Coroner's Pidgin (16 page)

Mr. Campion gave up doubting, the old man had a very strong case. He was putting it very well, too, addressing himself mainly to Don to whom he had evidently taken a liking.

“Her letter was charming,” he said, “but her news was bad. Her brother had died, her husband was killed almost immediately after succeeding to the estate, and a few months later her son had followed his father. She knew she was very ill and she feared that she would never write to me again, but as she said, she was still feminine and she did not want to be forgotten. Therefore (she was very practical, my dear Elise), she was sending me six dozen of
Les Enfants Doux
of the great year, and she begged that I would always drink a bottle of it on the seventeenth of July. Not the best time of year, you know, for a royal Burgundy, but how was she to know that, poor dear? Women were not connoisseurs in her day.”

“You got the whole six dozen intact? That was a bit of a miracle in itself, wasn't it?” said Don curiously.

“It was. How she had managed to preserve anything so precious and yet so vulnerable during the whole of the Occupation, I cannot imagine, but she did. And as for the superstition, poor lady, I have no doubt that she felt no further ill luck could befall her family.”

“It's very conclusive,” murmured Mr. Campion bringing the matter down to earth.

“Oh, it is. I'm afraid so.” The Bishop picked up the empty bottle and pointed to a scribble in red ink on the
lower right-hand corner of the label. “You see that?” he said. “That's J.D. They are the initials of the wine steward of the period. I remember him well, he was a great character called Jules Denise. You see, a certain percentage of the yield was put aside, always for the Comte's own table, as opposed to his chaplain's or his major-domo's or any of the other little establishments on the estate, and on each bottle of this little reserve Jules used to put his mark. All my six dozen had that scrawl; you mentioned it to Bush, Lieutenant, and when I heard of it I felt very sure. That is why I took the astonishing liberty of—er—‘gate-crashing' your party.”

“1 should think so.” Don was looking at the decanter with respect. “It seems criminal to drink it, this may be the last there is in the world. I don't think we need let Bush open that second bottle, do you? After all, a magnificent wine like that . . .”

“Needs no bush,” said the Bishop shyly, laughing at the silly little joke which everybody made sooner or later. “Where is the man? I do hope nothing has happened. I'm afraid I've been talking for nearly an hour.”

No one answered him, but in the silence which followed his remark, someone tapped at the door. It was old Fred, a gleam of anticipation in his watery eyes.

“Mr. Campion is wanted on the 'phone,” he said. “The gentleman seemed upset, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“He didn't say, sir, but he seemed very shaken. This way, it's in the passage just along here.”

When Campion reached the telephone and before he had taken up the receiver he could hear someone shouting at the other end. “Hello. Hello. Hel-lo. Campion. Oh, there you are, are you? I say . . .”

It was Johnny Carados, sounding as nearly rattled as Campion had ever heard him.

“Yes?”

“Can you come round to Theodore Bush's house as soon as dammit? You know where it is, don't you? Forty-two Bedbridge Row. Come at once, will you?”

“I will.”

“Good man. I need you. I say, Campion . . . ?”

“Yes?”

“I'm afraid I've killed the blighter. . . . Good-bye.”

THE JOURNEY FROM
the Minoan to Bedbridge Row in Holborn in a pitch-dark and taxiless London proved to be more of an undertaking than the exile had expected, and it was nearly an hour later when at last he groped his way up the worn stone steps of the narrow Georgian house in the corner of the half-ruined cul-de-sac. During his stumbling journey he had plenty of time for thought, and the closer he came to this new development the less he liked it.

There were times, too, when he fancied he was being followed, but in these dark empty streets it was difficult to tell. In a crowded city square he could have been sure, but none of his past experience allowed for these vast open spaces wherein one set of footsteps rang out loudly in the silence. He was not alone at any rate. Someone else made that journey as well as himself.

The house when he reached it might have been empty for years. His small torch beam showed a worn door with dirty iron furnishings and brass numerals green with neglect, but when he pressed the bell-push a sound like a fire alarm echoed in the hall within.

To his surprise the door opened instantly, and in the darkness a woman seized his arm.

“Oh, there you are at last,” she said. “Do go up to him, we can't do anything with him, and he won't send for the police. Isn't it awful?”

Campion recognized Miss Chivers with surprise. He had not expected her. There was a faint blue light in the white-painted hall and her sensible face looked pallid in the gloom. She was still efficient, of course, and still preserved her confidential friendliness of manner, but alarm had
intensified each characteristic so that she presented a caricature of herself.

“Don't stand there staring at me,” she said. “I dare say you are surprised to see me here, I'm surprised to be here. But when he rang through I thought I'd better come. Gee-gee Gold is up there with Dion Robson, the doctor. Johnny rang me at Carados Square and told me to fetch him. I came along to see if I could do anything, but he won't speak to me. He's in the front room on the first floor. The others are all in the bathroom higher up; I'm keeping here to mind the door and to stop the old housekeeper coming up from the basement. My God, they are a lot.”

“Doesn't the housekeeper know what's happened?”

“Nobody knows except us. It's madness, of course. They'll hang Johnny if he doesn't look out. He's gone out of his mind, Mr. Campion, the war's gone to his head.”

“Is Bush actually dead?”

“He may be by this time. He wasn't half an hour ago—not quite. He will die, though, and then there will be an almighty row. For heaven's sake go upstairs, and get some sense into Johnny and make him send for the police.”

She gave him a push which all but over-balanced him, and he started off down the passage obediently. At the foot of the stairs he paused, and looked back.

“Are you all right down here alone?”

“Me? My dear man, don't worry about
me
,” she said, laughing irritably. “I'm only the secretary of the madhouse. It's the master you've got to look after.”

Mr. Campion mounted the stairs and came into an elegant little hall with a grey carpeted floor. If Theodore Bush did not bother about the outside of his house any more than he did about the outside of his bottles, like them the inside had considerable merit. The glossy door to the large living-room faced the stair head, and all was silent behind it. From further up the stairs the sound of voices and restless movement floated down. Campion tapped on the door and waited.

“Hello, that you, Dion?” Johnny's voice was almost casual.

“No. Campion here.”

“Well, come in, you ape. I'm not waiting behind the door with a club.”

Campion entered a large and graceful yet entirely masculine room and looked about him. Carados was partially hidden in an enormous blue leather arm-chair, his legs stretched out to the fire and his big chin resting on his breast. He did not move as the other man came over to him but raised his eyes.

“This is a stinker,” he said. “What do you know about this, eh?”

“Almost nothing,” said Campion. “I'm hoping to pick it up as I go along. What have you done to him? Hit him on the head with a bottle?”

“Oh, no. No, I was much more subtle than that.” The grey-blue eyes rested on Campion's face with an expression in them which he did not immediately recognize. Only gradually did it occur to him that Carados was afraid. “No, I poisoned the poor old boy,” he said at last. “I did, Campion. I gave him God knows how much chloral hydrate and I saw him mix it in a tooth-glass and knock it back at one go. Dreadful, I shall never forget it. Poor old Theo. He was a bit of a crank, of course. Believed in all the wrong things and was heaven's own peculiar prize bore, but to kill him, Campion! To kill him like that, all defenceless, in a neat little tucked shirt and blue pants. No, I'll never forgive myself, never as long as I live.”

Campion sat down and crossed his long, thin legs.

“I hate to be vulgar, but that won't be long if this is the story you're telling,” he said affably.

Carados grunted. “I've got the wind up,” he said. “Someone's being horribly clever. I suspected it when I saw that wretched woman lying dead in your flat. I thought then that someone was going all out for me. Afterwards I wondered if perhaps I was making myself too important in the story, but now I know I was right. Someone is not only trying to get rid of me, but they're trying to prove I'm ga-ga first. What about you? Are you for me, or against me?”

“I'd take a drink from you,” said Mr. Campion, considering it was a handsome offer in the circumstances.

“I wouldn't.” Carados was bitter. “I wouldn't touch me or anything I had handled with a barge pole. I'm dangerous.”

“Well, I don't know how long it's necessary to suffer to be interesting,” said Campion with calculated brutality, “but I'll buy it. What did you think you were giving him?”

Johnny's face cleared and he felt in the breast pocket of his tunic. “The expert's calm is very pleasant when you need it,” he said. “Look. See this?” Campion took what appeared to be a small imitation-leather cigarette case from his outstretched hand. It was buttoned down, envelope fashion, and embossed on the grain in gilt script was the legend: “
Zo-zo. Pour l'ennui de l'estomac. Gilbert Frères. Paris. 15ième
.”

Mr. Campion raised the flap cautiously. Inside the case was divided into ten small partitions, each one of which normally contained a phial stoppered by a metal cap and sheathed in typical blue-and-green-striped metal paper. At the moment there were seven left.

“French bismuth type?” he enquired.

Carados nodded. “Yes. Only obtainable over there, and very expensive as those things go. About fifty francs, that lot, I suppose. There was a mild fashion for it over here just before the war, and when I saw Theo yesterday he was bewailing the fall of France, for all the wrong reasons as usual, and he mentioned the disappearance of these things as one of the minor evils which had come out of it. ‘And to cap it all, you can't even get a Zo-zo,' he said, the silly old ape. He looked so miserable I told him I thought we probably had some about the house, and that I'd look them up for him if I could.”

He spoke casually and Campion remembered this peculiarity of his. The incident was typical of him. In common with many big men of wide interests he had that side to him. He was a person who always did do little errands for people, not necessarily his closest friends. He was a man who remembered birthdays, and if a guest could not eat oysters, or always smoked Turkish cigarettes, and more than likely he would go out of his way to see such little desires were gratified. It was one of his most charming
characteristics, but as an attribute it was rare enough to make his present story unconvincing to a jury.

“Go on,” said Campion.

“Well, I did find them,” said Carados, “and I brought them along when I called for the old man. He asked me to meet him here because there were one or two points in this business of
Les Enfants
turning up like this, which he felt we ought to discuss. He was certain the wine wasn't genuine and he wondered if we ought to make a statement. Good Lord, how small peace-time affectations seem these days, Campion. What fools we all were.”

“It all depends on how you look at it,” said Mr. Campion cautiously. “I don't know if our present occupation is very bright, fireworks and death. Still, get on with the story. You brought this stuff with you, did you?”

“Yes, I did. Theo was late and was changing. Apparently Theo can't give his opinion on a rare bottle if he isn't in virgin linen. It's against his religion, perhaps. Anyway he asked me to come up and talk while he dressed. I gave him that packet and he fell on it; from the way he behaved I thought he'd had chronic dyspepsia since nineteen thirty-nine. He said he'd take a dose at once if I didn't mind. I watched him take his tooth-glass, pour one of these things into it, stir it up in water, and gulp it down. Ten minutes afterwards he was in a coma. God knows how much chloral he's had.”

“How do you know it's chloral?” Campion demanded.

“Because I recognized the stink of the stuff.” Johnny told his appalling story in his usual casual way, apparently unaware of its weakness; only the new darkness in his eyes betrayed him.

“This is what happened,” he said. “I noticed Theo getting a bit thick and wavery, but when he flopped it took me by surprise. He collapsed across the bed and began to breathe like a bomber. I didn't think it was heart and it sort of came to me—you know how it does—that he'd taken something. The only thing I knew he'd taken was this stuff I'd brought him. The empty phial was still on the dressing-table and I took it up and sniffed it; then I recognized it.”

“You recognized chloral hydrate?”

Carados shook his head. For the first time he looked embarrassed. “Not exactly, I—I recognized
Bromot
.”

“What's that?”

Carados sat forward in his chair and stubbed the fire.

“It's damned awkward,” he said.

“I've heard worse, slightly,” said Campion.

“You wait. There's bags to come.
Bromot
is a proprietary mixture sold to make you sleep. It's dangerous. Dion prescribed it for me years ago when I was going through a bad patch. You take about a fifth of the quantity which would go into one of those phials and it's got chloral hydrate in it, potassium bromide, and one or two other things, I forget what. The chief danger of it is the high specific gravity of the stuff makes it fall to the bottom, and you're always warned not to take the last dose in the bottle. I never did.” He paused. “I bet there were a dozen bottles with one dose left in each kicking about the house just before the war,” he said. “I remember them; they stood in a row at the back of the medicine cupboard. I always meant to tell someone to chuck them away, but I never did.”