"That tears it! I thought it was too good to be true."
"I don't understand what you mean?"
Corrigan said, "You'll have to meet the D.D.I. Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune. He'll be interested in what you have to say. When Gorman was killed, Lejeune asked for information from anyone who had seen him in the street that night. Most of the answers were useless, as is usual. But there was a pharmacist, name of Osborne, who has a shop in those parts. He reported having seen Gorman pass his place that night, and he also saw a man who followed close after him - naturally he didn't think anything of it at that time. But he managed to describe this chap pretty closely - seemed quite sure he'd know him again. Well, a couple of days ago Lejeune got a letter from Osborne. He's retired, and living in Bournemouth. He'd been over to some local fкte and he said he'd seen the man in question there. He was at the fкte in a wheelchair. Osborne asked who he was and was told his name was Venables."
He looked at me questioningly. I nodded.
"Quite right," I said. "It was Venables. He was at the fкte. But he couldn't have been the man who was walking along a street in Paddington following Father Gorman. It's physically impossible. Osborne made a mistake."
"He described him very meticulously. Height about six feet, a prominent beaked nose, and a noticeable Adam's apple. Correct?"
"Yes. It fits Venables. But all the same -"
"I know. Mr Osborne isn't necessarily as good as he thinks he is at recognising people. Clearly he was misled by the coincidence of a chance resemblance. But it's disturbing to have you come along shooting your mouth off about that very district - talking about some pale horse or other. What is this pale horse? Let's have your story."
"You won't believe it," I warned him. "I don't really believe it myself."
"Come on. Let's have it."
I told him of my conversation with Thyrza Grey. His reaction was immediate.
"What unutterable balderdash!"
"It is, isn't it?"
"Of course it is! What's the matter with you, Mark? White cockerels. Sacrifices, I suppose! A medium, the local witch, and a middle-aged country spinster who can send out a death ray guaranteed lethal. It's mad, man, absolutely mad!"
"Yes, it's mad," I said heavily.
"Oh! stop agreeing with me, Mark. You make me feel there's something in it when you do that. You believe there's something in it, don't you?"
"Let me ask you a question first. This stuff about everybody having a secret urge or wish for death. Is there any scientific truth in that?"
Corrigan hesitated for a moment. Then he said:
"I'm not a psychiatrist. Strictly between you and me I think half these fellows are slightly barmy themselves. They're punch drunk on theories. And they go much too far. I can tell you that the police aren't at all fond of the expert medical witness who's always being called in for the defence to explain away a man's having killed some helpless old woman for the money in the till."
"You prefer your glandular theory?"
He grinned.
"All right. All right. I'm a theorist, too. Admttted. But there's a good physical reason behind my theory - if I can ever get at it. But all this subconscious stuff! Pah!"
"You don't believe in it?"
"Of course I believe in it. But these chaps take it much too far. The unconscious 'death wish' and all that, there's something in it, of course, but not nearly so much as they make out."
"But there is such a thing," I persisted.
"You'd better go and buy yourself a book on psychology and read all about it."
"Thyrza Grey claims that she knows all there is to know."
"Thyrza Grey!" he snorted. "What does a half-baked spinster in a country village know about mental psychology?"
"She says she knows a lot."
"As I said before, balderdash!"
"That," I remarked, "is what people have always said about any discovery that doesn't accord with recognized ideas. Iron ships? Balderdash! Flying-machines? Balderdash! Frogs twitching their legs on railings -"
He interrupted me.
"So you've swallowed all this, hook, line and sinker?"
"Not at all," I said. "I just wanted to know if there is any scientific basis for it."
Corrigan snorted.
"Scientific basis my foot!"
"All right. I just wanted to know."
"You'll be saying next she's the Woman with the Box."
"What Woman with a Box?"
"Just one of the wild stories that turn up from time to time - by Nostradamus out of Mother Shipton. Some people will swallow anything."
"You might at least tell me how you are getting on with that list of names."
"The boys have been hard at work, but these things take time and a lot of routine work. Names without addresses or Christian names aren't easy to trace or identify."
"Let's take it from a different angle. I'd be willing to bet you one thing. Within a fairly recent period - say a year to a year and a half - every one of those names has appeared on a death certificate. Am I right?"
He gave me a queer look.
"You're right - for what it's worth."
"That's the thing they all have in common - death."
"Yes, but that mayn't mean as much as it sounds, Mark. Have you any idea how many people die every day in the British Isles? And some of those names are quite common - which doesn't help."
"Delafontaine," I said. "Mary Delafontaine. That's not a very common name, is it? The funeral was last Tuesday, I understand."
He shot me a quick glance.
"How do you know that? Saw it in the paper, I suppose."
"I heard it from a friend of hers."
"There was nothing fishy about her death. I can tell you that. In fact, there's been nothing questionable about any of the deaths, the police have been investigating. If they were 'accidents' it might be suspicious. But the deaths are all perfectly normal deaths. Pneumonia, cerebral hemorrhage, tumour on the brain, gallstones, one case of polio - nothing in the least suspicious."
I nodded.
"Not accident," I said. "Not poisoning. Just plain illnesses leading to death. Just as Thyrza Grey claims."
"Are you really suggesting that that woman can cause someone she's never seen, miles away, to catch pneumonia and die of it?"
"I'm not suggesting such a thing. She did. I think it's fantastic and I'd like to think it's impossible. But there are certain curious factors. There's the casual mention of a Pale Horse - in connection with the removal of unwanted persons. There is a place called the Pale Horse - and the woman who lives there practically boasts that such an operation is possible. Living in that neighbourhood is a man who is recognized very positively as the man who was seen following Father Gorman on the night that he was killed - the night when he had been called to a dying woman who was heard to speak of 'great wickedness.' Rather a lot of coincidences, don't you think?"
"The man couldn't have been Venables, since according to you, he's been paralyzed for years."
"It isn't possible, from the medical point of view, that that paralysis could be faked?"
"Of course not. The limbs would be atrophied."
"That certainly seems to settle the question," I admitted. I sighed. "A pity. If there is a - I don't know quite what to call it - an organization that specializes in 'Removals - Human,' Venables is the kind of brain I can see running it. The things he has in that house of his represent a fantastic amount of money. Where does that money come from?"
I paused - and then said:
"All these people who have died - tidily - in their beds, of this, that and the other - were there people who profited by their deaths?"
"Someone always profits by a death - in greater or lesser degree. There were no notably suspicious circumstances, if that is what you mean?"
"It isn't quite."
"Lady Hesketh-Dubois, as you probably know, left about fifty thousand net. A niece and a nephew inherit. Nephew lives in Canada. Niece is married and lives in North of England. Both could do with the money. Thomasina Tuckerton was left a very large fortune by her father. If she died unmarried before the age of twenty-one, it reverts to her stepmother. Stepmother seems quite a blameless creature. Then there's your Mrs Delafontaine - money left to a cousin -"
"Ah yes. And the cousin?"
"In Kenya with her husband."
"All splendidly absent," I commented.
Corrigan threw me an annoyed glance.
"Of the three Sandfords who've kicked the bucket, one left a wife much younger than himself who has married again - rather quickly. Deceased Sandford was an R.C. and wouldn't have given her a divorce. A fellow called Sidney Harmondsworth who died of cerebral hemorrhage was suspected at the Yard of augmenting his income by discreet blackmail. Several people in high places must be greatly relieved that he is no more."
"What you're saying in effect is - that all these deaths were convenient deaths. What about Corrigan?"
Corrigan grinned.
"Corrigan is a common name. Quite a lot of Corrigans have died - but not to the particular advantage of anyone in particular so far as we can learn."
"That settles it. You're the next prospective victim. Take good care of yourself."
"I will. And don't think that your Witch of Endor is going to strike me down with a duodenal ulcer, or Spanish flu. Not a case-hardened doctor!"
"Listen, Jim. I want to investigate this claim of Thyrza Grey's. Will you help me?"
"No, I won't! I can't understand a clever educated fellow like you being taken in by such balderdash."
I sighed.
"Can't you use another word? I'm tired of that one."
"Poppycock, if you like it better."
"I don't much."
"Obstinate fellow, aren't you, Mark?"
"As I see it," I said, "somebody has to be!"
Chapter 10
Glendower Close was very very new. It swept round in an uneven semicircle and at its lower end the builders were still at work. About halfway along its length was a gate inscribed with the name of Everest.
Visible, bent over the garden border, planting bulbs, was a rounded back which Inspector Lejeune recognized without difficulty as that of Mr Zachariah Osborne. He opened the gate and passed inside. Mr Osborne rose from his stooping position and turned to see who had entered his domain. On recognizing his visitor, an additional flush of pleasure rose to his already flushed face. Mr Osborne in the country was looking very much the same as Mr Osborne in his shop in London. He wore stout country shoes and was in his shirt sleeves, but even this deshabille detracted little from the dapper neatness of his appearance. A fine dew of perspiration showed on the shining baldness on his domed head. This he carefully wiped with a pocket handkerchief before advancing to meet his visitor.
"Inspector Lejeune!" he exclaimed pleasurably. "I take this as an honour. I do indeed, sir. I received your acknowledgment of my letter, but I never hoped to see you in person. Welcome to my little abode. Welcome to Everest. The name surprises you perhaps? I have always been deeply interested in the Himalayas. I followed every detail of the Everest expedition. What a triumph for our country. Sir Edmund Hillary! What a man! What endurance! As one who has never had to suffer any personal discomfort, I do appreciate the courage of those who go forth to scale unconquered mountains or sail through ice-bound seas to discover the secrets of the Pole. But come inside and partake, I beg of you, of some simple refreshment."
Leading the way, Mr Osborne ushered Lejeune into the small bungalow which was the acme of neatness, though rather sparsely furnished.
"Not quite settled yet," explained Mr Osborne. "I attend local sales whenever possible. There is good stuff to be picked up that way, at a quarter of the cost one would have to pay in a shop. Now what can I offer you? A glass of sherry? Beer? A cup of tea? I could have the kettle on in a jiffy?"
Lejeune expressed a preference for beer.
"Here we are, then," said Mr Osborne, returning a moment later with two brimming pewter tankards.
"We will sit and take our rest. Everest. Ha ha! The name of my house has a double meaning. I am always fond of a little joke."
These social amenities satisfied, Mr Osborne leaned forward hopefully.
"My information was of service to you?"
Lejeune softened the blow as much as possible.
"Not as much as we hoped, I am afraid."
"Ah, I confess I am disappointed. Though, really, there is, I realise, no reason to suppose that a gentleman proceeding in the same direction as Father Gorman should necessarily be his murderer. That was really too much to hope for. And this Mr Venables is well-to-do and much respected locally, I understand, moving in the best social circles."
"The point is," said Lejeune, "that it could not have been Mr Venables that you saw on that particular evening."
Mr Osborne sat up sharply.
"Oh, but it was. I have absolutely no doubt in my own mind. I am never mistaken about a face."
"I'm afraid you must have been this time," said Lejeune gently. "You see, Mr Venables is a victim of polio. For over three years he has been paralyzed from the waist down, and is unable to use his legs."
"Polio!" ejaculated Mr Osborne. "Oh dear, dear... that does seem to settle the matter. And yet - You'll excuse me, Inspector Lejeune. I hope you won't take offence. But that really is so? I mean you have definite medical evidence as to that?"
"Yes, Mr Osborne. We have. Mr Venables is a patient of Sir William Dugdale of Harley Street, a most eminent member of the medical profession."
