The Nursing Home Murder

CHAPTER XIII Surprising Antics of a Chemist

Tuesday to Wednesday. The small hours.

To say that Nigel and Angela were flabbergasted by this announcement is to give not the slightest indication of their derangement. Their mouths fell open and their eyes protruded. Their stomachs, as the saying is, turned over. Mr. Sage continued the while to smile falsely upon them. It seemed as if they took at least three minutes to recover. Actually about five seconds elapsed before Angela, in a small voice that she did not recognise, said:

“Oh — fancy! What fun!”

“Oh,” echoed Nigel, “fancy! What luck! Yes.”

“Yes,” said Angela.

“I thought I heard someone taking my name in vain,” continued Mr. Sage playfully. It would be tedious to attempt a phonetic reproduction of Mr. Sage’s utterances. Enough to say that they were genteel to a fantastic degree. “Aye thot Aye heeard somewon teeking may neem in veen,” may give some idea of his rendering of the above sentence. Let it go at that.

“I was just going to make you known to each other,” said Nurse Banks. So great was their dilemma they had actually forgotten Nurse Banks.

Mr. Sage cast a peculiar reluctant glance upon her and then turned to his quarry. “And who,” he asked gaily, “is the mutual friend?”

Frantic alternatives chased each other through Angela’s and Nigel’s brain. Suppose they risked naming Marcus Barker again — he of the vermilion pamphlet. He had a shop. He was in prison. That was all they knew of Comrade Barker. Suppose—

Nigel drew a deep breath and leant forward.

“It is— ” he began.

“Comrades!” shouted a terrific voice. “We will commence by singing the Internationale.”

They turned, startled, to the platform. A gigantic bearded man, wearing a Russian blouse, confronted the audience. Comrade Kakaroff had arrived.

The comrades, led by the platform, instantly burst into a deafening rumpus. Nigel and Angela, pink with relief, made grimaces indicative of thwarted communication at Mr. Sage, who made a suitable face in return and then stood to attention and, with a piercing head-note, cut into the Internationale.

When they talked the affair over afterwards with Inspector Alleyn they could not remember one utterance of Comrade Kakaroff during the first half of his speech. He was a large Slav with a beautiful voice and upright hair. That was all they took in. When the beautiful voice and upright hair. That was all they took in. When the beautiful voice rose to an emotional bellow they managed to exchange a panicky whisper.

“Shall we slip away?”

“We can’t. Not now.”

“Afterwards?”

“Yes — perhaps too fishy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ssh! I’m going to—”

“Ssh!”

They glared at each other. To his horror, Nigel saw that Angela was about to get the giggles. He frowned at her majestically and then folded his arms and stared, with an air of interest, at Comrade Kakaroff. This unfortunately struck Angela, who was no doubt hysterical, as being intolerably funny. Her blood ran cold, her heart sank, she was panic-stricken, but she felt she must laugh.

“Shut up,” breathed Nigel out of the corner of his mouth. He was foolish enough to kick her. Her chair quivered. She looked round wildly to the four corners of the room. In the fourth corner, between a diagonal vista of rapt faces, she saw someone who watched her. It was the man to whom Alleyn had spoken when they first arrived. Her throat quivered no longer. It went dry. Suddenly nothing seemed funny. Perhaps no one had noticed her. Banks, uttering an occasional “Hear! hear!” in a tone of magisterial approval, gazed only at Nicholas Kakaroff. Mr. Sage’s back was towards them. Angela was herself again and greatly ashamed. She began to think coherently and presently she formed a plan, Alleyn had talked at some length about Ruth O’Callaghan. He had a vivid trick of description and Angela felt she knew exactly what Miss O’Callaghan was like.

Suppose—? She stared like an attentive angel at Comrade Kakaroff and as she stared she made up her mind. As if in echo of her thoughts, she suddenly became aware of his utterances.

“The death of the late Home Secretary — Derek O’Callaghan,” boomed Comrade Kakaroff. Jerked out of their unhappy meditation, they began to listen with a will.

“—not for us the sickly sentiment of an effete and decadent civilisation. Not for us the disgusting tears of the wage-slave hypocrite. It was in a good hour that man died. Had he lived he would have worked us great evil. He was struck down with the words of tyranny on his lips. I say it was in a good hour he died. We know it. Let us boldly declare it. He was the enemy of the people, a festering sore that drained the vitality of the proletariat. Listen to me, all of you. If he was deliberately exterminated and I knew the man who had done it, I would greet that man with the outstretched hand of brotherhood. I would hail that man as — Comrade.”

He sat down amidst loud noises of encouragement. Mr. Sage had sprung excitedly to his feet.

“Comrade!” he shouted excitedly. It was as if he had touched a spring. The age-old yeast of mob-hysteria was at work. Half of them were on their feet yelling. Miss Banks cast down her knitting and made curious staccato gestures with her hands. “Up, the anarchists!” someone screamed behind them. The uproar lasted for some minutes while Kakaroff gazed intently at his work. Then Comrade Robinson walked to the edge of the platform and held up his hands. It was not until the Russian, half contemptuously, had joined him that the din died away.

“Friends,” said Kakaroff, “have patience. It will not be for long. In the meantime — be patient. It is with difficulty we manage to hold these meetings. Let us not arouse too much suspicion in the brilliant brains of those uniformed automatons who guard the interests of the capitalist — our wonderful police.”

The comrades made merry. Angela distinctly heard the rare laugh of Inspector Alleyn. The meeting broke up after a brief word from Comrade Robinson about standing subscriptions. Mr. Sage, a winning smile upon his face, turned eagerly towards them.

“Magnificent, wasn’t it?” he cried.

“Marvellous!”

“Wonderful!”

“And now,” continued Mr. Sage, looking admiringly upon Angela, “please tell me-who is our mutual friend?”

“Well, she’s not exactly a close friend,” said Angela, “although we both like her ever so much.” She glanced round her and leant forward. Mr. Sage gallantly inclined his curls towards her.

“Miss Ruth O’Callaghan,” said Angela, just loud enough for Nigel to hear. He instantly supposed she had gone crazy.

Mr. Sage must have tilted his chair too far backwards, for he suddenly clutched at the air in a very singular manner. His feet shot upwards and the next instant he was decanted over their feet.

“Murder!” ejaculated Nigel, and hurriedly bent over him. Mr. Sage fought him off with great violence, and after a galvanic struggle, regained his feet.

“I say,” said Angela, remembering her new voice, “I do hope you haven’t hurt yourself. I’m ever so sorry.”

Mr. Sage gazed at Nigel in silence for some moments. At last he drew in his breath and said: “No, thanks. Aye’m quate O.K.”

“But you’ve gone pale. It was an awful bump you came. Sit down for a moment.”

“Thanks,” he said, and sank into a chair. “Dear me, that was a very silly thing to do.”

“Very painful, I should say,” remarked Nigel solemnly.

Suddenly Angela began to laugh.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m awfully sorry. It’s just horrid of me, but I can’t help it.”

“Really, An — Pippin!” scolded Nigel.

“The instinct to laugh at bodily injury,” said Mr. Sage, who had recovered his colour, “is a very old one. Possibly it goes back to the snarl of the animal about to engage an adversary. You can’t help yourself.”

“It’s nice of you to take it like that,” said Angela through her tears. “It was rather a funny introduction.”

“Yes.”

“I’d better explain,” continued Angela. Nigel, who had regarded the upsetting of Mr. Sage as a dispensation of Providence, listened in horror. “We come from Clearminster-Storton in Dorset, near the holy ancestral home of the O’Callaghan. We’ve no time for the others and let it be known frankly. But she’s different, isn’t she, Claude?”

“Quite different.”

“Yes. We’ve seen her in London and tried to make her look at things in the enlightened way, and although she’s hidebound by the tradition of her class, she doesn’t refuse to listen. She told us about you, Mr. Sage. She thinks you’re awfully clever, doesn’t she, Claude?”

“That’s right,” said poor Nigel.

“So that is the way of it?” said Mr. Sage. “I, too, have attempted to make Miss O’Callaghan think, to open her eyes. She is a customer of mine and is interested in my work. I accept patronage from nobody, mind. She has not offered patronage, but comradeship. I don’t really know her well, and— ” He paused and then, looking straight at Nigel, he added: “To be frank with you, I have not seen much of her since O’Callaghan introduced his infamous Bill. I felt the situation would be too severe a strain on our friendship. We have never discussed her brother. She knows my views and would understand. Er — quite.”

“Oh, quite,” murmured Angela.

“Just so,” said Nigel.

“As a matter of fact,” continued Mr. Sage, “I must own I don’t go as far as Comrade Kakaroff in the matter of O’Callaghan’s death. Undoubtedly it is well he is gone. I realise that theoretically there is such a thing as justifiable extermination, but murder — as this may have been — no.”

“This was justifiable extermination,” said Nigel fiercely.

“Then it should have been done openly for the Cause.”

“No one fancies the rope.”

“Claude, you are awful. I agree with Mr. Sage.”

“Thank you Miss — er. Pardon, I’m afraid I don’t know— ”

“Pippin!” exclaimed Nigel suddenly. “We’re keeping our pal waiting. He’s hanging round outside the door there. Murder! It’s half-past one and we swore we’d meet those other chaps before then.”

“Ow, gracious, how awful!” said Angela. They grasped Mr. Sage’s hand, said hurriedly they hoped they’d meet again, and scuttled away.

The comrades had broken up into groups. Many of them had gone. Nigel and Angela saw Alleyn at the door with his gloomy friend. A short, well-dressed man followed them out, passed them, walked quickly to the outer door, and ran noisily down the iron stairs. Alleyn stood and stared after him. He and the truculent man exchanged a glance.

“Come on,” said Alleyn.

As they all walked out Nigel and Angela kept up a rather feverish conversation in their assumed voices. Alleyn was completely silent and so was his friend. Angela felt rather frightened. Did this man suspect them?

“I thought it was a perfectly marvellous meeting,” she said loudly as they walked down the empty street.

“Stimulating — that’s what it was, stimulating,” gushed Nigel.

The man grunted. Alleyn was silent.

“I was so pleased to meet Comrade Sage,” continued Angela with an air of the greatest enthusiasm.

“He’s all right,” conceded Nigel, “but I wouldn’t say he was quite sound.”

“You mean about O’Callaghan? Oh, I don’t know. What did you think about O’Callaghan, comrade?” Angela turned desperately to Alleyn.

“Oh, I’m all for bloodshed,” said Alleyn dryly. “Aren’t you, comrade?” He turned to his friend.

The man uttered a short sinister laugh. Angela took Nigel’s hand. “He was an ulcer,” she said confusedly, but with energy. “When we find an ulcer we — we—”

“Poultice it?” suggested Alleyn.

“We cut it out.”

“Paw ongcourager les autres,” said the man in diabolical French.

“Oh,” said Nigel, “not exactly that, comrade— er—?”

“Fox,” said Alleyn. “You’ve met before.”

“?!!”

“It’s all right, sir,” said Inspector Fox soothingly. “It’s the removal of my dentures that did it. Rather confusing. You were getting on very nicely. It was quite a treat to listen to you.”

“Stimulating — that’s what it was, stimulating,” added Alleyn.

“Inspector Alleyn,” said Angela furiously, “I’ll never forgive you for this — never.”

“Hist!” said Alleyn. “The very walls have ears.”

“Oh!” stormed Angela. “Oh! Oooo! Oh!”

“Murder!” said Nigel very quietly.

They walked on in silence until they came out by the river. A taxi drew up alongside them and they got in. Inspector Fox took a cardboard box from his pocket, turned delicately aside, and inserted his plates.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” he said, “but it’s pleasanter to have them.”

“And now,” said Alleyn, “just exactly what have you been up to?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“Won’t you, Miss Angela? That’s going to make it rather difficult.”

“Oh, come on, Angela,” said Nigel resignedly. “He’ll have to know. Let’s come clean.”

They came clean. The two policemen listened in silence.

“Yes,” said Alleyn when they had finished. “That’s all very interesting. It’s informative too. Let me get it straight. You say that when you quoted Miss O’Callaghan as your friend — a very dangerous trick, Miss Angela — Sage fell over backwards. Do you think he did this accidentally or deliberately? Do you think he got such a shock he overbalanced and crashed, or did you feel he used this painful ruse to distract your attention? Or were you both acting your socks off so enthusiastically that you did not notice?”

“Certainly not. At least— ”

“I think he got a shock,” said Nigel.

“Well, yes,” agreed Angela, “so do I. But he seemed more upset, oddly enough, afterwards, when he was lying there. His face went pea-green. Oh dear, he did look dreadfully funny.”

“No doubt. What did you say — did you say anything that would account for this diverting phenomenon?”

“I — no. Nigel said something. We both exclaimed, you know.”

“I grabbed hold of him and he fairly fought me off.”

“And then, you know, he got up and we asked if he was hurt and he said he was ‘quate O.K.’ and seemed to get better.”

“What was it you said, Bathgate?”

“I dunno. ‘Gosh!’ or ‘Help!’ or ‘Oh Fie!’ Something.”

“Subsequently he said that he did not altogether respond to Comrade Kakaroff’s wave of brotherly love for O’Callaghan’s murderer — that it?”

“He seemed to think that was going a bit far.”

“And yet”—Alleyn went on—“and yet I seem to remember that at the conclusion of Kakaroff’s jolly little talk, Comrade Sage leapt to his feet and yelled ‘Comrade.’ ”

“Yes — he did,” Nigel agreed, “but he may have been all carried away. He’s not a bad little tick really, I should say, once you’ve got past his frightful refinement.”

“He spoke quite decently about Miss O’Callaghan,” added Angela.

“So it appears. Did he and my girl-friend Banks have anything to say to each other?”

“Not a word.”

“Well, Fox?”

“Well, sir?”

“I suppose I visit Mr. Sage at his shop to-morrow— oh, Lard, it’s to-day, isn’t it? What’s the time?”

Inspector Fox drew his watch from the inside pocket of the threadbare coat he was wearing. He held it up in a large and filthy paw. “Just on two, I make it,” he said. “Listen.”

He lowered the window of the taxi. The lost, woebegone voice of a siren sounded out on the river. Then Big Ben, up in the cold night air, tolled two.

Inspector Fox regarded his watch with grave approval, put it away, and laid his hands on his knees.

“Longing for your bed, Fox?” asked Alleyn.

“I am for mine,” said Angela.

“Suppose we let Bathgate take the taxi on, and turn into the office for half an hour?”

“Right ho, sir.”

“Here we are.”

He tapped on the window and the taxi stopped. The two detectives got out. Their breath hung mistily on the frosty air. Alleyn spoke for a moment to the driver and then looked inside.

“Thank you so much for your help, both of you,” he said.

“I say, Alleyn, I hope you don’t think we’ve made awful mugs of ourselves?” said Nigel lugubriously.

Alleyn thought for a moment.

“It was a very spirited effort, I consider,” he said at last.

“We shall have to get you both in the Force, sir,” added Fox. His matter-of-fact voice sounded oddly remote out there in the cold.

“Ah, Inspector Fox,” said Nigel suspiciously, “I’ve heard you say that before.”

“Good night, Comrade Angela,” said Alleyn, “sleep well.”

“Good night, inspector; I don’t grudge you your joke.”

“Bless you,” answered Alleyn gently and slammed the door.

The taxi drove off. Farther along the Embankment men were hosing down the street surface. A great fan of water curved out and made all the sound there was except for the siren and the distant toot of the taxi. The two men stared at one another.

“I wonder just how much harm they’ve done,” said Alleyn.

“None at all, sir, I should say.”

“I hope you’re right. My fault if they have. Come on, let’s have a smoke.”

In Alleyn’s room they lit their pipes. Alleyn wrote at his desk for some time. Fox stared gravely at the opposite wall. They looked a queer couple with their dreadful clothes, grimy faces and blackened hands.

“She seems a very nice young lady,” Fox said presently. “Is she Mr. Bathgate’s fiancée, sir, if I may ask?”

“She is.”

“A very pleasant young couple.”

Alleyn looked at him affectionately.

“You’re a quaint old bag of nonsense.” He laid down his pen. “I don’t think, really, I took too big a risk with them. The little man was nowhere near them. You recognised him, of course?”

“Oh, yes — from the inquest. I didn’t see who it was till he passed us in the doorway, but I’d noticed him earlier in the evening. He had his back towards us.”

“Yes. I saw him, too. His clothes were good enough to shine out in that assembly. No attempt made to dress down to comrade level.”

“No,” said Fox. “Funny — that.”

“It’s altogether very rum. Passing strange. He walked straight past Sage and Nurse Banks. None of them batted an eyelash.”

“That’s so. If they are in collusion, it might be deliberate.”

“You know, Fox, I can’t think this Communist stuff is at the root of it. They’re a bogus lot, holding their little meetings, printing little pamphlets, making their spot of trouble. A nuisance from our point of view, but not the stuff that assassins are made of. Of course, given one fanatic— ” He stopped and shook his head.

“Well,” said Fox, “that’s so. They don’t amount to much. Perhaps he’s different, though. Perhaps he’s the fanatic.”

“Not that sort, I’d have thought. I’ll go and see him again. To-morrow. To-day. I rather like the bloke. We’ll have to get hold of the expert who’s doing the Kakaroff bunch and find out if he’s deep in. It’s been a field day, this. It seems an age since we sat here and waited for the report on the post-mortem. Damn. I feel we are as one about to be had. I feel we are about to give tongue and run off on a false scent. I feel we are about to put two and two together and make a mess.”

“That’s a pity,” said Fox.

“What’s the time? Half-past two. Perhaps Bathgate will be back in his own flat by now, having dropped Miss Angela, who looked tired, at her uncle’s house. I think I shall send him to bed happy.”

He dialled a number on his telephone and waited.

“Hullo, Bathgate. How much are you betting on your funny little man?”

“Roberts?” quacked Nigel’s voice clearly. “Yes, Roberts.”

“Two to one, wasn’t it? Why? What’s up?”

“Did you notice he was at the meeting to-night?”

“Roberts!”

“Yes, Roberts. Good night.” He hung up the receiver.

“Come on,” he said wearily. “Let’s put two and two together and make a mess.”