“All right.”
Train took the cup with him, back into the safe room. He placed it carefully on top of the safe, beside the cup that had been there when he first entered the room. He studied the cups. They were identical. Of course that didn’t prove much. But there was a small Infantry School crest on each of them. That meant that they came from either the Officers Club or the NCO Club, not the mess hall, despite the instructions that Coughlin had given McWilliams.
He sniffed the coffee in the cup he’d brought, then bent over the other cup. Being careful not to touch the cup or its contents, he tried to detect an odor coming from it, but without success. Even so, he thought, even so, he was making progress.
He’d been attempting to recreate Corporal Miller’s actions when Lieutenant McWilliams had arrived. Now he resumed that effort. He squatted beside Miller’s wicker chair and reached for his coffee cup, the cup that was resting on top of the safe. He lifted the cup, sipped at the coffee, lowered the cup once more and pushed himself erect.
He crossed the room to the door and extracted the padlock key from his pocket.
So far, so good. But Miller had not opened the lock. Instead he had struck the wood and plasterboard repeatedly with his hands, as if he was trying to grasp the lock and insert the key. The key had tumbled from his fingers and clattered across the room.
Why would it do that? Why did that happen?
If Miller was dizzy, losing consciousness, trying to leave the room, he would have done that. He would have opened the lock, trying to get out of the safe room. Of course he would have failed, the outer padlock would have stopped him. But if he was confused, struggling, he might not have thought that through.
With the key lost, lying in a dark corner of the room, his vision and equilibrium failing, Miller would have staggered backwards.
Train duplicated the act.
Two, three, four steps and – Miller would have collapsed into the wicker armchair. Train collapsed, found himself sitting in the lap of a cold cadaver, leaped to his feet.
No, the blow to Miller’s head had not caused his death. It was a red herring, designed to direct the investigation of Miller’s death – the inevitable investigation of Miller’s death-away from what had really happened. He’d have to have Miller’s coffee tested, but in all likelihood that was the means by which a lethal dose had been administered.
Train peered into the corpse’s face again. If it hadn’t been for the blow to Miller’s head, any investigation would have found that he’d died of natural causes. Even young men have heart attacks, and the rigors of military life on a man whose former lifestyle had been sedentary could bring on a sudden deadly embolism.
But who had administered the blow to Miller’s head, and why, and when?
Nick Train retraced his route from the door to the wicker chair, to the safe, back to the door, back to the chair. Then he stopped, staring down at the remains of Corporal Fred Miller, company pay clerk.
He wasn’t an expert on poisons but he’d learned a little bit about them, first in high school and then at the police academy. Miller had apparently realized there was something seriously wrong with him, tried to get help, then staggered backwards and collapsed into his wicker armchair to die. The only mark on his body was the obviously superficial head wound.
What would cause a death like Miller’s?
Based on Train’s police training, the likely suspect was digitonin, an easily soluble form of digitalis. That would come from a common plant called purple foxglove, also known as bloody fingers or dead men’s bells. The victim might well drink it, for instance in a cup of coffee, and not notice anything for as long as several hours. Then his heart action would slow, he would become dizzy and disoriented, lose consciousness and die quietly.
Just as Corporal Fred Miller had died.
Train made his way to Captain Coughlin’s office and told the captain his conclusions. He described his reconstruction of Miller’s movements from the wicker chair to the padlock, the struggle with the key, and Miller’s collapse and death.
“I don’t know what an autopsy will show, Captain. I’m not sure what signs that poison would leave in the body. Maybe none. I’m not a trained toxicologist, sir. But I’d bet my month’s pay that a chemical test will show digitonin in Miller’s coffee.”
Captain Coughlin grunted. “Sounds very plausible, Train. And we’ll get the right people in to check those things damned soon. I don’t think I can hold out on this thing more than another hour or two.” He put his face in his hands and rubbed, as if that would stimulate the blood flow and help his brain to work.
“Great job so far,” he resumed. “But if that’s how Miller was killed, you still haven’t told me how the money was removed from the safe. Not to mention – what do you call it in the detective business, Train-Who Dunnit?”
“Sir, I’m not a detective. But I have an idea of how the money was removed. I think that Miller was working with his killer. Whoever was his partner double-crossed him.”
Coughlin picked up his cup of coffee and raised it to his lips. An odd expression crossed his face. He lowered the cup without taking any coffee.
“What would you call that, Train – an inside job, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Train paused for a few seconds to gather his thoughts. The silence was punctuated by a booming sound. An artillery unit was practicing coordination with an infantry brigade on the other side of the post. The sound was that of a 155-millimeter howitzer.
“Captain, here’s the way I think it happened. Miller’s partner opened the outer padlock, Miller opened the inner one. The partner brought a cup of coffee with him. Miller thought that was nice. He left it on top of the safe. Miller’s partner opened the safe.”
He stopped, then asked, “Who knows the combination to the safe, Captain?”
“Same people who have keys to the padlock. Lieutenant McWilliams, Sergeant Dillard, and myself.”
“Yes, sir. Well, Miller’s partner opened the safe and removed the cash. Then he hit Miller. The wound looked to me as if it could have been inflicted with the butt of a forty-five. Miller was still conscious. His partner left, taking the money with him. Miller relocked the door from the inside and his partner relocked it from the outside. The idea was that Miller would claim he’d been attacked by an unknown assailant, maybe a masked safecracker who managed to open the safe and get away with the payroll. That would send the CID off on the trail of an imaginary crook from outside, someone who had managed to get copies of the keys to both padlocks, while in fact Miller and his partner had the money.”
“And what would they do with the payroll?”
Train shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. But I have a suggestion.”
There was another boom, another howitzer round fired.
“The first thing to do is check Miller’s belongings. No telling what we’ll find there.”
Captain Coughlin summoned the Sergeant of the Guard and had a corporal and a private stationed outside the company office. They had strict orders not to step inside, not even to look inside, on pain of court martial. Then the captain told Nick Train to come with him.
Train was feeling less like a soldier and more like a cop by the minute.
Permanent party had better housing than transients at Benning. Corporal Miller had lived in a tiny room, partitioned in an NCO barracks. Train used a pair of bolt-cutters to open the padlock on Miller’s door and then to remove a second padlock from Miller’s foot locker.
The locker contained clean uniforms, underwear, toilet articles, all in inspection-ready order. Boots and shoes lined up beneath Miller’s bunk. Civvies on wire hangers on a wall-mounted rod.
The only non-regulation items in Miller’s foot locker were his religious paraphernalia. Rosary, Douay Bible, religious pictures, a couple of saint’s medals.