CHAPTER IX
IN I ATTEND WHICH AN ECCENTRIC PATIENT
I AM writing to-night about an hour after saying good-bye to you, O most worthy friend!
Do you remember what a long time you spent in discussing the Camden Town mystery on one particular day?
This room of mine certainly has many curious things hidden in it. Many a tale would some of them tell, if they could speak. You noticed some empty cultivation-tubes this evening, and asked me why I kept them.
I am now going to write the true history of those tubes this evening.
It was before you came to Kensington that these happenings took place. Quite close to my house lived an old fellow named Humphrey Friende. He dwelt in his own house, was unmarried, and was attended by a man-servant whom he called Jacques. There were two maid-servants also; for my friend was very well off, and his house was excellently furnished and managed. He was a very cantankerous old man, who had quarrelled with all his relations. But he had a few friends, of whom perhaps I was the greatest.
We had one strong link between us, a mutual love for chess-playing. Two evenings in every week were religiously kept free by both of us, but the games were always played at his house; he refused to go out of doors after sunset.
We ultimately became very great friends, and he gave me to understand that I should benefit considerably by his will, and I knew that he would "cut up" well.
Little did he know that his skill and enthusiasm for the game was keeping him from terrors of which no ordinary person has ever dreamt. It is, doubtless, a good thing for many people that toxicologists like myself are rare, and that the science and art of poisoning is an almost unknown cult.
I fancy that I won a few more games than my opponent in the long run, but he was a very strong player.
I well remember our last evening's chess, and I have never ceased to regret, although I was a thousand pounds richer for it, the untimely death of Mr. Humphrey Friende.
It could not be helped, as you will see.
I was tired that night, and I went across to my friend's house in Addison Road, hoping to forget my weariness and worries by having a good fight over the chess-board.
The door was opened by Jacques. This man was a very singular character. He looked about eighty years old, but was as active and strong as a man of forty. He had been the confidential servant of Mr. Friende since they were both young men.
"Good-evening, doctor," he said; "my master is waiting for you, and the men's all ready."
"Thank you, Jacques," I replied; "I hope to leave here a winner to-night."
"I hope you won't, sir," answered the faithful Jacques; "something has upset my master to-day, and perhaps if he won to-night he would feel better."
I was certainly off colour that night, and a carefully prepared attack on the King's knight's side by the enemy got me into such desperate straits that I resigned at move forty-three.
"An even fiver on the next game," was my challenge.
"Done," said Humphrey Friende; "the fiver is mine."
We tossed for move, and I won.
I had not the sum of money with me if I lost. Long and deeply I thought, but somehow defeat was looming ahead.
"I have won—I have you!" chuckled the old man, as time went on; "you had better resign—it's waste of time going on."
So it was. I resigned.
"Double or quits," I said. "Just one more game."
"Certainly, certainly," replied the victor; "but, first—Jacques"—he rang the bell.
The faithful Jacques appeared instantly, as if he had been at the door itself.
"Whisky, soda, and cigars," his master ordered, "and then you need not wait up for me. I may be late."
"Help yourself, doctor, and me, if you don't mind," said Friende, "and now for a great struggle."
Temptation was too strong for me here, Brown, and I dropped two minute tabloids of digitalin into my opponent's drink. Ten pounds was far too much for me to lose, just at this time.
I only put enough into the drink to make him feel queer; I wouldn't have killed him then for anything. I should have no one to play chess with if he were gone.
We started once again, and twice during the game I fancied I heard a movement outside the door. Could Jacques possibly be waiting and watching? I must be careful—surely he had not seen me doctor the whisky-and-soda?
If he had, trouble was brewing.
As time passed, I noticed that Friende was getting pale, and, suddenly, without a moment's warning, he dropped off his chair in a dead faint. Before I could do more, his man Jacques was in the room.
He picked his master up, undid his collar and shirt and laid him on the sofa, taking no notice whatever of me until these actions were completed. Then, his little eyes glaring furiously at me, he said:
"If he dies, I know how he was killed. I saw you put something in his drink—I watched you—I thought you were trying to do him good, but now I see—you—a doctor—doing this for a paltry ten pounds."
"My dear Jacques, what are you"
"Don't talk to me," said the man, apparently mad with rage. "If my master dies, you shall hang—hang, I say, or, if not, I shall kill you myself with these hands," and he extended his long claw-like fingers towards me.
At this moment Friende opened his eyes, and said in unsteady tones:
"What on earth is the matter? Have I been ill?"
"Only for a minute, sir," answered Jacques.
I stepped forward with the idea in my mind that I might perhaps be able to bluff things out, but Jacques jumped in front of me.
"You are not going near him till he knows why he was ill," he snarled.
Turning to his master, he said, pointing at me:
"That man put poison in your drink, sir. I saw him do it. I was watching the game from behind the door. It was he who made you ill, so that he might win ten pounds."
"It's a lie," I replied, looking savagely at Jacques, who was still breathing short from excitement. Humphrey Friende looked me straight in the face.
"Jacques has never told a lie yet, Dr. d'Escombe. May I ask you myself, did you put anything in my drink?"
I saw that the game was up, and replied:
"Well, if you must know, I thought you were looking seedy, and gave you a little medicine without making you aware of the fact."
"A very opportune moment to drug me," he sneered. "But, oh, doctor, doctor, you of all men. I would have gladly given you the ten pounds!"
Then, getting angry, he continued: "This, of course, is your last visit here, and I tell you point-blank that my will will read differently next week. I am too hurt to say any more. Jacques, show Dr. d'Escombe the door."
"You will be sorry, Mr. Friende, that you should have acted like this, just on the word of a scarecrow servant such as that," I said angrily, pointing to Jacques, who only smiled and opened the door for me.
I was very sick with myself that night, and I had a good stiff glass of soda and my particular poison at once. I was not going to be beaten without a struggle, and sat down to smoke and turn things over in my mind. He must not alter his will, that was the point. As I ruminated, my eyes glancing idly round my cosy room, the thought of a diphtheria cultivation-tube upstairs gave me an idea.
I looked at the clock; ten minutes after midnight. By half-past I had collected on my table a pair of soft rubber shoes, a small compendium jemmy and pick-lock—given to me by a patient who was very expert with it—an electric torch, a big bunch of all kinds of keys, two cultivation-tubes, a revolver, a small bundle of cotton-wool and some very thin rubber operating gloves. After carefully examining each article, to make sure that everything there was in perfect working order, I lit a big cigar, and sat down to read.
By the time I had smoked a second cigar It was nearly two o'clock.
Behold me, then, in soft hat, overcoat, rubber shoes on my feet, and the rest of my paraphernalia in my pockets, carefully looking round from the shelter of my front door, trying to locate the policeman on the beat. I waited for ten minutes; everything was silent and still. I waited until a heavy cloud turned the streets and houses into deep shadows before I rapidly crossed the road. I went round to the house of one Humphrey Friende, Esq., to pay a late night call—and I did not go to the front door—no—but round the house to the kitchen quarters.
There were two doors, and I tried my carefully oiled keys on both. The first had its own key in the lock inside. The second was clear, but was of no use to me. I turned the lock easily with one of my keys, but the door was bolted as well.
I then tried some pliers on the key of the other door, and in ten seconds I stood within the scullery of my house of call.
My first action was to re-lock the door, knowing as I did that policemen have a nasty habit of looking round and noticing open windows, doors, etc. The key was left in so that my retreat would be hindered only for a moment, should I have to hurry home.
Walking slowly and quietly, I made my way to the smoking-room I knew so well. Everything was absolutely quiet, and by the aid of my electric torch, occasionally used, I arrived without a sound at my destination. This was the wall on which, hung the elaborate pipe-rack, in which, carefully arranged, was the collection of pipes smoked regularly by my one-time companion and opponent.
Now to make matters safe.
Out of my pocket came the glass tubes.
These, by the light of the torch, were opened. I took the precaution of putting on the rubber gloves before starting on this stage of the proceedings. The cotton-wool was now used, and in five minutes all the mouth-pieces of the numerous pipes, cigar and cigarette holders, were smeared with a virulent diphtheria cultivation. Anyone putting these pipes into his mouth for the next day or two ran a big risk of contracting the disease mentioned.
I could do no more, and having put back into my pocket every trace I had made of my nocturnal visit, I carefully and silently retraced my steps to the back door, exulting in my successful visit.
"Botheration," I half-whispered to myself as I got to the exit, "the key's gone."
It was.
In a moment my hand grasped the revolver in my side pocket, and I stood in the darkness, fearing to breathe. Someone was about, and listening most intently, I felt certain I heard the sound of restrained respiration quite close to me.
I decided.
With my revolver in my right hand I pressed the button of my electric torch with the left, and looked round me. I had an idea of what I should see, and I was right. On the other side of the room holding a great stick was Jacques.
Jacques, whitefaced and trembling, the same and yet not the same. He was surprised and frightened.
He hadn't expected me.
"One word and you're a dead man, Jacques," I said, with an angry frown and an expression on my face that told the wretched, shaking servant that I meant what I said.
He had evidently thought to entrap burglars and had not expected the sudden illumination and attack, and certainly not me. As a matter of fact, if I had been two seconds later, he would have been outside the other door in the scullery, and the alarm would have been sounding through the house. My luck just saved me.
Immediate action following decision got me through this scrape.
"Listen to me, Jacques. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"I have been trying to find your master's will."
"Yes, sir."
"I have failed."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, hang your 'Yes, sirs'—you will not whisper one word about my being here."
"No, sir."
"That is all very well, Master Jacques, I have had one experience of you this evening already. I must make things certain as far as you are concerned."
"Yes, sir."
"Put down that stick; put it down," I continued; he showed some inclination to come for me, I thought.
"Quickly!—now don't forget—one sound of alarm, or movement, and I fire.'" The revolver was still pointing straight at him.
"Please pay attention. I have done no harm in the house either to your master or to yourself, have I?"
"No, sir."
He had not seen me in the smoking-room. All was well.
"You will not, therefore, open your mouth as to this visit of mine?"
"No."
"Wait a minute. To make it safe—take this piece of paper and pen"—I took them out of my pocket with difficulty, the revolver and torch each requiring attention—" and write, 'I, John Jacques,' write it down—'I, John Jacques, freely confess, that Dr. More d'Escombe found me stealing.'"
"Oh, no, sir—no"
"Quiet, you fool," I whispered. "If you waken any of the household, it will be the end of you,—write."
"'My master's cigars, spirits and money on the night of October the thirteenth, nineteen hundred and nine.'"
"Sign it."
He did so, great beads of sweat standing out on his lean, hard face.
"Now give it to me. I have done no harm, and if you keep quiet, there will be no trouble. Good-night, Jacques."
I crossed the road once more, feeling pretty safe. Jacques dare not say a word. What could he say? Friende himself might escape but most likely not. He was a great smoker, and without doubt he would use two or three of those pipes that I had turned into such deadly traps.
I slept quite well that night, and woke up quite fresh in the morning.
Would Fate prove kind or false?
Would Friende get ill before he altered his will? All was quiet during that first day.
On the second day a carriage drew up at Mr. Humphrey Friende's house—a doctor's carriage.
Eureka!—he was ill.
He was—very ill, and in spite of all treatment he died of acute diphtheria, and was followed in two days by his man-servant, Jacques, who it was thought contracted the disease from him.
But Jacques was an inveterate smoker.
So ended my happy chess evenings; but the will was not altered, and my temporary financial troubles were once more at an end.