The Cases Of Detective Reggie Fortune. H. C. Bailey
when you die,” Reggie mumbled: he still stared down at the body and the wonted benignity of his face was lost in expressionless reserve. “Do you know if he has any people down here?”
“It’s possible. There is a married son. I’ll have him looked for.” Lomas sent his inspector off.
“I saw the old man with a woman just before he died,” Reggie murmured, and Lomas put up his eyeglass.
“Did you though? Very sudden, wasn’t it? And he was all alone when he died.”
“When he fell,” Reggie mumbled the correction. “Yes, highly sudden.”
“What was the cause of death, Fortune?”
“I wonder,” Reggie muttered. He went down on his knees by the body, he looked long and closely into the eyes, he opened the clothes … and to the eyes he came back again. Then there was a tap at the door and Lomas having conferred there came back and said, “The son and his wife. I’ll tell them. I suppose they can see the body?”
“They’d better see the body,” said Reggie, and as Lomas went out he began to cover and arrange it. He was laying the right arm by the side when he checked and held it up to the light. On the back of the hand was a tiny drop of blood and a red smear. He looked close and found such a hole as a pin might make.
From the room outside came a woman’s cry, then a deep man’s voice in some agitation, and Lomas opened the door. “This is Mr. Fortune, the surgeon who was with your father at once. Major Dean and Mrs. Dean, Fortune.”
Reggie bowed and studied them. The man was a soldierly fellow, with his father’s keen, wary face. But it was the woman Reggie watched, the woman who was saying, “I was with him only half an hour ago,” and twisting her hands nervously.
“Most of that half-hour he has been dead. Where did you leave him, madam?” Reggie said.
Husband and wife stared at him. “Why, in the Royal Enclosure, of course. In the crowd when the King came. I—I lost him. Somebody spoke to me. Yes, it was Sybil. And I never saw him again.”
Reggie stepped aside from the body. She shuddered and hid her face in her hands. “His eyes—his eyes,” she murmured.
Major Dean blew his nose. “This rather knocks one over,” he said. “What’s the cause of death, sir?”
“Can you help me?” said Reggie.
“I? What do you mean?”
“Nothing wrong with his heart, was there?”
“Never heard of it. He didn’t use doctors. Never was ill.”
Reggie stroked his chin. “I suppose he hadn’t been to an oculist lately?”
“Not he. His eyes were as good as mine. Wonderful good. He used to brag of it. He was rising seventy and no glasses. Good Lord, what’s that got to do with it? I want to know why he died.”
“So do I. And I can’t tell you,” said Reggie.
“What? I say—what? You mean a post-mortem. That’s horrible.”
“My dear Major, it is most distressing,” Lomas purred. “I assure you anything in our power—sympathize with your feelings, quite, quite. But the Coroner would insist, you know; we have no choice.”
“As you were saying,” Reggie chimed in, “we want to know why he died.”
Major Dean drew a long breath. “That’s all right, that’s all right,” he said. “The old dad!” and he came to his father’s side and knelt down, and his wife stood by him, her hand on his shoulder. He looked a moment into the dead face, and closed the eyes and looked long.
From this scene Reggie and Lomas drew back. In the silence they heard the man and woman breathing unsteadily. Lomas sighed his sympathy. Mrs. Dean whispered, “His mouth! Oh, Claude, his mouth!” and with a sudden darting movement wiped away some froth from the pale lips. Then she too knelt and she kissed the brow. Her husband lifted the dead right hand to hold it for a while. And then he reached across to the key chain, took off the keys, slipped them into his pocket and helped his wife to her feet.
Reggie turned a still expressionless face on Lomas. Lomas still exhibited grave official sorrow.
“Well—er—thanks very much for all you’ve done,” Major Dean addressed them both. “You’ve been very kind. We feel that. And if you will let me know as soon as you know anything—rather a relief.”
“Quite, quite.” Lomas held out his hand; Major Dean took it. “Yes, I’m so sorry, but you see we must take charge of everything for the present.” He let the Major’s hand go and still held out his own.
Dean flushed. “What, his keys?”
“Thank you,” said Lomas, and at last received them.
“I was thinking about his papers, you know.”
“I can promise you they’ll be safe.”
“Oh, well, that settles it!” Dean laughed. “You know where to find me,” and he took his wife, who was plainly eager to speak to him, away.
Lomas dandled the keys in his hand. “I wonder what’s in their minds? And what’s in yours, Fortune?”
“Man was murdered,” said Reggie.
Lomas groaned, “I was afraid you had that for me. But surely it’s not possible?”
“It ought not to be,” Reggie admitted. “At a quarter to one he was quite alive, rather bored perhaps, but as fit as me. At a quarter past he was dead. What happened in between?”
“Why, he was in sight the whole time——”
“All among the most respectable people in England. Yet he dies suddenly of asphyxia and heart failure. Why?”
“Well, some obscure heart trouble——” Lomas protested.
“He was in the pink. He never used doctors. You heard them say so. He hadn’t even been to an oculist.”
“A fellow doesn’t always know,” Lomas urged. “There are all sorts of heart weakness.”
“Not this sort.” Reggie shook his head. “And the eyes. Did you see how those two were afraid of his eyes? Your eyes won’t look like that when you die of heart failure. They might if an oculist had put belladonna in ’em to examine you. But there was no oculist. Dilated pupils, foam at the mouth, cold flesh. He was poisoned. It might have been aconitine. But aconitine don’t kill so quick or quite so quiet.”
“What is aconitine?”
“Oh, wolf-bane. Blue-rocket. You can get it from other plants. Only this is too quick. It slew him like prussic acid and much more peacefully. Some alkaloid poison of the aconite family, possibly unclassified. Probably it was put into him by that fresh puncture in his hand while he was packed in the crowd, just a scratch, just a jab with a hollow needle. An easy murder if you could trust your stuff. And when we do the post-mortem we’ll find that everything points to death by a poison we can’t trace.”
“Thanks, so much,” said Lomas. “It is for this we employ experts.”
“Well, the police also must earn their bread. Who is he?”
“He was the great authority on the Middle East. Old Indian civilian long retired. Lately political adviser to the Government of Media. You know all that.”
“Yes. Who wanted him dead?” said Reggie.
“Oh, my dear fellow!” Lomas spread out his hands. “The world is wide.”
“Yes. The world also is very evil. The time also is waxing late. Same like the hymn says. What about those papers son and co. were so keen on?”