“Oh — quayte,” said Mr. Sage.
“You do? Right. Now with reference to a certain prescription which you have made up for a Miss Ruth O’Callaghan.”
“Pardon?”
“With reference to a certain prescription you made up for a Miss Ruth O’Callaghan.”
“I know the lady you mean. She has been a customer for quite a while.”
“Yes. This was one of your own prescriptions?”
“Speaking from memory, I think she has had several of my little lines — from tayme to tayme.”
“Yes. Do you remember a drug you supplied three weeks ago?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember off-hand— ”
“This is the one that contained hyoscine,” said Alleyn. In the long silence that followed Alleyn heard the shop-door buzzer go, heard footsteps and voices above his head, heard the sound of the Brompton Road train down beneath them and felt its vibration. He watched Harold Sage. If there was no hyoscine in any of the drugs, the chemist would say so, would protest, would be bewildered. If there was hyoscine, an innocuous amount, he might or might not be flustered. If there was hyoscine, a fatal amount — what would he say?
“Yes,” said Mr. Sage.
“What was the name of this medicine?”
“ ‘Fulvitavolts.’ ”
“Ah, yes. Do you know if she used it herself or bought it for anyone else?”
“I reely can’t say. For herself, I think.”
“She did not tell you if she wanted it for her brother?”
“I reely don’t remember, not for certain. I think she said something about her brother.”
“May I see a packet of this medicine?”
Mr. Sage turned to his shelves, ferreted for some time and finally produced an oblong package. Alleyn looked at the spirited picture of a nude gentleman against an electric shock.
“Oh, this is not the one, Mr. Sage,” he said brightly. “I mean the stuff in the round box — so big — that you supplied afterwards. This has hyoscine in it as well, has it? What was the other?”
“It was simply a prescription. I–I made it up for Miss O’Callaghan.”
“From a doctor’s prescription, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the doctor?”
“I reely forget. The prescription was returned with the powder.”
“Have you kept a record?”
“No.”
“But surely you have a prescription-book or whatever it is called?”
“I — yes — but — er — an oversight — it should have been entered.”
“How much hyoscine was there in this prescription?”
“May I ask,” said Mr. Sage, “why you think it contained hyoscine at all?”
“You have made that quite clear yourself. How much?”
“I — think — about one two-hundredth — something very small.”
“And in ‘Fulvitavolts’?”
“Less. One two-hundred-and-fiftieth.”
“Do you know that Sir Derek O’Callaghan was probably murdered?”
“My Gawd, yes.”
“Yes… With hyoscine.”
“My Gawd, yes.”
“Yes. So you see we want to be sure of our facts.”
“He ’ad no hoverdose of ’yoscine from ’ere,” said Mr. Sage, incontinently casting his aitches all over the place.
“So it seems. But, you see, if he had taken hyoscine in the minutest quantity before the operation we want to trace it as closely as possible. If Miss O’Callaghan gave him ‘Fulvitavolts’ and this other medicine, that would account for some of the hyoscine found at the post-mortem. Hyoscine was also injected at the operation. That would account for more.”
“You passed the remark that he was murdered,” said Mr. Sage more collectedly.
“The coroner did,” corrected Alleyn. “Still, we’ve got to explore the possibility of accident. If you could give me the name of the doctor who prescribed the powder, it would be a great help.”
“I can’t remember. I make up hundreds of prescriptions every week.”
“Do you often forget to enter them?”
Mr. Sage was silent.
Alleyn took out a pencil and an. envelope. On the envelope he wrote three names.
“Was it any of those?” he asked.
“No.”
“Will you swear to that?”
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
“Look here, Mr. Sage, are you sure it wasn’t your own prescription that you gave Miss O’Callaghan?”
“ ‘Fulvitavolts’ is my own invention. I told you that.”
“But the other?”
“No, I tell you — no.”
“Very well. Are you in sympathy with Comrade Kakaroff over the death of Sir Derek O’Callaghan?”
Mr. Sage opened his mouth and shut it again. He put his hands behind him and leaned against a shelf.
“To what do you refer?” he said.
“You were at the meeting last night.”
“I don’t hold with the remarks passed at the meeting. I never ’ave. I’ve said so. I said so last night.”
“Right. I don’t think there’s anything else.”
Alleyn put the packet of ‘Fulvitavolts’ in his pocket.
“How much are these?”
“Three and nine.”
Alleyn produced two half-crowns and handed them to Mr. Sage, who, without another word, walked out of the room and upstairs to the shop. Alleyn followed. Mr. Sage punched the cash register and conjured up the change. The sleek young man leant with an encouraging smile towards an incoming customer.
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Mr. Sage, handing Alleyn one and threepence.
“Thank you. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Alleyn went to the nearest telephone-booth and rang up the Yard.
“Anything come in for me?”
“Just a moment, sir… Yes. Sir John Phillips is here and wants to see you.”
“Oh. Is he in my room?”
“Yes.”
“Ask him to speak to me, will you?”
A pause.
“Hullo.”
“Hullo. Is that Sir John Phillips?”
“Yes. Inspector Alleyn — I want to see you. I want to make a clean breast of it.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Alleyn.
CHAPTER XV
Of Sir John Phillips the “Clean Breast”
Wednesday to Thursday.
Phillips stared at Chief Inspector Alleyn’s locked desk, at his chair, at the pattern of thick yellow sunlight on the floor of his room. He looked again at his watch. Ten minutes since Alleyn had rung up. He had said he would be there in ten minutes. Phillips knew what he was going to say. There was no need to go over that again. He went over it again. A light footstep in the passage outside. The door handle turned. Alleyn came in.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting.” He hung up his hat, pulled off his gloves and sat down at his desk. Phillips watched him without speaking. Alleyn unlocked the desk and then turned towards his visitor.
“What is it you want to tell me, Sir John?”
“I’ve come to make a statement. I’ll write it down afterwards if you like. Sign it. That’s what you have to do, isn’t it?”
“Suppose I hear what it’s all about first,” suggested Alleyn.
“Ever since you went away yesterday I’ve been thinking about this case. It seems to me I must be suspected of the murder. It seems to me things look very black for me. You know what I wrote to O’Callaghan. You know I injected a lethal drug. I showed you the tablets — analysis will prove they only contain the normal dosage, but I can’t prove the one I gave was the same as the ones you analysed. I can’t prove I only gave one tablet. Can I?”