“Why didn’t he?”
“Oh — well, because he wanted to be sure of the dosage, I suppose.”
“And then?”
“I went into the theatre.”
“Where you joined Phillips?”
“Yes. He’d just put the hyoscine tablet into the water, I think.”
“Did you notice the little bottle — how many tablets were left? I simply want to check up, you understand.”
“Of course. Well, it’s a tube; you can’t see the number of tablets unless you peer into it, and then you can only guess, but, of course, there would be nineteen, because it was a new lot.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Thoms?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I saw he had two tubes and said something about it, and he said one of them was empty, so he’d opened another.”
“What happened to the empty one?”
“Eh? Search me. Chucked it away, I suppose. I say — er — look here, what is your name?”
“Alleyn.”
“Oh. Well, look here, Alleyn, you’re not attaching any importance to the second tube, are you? Because you jolly well needn’t. It’s all perfectly simple. Phillips uses a hypodermic case which holds two of these little phials. He’d obviously used the last tablet on a previous case without realising it was the last. Very easy thing to do.”
“I see that. All this business is merely by way of checking up.”
“Yes, but—”
“For my own sake I’ve got to account for every movement of the game, Mr. Thoms. It’s all frightfully muddling and I’ve got to try to learn it like a lesson. Do you remember anything that was said just then?”
“Well, I — well, I chaffed him about the two tubes— said he was doing Sir Derek proud, and then I–I remarked that he used a lot of water.”
“Did this seem to upset him at all?”
“Oh, Lord — no. I mean, Sir John always stands a bit on his dignity. I mean, he rather shut me up. He hasn’t got what I call a sense of humour.”
“Really? Did you go out together?”
“Yes. I went into the anteroom and Sir John into the anæsthetic-room to give the injection. I went first.”
“Sure, Mr. Thoms?”
“Oh, yes,” said Thoms, opening his eyes very wide. “Why?”
“I only want to get the order of events. Now let’s look at the theatre, shall we?”
Once again Thoms butted the swing-doors with his compact little stern, and this time Inspector Alleyn followed him through.
The theatre was scrupulously, monstrously immaculate — a place of tiles and chromium and white enamel. Thoms turned on a switch and for a moment an enormous high-powered cluster of lights poured down its truncated conical glare on the blank surface of the table. The theatre instantly became alive and expectant. He snapped it off and in its stead an insignificant wall bracket came to life over a side table on rubber castors.
“Is this how it was for the operation?” asked Alleyn. “Everything in its right place?”
“Er — yes, I think so. Yes.”
“Which way did the patient lie?”
“Head here. Eastward position, eh? Ha ha!”
“I see. There would be a trolley alongside the table, perhaps?”
“It would be wheeled away as soon as the patient was taken off it.”
“That’s the side table, over by the windows, where the syringes were set out?”
“That’s it.”
“Can you show me just where you all stood at the time each of the injections was given? Wait a bit — I’ll make a sort of plan. My memory’s hopeless. Damn, where’s my pencil?”
Alleyn opened his notebook and produced a small rule from his pocket. He measured the floor space, made a tiny plan and marked the positions of the two tables, and, as Thoms instructed him, those of the surgeons and nurses.
“Sir John would be here, about half-way along the table, isn’t it? I stood opposite there. Marigold hovered round here, and the other two moved about a bit.”
“Yes. Well, where, as near as you can give it, would they all be for the operation?”
“The surgeons and anæsthetist where I have shown you. Marigold on Sir John’s right and the other two somewhere in the background.”
“And for the camphor injection?”
“As before, except for the Bolshie, who gave it. She would be here, by the patient’s arm, you see.”
“Did you watch Nurse Banks give this injection?”
“Don’t think so. I wouldn’t notice. Probably wouldn’t see her hands — they’d be hidden by the little screen across the patient’s chest.”
“Oh. I’ll take a look at that afterwards if I may. Now the anti-gas injection.”
“That was after Sir John had sewed him up. I dressed the wound and asked for the serum. I damned that girl to heaps for keeping me waiting — felt rather a brute when she hit the floor two minutes later — what? I stood here, on the inside of the table; Sir John was opposite; Marigold had moved round to my side. Roberts and Banks, if that’s her name, were fussing round over the patient, and Roberts kept bleating about the pulse and so on. They were both at the patient’s head.”
“Wait a bit. I’ll fix those positions. Perhaps I’ll get you to help me to reconstruct the operation later on. You have no doubts; I suppose, about it being the correct syringe — the one you used, I mean?”
“None. It seemed to be perfectly in order.”
“Was there any marked change in the patient’s condition after this injection?”
“Roberts is the man to ask about that. My own idea is that he was worried about the patient for some time before I gave the injection. He asked for camphor, remember. Naturally, you’ll think, I want to stress that point. Well, inspector, so I do. I suppose the serum injection is the dangerous corner as far as I’m concerned. Still, I did not prepare the syringe and I could hardly palm it and produce another from behind my left ear. Could I? What? Ha ha ha!”
“Let’s have a look at it,” said Alleyn imperturbably, “and we’ll see.”
Thoms went to one of the shelves and returned with a syringe at the sight of which the inspector gave a little shout of horror.
“Good God, Mr. Thoms, are you a horse-coper? You don’t mean to tell me you jabbed that horror into the poor man? It’s the size of a fire extinguisher!”
Thoms stared at him and then roared with laughter. “He didn’t feel it. Oh, yes, we plugged it into him. Well, now, I could hardly produce a thing like that by sleight of hand, could I?”
“Heavens, no! Put it away, do; it makes me feel quite sick. A disgusting, an indecent, a revolting implement.”
Thoms made a playful pass at the inspector, who seized the syringe and bore it away. He examined it, uttering little noises of disgust.
“This is the type used for the other two injections,” explained Thoms, who had been peering into the array of instruments. He showed Alleyn a hypodermic syringe of the sort familiar to the layman.
“Sufficiently alarming, but not so preposterous. This would be the kind of thing Dr. Roberts handled?”
“Yes — or rather, no. Roberts didn’t give the camphor injection. The nurse gave it.”
“Oh, yes. Is that usual?”
“It’s quite in order. Generally speaking, that injection is given by the anæsthetist, but there’s nothing in his asking the nurse to give it.”
“This needle’s a delicate-looking thing. I suppose you never carry a syringe about ready for use?”
“Lord, no! In the theatre, of course, they are laid out all complete.”
“Would you mind filling this one for me?”
He gave Thoms a small syringe. The surgeon poured some water into a measuring-glass, inserted the needle and pulled back the piston.