“Right ho.”
Alleyn smiled amiably at him.
“You’re a patient cove, Bathgate, and I get much too facetious. It’s an infirmity — a disease. I do it when I’m bothered and this is a bothering case. Here’s the cast of characters, and, look here, the whole conversation is confidential.”
“Oh murder!” said Nigel. This was a favourite ejaculation of his. “It hurts, but again— Right you are.”
“Thank you. As you know, O’Callaghan either took or was given an overdose of hyoscine. At least a quarter of a grain. He never recovered consciousness after his operation. As far as the experts can tell us, the stuff must have been given within the four hours preceding his death, but I’m not fully informed on that point. Now — dramatis personae. You’ll know most of them from the inquest. Wife — the ice-maiden type. Knew her husband occasionally kicked over the traces. Too proud to fight. Urged inquest. Sister — rum to a degree and I think has gone goofy on a chemist who supplied her with patent medicines. Urged patent medicines on brother Derek on bedder-sickness in hospital prior to operation. Now very jumpy and nervous. Private secretary — one of the new young men. Semi-diplomatic aroma. All charm and engaging manners. Friend of Mr. Bathgate, so may be murderer. Name, Ronald Jameson. Any comment?”
“Young Ronald? Gosh, yes. I’d forgotten he’d nailed that job. You’ve described him. He’s all right, really.”
“I can’t bear the little creature,” said Angela vigorously. “Sorry!” she added hurriedly.
“Surgeon — Sir John Phillips. Distinguished gent. Friend of victim till victim took his girl away for a week-end and then dropped her. Severed friendship. Visited victim and scolded him. In hearing of butler expressed burning desire to kill victim. Wrote letter to same effect. Subsequently operated on victim, who then died. That makes you blanch, I see. Injected hyoscine which he prepared himself. Very unusual in surgeons, but he always does it. No real proof he didn’t give overdose. No proof he did. Assistant surgeon — Thoms. Comedian. Solemn warning to Inspector Alleyn not to be facetious. Injected serum with thing like a pump. Was in the theatre alone before operation, but said he wasn’t. This may be forgetfulness. Could have doctored serum-pump, but no known reason why he should. Anaesthetist — Dr. Roberts. Funny little man. Writes books about heredity and will talk on same for hours. Good taste in books, pictures and house decoration. Nervous. Very scared when murder is mentioned. In past killed patient with overdose of morphia, so won’t give any injections now. Matron of hospital — Sister Marigold. Genteel. Horrified. Could have doctored serum, but imagination boggles at thought. First theatre nurse — Banks, a Bolshie. Expressed delight at death of O’Callaghan, whom she considered enemy of proletariat. Attends meetings held by militant Communists who had threatened O’Callaghan. Gave camphor injection. Second theatre nurse — Jane Harden. Girl friend mentioned above. Spent weekend with deceased and cut up rough when he ended affair. Brought anti-gas syringe to Thoms. Delayed over it. Subsequently fainted. You may well look startled. It’s a rich field, isn’t it?”
“Is that all — not that it isn’t enough?”
“There’s his special nurse. A nice sensible girl who could easily have given him poison. She found out about Miss O’Callaghan handing out the patent medicine.”
“Perhaps she lied.”
“Oh, do you think so? Surely not.”
“Don’t be facetious,” said Nigel.
“Thank you, Bathgate. No, but I don’t think Nurse Graham lied. Jane Harden did, over her letters. Well, there they all are. Have one of your celebrated lucky dips and see if you can spot the winner.”
“For a win,” Nigel pronounced at last, “the special nurse. For a place the funny little man.”
“Why?”
“On, the crime-fiction line of reasoning. The two outsiders. The nurse looks very fishy. And funny little men are rather a favourite line in villains nowadays. He might turn out to be Sir Derek’s illegitimate brother and that’s why he’s so interested in heredity. I’m thinking of writing detective fiction.”
“You should do well at it.”
“Of course,” said Nigel slowly, “there’s the other school in which the obvious man is always the murderer. That’s the one you favour at the Yard, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” agreed Alleyn.
“Do you read crime fiction?”
“I dote on it. It’s such a relief to escape from one’s work into an entirely different atmosphere.”
“It’s not as bad as that,” Nigel protested.
“Perhaps not quite as bad as that. Any faithful account of police investigations, in even the most spectacular homicide case, would be abysmally dull. I should have thought you’d seen enough of the game to realise that. The files are a plethora of drab details, most of them entirely irrelevant. Your crime novelist gets over all that by writing grandly about routine work and then selecting the essentials. Quite rightly. He’d be the world’s worst bore if he did otherwise.”
“May I speak?” inquired Angela.
“Do,” said Alleyn.
“I’m afraid I guess it’s Sir John Phillips.”
“I’ve heard you say yourself that the obvious man is usually the ace,” ruminated Nigel after a pause.
“Yes. Usually,” said Alleyn.
“I suppose, in this case, the obvious man is Phillips.”
“That’s what old Fox will say,” conceded Alleyn with a curious reluctance.
“I suppose it’s hopeless to ask, but have you made up your mind yet, inspector?”
Alleyn got up, walked to the fireplace, and then swung round and stared at his friend.
“I regret to say,” he said, “that I haven’t the foggiest notion who killed Cock Robin.”
CHAPTER XII
The Lenin Hall Lot
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Night.
Of course,” said Angela suddenly, “it may be the matron. I always suspect gentily. Or, of course— ”
She stopped.
“Yes?” asked Alleyn. “There’s still some of the field left.”
“I knew you’d say that. But I do mistrust people who laugh too much.”
Alleyn glanced at her sharply.
“Do you? I must moderate my mirth. Well, there’s the case, and I’m glad to have taken it out and aired it. Shall we go to the Palladium?”
“Why?” asked Nigel, astonished.
“There’s a sketch on the programme that I am anxious to see. Will you both come? We’ll only miss the first two numbers.”
“We’d love to,” said Angela. “Are you up to. one of your tricks?” she added suspiciously.
“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Angela. Bathgate, will you ring up for seats?”
They went to the Palladium and enjoyed themselves. Mr. Thoms’s sketch was the third number in the second half. It had not run three minutes before Nigel and Angela turned and stared owlishly at the inspector.
The sketch was well cast and the actor who played the surgeon was particularly clever. Alleyn sensed a strange feeling of alertness in the audience. Here and there people murmured together. Behind them a man’s voice asked: “Wonder if Sir John Phillips goes to the Palladium?”
“Ssh,” whispered a woman.
“The great British public twitching its nose.” thought Alleyn distastefully. The sketch drew to a close. The surgeon came back from the operating theatre, realistically bloody. A long-drawn “Ooooo” from the audience. He pulled off his mask, stood and stared at his gloved hands. He shuddered. A nurse entered up-stage. He turned to face her: “Well, nurse?”