'This Serpos, now,' he suggested. 'That's your secretary, ain't it? Exceedingly limp feller I saw up here last night?'
Charters was sarcastic. 'You always were a suspicious beggar, Merrivale. Sinister-sounding foreign name, eh, and the legend of the villainous secretary? Nonsense! Young Serpos is about as meek and mild as they make 'em. I knew his father quite well. Serpos is an Armenian: but educated in England, of course. He worked in a bank in London, but his health wasn't any too good, and I gave him easier work in a healthier climate. Rather amusing chap,' Charters admitted grudgingly, 'and an expert mimic when you get him started. He'd make money on the halls.'
'It's a queer international stew all the same,' muttered H.M. shaking his head. 'And while we're on the subject, Charters, who's this Dr. Antrim?'
'No more foreigners. And,' said the Chief Constable, 'if you're looking for suspicious characters near at hand, I think you can safely forget it.' He chuckled. 'Antrim is a big Irishman. You'll like him. His wife is a dashed pretty girl: much too pretty to be a trained nurse, which I believe she was before they were married. She helps him with his work. Of course, the life of a country G.P. isn't very exciting, any more than the rest of our lives are….'
He stopped, rather guiltily, as we heard heavy footfalls clumping through the main hall of the house. H.M. swept up the kit of the Compleat Burglar, and had just snapped shut the catch of the little bag when a tall figure lumbered out on the veranda.
'I say, Charters-' the newcomer began excitedly, and stopped when he saw us. 'Sorry,' he added. 'Didn't know you had visitors. Excuse me. Some other time.'
I thought, correctly, that this must be Dr. Antrim. He was a lean, rather awkward young man with hair the colour of mahogany, some freckles, a long jaw, and a brown eye like a genial cow: but he conveyed, nevertheless, an impression of competence. His hands were quiet and strong if his man
ner was not. His dark clothes were neat to the point of primness, as though a woman had pulled at his tie and steadied all points like somebody putting up a tent, before he was allowed to go out. Evidently he had just come in from a round of calls, for there was the bulge of a stethoscope in his breast-pocket and he looked dusty. Also, something appeared to be worrying him badly. Charters called him back, and began to introduce us.
What prompted H.M. - whether it was his elephantine sense of humour, or some genuine purpose — I did not know. But H.M. cut in. 'This,' he said, pointing to me, 'is Mr. Butler. He's drivin' back to London to-night.'
'Yes, certainly,' observed Antrim, without relevancy. 'If you'll excuse me, gentlemen — er — supper. I didn't get any tea to-day, and I'm pretty well starved. Yes.' Then he spoke to Charters, smiling with a bad assumption of ease. 'I seem to have mislaid my wife. You haven't seen Betty anywhere about, have you, Colonel?'
Charters looked at him curiously. 'Betty? No: not since this morning. Why?'
'Mrs. Charters said she thought she saw her getting on a bus. Er '
'Look here,' said Charters in a flat tone, 'what the devil's the matter with you, man? Speak up! What's wrong?'
'Nothing wrong. I just wondered '
'Stop that confounded jumping,' said Charters testily. 'You're not usually like this because Betty gets on a bus.'
Antrim pulled himself together. Another thought appeared to have occurred to him, which he wished to dispel in our minds. He gave a sidelong glance at us, and spoke more genially. 'Oh, I don't think she's running away or anything like that. Fact is, there's been a slight mistake. Nothing important, of course, and it's easily rectified; but it 'ud be damned awkward-' He stopped. 'I suppose I ought to tell you. Fact is, a couple of bottles seem to have been misplaced or got lost in my dispensary. I don't think they're missing, and they'll turn up, but it's '
'Bottles?' said H.M. sharply, and opened his eyes. 'What bottles?'
'It looks like negligence, and it would be bad for me. The trouble is, they're both little bottles of about the same size. And, to look at 'em, you'd think they contained the same stuff. Of course, they're both labelled, so there's no harm done. One is potassium bromide, ordinary nerve sedative, in the crystalline form. But the other, worse luck, contains strychnine salts — very soluble stuff.'
There was a pause. H.M.'s face remained wooden, but I saw that he was biting hard on the stem of his pipe.
CHAPTER THREE
The Shutters of Suburbia
It was a quarter past nine when I set out on my weird travels. I ate a plate of sandwiches and drank a bottle of beer while a route was mapped out for me to Moreton Abbot, some ten miles away. Things did not now look so bad: with luck, I should be able to get the business done and return to Charters's by midnight, with everything off my mind. I did not realize the nervous strain under which I was fuming, although the sandwiches seemed tasteless and the beer flat.
H.M. and Charters I left in the latter's study. Both were very worried over Antrim's information. As I was going out, I remember Charters's saying that he would show H.M. some exhibits in the Willoughby case, whatever it might be. I also noticed that the blue Hillman touring-car was no longer in the drive outside the bungalow. Stowing away the Compleat Burglar's kit under a rug in the tonneau — it was more of a cursed nuisance than anything else, since I meant to use only the skeleton keys or the glass-cutter — I climbed into H.M.'s Lanchester and let drive for the great adventure.
It was not quite dark. A strip of pale clear sky lay along the west, but smoky blue had begun to obscure it; and below, along the main highway, street-lamps were winking into flame. The lane down which I ran the car was deeply shadowed. On either side were high hedgerows, and beyond them white-blossoming apple trees. In short, all was peace — for precisely fifty Seconds. I had come to the mouth of the lane opening into the main road. In the highway was the homely sight of a bus stopping by a street lamp, and somebody in a white linen suit climbing down. Then, in the hedgerow to my right, there was a sound of violent crackling. Somebody said, 'Pss-t!' A face, looking paler by reason of the gloom and its mahogany-coloured hair, was poked through the hedge. It was followed by a shambling body, and, as I stopped the car, Dr. Antrim laid his hand on the door.
'Excuse me,' he said. 'I know you'll think this is confounded cheek, but it's pretty urgent. My own car's gone bust — no time to fix it — you know. They said you were driving to London to-night. Could you manage to drop me off at Moreton Abbot?'
This was dilemma before the adventure had even begun. Antrim's eyes appeared to have a steady shine in the gloom.
'Moreton Abbot,' I said, as though the name were unfamiliar. 'Moreton Abbot? What part of Moreton Abbot?'
'Valley Road. It's just on the outskirts. Dignity be damned, no time for dignity now. It's very important,' urged Antrim, running a finger round under a tight collar. 'Fact is, a patient of mine lives there. Name of Hogenauer. It's very important.'
If I didn't take him, he would probably take a bus and go anyway. If I did take him, it might wreck the whole of my little enterprise; but at least I should have him under my eye and know when I could start housebreaking in safety. Nevertheless, the decision was taken out of my hands. The passenger who had got off the bus in the main highway had just turned into the mouth of the lane. I saw a stocky man in a white linen suit, wearing a straw hat and smoking a cigar. The man hesitated, and then came towards the car.
'I wonder if you could tell me ' said a familiar hearty voice, in an almost deferential tone, and then broke off. 'Well, well, well!' it crowed. 'If it isn't Blake! Imagine running into you down here! How are you, Mr. Blake?'
The last light shone on the alert pince-nez, with the little chain going to the ear, of Mr. Johnson Stone — still on H.M.'s trail. Stone's round, fresh-complexioned face was turned up with great amiability, but he had the look of one whose inner temper is wearing thin. Even as he extended his hand, a new thought appeared to strike him.
'Here,' he said in a somewhat aggrieved tone, 'were you holding out on me? Did you know where Merrivale was after all? I've only just tracked him down. Out of the pure goodness of my heart, just to do him a favour, I've hunted all over England for him when I was supposed to be taking a holiday; and right at this minute I'm supposed to be visiting my son-in-law in Bristol. If you people have been holding out on me — '
