Ngaio Marsh - Death And The Dancing Footman

“I’m an officer of Scotland Yard, Dr. Hart. May I speak to you?”

“Why, in God’s name, haven’t you brought a medical man with you? Well, well, come in here. Come in.”

So Alleyn went into the room and Hart very neatly shut the door in Jonathan’s face.

The bed had been moved out from the wall and the light from a large window fell across it and directly upon the face of the woman who lay there. Her eyes were not quite closed, nor was her mouth which, Alleyn saw, was crooked, dragged down on one side as though by an invisible cord. So strong was the light that coming from the dark passage he saw the scene as a pattern of hard whites and swimming blacks, and some moments passed before his eyes found, in the shadows round the bed, a litter of nursing paraphernalia which Hersey at once began to clear away. Alleyn became aware of a slow, deep, and stertorous rhythm, the sound of the patient’s breathing.

“Is she deeply unconscious?” he asked.

“Profound coma,” said Hart. “I have, I think, done everything possible in the way of treatment. Mr. Mandrake gave me your notes, which I understand came from a surgeon at Scotland Yard. They confirmed my own opinion as regards treatment. I am deeply disappointed that you have not brought a medical man with you, not because I believe he could do anything, but because I wish to protect myself.”

“Was the stuff from the local chemist no use?”

“It enabled me to complete the treatment, but the condition has not improved. Have you pencil and paper?” demanded Dr. Hart surprisingly.

“I have.” Alleyn’s hand went to his pocket.

“I wish you to record the treatment. I am in a dangerous position. I wish to protect myself. Lady Hersey Amblington will be witness to my statement. I have administered injections of normal saline and of Croton oil. Every attempt to obtain elimination — You are not taking notes,” said Dr. Hart accusingly.

“Dr. Hart,” said Alleyn, “I shall take exhausive notes in a little while and you will be given every opportunity to make statements. At the moment I am concerned with your patient. Is there the smallest hope of her recovery?”

“In my opinion, none. That is why—”

“I think I understand your position. Has she, at any time since you have attended her, regained consciousness?”

Dr. Hart turned down his shirt sleeves and looked about for his aggressively countrified coat. Hersey at once brought it and helped him into it, and Alleyn found a moment in which to appreciate Dr. Hart’s unconscious acceptance of her attention.

“At first,” he said, “she could be made to wince by slapping the face. Twice she opened her eyes. The last time was when her son tried to rouse her. Otherwise there has been nothing.”

Hersey made a sharp movement and Alleyn said: “Yes, Lady Hersey? You were going to say something, weren’t you?”

“Only that she did speak once. Dr. Hart was at the far end of the room and I don’t think he heard her.”

“What is this?” said Hart sharply. “You should have told me immediately. When did the patient speak?”

“It was when Nicholas was here. You remember he shouted. You told him to. And he shook her. There was no response, she had closed her eyes again, and you — you sort of threw up your hands and walked away. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember!”

“Nicholas leant forward and put his hand against her cheek — the disfigured cheek. He did it quite gently, but it seemed to rouse her. She opened her eyes and said one word. It was the faintest whisper. You couldn’t have heard.”

“Well, well, well, what was this one word?” Hart demanded. “Why did you not call me, at once? What was it?”

“It was your name.” There was a short silence and Hersey added: “She didn’t speak again.”

Alleyn said: “Did you get the impression that she spoke with any intention?”

“I — don’t think so. Perhaps she realized Dr. Hart was attending her,” said Hersey, and Alleyn thought: “You don’t believe that.” He moved nearer to the bed and Dr. Hart joined him there. “How long?” Alleyn murmured.

“Not very long, I think.”

“Should I fetch Nicholas?” said Hersey.

“Does he wish to return?” asked Hart coolly.

“I don’t think so. Not unless — I promised I would tell him when—”

“It will not be just yet, I think.”

“Perhaps I’d better tell him that. He’s in his room. I shall be there if you want me.”

Alleyn opened the door for her. When he moved back into the room, Dr. Hart was stooping over his patient. Without turning his head, but with a certain deepening of his voice, he said: “I would have given much — I would have given something that I have struggled greatly to retain — if by doing so I could have saved this case. Do you know why that is?”

“I think perhaps I might guess.”

“Come here, Inspector. Look at that face. For many years I used to dream of those disfigurements, for a long time I was actually afraid to go to sleep for fear I should be visited by a certain nightmare, a nightmare of the re-enactment of my blunder and of the terrible scene that followed her discovery of it. You have heard, of course, that she recognized me and that the elder son, who has been killed, reacted most violently to her story?”

“I’ve been given some account of it,” said Alleyn without emphasis.

“It is true that I was the Franz Hartz of Vienna who blundered. If I could have saved her life I would have felt it to be an atonement. I always knew,” said Dr. Hart, straightening his back and facing Alleyn, “I always knew that some day I should meet this woman again. There is no use in concealing these things from you, Inspector. These others, these fools, will come screaming at you, eager to accuse me. I have refused to discuss my dilemma with any one of them. I am ready to discuss it with you.”

Alleyn reflected with faint amusement that this, from a leading suspect, was just as well. He complimented Dr. Hart on his decision, and together they moved away from the bed to a more distant window, where Jonathan’s bouquet of everlasting flowers, papery little mummies, still rustled in their carefully chosen vase. And now Alleyn did produce a pocket notebook.

“Before we begin,” he said. “Is there any possibility that Mrs. Compline will regain consciousness?”

“I should say there is not the remotest possibility. There may be a change. I expect, and your police-surgeon’s advice confirms my suspicion, that the respiration may change. I should prefer to remain in this room. We shall conduct the interview here, if you please.”

And, while the light from a rain-blurred window inperceptibly thickened and grew cold upon the face of Dr. Hart’s patient, he answered Alleyn’s questions. Alleyn had had official dealings with aliens for many years. Since the onset of Nazidom he had learned to recognize a common and tragic characteristic in many of them, and that was a deep-seated terror of plainclothes police officers. Dr. Hart’s attitude surprised him very much. As he carried forward his questions he found that in the face of what appeared to be an extremely nasty position, Hart showed little nervousness. He answered readily but with a suggestion of impatience. Alleyn was more than usually careful to give him the official warnings. Hart listened to them with an air of respect, nodding his head gravely but showing no inclination to consider his answers more carefully. If he was indeed innocent, he was the ideal witness, but in this case his belief in his own safety was alarming. If he was guilty, he was a very cool customer indeed. Alleyn decided to try him a little further.

“It comes to this, then,” he said. “You can offer no explanation of how this extra Charter form, containing the warning, reached Mr. Compline. Nor have you any theory as to who pushed Mr. Mandrake into the pond, though you agree that you saw Mr. Compline leave for the pond wearing precisely the same kind of cape. Is that right?”