Read Online Below Suspicion by John Dickson Carr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Dickson Carr
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have?"
"Mr. Renshaw," Denham said, "was poisoned last night with another hea\7 dose of antimony. He died, in horrible agony, about three o'clock this morning. He was probably poisoned by the same person who killed Mrs. Taylor."
The old parrot screamed, flopping about in its cage with demoniac excitement. Patrick Butler, who had taken out a silver cigarette case and snapped on a lighter, sat motionless while he stared at Denham. Then he blew out the flame of the lighter.
"The same person . . . Look here, Charlie! Are the Renshaws your clients too?"
"Yes. Just as Mrs. Taylor was."
"And Renshaw's poisoned tool Do the police suspect anybody?"
"Yes. Lucia Renshaw herself. And I'm bound to admit," Denham averted his eyes, "the evidence looks very black against her. There'll probably—well, there'll probably be an arrest."
Butler smote his fist on the table.
"Oh, bejasus!" he exclaimed in sheer ecstasy. "Do you mean I can go into court and kick the police's behinds again? In more or less the same poison case?"
"Pat, not so fast! Don't you see the point of all tliis?"
Denham smiled. From the moment of Joyce Ellis's acquittal, he had become a very different person from the haggard, haunted young man of the past weeks. He was again his pleasant, quiet, unobtrusive self. Yet about him there was a sense of strain—perhaps a new strain—even when he smiled.
"Joyce," he pointed out grimly, "certainly didn't poison Dick Renshaw. And, in my opinion," he hesitated, "the beautiful Lucia didn't either. We're in the middle of a worse mess than we ever thought. Look here!"
From beside him Denham picked up the crumpled newspaper, flattened it on the table, and indicated again that small headline: WAVE OF POISON CASES SAYS SUPT. HADLEY
"Don't bother to read the item," Denham advised. "I've got secret information that isn't printed here. I got it from Dr. Fell." "Dr. Fell?" "You've heard, I think, of Dr. Gideon Fell? He was at the trial too.
If you'd ever turned round and looked behind you, you'd have seen him."
Butler was ruffled. He put away cigarette case and lighter.
"Would you mind telling me," he requested, "just what in blazes you're talking about?"
"In the last three months," answered Denham, tapping the paper, "there have been nine unsolved deaths by poison. All in different parts of the country."
"Crimes of imitation, me boy!" Butler v^'as impatient. "It always happens."
"I said in the last three months. Most of them before Mrs. Taylor's death. Now listen!" Charles Denham wagged his head fonvard, eyebrows intent. "In not one of those cases—not one, Pat!—have the police been able to trace the purchase of any poison to any suspect. You know what that means."
Butler whistled. For the bu)ang of poison, no matter under what disguise or what false signature in the poison-book at the chemist's, is the factor which almost invariably trips up the murderer.
"Come off it, me boy!" scoffed Butler, a little angry that Charlie was again his normal self. "There's no doubt about where the poison came from in Mrs. Taylor's case."
"I wonder!" said Denham.
"What's that?"
"Tell me, Pat. Did you notice anything odd about that trial today?"
"Odd!" said Butler. "The man asks me," he addressed the coffee-room with some violence, "whether I noticed anything odd! Candidly, Charlie, I did. Mr. Justice Bloody Stoneman. . . ."
"No, no, not the judge! I meant the witnesses. In particular, that doctor."
"Dr. Bierce?"
"Yes," agreed Denham, running a nervous hand over his face. "He was tr)^ing to tell us something; and the rules of evidence wouldn't let him. But he said, you remember, that Mrs. Taylor's house wasn't healthy. He said it wasn't a good atmosphere for anybody as unsophisticated as Joyce."
Then Denham's tone changed, self-consciously.
"By the way," he added, "where is Joyce? I thought I saw her coming in here with you."
"She did."
"I was waiting in your car. I—I rather hoped. . . ."
"She didn't want to see you,
"Mr. Renshaw," Denham said, "was poisoned last night with another hea\7 dose of antimony. He died, in horrible agony, about three o'clock this morning. He was probably poisoned by the same person who killed Mrs. Taylor."
The old parrot screamed, flopping about in its cage with demoniac excitement. Patrick Butler, who had taken out a silver cigarette case and snapped on a lighter, sat motionless while he stared at Denham. Then he blew out the flame of the lighter.
"The same person . . . Look here, Charlie! Are the Renshaws your clients too?"
"Yes. Just as Mrs. Taylor was."
"And Renshaw's poisoned tool Do the police suspect anybody?"
"Yes. Lucia Renshaw herself. And I'm bound to admit," Denham averted his eyes, "the evidence looks very black against her. There'll probably—well, there'll probably be an arrest."
Butler smote his fist on the table.
"Oh, bejasus!" he exclaimed in sheer ecstasy. "Do you mean I can go into court and kick the police's behinds again? In more or less the same poison case?"
"Pat, not so fast! Don't you see the point of all tliis?"
Denham smiled. From the moment of Joyce Ellis's acquittal, he had become a very different person from the haggard, haunted young man of the past weeks. He was again his pleasant, quiet, unobtrusive self. Yet about him there was a sense of strain—perhaps a new strain—even when he smiled.
"Joyce," he pointed out grimly, "certainly didn't poison Dick Renshaw. And, in my opinion," he hesitated, "the beautiful Lucia didn't either. We're in the middle of a worse mess than we ever thought. Look here!"
From beside him Denham picked up the crumpled newspaper, flattened it on the table, and indicated again that small headline: WAVE OF POISON CASES SAYS SUPT. HADLEY
"Don't bother to read the item," Denham advised. "I've got secret information that isn't printed here. I got it from Dr. Fell." "Dr. Fell?" "You've heard, I think, of Dr. Gideon Fell? He was at the trial too.
If you'd ever turned round and looked behind you, you'd have seen him."
Butler was ruffled. He put away cigarette case and lighter.
"Would you mind telling me," he requested, "just what in blazes you're talking about?"
"In the last three months," answered Denham, tapping the paper, "there have been nine unsolved deaths by poison. All in different parts of the country."
"Crimes of imitation, me boy!" Butler v^'as impatient. "It always happens."
"I said in the last three months. Most of them before Mrs. Taylor's death. Now listen!" Charles Denham wagged his head fonvard, eyebrows intent. "In not one of those cases—not one, Pat!—have the police been able to trace the purchase of any poison to any suspect. You know what that means."
Butler whistled. For the bu)ang of poison, no matter under what disguise or what false signature in the poison-book at the chemist's, is the factor which almost invariably trips up the murderer.
"Come off it, me boy!" scoffed Butler, a little angry that Charlie was again his normal self. "There's no doubt about where the poison came from in Mrs. Taylor's case."
"I wonder!" said Denham.
"What's that?"
"Tell me, Pat. Did you notice anything odd about that trial today?"
"Odd!" said Butler. "The man asks me," he addressed the coffee-room with some violence, "whether I noticed anything odd! Candidly, Charlie, I did. Mr. Justice Bloody Stoneman. . . ."
"No, no, not the judge! I meant the witnesses. In particular, that doctor."
"Dr. Bierce?"
"Yes," agreed Denham, running a nervous hand over his face. "He was tr)^ing to tell us something; and the rules of evidence wouldn't let him. But he said, you remember, that Mrs. Taylor's house wasn't healthy. He said it wasn't a good atmosphere for anybody as unsophisticated as Joyce."
Then Denham's tone changed, self-consciously.
"By the way," he added, "where is Joyce? I thought I saw her coming in here with you."
"She did."
"I was waiting in your car. I—I rather hoped. . . ."
"She didn't want to see you,
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