Antidote to Venom (20 page)

“Very clearly, sir.”

“Now you see the two fangs are made hollow: they are really tiny steel tubes; and they are connected with a little rubber sac. When the tooth is pushed out, the sac is squeezed against a little anvil, and the venom passes down the tube, through the fangs, and into the wound. The entire arrangement is of course copied from that in the snake's mouth.”

“It's certainly ingenious, as you say.”

“Yes, and well made. All the details, as well as the fangs, are of steel, and the fangs are sharpened at the piercing ends to a razor edge.”

“Chap deserved to succeed,” French smiled.

“Yes, and there's another clever point. People grasp doors in different ways and by different parts of the handles, and this machine must not be set off unless part of a hand is pressed over the fangs. Now the fangs are placed exactly opposite the trigger, and that's what I say is clever. Pressure at one side of a grasped object ninty-nine times out of a hundred involves an equal pressure at the other side to balance it—just try gripping anything and you'll find it's so. This means that the trigger won't be set off unless another part of the hand is where it's wanted.”

“He deserved to succeed,” French repeated, though he was sure that Capper had also taken the precaution of watching just how Burnaby did grasp handles.

“Well,” Blaney-Heaton returned, “thanks I suppose to yourself, he's not going to. Have you any idea who is guilty?”

French felt this was straying on to delicate ground. He smiled again. “Don't you know, sir,” he apologised, “that that's always a state secret? We can't ever answer that question, lest an occasional refusal might look as if we were baffled. I feel sure, however, that what you've done for us will help us to find out.”

“Nicely put,” Meake returned drily. “There's another point. I think I'm right in saying that the wound was in the right palm at the base of the first and second fingers?”

“Quite right, sir.”

The major grasped an imaginary handle. “Then the teeth must have been deliberately set to project in the right direction: at about three o'clock.”

“Yes,” French agreed, dry in his turn. “I entered it in my book as due east, but three o'clock is certainly better.”

Blaney-Heaton smiled. “I think we must both congratulate you, Chief Inspector,” he said pleasantly. “I don't know how you got on to this, but its discovery shows you've done some pretty hard thinking.”

French thanked him. “There's another thing, gentlemen,” he went on, “though it's not so directly in your line as what we've been discussing.”

As he spoke he took out his wallet and laid on the desk the scrap of bakelite he had found in Capper's workshop.

“Hullo?” Meake exclaimed, picking it up and inspecting it closely. Then he turned to French with a smile. “You're a fraud, Chief Inspector! You've been pretending ignorance as to the criminal, and now you produce evidence which will no doubt hang him. I suppose it's a secret where you found this?”

“I don't feel that I'm in a position to mention names even to you, gentlemen,” French answered. “But I should like your views on the fragment.”

For answer Meake turned the handle with the press disc upwards. Then he laid the fragment on the disc and pushed it about with his finger. “What ho?” he said, when he had arranged it to his satisfaction.

It was as French had expected. The scrap was identical in colour, thickness and surface finish to the handle, and the curve on its worked edge corresponded with that of the hole for the press. Its surface curvature worked in with the handle contours, and its ribs and hollows exactly registered with those on the handle. It was clear that the fragment was a part of what had been cut out to make room for the trigger, and French felt sure that with the pieces still remaining in the workshop, he would be able to build up the entire disc.

If so, it amounted to proof of Capper's guilt. Indeed, French thought there was enough evidence to secure a conviction.

Of course, the problem of how Capper had obtained the snake still remained unsolved. French felt that this could wait. The immediate essential was to get the man under lock and key. He would be growing anxious. Directly he heard that a diver had been working in the river he would realise that the police were on a hot scent. He might try to escape, either by losing himself abroad, which might give a lot of trouble, or by committing suicide and so cheating the law.

French went on to police headquarters and saw Rankin and Stone. Both were impressed with his story and both agreed as to the urgency of the arrest.

“Too late to do anything to-night, I think,” Stone decided. “I'll get the warrant and so on if you and Rankin will go out and bring him in to-morrow night.”

About nine the next evening a police car left Birmington for Bursham. In front with the driver sat French, and behind were Rankin and a sergeant. But it was a good sized car and there was room in the back seat for a third man.

Chapter XX

Venom: The Reckoning

While French was working up his case against Capper, George Surridge was passing through a period of mental stress.

He was surprised and horrified to find that the passage of time—slow enough in all conscience—did nothing to ease the weight of fear and remorse under which he was labouring. Rather the load grew heavier. As day succeeded day he grew more and more nervy, more apprehensive, more restless, more miserable.

One of his heaviest burdens was the unceasing need for watchfulness over his every word. A careless phrase might mean disaster. Again and again he pictured himself making some chance remark which conveyed nothing untoward at the moment, but which would afterwards make his hearer think. If ever this thought produced a question such as, “How did Surridge know that?” it would be the beginning of the end. And such a remark would be fatally easy to make.

The burden grew because it was unshared. There was no one—no single individual in the entire world—in whom he could confide. He had to bottle his dreadful secret up in his own mind, and it festered there. His wife was his natural confidant. But he had long since forfeited her sympathy. If she knew the truth she would curse him even more bitterly than he believed she had. His friends in the club?
Friends!
There was not one of them who wouldn't hasten to the police if he suspected the truth. No, there was
no one
to whom he could turn for relief.

Not even Nancy. Nancy indeed had become his most dangerous acquaintance. He longed to see her, to rest in her presence, to hear her voice, to unburden his soul in her sympathy: but increasingly he realised that the possibility had gone for ever. He simply dared not risk such intimacy. The more closely he came in touch with people, the more likely they were to penetrate his defences.

Another disconcerting matter was that concentration on his business was growing more and more difficult. At one time his business had been his pleasure, but now that was changing. The mental grind which formerly he had taken in his stride was growing irksome. He was finding it more difficult to reach decisions, to keep his attention on the matter in hand and take in what was passing. More than once he found Miss Hepworth looking at him with a sort of thrilled expectation, as if she suspected a secret and believed she would worm it out. He grew to hate Miss Hepworth. He would gladly have got rid of her, but this again he could not risk.

More dangerous still, his craving for spirits grew greater and greater. Whisky, he knew, would remove all these terribly distressing feelings and leave him once more cheerful, confident and optimistic. But he dared not take it, and he grew still more nervy and irritable.

How he envied the people who had free minds and clear consciences! What would he not have given to have had his choice over again, and to be without that terrible knowledge which cut him off from his fellows! At one time he would have laughed to scorn anyone who had suggested that he had a conscience, or that the remembrance of crime could become a burden. That view, he now saw, had been due to ignorance. Now he knew differently, and as the days passed he would have given more and more to have been morally clean.

Then something happened which brought all his fears to a focus and left him face to face with sheer stark terror. He had returned by the afternoon train from spending a couple of days in London, and after glancing over his letters, had gone to the club to kill time over a rubber of bridge. But he had not enjoyed the game, and when one of the players was called away and broke up the party, he took the opportunity to go home. It chanced that in the porch he met Dr. Marr, also leaving.

“Going home?” Marr inquired. “Do you feel like a walk?”

Though part of George wanted to be alone, the rest of him dreaded his own company. A walk with Marr, whom he liked and respected, seemed an admirable suggestion. He agreed and they set off.

For a while they chatted about various matters and then Marr asked, “Have you seen French yet?”

“Been in London the last two days,” George returned. “Who's French?”

“You don't mean to say you haven't heard?” Marr answered, with astonishment in his tones. “Chief Inspector French of Scotland Yard.”

George's misgivings flooded back in a great wave. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, as carelessly as he could. “What's happened?”

“You surprise me,” Marr declared. “Haven't you heard that the Burnaby affair has been re-opened and that Stone has called in Scotland Yard?”

An icy hand seemed to close slowly on George's heart. What hideous thing was this that he was hearing? Was it—no, it couldn't be!—the beginning of the end? What did they suspect, these police? They couldn't surely
know
anything? Or could they? Was he—no longer—
safe?

His brain reeled as he fought for composure. Then he heard himself answering, “Good heavens, Marr, you don't say so?”

“You hadn't heard?” Marr replied, still speaking casually. He hadn't noticed anything! “I should have thought they would have been to you first of all.”

George struggled desperately to conceal his fear. What did those words mean? Was Marr's phrasing merely unhappy? Why should the police wish specially to see him?

“How do you mean?” he asked, with increasing thankfulness that it was dark. “I couldn't tell them anything more than they already know.”

“You can tell them about the conditions under which the snake was kept,” the doctor answered, “and that seems to me vital. I've always believed that if we knew who stole the snake, we'd know everything. You'll find that's what they'll go for.”

George breathed more freely. Marr obviously suspected nothing. At the same time his suggestion was horribly upsetting. Suppose this Scotland Yard man did concentrate on the stealing of the snake, what would he discover?

Then George pulled himself together. He would discover nothing! How could he? He, George, had left absolutely no trace whatever. No one could possibly connect him with the affair. No one knew he had left his room that night. No one knew he had been in the snake-house. No one knew he had sent the snake to Capper. No, whatever mistake Capper might have made, he, George, was safe.

So bravely he told himself, as he strove to talk coolly to Marr. But when, after a nerve-racking walk, they parted near the Zoo gates, he knew that he didn't really believe it. Capper had somewhere made a slip. And if Capper were taken, could he escape?

For the next two days life for George was an absolute nightmare. The discussions and surmisings at the club drove him almost frantic, and yet he dared not keep away. He must know what was going on and he knew of no other way to learn.

Then on the evening of that second day matters came to a head. As after dinner he was sitting in his study, trying to whip up courage to go out, he heard a ring at the door. Before the maid came in with a card, he knew who was there.

“Chief Inspector French and another man to see you, sir,” she said, with goggling eyes.

“I'll see them in a moment,” he said coolly. “Just ask them to wait.”

George realised that one of the major crises of his life was upon him. Now, he told himself, was the time for whisky; a carefully graded amount; enough, but not too much. He knew that the smell of whisky on his breath would be suspicious. French would guess he had been fortifying himself for the interview, and why should he do that unless he feared it?

He had foreseen the difficulty and made a plan. Quickly he poured out half a tumbler of neat spirit, and with a dash of water, tossed it off. Then he poured out a finger, added water till the glass was half full, and placed it at his hand on his desk. On the desk also he laid out certain account books, and a sheet with pencilled figurings which he had prepared. With a quick glance round he walked to the door, opened it, and looked into the hall. A rather stout, blue-eyed man bowed and advanced a step. Behind was an obvious policeman in plain clothes.

“Good evening,” George said pleasantly. “Come in here, won't you? A cold evening. Won't you sit down?”

As he spoke he drew forward his arm-chair to the fire, placing another chair near by for the second man. French thanked him and sat down. “I hope we're not interrupting you,” he began. “I'm afraid you're working?” He glanced deprecatingly at the desk.

This was just what George wanted. It accounted for the delay in admitting the visitors as well as for the smell of whisky. “Not at all,” he answered lightly. “My business is not urgent.” He took glasses from a cupboard. “Will you join me in a drink?”

French shook his head. “Very good of you, sir, I'm sure,” he answered politely, “but we don't do it when we're on duty.”

“Well,” said George, sitting down at his desk, “you won't mind me finishing mine? And do smoke if you feel like it.” He pointed vaguely to a box of cigarettes on the chimneypiece.

It appeared that police officers did not smoke either when on duty. Once again French was politely grateful, going on to explain that they had called to ask George's help in connection with their investigation into the death of the late Professor Burnaby.

“I heard that the affair had been re-opened,” George answered coolly. The whisky had acted and he felt at his best, with a full grip of himself and a certainty of his competence in handling the interview. “I confess I was surprised. I thought the inquest had left everything cleared up in a satisfactory way.”

“Then you think the deceased met with an accident?” French said, with a show of interest.

“I did think so,” George answered judicially, “but then probably I was biased. I had myself some time earlier come to the conclusion that, owing to his breakdown in health, it was no longer safe for Professor Burnaby to handle the snakes. As you probably know, I was instrumental in getting his permission to do so withdrawn.”

“So I have heard, sir. Perhaps you would tell me about that? Also I'm anxious to know just how the snakes were kept?”

George was here on safe ground, but he made a point of hesitating before each reply, so that if he were asked a difficult question, a pause should not be suspicious. However, as the interrogation advanced, he breathed more and more freely. The questions were innocuous, French's manner was respectful, and his obvious acceptance of all George said was comforting.

French was certainly thorough. He took up his various points in a logical sequence and systematically exhausted each before going to the next. If George had been guilty of any slackness in the running of the Zoo, it would have quickly stood revealed. Luckily George's conduct of his business had been impeccable.

About one thing only was George perturbed. He found he had taken a little too much whisky. Its immediate action had been just right, but later he began to feel its effects too powerfully. However, in spite of this he got through the interview creditably. After an hour the officers left, apparently completely satisfied as to his innocence.

The effect of the spirits lasted till he went to bed and then the reaction set in. His self-assurance evaporated and his fears crowded back more strongly than ever. French had seemed to accept his statements without suspicion, but wasn't that merely the police way? The mere fact that the enquiry had been re-opened showed that they had
some
theory of murder and guilt. George felt a little sick when he thought of it all.

During the next day or two his misery grew almost unsupportable. If only he knew what was happening, he told himself, it would not be so bad. But there in the background this persistent effort was in progress, an effort to ruin him, to take him to prison, to trial, and to that unthinkable thing which would follow trial. It would almost be better to know the worst than to bear this awful doubt.

Gradually the conviction that the strain was too great began to fill his mind. He simply couldn't go on like this. His mind would give way. Slowly his thoughts turned towards suicide.

What a relief, what an overwhelming relief, it would be to have done with it all! To have done with the fear, the need for acting a part, the wearing pretence of an easy mind which he didn't feel! To get rid, once and for all, of those haunting eyes which seemed fixed on his wherever he went and whatever he did: Burnaby's eyes with their maddeningly reproachful gaze. To shed for ever that load of guilt which separated him off from his fellow men. Yes, suicide would do all that.

And do it easily. What, for instance, could be simpler than to put his hand into one of the cages in the snake-house? It would be a rapid and nearly painless end. Or gas. That would stupefy and there would be no suffering. There were many ways. With his knowledge and facilities he could fade out almost without a pang.

And really he had nothing to live for. His home life was in ruins, his business was threatened: he would certainly lose his job unless he pulled up his work. His amusements, his golf, his club, his hobbies? He loathed them all! And Nancy?

He really didn't know about Nancy. He wasn't sure whether he ever wished to see her again. He knew he had lost her. Never again could he confide in her or enjoy her society. No, there was nothing for him there. If he were to fade out to-morrow there was no one and nothing that he would object to leave.

And there was nothing in those old wives' tales of life after death. Suicide would be the end: it would be forgetfulness for ever. And there was no God or any of that stuff—else he wouldn't have been allowed to do what he had. No, he was alone in the universe. No one cared any more about him, except to hound him down and take his life. He hated everyone. The thing to do was to make an end of it all.

As if in a dream he got up and examined the gas fire in his room. Yes, it could be done quite simply. He would cover the fire with bedclothes so that the gas would be concentrated, and then lie down on the floor and push his head under the clothes till it reached the gas. It would be easy and painless. He would just go to sleep, and as he did so all his troubles would fade away. He would never be conscious of anything again.