“At that stage their minds were set on suicide. Presumably the great busty Jackson had got rid of the stomach-pumping impedimenta after she and Schramm, as they tell us, had seen to the bottling of the results. Field-Innis says that by the time he got there, this had been done. It was he, don’t forget, who said the room should be left untouched and the police informed. The pillow was face-downwards at the foot of the bed but in any case only a very close examination reveals the mark of the tooth. The stains, which largely obscure it, could well have been the result of the overdose. What about dabs, Bailey?”

“What you’d expect. Dr. Schramm’s, the nurse Jackson’s. Deceased’s, of course, all over the shop. The other doctor’s — Field-Innis. I called at his surgery and asked for a take. He wasn’t all that keen but he obliged. The girl Foster’s on the vanity box and her mother’s like you indicated.”

“The tumbler?”

“Yeah,” said Bailey with his look of mulish satisfaction. ‘That’s right. That’s the funny bit. Nothing. Clean. Same goes for the pill bottle and the Scotch bottle.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere,” said Fox.

“Where do we get to, Br’er Fox?”

“Gloves used but only after she lost consciousness.”

“What I reckoned,” said Bailey.

“Or after she’d passed away?” Fox speculated.

“No, Mr. Fox. Not if smothering’s the story.

Alleyn said: “No dabs on the reverse side of the pillow?”

“That’s correct,” said Thompson.

“I tried for latents,” said Bailey. “No joy.”

He produced, finally, a polythene bag containing the back panel of the pretty lawn pillow, threaded with ribbon. “This,” he said, “is kind of crushed on the part opposite to the tooth print and stains. Crumpled up, like. As if by hands. No dabs but crumpled. What I reckon — hands.”

“Gloved. Like the Americans say: it figures. Anything else in the bedroom?”

“Not to signify.”

They were silent for a moment or two and then Bailey said: “About the Will. Dabs.”

“What? Oh, yes?”

“The lawyer’s. Mr. Rattisbon’s. Small female in holding position near edges: the daughter’s probably: Miss Foster.”

“Probably. And—?”

“That’s the lot.”

“Well, blow me down flat,” said Alleyn.

The telephone rang. It was a long distance call from Berne. Alleyn’s contact came through loud and clear.

“Monsieur le Superintendant? I am calling immediately to make an amendment to our former conversations.”

“An amendment, mon ami?”

“An addition, perhaps more accurately. In reference to the Doctor Schramm at the Sacré Coeur, you recollect?”

“Vividly.”

“Monsieur le Superintendant, I regret. My contact at the bureau has made a further search. It is now evident that the Doctor Schramm in question is deceased. In effect, since 1952.”

During the pause of the kind often described as pregnant Alleyn made a face at Fox and said: “Dead.” Fox looked affronted.

“At the risk,” Alleyn said into the telephone, “of making the most intolerable nuisance of myself, dare I ask if your source would have the very great kindness to find out if, over the same period, there is any record of an Englishman called Basil Smythe having qualified at Sacré Coeur? I should explain, my dear colleague, that there is now the possibility of a not unfamiliar form of false pretence.”

“But of course. You have but to ask. And the name again?”

Alleyn spelt it out and was told he could expect a return call within the hour. It came through in twelve minutes. An Englishman called Basil Smythe had attended the courses at the time in question but had failed to complete them. Alleyn thanked his expeditious confrere profusely. There was a further interchange of compliments and he hung up.

iv

“It’s not only in the story-books,” observed Fox on the following morning as they drove once more to Greengages, “that you get a surplus of suspects but I’ll say this for it: it’s unusual. The dates tally, don’t they?”

“According to the records at St. Luke’s, he was a medical student in London in 1950. It would seem he didn’t qualify there.”

“And now we begin to wonder if he qualified anywhere at all?”

“Does the doctor practise to deceive, in fact?” Alleyn suggested.

“Perhaps if he was at the hospital and knew the real Schramm he might have got hold of his diploma when he died. Or am I being fanciful?” asked Fox.

“You are being fanciful. And yet I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“Funnier things have happened.”

“True,” said Alleyn and they fell silent for the rest of the drive.

They arrived at Greengages under the unenthusiastic scrutiny of the receptionist. They went directly to Number 20 and found it in an advanced stage of unloveliness.

“It’s not the type of case I like,” Fox complained. “Instead of knowing who the villain is and getting on quietly with routine until you’ve collected enough to make a charge, you have to go dodging about from one character to another like the chap in the corner of a band.”

“Bang, tinkle, crash?”

“Exactly. Motive,” Fox indignantly continued. “Take motive. There’s Bruce Gardener who gets twenty-five thousand out of it and the stepson who gets however much his father entailed on him after his mother’s death and there’s a sussy-looking quack who gets a fortune. Not to mention Mr. Markos who fancied her house and Sister Jackson who fancies the quack. You can call them fringe characters. I don’t know! Which of the lot can we wipe? Tell me that, Mr. Alleyn.”

“I’m sorry too many suspects makes you so cross, Br’er Fox, but I can’t oblige. Let’s take a look at an old enemy, modus operandi, shall we? Now that Bailey and Thompson have done their stuff what do we take out of it? You tell me that, my Foxkin.”

“Ah!” said Fox. “Well now, what? What happened, eh? I reckon — and you’ll have to give me time, Mr. Alleyn — I reckon something after this fashion. After deceased had been bedded down for the night by her daughter and taken her early dinner, a character we can call the electrician, though he was nothing of the kind, collected the lilies from the reception desk and came up to Number 20. While he was still in the passage he heard or saw someone approaching and stepped into the curtained alcove.

“As you did, we don’t exactly know why.”

“With me it was what is known as a reflex action,” said Fox modestly. “While in the alcove two of the lily’s heads got knocked off. The electrician (soi disant) came out and entered Number 20. He now — don’t bustle me—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. He now?”

“Went into the bedroom and bathroom,” said Fox and himself suited the action to the word, raising his voice as he did so, “and put the lilies in the basin. They don’t half stink now. He returned to the bedroom and kidded to the deceased?”

“Kidded?”

“Chatted her up,” Fox explained. He leant over the bed in a beguiling manner. “She tells him she’s not feeling quite the thing and he says why not have a nice drink and a sleeping-pill. And, by the way, didn’t the young lady say something about putting the pill bottle out for her mother? She did? Right! So this chap gets her the drink — Scotch and water. Now comes the nitty-gritty bit.”

“It did, for her at any rate.”

“He returns to the bathroom which I shan’t bother to do. Ostensibly,” said Fox, looking his superior officer hard in the eye, “ostensibly to mix the Scotch and water but he slips in a couple, maybe three, maybe four pills. Soluble in alcohol, remember.”

“There’s a water jug on her table.”

“I thought you’d bring that up. He says it’ll be stale. The water. Just picks up the Scotch and takes it into the bathroom.”

“Casual-like?”

“That’s it.”

“Yes. I’ll swallow that, Br’er Fox. Just.”

“So does she. She swallows the drink knowing nothing of the tablets and he gives her one or maybe two more which she takes herself thinking they’re the first, with the Scotch and water.”