my own scheme would at once be negatived. So I watched and waited.
Presently, after twenty minutes or so, the young man emerged stealthily and descended the steps. He would have encountered me had I not previously taken the precaution to conceal myself inside the small garden.
Then I made a sudden resolve. The old woman was alone within, so I would enter and demand an explanation.
I got in by the pantry window—which I had purposely unlatched and unscrewed when inside with the detectives—and crept upstairs to the dining-room, where a faint light showed. Peering through the crevice of the door, I ​saw the hook-nosed old woman, her bonnet and shawl removed, seated at the table with a lighted candle, carefully counting a number of bank-notes.
The dim light falling upon her revealed a thin, careworn, wrinkled face, with dark, deep-sunken eyes, high cheek bones and grey hair—an evil, repulsive countenance. Her long, brown hands fingered the notes as she murmured to herself in counting. Upon the table lay a shabby leather vanity-bag from which she had apparently taken the large sum she was counting.
Suddenly, without warning, I stepped into the room and confronted her.
She grabbed the notes beneath her hand, and sat staring at me, open-mouthed, immovable as a statue.
"Well, madam!" I exclaimed in a hard voice. "Perhaps you will explain your presence here in this house, eh?"
"Explain!" she cried. "Why should I? Who are you?"
"I am a person, madam, who knows your secret," was my reply. "A man who, if you so desire, is ready and anxious to help you, and become your friend."
"Why do you wish to become my friend, ​pray?" she inquired incredulously in a thin, croaking voice.
"Well—you would prefer me as friend, rather than enemy, I suppose?" was my meaning reply.
She had hastily swept up the bundle of notes and replaced them in her shabby bag.
"I don't know you, sir," said the old woman, "and, moreover, I don't want to know you."
"Probably not—because I could blow this whistle and give you at once into custody," I said with a dry laugh.
The old woman's eyes narrowed perceptibly, and she started at my words.
"This house is a house of secrets," I went on, "and the police are extremely anxious to discover what really happened here one night about three weeks ago. They are still in ignorance—but I alone know."
"You know!" gasped the woman, staring at me.
"Yes. I know that a certain young man found in this place did not shoot himself. He was enticed here—and then delberately murdered. Madam, I give you and your friends due credit for a wonderful astuteness and knowledge. The whole plot was really ​remarkable, and the simulation of suicide perfect.
The typed letter to the police, the draft advertisement, the previous announcements in the Morning Post, all show that, controlling this sinister business, there is some master mind. I want to meet him. Who is he?"
"Very likely that I would tell—eh?" she laughed.
"Better tell me," I said. "You know his secrets, hence you will sooner or later die, as all who have known his secrets have died by some subtle and unsuspected means—died like that young man died."
It was a wild shot of mine, but the old woman gave vent to a low, harsh laugh.
"I think not," she said confidently. "I can take care of myself."
"And the young man who has just left this house is marked down as the next victim—eh?" I asked in a low, dry tone.
She was silent for a moment. Then she raised her thin, intelligent face to mine, and said:
"I realize that, whoever you are, you know something."
"My name is More d'Escombe. I am a medical man," was my brief reply. "It is true that I am in full possession of the means ​employed to encompass the death of that poor fellow upon whom I made a post-mortem."
"You know—the truth!" she gasped, her bony cheeks blanched, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the table, her dark eyes staring at me in horror.
"I do," was my cold response, as I gazed in triumph full in her face. "I will be quite frank with you, and so you must be frank with me." I went on. "I have myself had some little experience with the drug used. I know its dose, and also its effect. The expression upon the dead man's face alone told to me the plain truth. Who was he? What was his name?"
She refused to answer; my words seemed to hold her paralysed in fear.
"Come," I said. "We are alone here. And—well, I may, I suppose, be perfectly open with you—I'm prepared to assist you if it is made worth my while. If not—then we may as well remain strangers."
I had seen that bundle of notes in her hands, and sight of them had aroused within me that fatal avarice which has, alas! more than once been so nearly the cause of my undoing.
"Come," I repeated. "What was his name?"
​"Lionel Wray," she blurted out, feeling that further resistance was useless, in view of the knowledge I possessed.
"He was enticed here and robbed—as others have been," I said, looking straight into her face. "Who is your male friend? Not that boy who has just left you," and then, in order to emphasize my coolness, I took out a cigarette and lit it.
"My friend is dead," she said. "He died suddenly in Paris a week ago—the result of an accident."
"A bad accident?"
"No, a slight scratch."
"And his was the master-mind, eh?"
"He was a medical man, like yourself. Dr. More d'Escombe," responded the old woman, looking straight at me.
"And he killed himself by accident—eh? Confess it."
"Yes," she responded. "That is unfortunately the truth."
"And you are now in need of a friend?"
"I am."
"Some other person knows the secret of this house," I said. "Who is he?"
I was wondering from what source that tempting bundle of notes had been derived, ​and whether some of them could not be transferred to my own pocket.
"That young man, Ronald Snell, who came here with me. He is the son of the man who died in Paris. He—well," and she lowered her voice, "the fact is, he knows too much."
"And it would be to your advantage if——"
"Yes, if—if something happened," she whispered quickly.
"Ah, I see," I exclaimed, fully realizing her meaning. "But what does he know?"
"Everything. His father—whose real name was Heinrich Otto, but who sometimes took the name of Snell—foolishly let him into the secret of the business transacted here—a paying business, doctor," she laughed.
"What was that?"
"The printing of these," and she touched the little handbag containing the bank-notes.
"Then Otto was a forger?" I exclaimed in surprise, suddenly recollecting the pieces of discarded machinery in the attics.
"Otto was a German doctor, who was also an expert engraver. He prepared the notes, while I travelled across the Continent and changed them. A year ago, however, the ​suspicions of the Paris police became aroused and I was followed back here to London. Whereupon Otto closed the house, put up the board to let and fled to Germany. Then, when all suspicion had died down, he returned and lived in rooms in Camden Town, only visiting this place at night. For what reason you may guess."
"Men were enticed here, drugged and robbed," I said.
She nodded in the affirmative.
"Lionel Wray was not the only person who lost his life in this house, no doubt. A man who knew the exact dose of ergotonin, as this Otto did, must have practised upon other victims," I said.
"Then you know the drug?" exclaimed the old woman with a queer, harsh laugh. "You know something of drugs?"
"I do—perhaps as much as your friend Otto did."
"Then you will help me, Dr. More d'Escombe?" she said quickly. "Five thousand pounds to your bank on the day that young Ronald breathes his last."
I hesitated. She might so easily back out of her part of the bargain. My main object was a sum in advance.
​"You're offer is certainly rather tempting, Mrs.——"
"Netherall," she interrupted.
"Well, Mrs. Netherall," I said, "I hardly yet understand why you are so very anxious to rid yourself of the boy."
I wanted to learn the whole story.
"I require your assistance, doctor, and I'm prepared to pay for it," replied the crafty old woman, whose keen, dark eyes glittered with evil in the candle-light. "I know that you were called in by the police when they found young Wray. It was a master-stroke of old Otto's. The police believed it to be a case of suicide in order to avoid arrest."
"But there were circumstances which might easily have aroused suspicion," I pointed out.
"A meal had been eaten at this table, and the remains left. Why?"
"Old Heinrich laughed at the police. He typed the letter, and posted it himself. He always declared that the police were idiots, and was fond of proving it."
"But the advertisements. Who was 'Riddle?'"
"A riddle of his own creation. He invented it in order to mystify and mislead the police."
​I explained how, recognizing the poison used, I had watched the house each night.
"Not every night," she laughed. "Three times at least you have missed, for we've been here on three occasions."
"What was the motive of getting rid of young Wray?" I asked.
"The same as the others. To close his lips. He was a clerk at a money-changer's in Moorgate Street, and he one day recognized Otto as a man who had exchanged at a bureau de change in Calais, two forged thousand-franc notes for English gold. Otto became friendly and Wray sought, of course, to learn more. He accepted an invitation to supper here, intending to give away his friend to the police next day. But—well, he did not live to do so, that's all!"
"Several persons have, I suppose, been assisted out of the world in a similar manner by Otto?" I remarked.
She nodded with an evil grin.
"Why do you fear his son? Surely he should fear you, Mrs. Netherall?"
"No. In this house, up in the attic, Heinrich Otto had seventy thousand pounds' worth of forged French notes concealed—notes which he printed before he gave up the work ​and cleared out the machinery—as well as two thousand pounds in genuine English banknotes. I knew their hiding-place and, daring detection, I came here and took them a week ago. Unfortunately, however, the old man, before he left England, told his son where they were. The boy is searching for them, and suspects me of stealing them. If I do not refund them he will go to the police and tell them the whole truth."
"H'm. Pretty awkward for you, eh? I suppose he can tell them some rather queer stories."
"He can. And the worst of it is that the infernal boy has clean hands."
I rose from the chair where I had been sitting, and, assuming my stiffest professional manner, said:
"I'm afraid that it is not in my power to assist you, Mrs. Netherall. I much regret it."
"Not if I give you five thousand pounds in good notes—in gold if you like. You are a clever doctor, and surely the little affair would not be difficult."
"Madam, I am not in the habit of performing such services," I said in stern rebuke.
"What?" she gasped, staring at me in horror as she rose. "You refuse?"
​"As far as I can see my best course is to make a statement to the police," I said, my manner entirely changed.
"To give me away!" she cried. "I—I thought you were my friend."
But I only lit another cigarette, laughing in her ugly face.
Her wrinkled countenance went pale as death. Then, a second later, she turned crimson in anger.
"Dr. d'Escombe, you are, indeed, clever. You have induced me to make a clean breast of the affair, and having done so, you refuse to help me."
"Madam," I said in a low, earnest tone, "I am an honourable man. I do not take human life without compunction, as did your German friend."
"But surely your scruples can be put aside? Five thousand pounds is a substantial sum, remember."
"And you will profit how much? You have French notes of the face value of seventy thousand. If they are worth anything at all you can get fifty thousand for them from persons who, like yourself, deal in such commodities. And you offer me five thousand!"
"It is a good fee for five minutes' work, is it not?"
​"The work would take less, but the risk is life-long."
"You don't trust me?" she exclaimed, looking at me with a hard, evil expression.
"Well, we were strangers till half an hour ago," I replied.
"And if I increased the figure how would you propose to act?"
"Ah! I should have to first make the young gentleman's acquaintance and diagnose his case," I said with a smile.
But she remained silent. She evidently did not intend to put down any sum in advance. By Jove, old chap! I was desperate at that moment, fighting against bankruptcy day after day. Still, as you know, I never believe in tracking small game. So I affected complete indifference.
"I'll increase it by another thousand," the old woman croaked at last.
"Two thousand paid down now," I insisted.
"If you wish," was her answer with some reluctance. "But this is blackmail!"
"To-morrow will do. But my figure is two thousand down for silence and assistance. I will meet you anywhere by appointment. The bank-notes in this house are not altogether to my liking. I'm perfectly candid," I laughed.
​"These are all right," she declared, pointing to her bag. "But, if you wish, I'll meet you to-morrow at eleven o'clock outside Westminster Station, on the Embankment. You can then take the notes to any bank and change them."
"And five thousand this day week?"
"If the desired event has occurred by then."
I saw a blotting pad upon the sideboard, and crossing to it got her to write a few scribbled lines of agreement, which she duly signed.
Then taking leave of her I left the house of mystery.
The manner in which Lionel Wray had been killed and the way in which the affair had been made to simulate suicide betrayed the artist. That was certainly not the first occasion on which Heinrich Otto had used ergotonin with criminal intent. He had been aware—by demonstration most probably—of its action in instantly arresting the flow of the blood, of producing a marble-like pallor, and of contracting the superficial muscles of the face, thereby rendering the victim unrecognizable even by his nearest friends. The drug had been administered first, and directly afterwards the shot had been fired and the ​weapon placed in the dead man's hand, the muscles of which had afterwards contracted.
Yes. The more I reflected upon Heinrich Otto, the more did I wonder to what extent he had used his toxicological knowledge. He had, no doubt, been a perfect artist in his branch of the profession.
Next morning at eleven I met the old woman at Westminster, and from her received twenty Bank of England notes for one hundred pounds each, which, a quarter of an hour later, I deposited at my own bank in Fleet Street, thus finding myself with a welcome balance.
In that hour the fate of young Ronald Snell was sealed.
Next day, while in the bar of the Leicester Lounge, in Leicester Square, I managed to scrape up an acquaintance with him. At first he was rather shy of me, but thanks, perhaps, to my ultra-respectable appearance and sedate manner, we quickly became on friendly terms.
I had taken a bedroom and sitting-room at the Savoy Hotel, and on the following day he called to see me. He dined with me, and we went out to the White City afterwards.
Next day and the next we met, for I took pains to ingratiate myself with him. He was ​a silly hoy, even though well versed in the vices of London life. In ignorance of my acquaintance with Mrs. Netherall, his late father's accomplice, he led me to believe that he was the son of a Manchester merchant, and that his slight German accent had been acquired during his school-days at Wiesbaden.
On the night you met me at the Empire, we had dined together at the Savoy, and perhaps you may have noticed that he was without gloves. He had left them behind in the sitting-room.
Something of a dandy, Ronald Snell, son of the great forger and toxicologist, was most particular about his gloves—pale grey suede ones. Only when in a taxi on our way to the Empire did he discover, to his annoyance, that he had left them behind.
"Never mind, my dear fellow. You'll go back with me to supper, and then you can get them," I said reassuringly.
That afternoon I had introduced him to absinthe while we had sat at one of those little tables in the Café de l'Europe, in Leicester Square. After we left you we returned there, and he had yet another absinthe, I was trying an experiment.
Then we took a taxi to the Savoy, where ​we had supper and sat afterwards sipping curagoa, watching the half-world of London, and listening to the Roumanian band.
Upon my companion the combination of absinthe and champagne had already had its effect. He was bright and merry, declaring that, thanks to me, he had spent a most delightful day.
When the lights went down and a warning voice announced that the time-limit had expired, we ascended in the lift to my sitting-room.
"You want your gloves," I said. "There they are."
They were lying upon the sideboard, where he had left them, but as he drew on the left hand one he exclaimed in a thick, indistinct voice:
"By Jove! Why—why a beastly pin has got into the thumb! And I've pricked myself badly."
And he drew off the glove quickly and examined his thumb beneath the light. Upon the puncture was a tiny bead of dark blood.
I glanced at it critically, and then laughing, declared:
"Oh, that's nothing," and looking at the pin, added: "It isn't rusty, so there can be no danger."
​"Well," he said, "you're a doctor, so you ought to know," and he laughed an idiotic laugh. Then slowly he replaced the glove, while I cast the offending pin into the fireplace.
For the next three days we were inseparable, but on the fourth morning I received a message over the telephone from his rooms in Down Street, saying that he was feeling very unwell and asking me to call.
I went, and as soon as I saw him I felt inwardly satisfied.
"Not quite the thing, eh?" I exclaimed cheerily, feeling his pulse.
"No, d'Escombe. I feel horribly ill," the young fellow declared. "Look at my thumb; I believe I've poisoned it somehow."
It was red and inflamed, but, fortunately, owing to the alcohol he had consumed at the Savoy, he had no recollection of the slight pin-prick.
"It certainly looks a bit red," I said. "I'll go out to the chemist's and get something to dress it with."
Presently I bandaged it with a little harmless ointment, and assured him he would be better on the morrow.
Next day, however, I found a marked ​constitutional disturbance, together with an eruption on the surface of the body.
He had noticed it and suggested that Dr. Macdonald, a medical man he had consulted before, and who lived in Paddington, should be called. To this I raised no objection. Therefore, my estimable colleague saw him, made an independent diagnosis, and was much puzzled next day by the eruption which had at first appeared papular and was now assuming a pustular form. He found the nasal mucous membrane secondarily infected, and thence inflammatory swelling was spreading to the tissues of the face.
When we consulted, Macdonald acknowledged himself in complete ignorance of the disease from which the patient was suffering, an ignorance which, of course, I also affected.
As day succeeded day, Macdonald attended him, but he grew no better. His symptoms were of rapid pyæmia, and on the ninth day Ronald Snell breathed his last, while both Macdonald and his partner, a man named Booth, were, as I expected, utterly at a loss to diagnose the actual disease.
They were unaware that the pin in the young man's suede glove had been infected with a stroke culture I had carefully incubated ​on potato, the bacillus of glanders—a malady which is extremely difficult to diagnose. Fortunately, the truth was quite unsuspected, or they would have applied mallein, and by its means discovered the inoculation.
Thus did I assist the son of Heinrich Otto, the expert toxicologist, out of the world, and on the day of his burial in Highgate Cemetery, I became the richer by five thousand pounds.
I have often wondered what became of old Mrs. Netherall. I have never seen her since that afternoon when we parted outside my bank in Fleet Street, where I had paid in the bank-notes which she handed to me in acknowledgment of my services.
My vigil upon that tenantless house in Avenue Road was certainly a long and tedious one, but surely my patience was well rewarded.
I spent the month of October at Monte Carlo, just for another little flutter, and in order to get some nasty tastes out of my mouth. But bad luck dogged me once again, for I, alas! lost every sou at the tables—all except a couple of hundred.
I've often thought it curious that such little windfalls to a doctor do him so very little good.