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Authors: Eric Ambler
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without suffering any ill effects. After his luncheon, Medley had taken a dose of the medicine prescribed for him by the doctor. It had been mixed with water for him by his son, Harold.
Evidence had been obtained from a servant that, a fortnight before the death, Harold had asked his father for £100 to settle a racing debt. He had been refused. Inquiries had revealed that Harold had lied. He had been secretly married for nearly six months, and the money had been needed not to pay racing debts, but for his wife, who was about to have a child.
The case against Harold had been conclusive. He had needed money desperately. He had quarrelled with his father. He had known that he was the heir to a quarter of his father’s estate. As a medical student in a hospital, he had been in a position to obtain arsenic. The time at which symptoms of poisoning had appeared had shown that the arsenic must have been administered at about the time the medicine had been taken. It had been the first occasion on which Harold had prepared his father’s medicine.
The coroner’s jury had boggled at indicting him in their verdict, but he had later been arrested and was now on remand.
Mercer sat back in his chair. A watertight case. Sentences began to form in his mind. This Dr Czissar, Sir Charles, is merely a time-wasting crank. He’s a refugee, and his sufferings have probably unhinged him a little. If you could put the matter to Sir Herbert …’
And then, for the second time that afternoon Dr Czissar was announced.
Mercer, as it will have been noted, was an angry man that afternoon. Yet, as Dr Czissar came into the room, he became conscious of a curious feeling of friendliness towards him. It was not entirely the friendliness that one feels towards an enemy one is about to destroy. In his mind’s eye he had been picturing Dr Czissar as an ogre. Now Mercer saw that, with his cow-like eyes behind their thick pebble spectacles, his round, pale face, his drab grey raincoat, and his unfurled umbrella, Dr Czissar was, after all, merely pathetic. When, just inside the door, Dr Czissar stopped, clapped his umbrella to his side as if it were a rifle, and said loudly: ‘Dr Jan Czissar. Late Prague police. At your service,’ Mercer very nearly smiled.
Instead he said: ‘Sit down, Doctor. I’m sorry I was too busy to see you earlier.’
‘It is so good of you –’ began Dr Czissar earnestly.
‘Not at all, Doctor. You want, I hear, to compliment us on our handling of the Brock Park case.’
Dr Czissar blinked. ‘Oh, no, Assistant-Commissioner Mercer,’ he said anxiously. ‘I should like to compliment, but it is too early, I think. I do not wish to seem impolite, but …’
Mercer smiled complacently. ‘Oh, we shall convict our man all right, Doctor. I don’t think you need worry.’
‘Oh, but I do worry. You see – he is not guilty.’
Mercer hoped that the smile with which he greeted the statement did not reveal his secret exultation. He said blandly, ‘Are you aware, Doctor, of all the evidence?’
‘I attended the inquest,’ said Dr Czissar mournfully. ‘But there will be more evidence from the hospital, no doubt. This Mr Harold could have stolen enough arsenic to poison a regiment without the loss being discovered.’
The fact that the words had been taken out of his mouth disconcerted Mercer only slightly. He nodded.
A faint, thin smile stretched the Doctor’s full lips. He settled his glasses on his nose. Then he cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and leaned forward. ‘Attention, please!’ he said sharply.
For some reason that he could not fathom, Mercer felt his self-confidence ooze suddenly away. He had seen that same series of actions, ending with the peremptory demand forattention, performed once before, and it had been the prelude to disaster, to humiliation, to … He pulled himself up sharply. The Brock Park case was watertight.
‘I’m listening,’ he said irritably.
‘Good.’ Dr Czissar wagged
Evidence had been obtained from a servant that, a fortnight before the death, Harold had asked his father for £100 to settle a racing debt. He had been refused. Inquiries had revealed that Harold had lied. He had been secretly married for nearly six months, and the money had been needed not to pay racing debts, but for his wife, who was about to have a child.
The case against Harold had been conclusive. He had needed money desperately. He had quarrelled with his father. He had known that he was the heir to a quarter of his father’s estate. As a medical student in a hospital, he had been in a position to obtain arsenic. The time at which symptoms of poisoning had appeared had shown that the arsenic must have been administered at about the time the medicine had been taken. It had been the first occasion on which Harold had prepared his father’s medicine.
The coroner’s jury had boggled at indicting him in their verdict, but he had later been arrested and was now on remand.
Mercer sat back in his chair. A watertight case. Sentences began to form in his mind. This Dr Czissar, Sir Charles, is merely a time-wasting crank. He’s a refugee, and his sufferings have probably unhinged him a little. If you could put the matter to Sir Herbert …’
And then, for the second time that afternoon Dr Czissar was announced.
Mercer, as it will have been noted, was an angry man that afternoon. Yet, as Dr Czissar came into the room, he became conscious of a curious feeling of friendliness towards him. It was not entirely the friendliness that one feels towards an enemy one is about to destroy. In his mind’s eye he had been picturing Dr Czissar as an ogre. Now Mercer saw that, with his cow-like eyes behind their thick pebble spectacles, his round, pale face, his drab grey raincoat, and his unfurled umbrella, Dr Czissar was, after all, merely pathetic. When, just inside the door, Dr Czissar stopped, clapped his umbrella to his side as if it were a rifle, and said loudly: ‘Dr Jan Czissar. Late Prague police. At your service,’ Mercer very nearly smiled.
Instead he said: ‘Sit down, Doctor. I’m sorry I was too busy to see you earlier.’
‘It is so good of you –’ began Dr Czissar earnestly.
‘Not at all, Doctor. You want, I hear, to compliment us on our handling of the Brock Park case.’
Dr Czissar blinked. ‘Oh, no, Assistant-Commissioner Mercer,’ he said anxiously. ‘I should like to compliment, but it is too early, I think. I do not wish to seem impolite, but …’
Mercer smiled complacently. ‘Oh, we shall convict our man all right, Doctor. I don’t think you need worry.’
‘Oh, but I do worry. You see – he is not guilty.’
Mercer hoped that the smile with which he greeted the statement did not reveal his secret exultation. He said blandly, ‘Are you aware, Doctor, of all the evidence?’
‘I attended the inquest,’ said Dr Czissar mournfully. ‘But there will be more evidence from the hospital, no doubt. This Mr Harold could have stolen enough arsenic to poison a regiment without the loss being discovered.’
The fact that the words had been taken out of his mouth disconcerted Mercer only slightly. He nodded.
A faint, thin smile stretched the Doctor’s full lips. He settled his glasses on his nose. Then he cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and leaned forward. ‘Attention, please!’ he said sharply.
For some reason that he could not fathom, Mercer felt his self-confidence ooze suddenly away. He had seen that same series of actions, ending with the peremptory demand forattention, performed once before, and it had been the prelude to disaster, to humiliation, to … He pulled himself up sharply. The Brock Park case was watertight.
‘I’m listening,’ he said irritably.
‘Good.’ Dr Czissar wagged
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