displayed a tendency to suspect foul play, and put the husband through a severe cross-examination. There seemed, however, to be no getting behind the doctor's evidence. Pender, brooding fancifully over the improbable possible, wished, as he did every day of the week, that he could remember the name of that drug the man in the train had mentioned.
Then came the excitement in Pender's own neighbourhood. An old Mr Skimmings, who lived alone with a housekeeper in a street just round the corner, was found dead in his bathroom. His heart had never been strong. The housekeeper told the milkman that she had always expected something of the sort to happen, for the old gentleman would always take his bath so hot. Pender went to the inquest.
The housekeeper gave her evidence. Mr Skimmings had been the kindest of employers, and she was heartbroken at losing him. No, she had not been aware that Mr Skimmings had left her a large sum of money, but it was just like his goodness of heart. The verdict was Death by Misadventure.
Pender, that evening, went out for his usual stroll with the dog. Some feeling of curiosity moved him to go round past the late Mr Skimmings's house. As he loitered by, glancing up at the blank windows, the garden-gate opened and a man came out. In the light of a street lamp, Pender recognised him at once.
'Hullo!' he said.
'Oh, it's you, is it?' said the man. 'Viewing the site of the tragedy, eh? What do you think about it all?'
'Oh, nothing very much,' said Pender. 'I didn't know him. Odd, our meeting again like this.'
'Yes, isn't it? You live near here, I suppose.'
'Yes,' said Pender; and then wished he hadn't. 'Do you live in these parts too?'
'Me?' said the man. 'Oh, no. I was only here on a little matter of business.'
'Last time we met,' said Pender, 'you had business at Rugby.' They had fallen into step together, and were walking slowly down to the turning Pender had to take in order to reach his house.
'So I had,' agreed the other man. 'My business takes me all over the country. I never know when I may be wanted next.'
'It was while you were at Rugby that old Brittlesea was found dead in his bath, wasn't it?' remarked Pender carelessly.
'Yes. Funny thing, coincidence.' The man glanced up at him sideways through his glittering glasses. 'Left all his money to his wife, didn't he? She's a rich woman now. Good-looking girl--a lot younger than he was.'
They were passing Pender's gate. 'Come in and have a drink,' said Pender, and again immediately regretted the impulse.
The man accepted, and they went into Pender's bachelor study.
'Remarkable lot of these bath-deaths there have been lately, haven't there?' observed Pender carelessly, as he splashed soda into the tumblers.
'You think it's remarkable?' said the man, with his usual irritating trick of querying everything that was said to him. 'Well, I don't know. Perhaps it is. But it's always a fairly common accident.'
'I suppose I've been taking more notice on account of that conversation we had in the train.' Pender laughed, a little self-consciously. 'It just makes me wonder--you know how one does--whether anybody else had happened to hit on that drug you mentioned--what was its name?'
The man ignored the question.
'Oh, I shouldn't think so,' he said. 'I fancy I'm the only person who knows about that. I only stumbled on the thing by accident myself when I was looking for something else. I don't imagine it could have been discovered simultaneously in so many parts of the country. But all these verdicts just show, don't they, what a safe way it would be of getting rid of a person.'
'You're a chemist, then?' asked Pender, catching at the one phrase which seemed to promise information.
'Oh, I'm a bit of everything. Sort of general utility-man. I do a good bit of studying on my own, too. You've got one or two interesting books here, I see.'
Pender was flattered. For a man in his position--he had been in a bank until he came into that little bit of money--he felt that he had improved his mind to some purpose, and he knew that his collection of modern first editions would be worth money some day. He went over to the glass-fronted bookcase and pulled out a volume or two to show his visitor.
The man displayed intelligence, and presently joined him in front of the shelves.
'These, I take it, represent your personal tastes?' He took down a volume of Henry James and glanced at the fly-leaf. 'That your name? E. Pender?'
Pender admitted that it was. 'You have the advantage of me,' he added.
'Oh! I am one of the great Smith clan,' said the other with a laugh, 'and work for my bread. You seem to be very nicely fixed here.'
Pender explained about the clerkship and the legacy.
'Very nice, isn't it?' said Smith. 'Not married? No. You're one of the lucky ones. Not likely to be needing any sulphate of . . . any useful drugs in the near future. And you never will, if you stick to what you've got and keep off women and speculation.'
He smiled up sideways at Pender. Now that his hat was off, Pender saw that he had a quantity of closely curled grey hair, which made him look older than he had appeared in the railway carriage.
'No, I shan't becoming to you for assistance yet awhile,' said Pender, laughing. 'Besides, how should I find you if I wanted you?'
'You wouldn't have to,' said Smith. 'I should find you. There's never any difficulty about that.' He grinned, oddly. 'Well, I'd better be getting on. Thank you for your hospitality. I don't expect we shall meet again--but we may, of course. Things work out so queerly, don't they?'
When he had gone, Pender turned to his own arm-chair. He took up his glass of whisky, which stood there nearly full.
'Funny!' he said to himself. 'I don't remember pouring that out. I suppose I got interested and did it mechanically.' He emptied his glass slowly, thinking about Smith.
What in the world was Smith doing at Skimmings's house?
An odd business altogether. If Skimmings's housekeeper had known about that money.... But she had not known, and if she had, how could she have found out about Smith and his sulphate of . . . the word had been on the tip of his tongue then.
'You would not need to find me. I should find you.' What had the man meant by that? But this was ridiculous. Smith was not the devil, presumably. But if he really had this secret--if he liked to put a price upon it-- nonsense.
'Business at Rugby--a little bit of business at Skimmings's house.' Oh, absurd!
'Nobody is fit to be trusted. Absolute power over another man's life . . . it grows on you.'
Lunacy! And, if there was anything in it, the man was mad to tell Pender about it. If Pender chose to speak he could get the fellow hanged. The very existence of Pender would be dangerous.
That whisky!
More and more, thinking it over, Pender became persuaded that he had never poured it out. Smith must have done it while his back was turned. Why that sudden display of interest in the bookshelves? It had had no connection with anything that had gone before. Now Pender came to think of it, it had been a very stiff whisky. Was it imagination, or had there been something about the flavour of it?
A cold sweat broke out on Pender's forehead.
A quarter of an hour later, after a powerful dose of mustard and water, Pender was downstairs again, very cold and shivering, huddling over the fire. He had had a narrow escape--if he had escaped. He did not know how the stuff worked, but he would not take a hot bath again for some days. One never knew.
Whether the mustard and water had done the trick in time, or whether the hot bath was an essential part of the treatment, at any rate Pender's life was saved for the time being. But he was still uneasy. He kept the front door on the chain and warned his servant to let no strangers into the house.
He ordered two more morning papers and the News of the World on Sundays, and kept a careful watch upon their columns. Deaths in baths became an obsession with him. He neglected his first editions and took to attending inquests.
