contained the poison. He paused in the act of cleaning his teeth: strange how he baulked at the word “dead.” “Beatrice dead.”
It was hard to imagine that forceful and well-organized woman dead. All life stilled, all plans cut short. It seemed utterly impossible.
He glanced at his wristwatch on the shelf above the handbasin. It was nearly 8 a.m. She usually went to bed at 11 p.m.
So in fifteen hours Beatrice would be dead. There was no doubt about it now. Even if he wished to do so, he could not call a halt now because he felt irresistibly caught in a moving band of events from which he knew himself to be no longer psychologically able to escape. He had set the machinery going. He couldn’t stop it now. It was stronger than him.
He continued to make detailed mental plans.
He would have to empty all the powder out of the new bottle except for about half a teaspoonful; no more and no less, for in case of investigation, he must guard against the possibility that the “daily help” might comment, however innocent her remarks, upon the fact that a comparatively new bottle of stomach powder stood by Beatrice’s bedside. He did not want the attention of the police, or Dr Anderson, to be drawn unduly to that bottle, though it was possible that they might wish to analyse the remains. That would be all right, of course. He did not wish them to search the dustbin, however, for the old one, and he did not wish to have to explain where it was, when they failed to find it.
It was on small points like that, thought Bartels, combing his hair in the bathroom, that a chap could come badly unstuck.
Like all murderers who plan their crimes, he was supremely confident. He couldn’t face a dead moth, he was afraid of being locked in a room. He even felt suffocated when a train in which he was travelling passed through a long, dark tunnel, unless the compartment was lighted. But he could pit his wits, gamble his life, risk his reputation in the eyes of posterity, against the most efficient police force in the world. Odd, really.
Now he began to consider the question of disposing of the bottle which had contained the poison. Almost at once a number of difficulties occurred to him.
He pictured the scene on his return. In his hand would be the new bottle, the label suitably rubbed to take away its freshness; by the bedside, the old bottle which had contained the altrapeine. He replaces it with the new bottle. Now he is standing there with the other one in his hand. Within a few minutes he must telephone the doctor, who might be on the scene in a quarter of an hour; perhaps less.
Bartels sat down on the edge of the bath and tried to think clearly. You had to guard against the time factor in these things; more, the time factor,
He shook his head impatiently. He was getting abstruse. He must confine himself to difficulties which were real. There were enough of them.
Again he visualized the scene, again saw himself standing there with the bottle in his hand: Philip Bartels, with an incriminating article in his hand; and a telephone nearby which he would have to use at once; and a doctor who would be arriving at any moment.
But the Philip Bartels he saw wasn’t moving. He was standing still, his brain bewildered by the problem. Now fear was forming in his mind; and panic.
He came back to reality with an effort, took a turn up and down the bathroom; then sat down again and compelled his mind to think calmly. He began to analyse the problem, step by step, beginning with the simplest facts.
He had only two places in which to hide the thing: outside the house or inside.
Was it practical to remove the bottle from the house?
No. It was not.
Why? What’s wrong with that?
Because a nosy neighbour might see him throwing it in a street refuse-basket, and connect the action with any later development.
But why not take it out of the house and drop it in the Thames or the Serpentine? That’s safe, surely?
No, it isn’t. It’s even more silly.
Oh? Why?
Because, you fool, they would be able to tell very accurately the time at which Beatrice died. If you were seen to arrive after her death, and to leave the house again a few minutes later, and not return for some time, and if you still had not telephoned the doctor, you would be in a spot, wouldn’t you? Some of the questions you would have to answer about that little excursion would be a bit difficult, wouldn’t they?
But surely the neighbours, if they saw you at all, would later think that you had gone to fetch the doctor personally?
Plain wishful thinking. They might think it, or they might not: supposing a man taking his dog out saw you go out alone and return alone? And he, or somebody else, saw the doctor arrive later, by himself? And the two knew each other, or Dr Anderson knew one or the other, or both, or treated them professionally, or treated their wives or their children, or the whole dam’ lot?
Things could leak out that way, couldn’t they?
Better not take the bottle out of the house. Not that night, anyway. The following day, yes. But not that night.
So it will have to stay in the house.
Where?
Well, anywhere, really. Anywhere out of the sight of Dr Anderson. In a cupboard in the kitchen, perhaps. Or in a drawer somewhere. A drawer in the writing bureau. That’s it. Dr Anderson will sign the death certificate and go, and that will be that: coronary thrombosis, that’s what he would diagnose. That’s what the medical book said.
Bartels got up from the side of the bath. The problem seemed to be solved. He was about to leave the bathroom when he stopped dead.
But would that be the diagnosis? The phrase in the book ran: “The circumstances of death are to all intents and purposes similar to those associated with coronary thrombosis.”
To all intents and purposes? What was meant by that? Were there, in certain cases, symptoms which could raise even the smallest doubt? Complexion, for instance; or the age factor?
Supposing Dr Anderson did not at once diagnose thrombosis of the heart? He was a cautious old stick; unhurried, methodical, and pig-headed. A death certificate could be a dangerous thing to a doctor; wrongly given, it could damage his reputation. Bartels, a layman, could say nothing to put the idea of thrombosis into the doctor’s head. Anderson would have to come to his own conclusions in the matter.
He wouldn’t suspect murder, of course. That was out of the question.
But suicide? What if he suspected suicide?
Bartels, his head pressed against the bathroom door in an effort to concentrate, imagined Dr Anderson leading him into the drawing room. Imagined him speaking:
“Not entirely satisfied…presume your wife had nothing on her mind?…No, no, not as far as you are aware…of course not, of course not, highly improbable…nevertheless…stresses and strains of modern life…terrible wear and tear on the nerves, Mr Bartels…odd, unaccountable things do happen…case in the paper the other day…have to be so careful, you know…feel sure you won’t mind if…another opinion…set my mind at rest…police surgeon… accustomed to things…purely a formality, of course…headaches might have unduly distressed her…possibility that Mrs Bartels did not wish to embarrass you…her last thoughts not to create a scandal…police surgeon…yes, Mr Bartels…if you don’t mind…just use your telephone?”
The police car, black, smoothly purring, sinister, would draw up outside. The police surgeon would come in, accompanied by a sergeant and a constable. Questions, questions, questions.
Your name? Your wife’s christian names? Age? All the rest of it.
While the doctors conferred, the sergeant and constable would be talking to you; polite, deferential, formally sympathetic.
Would you have any objections if they just looked around the flat while they were waiting? A search? Oh, no.
