Джорджетт Хейер - Duplicate Death

"Well," said Grant, thinking it over. "He behaved as you would expect a decent man to behave if he was told his wife was a drug-addict, when she was no such thing."

"Lifelike!" agreed Hemingway. "Even down to inviting me to search his house! Though that was overdoing it a bit, perhaps."

"He told you the name of her doctor. It's queer that one should turn up again. Will you see him?"

"I must, of course. He won't tell me a thing, beyond a string of long words I shan't understand, but it wouldn't do for me not to see him."

"I was thinking that it is a waste of time. He will cover up for his patient."

"I know that. And if I didn't go and see him, what would happen? - Did you question the doctor? — No. - Why not? - Because I knew he'd only tell me a pack of lies. You can just see me falling into that one, can't you?"

"There is that, of course," admitted the Inspector. "But will you tell me this? - If Mr.. Poulton knew that his lady was taking drugs, why is it only now that he puts her in a Home to be cured of it? You would say it was a verra bad moment to choose, for it would be bound to make us suspicious."

"I wouldn't say anything of the sort. In her state, she'd be liable to give herself away, not to mention him. He knows very well she'd break up under close questioning. What's more, her source of supply has dried up, and that's going to send her pretty well haywire. He's running far less risk this way than if he let her traipse around on the loose. I daresay it was Seaton-Carew's death that persuaded her to consent to go and be cured, too. You can't go shoving people into hospital to be cured of the drug habit without they do consent, you know."

"I do, of course."

"And furthermore," Hemingway continued, "he may well have hoped we shouldn't search Seaton-Carew's flat, or, if we did search it, that we shouldn't find any of the stuff. I wonder if the fellow had any on him, the night he was done in? Lady Nest wasn't under the influence when we saw her: she was hungry for it. Quite possible that he was to have slipped over a little packet to her during the evening. Whoever murdered him would have had plenty of time to have slid his fingers into his breastpocket, and taken out any little parcel he found there."

"It is a theory," said Grant. "You would never prove it."

"There's quite a few things that go to build up a case that never get proved," replied Hemingway. "We'd better bite off a bit of lunch now; and after that you can go and see whether you can prove Beulah Birtley was telling the truth when she said Mrs. Haddington had been in that cloakroom after she left the wire there. I don't suppose Mrs. H. encourages her servants to stop in bed a minute longer than they need, and if that housemaid's been having this forty-eight hour 'flu, she'll very likely be on view again by now. I don't need you in Harley Street, and I'll go back to the Yard when I'm through there. I want to have a careful look at one or two of the exhibits. Come on!"

At three o'clock, having been kicking his heels for some time in the waiting-room, he was ushered into Dr Westruther's consulting-room, a gracious apartment, decorated in shades of grey, which ranged from palest pearl-grey on the walls and in the windows, whose lights were veiled by curtains of diaphanous chiffon, to a deep elephant-grey on the floor. A few chaste Chinese prints hung on the walls; and a magnificent screen of muttonfat jade stood in the centre of the mantelshelf, flanked by two Blanc-de-Chine Kuan-Yin figures of the Ming period. Hemingway, his feet sinking into the heavy-pile carpet, found himself wondering whether the doctor's more neurotic patients were soothed by this subdued but expensive decor. Dr Westruther enjoyed a reputation for dealing almost exclusively with wealthy, society women. He was not precisely known to the police, but once or twice the breath of ugly scandal had wafted perilously near to him. He had a controlling interest in an extremely luxurious Nursing Home, where the staff was paid with unusual generosity; he was always very well dressed, affecting the cutaway morning coat and butterfly collars of a more sartorial age; he owned, besides the house in Harley Street, a charming riverside residence at Marlow; and he generally managed to spend several weeks of the year at Biarritz, or Juan-les-Pins.

He greeted the Chief Inspector with perfect sangfroid, apologising for having kept him waiting. He had been called away to a case, he said, and had only just returned to Harley Street. As Hemingway had expected, he told him nothing that he wanted to know. Lady Nest Poulton was a woman who, in lay parlance, lived on her nerves: he would not bemuse the Chief Inspector with technical terms, but he might rest assured that the condition was one well-known to every practitioner. He agreed that certain symptoms might be mistaken by the unlearned for the after-effects of drugs. In view of what the police had discovered in Seaton-Carew's flat, he could pardon the Chief Inspector for having fallen into error, but he felt obliged to point out that such an allegation against a lady of his patient's birth and breeding was a very, very serious matter. He quite appreciated the Chief Inspector's wish to interrogate Lady Nest, and he hoped that within a week or so it would be possible for him to see her. At present he could not sanction any visits whatsoever. Rest and quiet were essential to her.

The Chief Inspector returned in due course to his headquarters, and sent down a message to the Fingerprint Department. When Inspector Grant at last joined him, he found him studying photographs through a magnifying-glass, a fair young man at his elbow. He glanced up as the door opened, and said: "Come and take a look at this, Sandy, and see what you make of it!"

Grant trod over to the desk, nodding to the fair youth. "I am sorry to have been away for so long," he said. "The lassie was sleeping, but I said I would wait. She came down to the servants' hall for her tea. In the meantime I had some talk with Mrs. Haddington's personal maid - making myself agreeable. What have you there? Is it the prints on the telephone?"

"It is - by which I mean Yes! I knew I should go and catch it! Next thing I know I shall have people thinking I'm Scotch too!"

"You will not, then," said the Inspector dryly. He bent over the desk, keenly surveying the several photographs laid out on it. "I have looked at these before: there is no trace of Seaton-Carew's finger-prints upon the instrument."

"Never mind about that! Anything else strike you?"

A frown creased the Inspector's brow; he picked up one of the photographs, and scanned it more closely. The fair young man coughed behind a discreet hand. "It's very blurred," he said apologetically. "I wouldn't care to swear to it myself, sir."

"No one's asking you to swear to anything. Don't try to prejudice the Inspector!"

The fair youth blushed hotly. "I'm sorry, sir! I'm sure I didn't mean -"

"Whisht!" said Inspector Grant, casting an indulgent glance in his direction. He picked up two more photographs from the desk, and compared them with the one he still held in his right hand. "I see what I recall I saw before: there is a clear impression of Miss Birtley's thumb, and first two fingers. It may be that all five fingers were laid upon the instrument, but there is a blur over the prints on the third and fourth finger. I observe one distinct impression of the butler's index finger - but that, I am thinking, has no bearing on the case."

"None at all. Take a look at that blur through the glass!" said Hemingway, handing it to him.

The Inspector took it, focused it, and intently studied the photograph. He then discarded one of the photographs he held in his left hand, and subjected the other to a minute scrutiny. The Chief Inspector, observing which of the photographs had been rejected, drew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and offered it to the young man beside him, saying: "There you are! Even a poor Scot can get on to what you fellows miss!"