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XVIII.
— Dr Jellis Of Watford
The house was an old
one. It stood back from the road, screened from
the observations of the curious and the profane by a high untidy hedge
that
overtopped a wooden paling, a little the worse for wear. The house had
been
built for comfort rather than beauty, and had reached a stage in its
existence
when it possessed neither attributes. It had the appearance of being
empty, so
Dr Ernest Crane and Brian thought, as they pushed open the gate with
some
labour and negotiated the weed-grown paths; the upper windows stared
blankly,
innocent of curtain; the windows of the 'best' floor were shuttered, as
also
were the lower windows. Brian picked a way
to the front door — there had been a shower of rain,
and the water lay in puddles. He was mounting the steps when he checked
himself. "Somebody has been
here who smokes Turkish cigarettes," he
said, pointing with his stick to the rain-trodden remnant of such a one. "True, O Sherlock,"
said the doctor flippantly, "but
apparently all sorts of medical birds come here for the by-products of
Nature." Brian knocked at the
door, a smart rat-tat, and the hollow echo of it
rang through the house. They waited for some little time, then Brian
knocked
again. "I'm afraid there's
nobody in," he said. He had hardly spoken
before there came a shuffling of feet in the uncarpeted hall, and with
a great
rattling of chains and shooting of bolts the door was opened cautiously
by a
very dirty- looking old man. He held a milk-jug in his hand and seemed
disappointed to discover who his visitors were. "Thought you wor the
milkman," he said, with a burr which
Brian failed to locate. "Coom in, lad, doan't stand theer." He closed the door
behind them, putting the milk-jug on the ground as
he adjusted the chains — there were two — and pushed home the bolts. "Who might thee be
wanting to see, sitha?" he asked
querulously. "We wish to see the
doctor," said Brian, wondering what sort
of man the doctor could be to employ such a scarecrow. For the man was
disreputable. From his tousled grey head to his soiled slippers he was
a model
of slovenliness. An old plaid scarf was tied under his chin, he wore a
big
drooping knitted waistcoat, though the day was warm, and his trousers
and coat
had been intended for wearers of more ample size. "Coom in," he
snorted. He opened the door
of a room and ushered them in. The furniture was
dingy, the wall-papers were peeling off in various odd corners. In the
centre
of the room was a big table piled up with an indescribable mass of
papers,
books, balls of string, odd sheets of manuscript, and dirty test-tubes.
One
corner of the desk had been cleared to allow of the use of a
microscope. This
alone seemed adequately protected from dust, for a glass cup cover was
over it. "Sit you down,"
commanded the old man. "Ah'm
doctor." He seated himself opposite the centre of the table on a swing
chair and grinned at their discomfiture. "Ay," he went on. "Ah'm
doctor all reet, sitha, though nowt like doctor thee expected to see —
ah? Get
on, lad; just tell me what tickles tha." There was a
good-humoured glint in his deepset eyes, and for all Brian's
aversion to his uncleanly host, he felt the man was straight. "I've come to see
you about a peculiar business," he said.
"My name is Pallard, and I own race-horses." "Ah!" said the old
man with another grin. "Ah know tha!
Gotten a horse called Grey Timothy, hasn't tha? Ah backed him oop an'
down, in
an' out wi' the horse that won Goodwood Coop. Ah took tens, an' eats,
an'
sixes, an' fower, your horse, lad, an' he got hoom a short head." It was Brian's turn
to smile. "I'm glad you're a
sportsman, doctor," he said, "because
it makes what I've got to say much easier. You will have read in the
papers
that Greenpol, another horse of mine, dropped dead on the course." The doctor nodded. "Well," Brian went
on, "my horse died because he had
been bitten by tsetse flies." The old man's eyes
suddenly lighted. "Tsetse?" he
repeated, "art sure?" "My friend here, Dr
Ernest Crane" — the old man favoured the
other with a courtly nod — "has the beasts with him." Ernest produced his
box and handed it over to the old man, who opened
it. He poked the contents with a knitting needle which lay amongst the
miscellaneous rubbish on the table. "No doot," he said,
"yons glossina morsitans," he
turned the fly over again. "Wheer did ye get him?" "I found him in my
stable, after the horse had died
mysteriously." "He would die
mysteriously," said the old man, and chuckled.
And he began to tell them of the fatal effect of the fly's bite. As he
warmed
to his subject his queer dialect dropped away from him — only now and
again did
he relapse. "You came to me to
verify the identity of yon?" he asked.
"Well, theer's no doubt about it — come with me." He led the way to
another room. When he opened the door the heat of the
room smote the two men in the face. It was almost bare, save for a
double line
of shelves round the room, and a plain table in the centre. On the
shelves were
a number of glass cases. "In these," said the
old doctor, indicating the cases with a
wave of his grimy hand, "I keep my flies. Every death-dealing tropical
fly
in the world is here. Look at those elephant flies." Brian looked at the
fat insects with their big comical eyes, that
floundered about the bottom of one of the cages. They were as big as a
very
small bird. "They're harmless,"
said the doctor. "They'll give you a
nip, but they leave no ill effects." He bred flies for
the schools and dealt in animal poisons largely. Brian politely
declined an invitation to visit the reptile house in the
basement, though the old man promised him something very rare in the
shape of a
new variety of wire snake from Borneo. They returned to his study, and
Brian
produced a soiled and crumpled little box. "Have you ever seen
a box of this description?" he asked. The old man looked
at it. "Yes, it is a fairly
common type of powder-box — in fact, I have a
score of them." He looked up
inquiringly. "Have you disposed
of any tsetse flies recently," asked
Brian, "and had them placed in such a box?" The doctor searched
amongst the debris on his table and found a book.
He opened it, and ran his forefinger down a list. "I have sent to the
Pasteur Institute, to the London School, to
the Medical Mission of the Congo, and to a private scientist." He closed the book. "Might I ask the
name of the private client?" asked Ernest. The old man looked
at him from under bent brows. "Ordinarily I would
not tell ye," he said, "but since
the fellow" — he pronounced it 'felly' — "is beyond suspicion, 'twas
a member of the aristocracy." "Lord Pinlow?" asked
Brian quietly. "Lord Pinlow," said
the other, nodding, "introduced by
that well-known financier, Mr Augustus Fanks." "Did they give you
any reason — if you will pardon my pressing
you?" "Lord Pinlow, as I
understand, is an enthusiastic amateur
scientist," said the other. "Thank you," said
Brian, and held out his hand. "I am
sorry to have bothered you." "Not at all," said
the other. He was frankly anxious to see
the last of the people who had broken in upon his studies and shuffled
in
advance to open the street door for them. Brian was glad to be
out in the fresh air again; as he was descending
the broken steps the old man called him back. "You'll let me know
when owd Grye Tims runnan agen, sitha,"
he whispered. "Ah can get fi' poons on up to set time o' race." "I most certainly
will," smiled Brian. "Rum old bird," was
his comment as they turned into the road,
"but perfectly straight. Ever met him before?" "I've heard about
him," replied Ernest. "He's rather a
well-known man in his own line of business." They had left their car at
the end of the little thoroughfare in which the house of the old doctor
was
situated. "What is the next
move?" asked Ernest, as they boarded the
car. "The innocent
Horace," said Brian. "I am going to have
this beggar laid by the heels, and I am going to collect evidence. I
have asked
him to be at Knightsbridge at five." It was a few minutes
after that hour when the car pulled up before the
door of Brian's house. "Has anybody come?"
he asked the servant. "Mr Callander, sir,"
said the man. "Good!" Brian hung up his
hat and went to the study. Horace Callander was
standing by the window overlooking the park. His attitude was that of a
man in
a state of mind bordering upon funk. He turned round sharply as the
door
clicked, and faced Brian in silence. That of itself was a
confession of guilt, and the young owner took
advantage of the situation. "Mr Callander," he
said quietly. "You know Lord Pinlow,
I think?" Horace cleared his
throat. "Yes," he admitted. "Did he give you an
errand to perform when you visited Mr Colter's
stables?" Horace hesitated. "Yes," he said. "Will you tell me
the nature of that errand?" Again the hesitation. "I do not know that
you have the right to ask me," said
Horace. "I have no right by
convention," said Brian, "but I have
a moral right because, as a result of your visit, I believe one of my
horses
was killed." "I know nothing
about — I did not — I was innocent,"
stammered the other. "Pinlow asked me to do him a tum — he was
superstitious and told me to empty the box to bring him luck. I'll
swear I knew
nothing about flies!" "That I believe,"
said Brian gently. He spoke to the other as
though he were a child. "I am willing and happy to believe that." "I was in a hole,"
Horace went on. "I'm absolutely
ruined, Pallard. I've been speculating — quite a business speculation,
don't
you know, nothing of a gambling character — and Pinlow said he'd lend
me the
money. And he hasn't, Pallard!" A sob of self-pity came from the
deluded
youth. "He's played me a dirtier trick than I played on you, though I
swear I knew nothing about it." Incoherently he told
the story of Pinlow's superstition, and Brian
listened with a sense of relief. After all, this was the brother of
Gladys, and
if he had been guilty, and wittingly so, it would have been awkward.
When the
panic-stricken Horace had finished his confession Brian patted his
shoulder
encouragingly. "You seem to have
been a mug — a victim," he said;
"obviously you are not to blame. How much money did you want from
Pinlow?" "Two thousand," said
Horace wistfully. "You must let me fix
that up for you," said Brian, and
silenced the wild thanks of the other by ringing the bell. "Tea," he ordered;
"and now, Ernest, we've got to fix
brother Pinlow for good." "He'll want a lot of
fixing," said Ernest. "Have you got
a plan?" "A very simple one,"
said Brian dryly. "I shall go to
the police." "I say," said Horace
in alarm, "that will bring me into
the business, won't it?" This was an
unexpected objection. Brian did not worry overmuch about
bringing Horace 'into the business' — he had very special reason for
keeping
Gladys out of it. And this he would not be able to do; for she had been
present
when the flies had been released. The police, then,
were out of the question. It was equally out of the
question to allow Pinlow to go free. Brian considered the
proposition for some time, and then decided. "There's another man
in this," he said; "that man is
Fanks; but he is too slippery an eel to attempt to corner. It is Pinlow
or
nothing." He got rid of Horace
as soon as possible, and the doctor and he drove
direct to Pinlow's chambers. Lord Pinlow was not
at home, the servant said. He had left for the
Continent on the previous night. From the smooth way the servant
delivered his
message, Brian gathered that this was not the first time that day he
had had to
recite the formulae. "Do you know where I
can find his lordship?" persisted Brian. "No, sir," said the
man promptly; "his lordship never
leaves his address when he goes away for a long stay." "I see," said Brian.
They were standing in the hall of the
Pall Mall flat. "Would you be surprised to learn that Lord Pinlow has
not
left London?" "Yes, sir," said the
man. In the hall a hat
was hanging. Without ceremony Brian stepped forward
and lifted it from the hat-peg. "That is one of his
lordship's old hats," said the man hastily. "I suppose so," said
Brian. He ran his fingers round the
inside band. It was warm and a little damp. "Lord Pinlow is in this
house,
and I am going to see him," he said. The man stood before
him, but Brian pushed him gently aside. He noted
that the man looked apprehensively at one of the two doors which opened
from
the hall. Brian tried the door; it was locked. He stooped and took
a swift survey. It was locked from the inside. He put his shoulder
to the door and gave it a sharp thrust. It resisted his
effort, and he wisely made no further attempt. Instead
he knocked at the door. "I assure you, sir,"
began the agitated manservant. "Pinlow," said Brian
loudly, "open the door, you
skulking hound!" There was no answer. "Open it," said
Brian between his teeth, "or I'll blow
the lock out!" He had his hand at his hip pocket when there was a step
heard inside the room, a key clicked, and the door was flung open. Pinlow, defiant, his
hands on his hips, stood in the centre of the room
waiting. "Well?" he asked
harshly. Brian looked at him,
breathing quickly. "I've got an account
to settle with you," he said. "Settle it," said
the other. Brian observed the
position of his hands and knew that one held a
revolver, though he could not see it. "You can put your
gun down," he said contemptuously. "I
shan't hurt you." "I'll take jolly
good care you don't," said Pinlow, with a
short laugh. "What is the game?" Brian closed the
door behind him. "Pinlow," he said,
"I've got a case against you that
would lead to your conviction in any court. For reasons which I do not
care to
explain, I prefer to bring your crime before the jockey Club." "I don't think you
will," said the other coolly. Brian's eyes
narrowed. "Then you are going
through life harbouring a delusion," he
replied quietly. "Look here." Pinlow
laid the revolver down on the table that
separated him from his enemy. "You know me well enough to believe that
if
I got in a corner, I'd fight." "There are few rats
that wouldn't," said the punter. "I don't care a
curse what you call me," said Pinlow;
"you've threatened me with a warning-off notice — and that will finish
me,
as you know. And I tell you" — he shook his forefinger at the other —
"that
so sure as you push this matter to a fight, so sure will I come out on
top." "That we shall see,"
said Brian. "I've come to make you
an offer. You can sign a full confession and agree to clear out of the
country,
and I will undertake not to let the matter go any further." "I'll see you — " Pinlow expressed
himself without reserve. Then he checked himself. "I'll make you an
offer," he said. "Lend me ten thousand
pounds, and I'll agree to anything you like; if not — " "If not?" repeated
Brian. "You'll be sorry for
yourself, that's all," said his
lordship. "I dare say," said
Brian, and left the room without another
word. Pinlow stood
listening until he heard the door of the flat close, then
he smiled crookedly, and there was murder in that smile. |