Wives to Burn, page 14
“The town is overrun with Babu pleaders and solicitors,” Hatton said.
“Or maybe Doc Forsythe himself helped out with the lyrics,” Gabriel suggested. “By the way, where is the Doc? Didn’t he come down from the attic with you, Hatton?”
“He’s in the corridor,” said the District Officer. “I asked him to stop outside a moment while I talked with you.”
Gabriel opened the door, poked his head out. “Hey, Doc!” he called. When he closed the door, there was a peculiar gleam in his small eyes. He said, “The Doc isn’t there.”
“Gone on to wait on the veranda, no doubt,” said Hatton.
“Or further,” said Gabriel. “You don’t suppose he might have left quite suddenly, do you, after listening outside this door for a while?”
“Why should he have done that? I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Gabriel.”
“Forget it, then,” said the detective. “It was just a crazy idea that popped into my mind.”
He pursed his full lips, no longer humorous for the moment, and fixed the District Officer with a pensive stare. He was thinking of the shattered glass and tiny metallic globules he had found on the floor of the room upstairs when he discovered Lucy Steel’s blood-stained clothing, and he realized that he might very well have been looking at the remnants of a broken clinical thermometer.
Chapter Nineteen
The Doctor’s Story
Dr. Forsythe was not on the veranda. Gabriel didn’t really expect he would be, but he was determined to find out why not. He walked with the District Officer as far as the official government bungalow, largely to get him away from Seaside House, then continued along the river bank to the fringes of the town, where Dr. Forsythe lived.
None of the buildings in the missionary doctor’s compound were pukka-built. The hospital had been a sugar godown, in the heyday of Shakkarpur and the sugar market, and the doctor made his residence in the old offices at one end. One of the outbuildings had been converted into a chapel, where a native Christian pastor officiated most of the time. Dr. Forsythe didn’t care too much if his patients could recite the Lord’s Prayer in Urdu or Tamil or Canarese. He didn’t insist on a hymn before giving a man quinine. If the patient wanted to pray afterward, so much the better, but the doctor didn’t trade surgery for faith. Goodidea, Gabriel thought, much better to teach a man how to care for his body before starting to save his soul. Besides, it opened up a new market for Occidental pharmaceuticals.
A light shone through the mango tree outside the doctor’s window, but the detective did not go immediately to investigate. He wanted to have a look around, first. He walked along the old godown, clambering into a tree to peer through the high windows that had been cut into the warehouse walls. The bare, barnlike interior was lighted only by flickering oil lights, and it was difficult to make out the patients on their long row of cots. From his second tree, however, Gabriel thought he recognized a face he knew—a dark, goat-bearded, Hindu face, and the twisted outlines of a deformed body under the chaddar. He tried to remember the name of Lucy Steel’s hunchbacked bearer, decided he had never heard it. He whistled softly through the window screening, called out all the Hindu names he could think of. The goat-bearded hunchback turned over so that Gabriel could not see his face. A gaunt, black nurse came to chase the detective away from the window, refused to open the door for him.
There was no other entrance to the ward except through Dr. Forsythe’s quarters, so Gabriel went back to tackle the doctor. The door opened instantly.
“Come in,” said Dr. Forsythe. “I was about to go to bed, but come in.”
Gabriel took a quick glance about him. An old-man smell pervaded the room, a reek not unlike that of rancid butter. An iron cot’ stood in one corner, and a big roll-top desk in the other. On the desk was a litter of papers, musty books, a microscope, and racks of test tubes, plugged with cotton. One wall was lined with medical books, gray with tropical mold. A ragged pair of black, crocheted slippers stood on the floor by the bed. The room had more the air of an alchemist’s den than the room of a twentieth-century doctor.
“You left Seaside House in a hurry,” Gabriel said.
“There was nothing I could do for her, poor soul,” sighed the doctor. “And I was badly in need of rest. This has been a strenuous day, and I am no longer young.”
“I won’t keep you long, Doc,” Gabriel said, leaning against the edge of the desk. “There’s just one question I want to ask. What happened, before you came to India, that somebody might want to blackmail you about, Doc?”
The doctor’s blue eyes flared savagely beneath their shaggy black brows. Then a look of infinite sadness came into them. He sat down on the bed, and his stooped shoulders seemed to sag a few inches more.
“So you’ve come to bring that up again?” he whispered.
“Not surprised, are you, Doc?”
“It was so long ago.” The doctor shook his head. “I’ve tried to make amends, in my own way.”
“You killed a man!” the detective guessed at random.
“Not a man,” Dr. Forsythe protested. “He would not have been a man, even if he had lived. It was a new-born infant. A monster. It would have been a crime to let it live—a crime against the monstrous child, against the parents, against society. It was a crime, too, to let it die—but it was a lesser crime, I thought. They didn’t think so, the others.”
“You ran away?”
“No, I didn’t. I left England, after they struck my name from the register, but I didn’t run away. I tried to make amends by patching bodies and saving lives for people who didn’t care whether my name was on the register or not. It’s amazing how hard I had to work and how far I had to travel before I found people who didn’t care. I served with a mission on the Bombay side, served for several years, before they found out and asked me to leave. I served with an American mission in Hyderabad for a while—until they asked me to go. I’ve been here for the longest time of any—until now.”
“How much did Lucy Steel ask to keep her mouth shut?” Gabriel demanded.
“Lucy Steel? But I—I never spoke to the woman!”
“Come on, now, Doc. No use keeping up the masquerade any longer. I know you’re hiding Lucy Steel’s battle hunchback bearer in your hospital.”
“I—it’s possible there’s some such patient in the ward. But I assure you, young man, that I never addressed a word to Lucy Steel in my life.” The doctor avoided Gabriel’s eyes.
“But you killed her,” Gabriel said calmly.
“That’s utter nonsense, young man.”
“Is it? You hid Lucy’s clothes in an upstairs room at Seaside House. And you hid them in a terrible hurry, because you didn’t even stop to sweep up the pieces of the thermometer that slipped out of your pocket and broke on the floor. You better not try to deny that, Doc.”
Dr. Forsythe stared at the detective for a long moment. Then he shook his head gently.
“You’re quite right,” he said at last. “It’s useless to deny it—because it’s true, and because Gwendolyn Small is dead. I lied, yes—to protect Miss Small.”
“You had a funny way of protecting her,” Gabriel laughed.
“I loved Miss Small,” the old man said. “Not the way you think. I loved her because she believed in my work. When no one else would help me, Miss Small did. She supported my research. It was only a few rupees now and then, but it was enough. She knew how important it would be if I should discover the cause of kala-azar—the black sickness—and I think I’ve found it. Rogers knew the parasite, of course—Leishmania Donovani—but he thought it was transmitted by the bed bug. Even Donovan thought it was transmitted by a plant louse, the conorhinus, that sometimes feeds on humans. But I’ve discovered the true host, young man: a small, stinging, nocturnal fly. See here.” Dr. Forsythe reached under the bed, and drew out a gallon glass jug, in which a cloud of gnats swarmed. He held up the jug, which he regarded with rapt tenderness. “I’ve bred them myself,” he added, “and I’ve found—”
“Forget your bugs for a minute,” Gabriel interrupted. “Why did Gwendolyn Small support your experiments?”
“She was a very good woman.”
“Where did she get the money? Her hotel hasn’t made a rupee in years.”
“I don’t know where she got it. It wasn’t much, of course.”
“But you knew she had money. And you knew that if she died, she was going to leave it to you—and the hotel, as well, so you could finish your experiments before you got too old to roll the taste of glory around on your tongue, and make faces at the stuffed-shirts at home who decided you weren’t good enough to juggle pills in their exclusive, expensive company. In other words, you took two more lives for the benefit of society—and your own satisfaction.”
“Young man, you show advanced symptoms of hypnogenic dementia. As far as I know, Miss Small did not even leave a will, let alone make me her beneficiary.”
“Well, she did and you are. So you better start explaining how you got mixed up in the murder of Lucy Steel.”
“Gladly,” said Dr. Forsythe. “I stopped in at Seaside House early this evening to present my respects to Miss Small. I found her in something approaching a state of collapse. I administered a sedative, and discovered that a woman, who had just arrived, had been somehow killed in her bathroom. This was Lucy Steel, of course. Miss Steel was lying on the floor, partially unclothed….”
“Just a minute, Doc. How partially was she unclothed?”
“She was in her underthings and stockings.”
“Both her stockings?”
“Well, yes. One stocking was partially rolled down, as though she were in the act of taking it off when she was killed. In fact, I think it highly probable that she was bending over to take it off when she was struck from the back.”
“But both stockings were still on her feet?”
“Yes, both, definitely. As I said, she was on the floor, lying partly on a white dress that had evidently been pulled from the back of her chair as she fell. One of her shoes was also lying under her. There had been some bleeding from the mouth and nose. Apparently she had been killed by a blow from behind, which fractured the skull.”
“Hey, wait a minute, now. What’s all this fractured skull business, when you said before that Lucy was shot to death?”
“I was lying, young man, as I shall explain presently. There is no doubt that death was caused by skull fracture. The fracture was almost unnoticeable from exterior signs, but there are some regions of the brain in which the slightest hemorrhage will cause death. This is apparently one of those cases.”
“What kind of weapon caused the fracture, would you say? A gun barrel, maybe?”
“I hardly think it was anything metallic,” the doctor replied. “And it was certainly nothing with sharp or protruding edges. Either would have caused noticeable superficial scalp wounds, as well as fracturing the skull. I suspect that the murderer must have used some kind of club. I looked for the instrument that might have served, but found nothing.”
Some kind of club, Gabriel mused—and something clicked in his brain! What was it Gwendolyn Small had said when she told Hatton that the cards would clear up the mystery? “The cards will show us the black knave….” Black knave—black-jack—jack of clubs! Maybe Gwendolyn had something there.
“Could it have been a black-jack?” he asked.
“A black-jack, I believe, is usually covered with leather?”
“Yes, usually.”
“Yes, it could have been something of the sort—or merely a wooden club.”
“Go on,” said Gabriel. “Where was Gwendolyn Small when you arrived?”
“She and the Hindu bearer were standing in the doorway.”
“What doorway?”
“Not the room in which you found the body. In Miss Lucy Steel’s room, across the hall and several doors down. She was gasping for breath and was very much upset, as I said. I questioned the bearer, who said he had been gossiping with me cook in the kitchen, after carrying bath water, and returned to find Miss Small in his mistress’s room, and his mistress dead. Miss Small could tell no coherent story.”
“Did you ask her what had happened?”
“Naturally. She replied she didn’t know. She said she hadn’t seen anything or anyone. She was very positive about having seen nothing, so positive that I suspected immediately that she herself had killed the woman.”
“Why?”
“Well, Gwendolyn Small had been suffering from a mild case of paranoia, and it occurred to me that possibly her trouble had reached the stage of homicidal mania, which it sometimes does in its normal progress. In any event, I was greatly indebted to Miss Small, as I already told you, and was determined to protect her at all costs. I told her to go to her room and stay there for ten minutes, after which she was to discover the body and send for me. In the meantime I intended to conceal all evidence of violence.”
“You gave Miss Small her instructions in an ordinary tone of voice?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes. There seemed no reason to lower my voice, as there was no one in the vicinity.”
“The door was open?”
“Yes, I believe it was still open.”
“So that anyone in an adjoining room might have heard you?”
“There was no one that I know of.”
“But the murder had been committed only recently?”
“Within a few minutes, I should say. That’s one reason I was convinced that Miss Small had done it.”
“Then the murderer did not have time to go far. He—or she—could have been hiding in a room nearby?”
“Possibly.”
“All right. Tell me more.”
“Well, I cleaned up the blood and hid the clothing where you found it. I lifted the body into a chair, and then took the Hindu bearer to my hospital, where I intended keeping him until the matter had quieted down. When Miss Small sent for me, I was to diagnose the case as heart failure.”
“And while you were gone,” Gabriel said, “the dead woman got up, walked across the hall, and went to bed in Oaks’s room.”
“I—I can’t explain that,” Dr. Forsythe said. “Miss Small sent me a chit saying that soon after I left she had heard a shot fired, and upon investigation, found that the body had been removed to Room 9. She could offer no reasonable explanation and insisted that she saw no one enter or leave the hotel, but that she would not have, since she was following my instructions and remained locked in her rooms.”
“I guess that’s about where I came in,” Gabriel suggested. The old doctor’s story was fantastic, yet there was a ring of truth about it.
“Exactly,” Dr. Forsythe agreed. “Miss Small’s report of hearing a shot made me change the story. The traumatism I pointed out to you as a bullet wound was a superficial abrasion caused by her falling upon a sharp corner of her high-heeled shoe when she was struck. And that’s all there is to tell, young man, except that during a brief period between the precipitous flight of Mr. Oaks and the arrival of Mr. Hatton, I made a rapid, surreptitious examination of the room, in an effort to discover some clue as to how and why the corpse had been moved there. I regret to say I found nothing.”
“And what about Gwendolyn Small? Did you tell the District Officer that she hanged herself?” the detective asked.
“N-no,” Dr. Forsythe replied hesitantly. “I merely told him that death was caused by strangulation.”
“Then you don’t think she killed herself—in spite of her mental condition?”
“I think it highly improbable.”
“Why so, Doc?”
“Because the condition of the skin and flesh indicated that the rope had been placed around Miss Small’s neck after her death.”
“Who put it there, Doc?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Do you know where Gwendolyn Small’s money came from?”
“I do not.”
“Do you know the name of the man who gave her Seaside House?”
“I have never felt it was my place to ask her, and she did not volunteer the information. I know the legend, of course, that it was a gift from some rich American for whom she gave up the stage many years ago. But I have never heard a name mentioned except in wildest conjecture. And, as I said, it was certainly none of my affair. You have no objection to my bringing Miss Small’s body down here from her hotel, have you, Gabriel?”
“I guess it’s all right.”
“Then I’ll send for her,” said Dr. Forsythe. “I’m having one of my former patients build a coffin for her. I thought I’d bury her in the little European cemetery in the old cantonment, early tomorrow morning. I’ll read the services myself—just a few verses from the Bible—very simple. You’ll come, won’t you, Gabriel?”
“I’ll come,” the detective said. “But that’s tomorrow. Right now I think we ought to go into the ward and have a talk with the late Lucy Steel’s hunchbacked bearer.”
“It’s no use talking to him,” said Dr. Forsythe. “I’ve already questioned him, and he swears he knows nothing and saw nothing. He swears it, holding to the tail of a sacred cow, which you may take as gospel from a pious Hindu.”
“He doesn’t look particularly pious to me,” Gabriel said.
“Perhaps not. But he’s superstitious—which makes the oath even more binding.”
“Another thing, Doc: Have you any picro-toxin in your tool kit?”
Dr. Forsythe gave a peculiar laugh. “Strange you should ask that,” he said. “I received some picro-toxin only this afternoon. It came by post.”
“Who sent it?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion. It was accompanied by a note which suggested I keep it on hand for a few days, in case of emergency.”
“You didn’t recognize the handwriting?”
“No. But it was obviously written by some munshi.”
“What’s a munshi, Doc?”
“A public letter-writer. There are a good many of them in the bazaar. Only about one Indian in ten can write, you know.”
