There was an awkward pause, then Mr. Clemens turned to a different subject. “What about other enemies? Can you think of anyone else who wanted him dead?”
“Dozens, probably,” she said, in a tone that chilled my blood. “To know Oliver was eventually to learn how little he cared for anyone but himself. Even I came to hate him in the end—it was a relief when he told me it was over between us. And those records Dr. Ashe has given you will tell you how many enemies he made among his former patients.”
“Yes, that’s so,” said Mr. Clemens. “One last question. You know who was there the night he was shot?” She nodded in the affirmative, and he continued: “If you had to pick one of them as the most likely to have killed him, who would it be?”
She answered almost immediately. “The most likely was one who wasn’t there—that would be his son. Tony has all his father’s worst qualities, and none of the ability that made Oliver a man to reckon with. In his cups, I think he would have killed his father without blinking. Other than he . . .” She nibbled a forefinger, then said, “Cedric Villiers, most likely. I used to hear him screaming at Oliver when he wanted his morphine—that door was closed, but the sound came through. I could believe anything of him.”
“So could I,” said Mr. Clemens. “Except when he’s crowing about his own genius. I give that about as much credence as a testimonial for hair-restoring tonic.”
Miss Ellsworth smiled faintly. “I think you take him too lightly, Mr. Clemens. He may appear harmless to some, but I can tell you from personal experience that there is a dangerous beast behind that foppish exterior. I pity the world if ever it gets loose.”
Mr. Clemens shrugged. “Well, I hope you’re wrong, but I’ll watch my back around him. I think that’s everything I wanted to ask—unless you can think of something, Cabot.”
“One thing,” I said, trying to think how to phrase my question delicately. “I don’t believe you fully answered Mr. Clemens’s question about why Dr. Parkhurst lost interest in you. Do you know the reason he did so?”
“I believe he had found someone younger,” she said, acidly. “At least, that is the best answer I have for his behavior. I suppose I should be resentful, but at least I have learned one lesson: a man who will betray one woman is not likely to remain faithful to another.”
“Do you happen to know who the woman was who replaced you?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “Quite frankly, I see no benefit to myself in pursuing that question. Certainly not now—I would just as soon forget him and everything about him.”
“Thank you, Miss Ellsworth,” I said, not quite sure what else to say. I settled for, “Good fortune to you.” Miss Ellsworth only smiled ruefully.
We thanked Dr. Ashe for letting us peruse the records, and for answering our questions, but when we left the doctor’s office, I was convinced we had made no progress at all. Again, we had increased our stock of information—but without any clearer idea of what it meant. We called our coach around and started on the long ride back to Tedworth Square. “I’m beginning to think we’re doomed to failure on this case,” I said. “Everything is contradictory, and all the promising leads turn into blind alleys.”
“Well, we got a few clues from the doctor,” said my employer, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “I just wish we had more time—I need to start working on my lecture series. I’ve barely got time to prepare an impromptu talk, let alone a real lecture. But if I spend much more time on this murder case, I may have to find out whether I can be facetious with no rehearsals at all.”
“It’s a shame we can’t get the benefit of rehearsals and return engagements in solving this mystery,” I said. “I can follow so much more the second or third time I hear one of your talks. It would be such an advantage if we could reenact the murder of Dr. Parkhurst, with the advantage of knowing in advance what was to happen.”
“Maybe we can arrange just that,” said Mr. Clemens, brightening up. “Wentworth, start a fresh page on your notepad. We’ve got a lot of plans to make. First thing we have to do is to convince Lestrade to go along with us . . .”
In the end, Chief Inspector Lestrade had no choice but to go along with us. He admitted that he was at an impasse in his own investigation. But when Mr. Clemens said, “Once we get all the suspects together, I’m pretty sure I can tell you who the killer is,” the Scotland Yard man’s first impulse was to threaten to take him into custody for questioning unless he revealed all. As for myself, I wondered whether my employer could possibly back up this seemingly preposterous promise.
“You know where that’ll get you?” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s one thing to throw Slippery Ed McPhee in jail—the embassy would probably pay you a few bucks to hang him, so he can’t go back home to swindle any more innocent citizens. But I’ve got a few more friends than he does, and you’ll find that out when you try to tell your bosses you want to lock me up as a danger to the realm. Meanwhile, if he’s smart, the real killer can go catch a steamer for South America. But consider this: if my idea doesn’t work, you’re no worse off than you are now. If it does work, you’ve solved your case—and you can take your fair share of the credit. Hell, you can have all the credit, as far as I’m concerned. It ain’t as though I need to see my name in the newspapers anymore.” The two
