What in the world was Smith doing at Skimmings’s house?
An odd business altogether. If Skimmings’s housekeeper had known about that money…But she had not known, and if she had, how could she have found out about Smith and his sulphate of…the word had been on the tip of his tongue, then.
“You would not need to find me. I should find you.” What had the man meant by that? But this was ridiculous. Smith was not the devil, presumably. But if he really had this secret — if he liked to put a price upon it — nonsense.
“Business at Rugby — a little bit of business at Skimmings’s house.”
Oh, absurd!
“Nobody is fit to be trusted. Absolute power over another man’s life…it grows on you. That is, I imagine it would.”
Lunacy! And, if there was anything in it, the man was mad to tell Pender about it. If Pender chose to speak he could get the fellow hanged. The very existence of Pender would be dangerous.
That whiskey!
More and more, thinking it over, Pender became persuaded that he had never poured it out. Smith must have done it while his back was turned. Why that sudden display of interest in the bookshelves?
It had had no connection with anything that had gone before. Now Pender came to think of it, it had been a very stiff whiskey. Was it imagination, or had there been something about the flavor of it?
A cold sweat broke out on Pender’s forehead.
A quarter of an hour later, after a powerful dose of mustard and water, Pender was downstairs again, very cold and shivering, huddling over the fire. He had had a narrow escape — if he had escaped.
He did not know how the stuff worked, but he would not take a hot bath again for some days. One never knew.
Whether the mustard and water had done the trick in time, or whether the hot bath was an essential part of the treatment, at any rate Pender’s life was saved for the time being. But he was still uneasy. He kept the front door on the chain and warned his servant to let no strangers into the house.
He ordered two more morning papers and the News of the World on Sundays, and kept a careful watch upon their columns. Deaths in baths became an obsession with him. He neglected his first editions and took to attending inquests.
Three weeks later he found himself at Lincoln. A man had died of heart failure in a Turkish bath — a fat man, of sedentary habits.
The jury added a rider to their verdict of accidental death to the effect that the management should exercise a stricter supervision over the bathers and should never permit them to be left unattended in the hot room.
As Pender emerged from the hall he saw ahead of him a shabby hat that seemed familiar. He plunged after it, and caught Mr. Smith about to step into a taxi.
“Smith,” he cried, gasping a little. He clutched him fiercely by the shoulder.
“What, you again?” said Smith. “Taking notes of the case, eh? Can I do anything for you?”
“You devil!” said Pender. “You’re mixed up in this! You tried to kill me the other day.”
“Did I? Why should I do that?”
“You’ll swing for this,” shouted Pender menacingly.
A policeman pushed his way through the gathering crowd.
“Here!” said he. “What’s all this about?”
Smith touched his forehead significantly.
“It’s all right, Officer,” said he. “The gentleman seems to think I’m here for no good. Here’s my card. The coroner knows me. But he attacked me. You’d better keep an eye on him.”
“That’s right,” said a bystander.
“This man tried to kill me,” said Pender.
The policeman nodded.
“Don’t you worry about that, sir,” he said. “You think better of it. The ’eat in there has upset you a bit. All right, all right.”
“But I want to charge him,” said Pender.
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” said the policeman.
“I tell you,” said Pender, “that this man Smith has been trying to poison me. He’s a murderer. He’s poisoned scores of people.”
The policeman winked at Smith.
“Best be off, sir,” he said. “I’ll settle this. Now, my lad”—he held Pender firmly by the arms—“just you keep cool and take it quiet.
That gentleman’s name ain’t Smith nor nothing like it. You’ve got a bit mixed up like.”
“Well, what is his name?” demanded Pender.
“Never mind,” replied the constable. “You leave him alone, or you’ll be getting yourself into trouble.”
The taxi had driven away. Pender glanced around at the circle of amused faces and gave in.
“All right, Officer,” he said. “I won’t give you any trouble. I’ll come round with you to the police station and tell you about it.”
“What do you think o’ that one?” asked the inspector of the sergeant when Pender had stumbled out of the station.
“Up the pole an’ ’alfway round the flag, if you ask me,” replied his subordinate. “Got one o’ them ideez fix what they talk about.”
“H’m!” replied the inspector. “Well, we’ve got his name and address. Better make a note of ’em. He might turn up again. Poisoning people so as they die in their baths, eh? That’s a pretty good ’un.
Wonderful how these barmy ones thinks it all out, isn’t it?”
The spring that year was a bad one — cold and foggy. It was March when Pender went down to an inquest at Deptford, but a thick blanket of mist was hanging over the river as though it were November. The cold ate into your bones. As he sat in the dingy little court, peering through the yellow twilight of gas and fog, he could scarcely see the witnesses as they came to the table. Everybody in the place seemed to be coughing. Pender was coughing too. His bones ached, and he felt as though he were about due for a bout of influenza.
Straining his eyes, he thought he recognized a face on the other side of the room, but the smarting fog which penetrated every crack stung and blinded him. He felt in his overcoat pocket, and his hand closed comfortably on something thick and heavy. Ever since that day in Lincoln he had gone about armed for protection. Not a revolver — he was no hand with firearms. A sandbag was much better.
He had bought one from an old man wheeling a pushcart. It was meant for keeping out draughts from the door — a good, old-fashioned affair.
The inevitable verdict was returned. The spectators began to push their way out. Pender had to hurry now, not to lose sight of his man.
He elbowed his way along, muttering apologies. At the door he almost touched the man, but a stout woman intervened. He plunged past her, and she gave a little squeak of indignation. The man in front turned his head, and the light over the door glinted on his glasses.
Pender pulled his hat over his eyes and followed. His shoes had crêpe rubber soles and made no sound on the pavement. The man went on, jogging quietly up one street and down another, and never looking back. The fog was so thick that Pender was forced to keep within a few yards of him. Where was he going? Into the lighted streets? Home by bus or tram? No. He turned off to the left, down a narrow street.
The fog was thicker here. Pender could no longer see his quarry, but he heard the footsteps going on before him at the same even pace. It seemed to him that they were two alone in the world— pursued and pursuer, slayer and avenger. The street began to slope more rapidly. They must be coming out somewhere near the river.
Suddenly the dim shapes of the houses fell away on either side.
There was an open space, with a lamp vaguely visible in the middle.
The footsteps paused. Pender, silently hurrying after, saw the man standing close beneath the lamp, apparently consulting something in a notebook.