Langdon is one of the outlying suburbs of London, but most of it was built last century. Then it attracted men who were making comfortable, third - class fortunes. The result is that it consists chiefly of genteel villas, each in its own piece of ground, which have tried hard to be unlike one another with contortions of inconvenience. Some of these are still inhabited by the survivors or descendants of those who put them up. Others have been converted by the forces of progress into modern ugliness as blocks of flats offering modern comfort to those who do without babies.
Breakfastless and pallid, Reggie came to the hospital built in the lowest, dampest situation which the hills of Langdon provide.
Police - constable Mills had been put in a private room. He lay unconscious. The bulk of his body raised the bed - clothes to a long mound through which no tremor of movement came, so faintly life struggled in him with a gurgle of labouring breath.
“He had some spasms when he first came in,” the doctor explained. “Only slight. He’s been much like this for two hours - continuous and deepening coma.”
“Yes. Collapse of central nervous system,” Reggie murmured. He felt a feeble, irregular pulse, he bent over the patient… .
In vigour Constable Mills must have been the popular ideal of a long - service policeman. But the cheeks, which ought to have been dark red, were livid behind the network of tiny purple veins; his unseeing eyes had sunk back into their puckered wrinkles; from the unknown into which his mind had passed the face reported pain and dread… .
“That’s a big bruise on the back of his head,” the doctor pointed out.
“Yes, I did notice it. Yes,” Reggie murmured. He was looking close into the moustache.
“He’s a heavy fellow,” the doctor continued to instruct. “It might have been made by a fall, if you assume he had a stroke, and he’s the age and the habit of body to make that possible. Or he may have been slogged from behind. Anyhow I’m taking it as a case of concussion.”
“Been sick, hasn’t he?” Reggie murmured.
“Not since he came in. I should say he had been. There was some muck on his clothes. You often find sickness after concussion, don’t you?”
“Yes, that is so. However. Try an apomorphine injection. Want to clean out the stomach if you can. And then give him dialysed iron.”
“My Lord,” the doctor exclaimed. “I never thought - -”
“No. Don’t blame you. Very bafflin’ these cases of collapse. Get on with it now.”
The doctor got on….
Over the hospital telephone Reggie spoke to Inspector Underwood. “He’s gone, poor chap. As near as no matter. Not a chance left. No. He hasn’t said anything. Never conscious. What? Yes, bad luck. Very bad luck.”
“You think somebody did him in, sir?” Underwood said eagerly.
“Oh, yes. Yes. That is indicated. Not a natural death.”
“Knocked on the head, was he?”
“Only by himself. As he fell. Bruise on the head irrelevant. Cause of death, irritant poisoning. Some analysis required, but no doubt the usual arsenic.”
“Good Lord!” Underwood ejaculated.
“Yes. As you say. But human action is also indicated. Come on.”
When Underwood reached the hospital, he found Reggie in the matron’s room, eating buttered toast and drinking tea.
“Well, well.” Reggie looked up at him and sighed. “A sad world. A horrible breakfast. And he’s dead.”
Underwood nodded gloomily. “Ah, it’s a bad business, sir. Did he suffer much?”
“In the last hours - no. Quite a lot before. Not a nice game, the arsenic game.” Reggie pushed back his chair, gazed at his toast with dislike, and lit his pipe.
“I never heard of a case like it,” said Underwood.
“No. You wouldn’t. In the nature of things. Dose of arsenic, followed by collapse, passes for a stroke or concussion, and the operator gets a nice, quiet burial of the victim. Same like this operator would have got, if you hadn’t dragged me in to interfere with him. Bold operator. Takin’ a risk, but a good risk. A big dose may go to the nervous system quick and omit the desirable, betrayin’ symptoms. Boldness, and again boldness, is the motto for the murder industry. Quite a lot of arsenic poisonin’ the police never hear of. Comfortin’ thought. And every case you don’t hear of leads to others. Your poisoner goes marchin’ on - from victory to victory. However. We have heard of this case. We might catch the poisoner before there’s another victim.” He gazed at Underwood with dreamy, closing eyes. “Quiite a novelty for the police force to avert a murder or two, very improbable novelty. We shall have to be very clever,” he drawled. “Are you feelin’ clever, Underwood? I am not. Oh, my hat, I am not.” He looked with loathing at the congealed remains of his toast. “Question for you is the history of Constable Mills with full and particular details of his last afternoon and evening here upon earth. Get on to it. You’re the lucky man. I have to examine his remains.”
That evening Mr. Fortune attended a conference at Scotland Yard. He came to it late. He found it already in session - Underwood and Superintendent Bell presided over by the Hon. Sidney Lomas, the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.
“Well, what are you going to tell us?” Lomas asked.
