Antidote to Venom (9 page)

Suddenly Capper's suggestion struck him in a new light. He had not realised Burnaby's condition. Really the old man had one foot in the grave. He could not be enjoying his life and he was a danger to his fellow men. If a painless accident were to happen.…

George pulled himself together. What was this he had been thinking? Thank heaven, whatever he might be, he was not a murderer.

But it was true that the man's death would be nothing but a blessing for himself and everyone about him. He could say that with truth and yet detest and oppose Capper's scheme.

What, he wondered,
was
Capper's scheme? An accident, practically instantaneous and practically painless. Was that so very bad? The old fellow might die of some terrible long drawn out disease, or what might be even worse, his mind might give way. How many poor people in this unhappy world would give all they had to end up practically instantaneously and painlessly?

And then if what seemed best for Burnaby meant George's own escape from ruin? If it meant Nancy? If it meant, in fact, everything that made life worth living?…

The sweat formed on George's forehead as he considered these alternatives. It was not, he told himself, a question of doing right or wrong; whatever he did would be wrong. It was a choice of two evils. Which was the lesser? Which—was—the—lesser?

By the time he had passed a second sleepless night, George had moved a good deal further. Of course, under no circumstances could he have anything to do with murder. But he now remembered that Capper had said that he would arrange the “accident” and that he, George, actually
would
have nothing to do with it. He thought it would be no harm to find out just what Capper's scheme was. If it were true that he himself should know nothing of any accident.…Well, he might ask about it at all events. Asking would commit him to nothing.

That night George went to a secluded street booth to make an appointment with Capper. But when he put out his hand to lift the receiver he had a curious and upsetting experience. He seemed to see placed before him a choice: of good and evil. He told himself his action was only exploratory: to learn Capper's plan. But deep down in his mind George knew that he was faced with one of the major decisions of his life. What he did now he would never be able to undo.

He had had a religious upbringing, and some of the lessons he had been taught as a child recurred with extraordinary vividness to his memory. Of course, he had long ceased to believe in that sort of thing, and yet these memories seemed insistently to be urging him back, away from this deed which he contemplated.

For a moment, he felt completely unnerved. Then he called back his common sense. This was pure funk. It could do no harm to find out what Capper proposed. If it was really bad, of course he would have nothing to do with it.

Presently his hesitation passed away and he rang up Capper and fixed an appointment for the following evening.

All next day George felt uneasy, but he banished the thoughts as mere weakness. After dinner he hired the Gnat and drove over to Bursham, parking as before down the side street. He had determined to take a strong line with Capper, agreeing to nothing which he felt would be morally indefensible.

The solicitor welcomed him unemotionally. “I'm glad you came,” he said, as he took George's coat. “You may not like my plan. You may even turn it down. But in our very unpleasant position I think it should at least be discussed.”

“This commits me to nothing,” George declared, as stoutly as he was able.

“Of course not,” Capper agreed smoothly. “The idea may appeal to you and it may not. Come upstairs.”

When they were seated with whiskys and sodas, Capper gave his visitor an exceedingly searching glance from his shrewd eyes. Then, after a moment's thought, he said the very thing which had already occurred to George.

“Of course, you realise that we are faced with a choice of evils? It is not a question of choosing right or wrong, but of selecting the lesser of two wrongs.”

These words and the earnest manner in which they were spoken influenced George as the solicitor had intended. He appreciated Capper's moderation and apparent desire to do right, and much of his antagonism evaporated.

“You needn't harp on that,” he returned. “I realise it perfectly well. Go on, let's hear the plan.”

“Right,” Capper answered, “if you want directness I'll be direct. I won't tell you the plan because I've let you in for this, and if there's going to be trouble, I'll face it alone.”

“I'll have to know more than that,” George declared.

“Of course. And you'll have to be in it to a very small extent. I'm being straight with you, Surridge, and you will see that's necessary for my own safety. I'm not suggesting you'd give me away: I trust you completely; but this is business, and as a matter of business you must be in it enough to ensure your loyalty. After all, I'm taking ninety-nine per cent of the risk.”

George nodded. “Go ahead.”

“You,” continued Capper, “would have to do four things, and four things only. First, lose and re-find your keys as I describe; second, obtain some snake venom, preferably from a small snake; third, take a snake of the same kind from the snake-house and drown it; and fourth, post the venom and the dead snake to me. That is everything.”

“And what would you do?”

“That, for your own safety, you mustn't know. What would happen would be that on the following evening my uncle would be bitten and die.”

George moved impatiently. “But, you ass, he couldn't be bitten. The snake would be dead.”

Capper nodded. “Quite. You would therefore feel innocent about what you had done.”

George hesitated. The whole thing sounded horrible to him. Snake-bite was certainly quick, but it was sometimes very painful also. Under no circumstances could he agree to anything of the kind.

“I don't like it,” he said. “In fact, whatever your idea is, I loathe it and I won't have anything to say to it.”

“No suspicion can arise,” Capper pointed out. “It will be clear to everyone that my uncle, disappointed at being refused facilities at the snake-house, took a snake home to experiment. It escaped and bit him.”

George shook his head. “Suspicion might always arise,” he said, gloomily.

“Very well, suppose it does? It won't settle on you, for two reasons. First, though you could have stolen the snake, you could not have got it to bite Burnaby. I will arrange an absolute alibi for you during the whole period. Secondly, there would be no reason to suspect you, because you could have had no motive. Nothing about my sale of your securities will come out. It will be understood that, till probate is granted, you can't expect to handle your legacy. Probate for my uncle's money will be granted just as soon, so that I can pay you at the very time you should be getting your own money.”

“I must have some before that.”

“Directly my uncle dies I shall be able to raise three or four thousand on my expectations. I can hand you a couple of thousand at once.”

“But suppose you are suspected and our association comes out?”

“I won't be suspected, because, though I would have an obvious motive, I couldn't get either the venom or the snake.”

“I'd like to know your plan,” George persisted.

Capper smiled a little grimly. “Ignorance is always more convincing if it's genuine,” he retorted, and from this position George could not move him.

George felt terribly upset. Capper's scheme seemed safe—for him. If the theft of the securities did not come out—and there was absolutely no reason why it should—no suspicion could possibly attach to him. And he would not commit the murder: in fact, he would know nothing about it. His part would be limited to a quite harmless action. True, he would be taking a snake which did not belong to him, but surely in all these years he had put in enough extra work for the Zoo to balance that?

And if he declined? Once again George pictured the ruin which must follow. The loss of Nancy, the misery of Nancy, the probable eventual loss of his own job.…

Two evils indeed: both hateful, both utterly ghastly. Which—was—the—lesser?

George still tried to temporise. “You spoke of involving me sufficiently to safeguard yourself. What about the reverse? Why, if it suited you, should you not give me away—speaking from a business point of view, of course?”

Capper, seeing he had conquered, smiled. “That's not difficult,” he said, in a pleasanter tone. “As I see it, there are four points to be considered. First, you cannot give me away, because you will have provided me with the venom and the snake. Second, I cannot give you away, because I shall have used what you have sent me to kill Burnaby. If either of us talked, we should involve ourselves. Third, I cannot refuse to pay my debt to you, because, if I did, you would proceed against me for theft; and fourth, you cannot get more from me than you're entitled to, as the papers held by both of us give the amount. Therefore, each of us is completely safeguarded against the other. It's true, of course, that you've no check about the extra two thousand five hundred I've promised you, but I'll pay it all the same.”

“I'm not worrying about that,” George admitted.

Capper poured out some more whisky and then leant forward. “That's all right then; let's go into details about your part of it. Your keys first. Now there's a small gate,” and their heads went closer together.

When, after midnight, George left the house, he found himself definitely committed to the scheme.

Chapter IX

Venom: In Action

George reached home with his mind in a whirl. Now that the die was cast he was already bitterly regretting his decision. Rather, perhaps, he oscillated between two views, at one time dreading and loathing what lay before him, at another thankful that he was avoiding the much worse alternative.

He felt he must begin to act, partly to finish the burning of his boats, and partly to get the hideous affair over as quickly as possible.

The first thing to be attended to was the matter of the keys, of which Capper had given him full details. This should be carried out immediately. Capper wanted as much time as possible to elapse between it and Burnaby's accident, so that a connection between the two should not be too obvious.

On his ring, George had, besides the keys of his private house, office, safe and desk, keys for various locks about the Zoo. One fitted the main gate and one the side door near Burnaby's house, and three master keys opened between them the entire range of animal houses. George carried these—they were all small—so that he could at any time of the day or night enter or leave the grounds, or, should occasion arise, visit any animal or enclosure. Before explaining his plan, Capper had asked what keys he carried, and had seemed well pleased with George's reply.

George began by thinking out an excuse to use the side door. This door, as has been explained, was a small one for foot passengers only, and led from near the snake-house out on to the road close to Burnaby's. It was not used by the public, but was reserved for business purposes, and was kept locked. Burnaby had been given a key when he began his researches, so as to save him the walk round by the main entrance, and in order to spare his feelings this key had not been withdrawn from him with the permission to handle the snakes.

George found his excuse in the illness of his artist friend, Richard Mornington, the man with whom he often walked to lunch. Mornington lived close to Burnaby, and the nearest way from the Zoo to his house was through the side door. George had not been to inquire about him and in the normal condition of affairs might never have gone, but now he felt that friendship demanded a visit.

That afternoon he paid his call, sitting with the artist for half an hour, much to the latter's surprise. He walked back to the Zoo, opened the side door with his key, passed through and drew it shut. But he left his bunch dangling from the keyhole.

Half an hour after reaching his office he decided it was time to open his safe. He put his hand in his pocket for his keys, when lo! they weren't there. More or less noisily he searched the room, then, having no success, he rang for his secretary.

“Have you seen my keys, Miss Hepworth?” he asked. “I seem to have mislaid them somewhere.”

She looked at him with but slightly-veiled disapproval as she replied that she had not. “When did you have them last?” she went on, in an accusing tone.

“Well, if I knew that, you know.” He smiled. “I had them just before lunch, because I had the safe open then. I remember locking it before going out.”

“Yes, I saw it open before lunch,” she admitted, unhelpfully.

“Then after lunch I went round to see Mr. Mornington. He's ill, you know. I used the side door and I had them then. I must have brought them back with me, but I don't remember using them since I came in.”

“You've dropped them somewhere,” she suggested, as if administering a reproof to a naughty child.

“I suppose I must,” he answered meekly, “seeing that they're not here now. Let's have a look round the office.”

He stood feeling in the pockets of his clothes, while with quick efficient fingers and sharp eyes she searched the room and furniture. Presently both had to admit defeat.

“If I dropped them in the grounds, ten to one someone has found them. Better have Taylor in.”

She withdrew silently, and he heard her voice at the telephone. Presently a reliable-looking man in a blue uniform appeared. This was the head ranger or grounds caretaker. His duty was to see that the public did as little damage as possible to the flowers, shrubs and various other outdoor objects which the Zoo provided for their delectation.

“I've done a stupid thing, Taylor,” George explained. “I've mislaid my keys. There are about eight on the ring, mostly small and of the Yale type.”

“Yes, sir. Any idea where you lost them?”

George smiled. “That would be telling, you know. I let myself in through the side door about half an hour ago, so I must have had them then. I walked straight here, but when I looked for them just now they were gone. See if I've dropped them in the grounds, will you, and make inquiries if anyone has found them.”

The man saluted and disappeared, while George sat thinking over the affair. He wasn't quite clear as to Capper's motive in requiring all this. It couldn't be that he intended someone to steal the keys or take impressions, for no time had been arranged for the affair to take place. Yet his direction that they were to be left in the
outside
keyhole of the door did suggest something of the kind. It was certainly connected with the access of some unauthorised person to the snake-house, as he had insisted that a key of this house must be on the bunch.

George continued working, though with indifferent success. Miss Hepworth must not be allowed to suspect. He felt that to hoodwink Miss Hepworth was going to be one of his greatest difficulties. She was extraordinarily efficient, and her very excellences were now his danger.

Presently Taylor was announced, the keys dangling from his finger.

“Found 'em in the door, sir; the side door.”

George looked suitably shocked. “Good lord!” he exclaimed. “I must be getting senile decay. Were they in the lock?”

“Hanging in the lock, sir, outside.”

George shook his head. “Goodness only knows how I did that! Well, fortunately, no harm seems to have been done. Thank you, Taylor; I'm glad you got them.”

Though George at times was consumed with fear lest Capper's plans should prove faulty, he was pleased with the way he had carried out this first step. Nothing he had so far done could possibly be used against him. He had his story ready to explain how he came to overlook the key: Capper had sketched its outlines and it was reasonably convincing. If he did as well with his next step he would certainly be all right.

This next step involved the stealing and drowning of the snake, the collecting of the venom, and the sending of both to Capper. It was really also the last, because all these matters must be dealt with at the same time.

For some incomprehensible reason Capper had insisted that this must be done on a Tuesday night. Moreover, it could only be on the night of a day on which Burnaby had been in the snake-house late in the afternoon. It was therefore necessary for George to keep an eye on the snake-house on each Tuesday afternoon, the understanding being that he should act on the first one on which Burnaby was there.

This was Thursday, so that he had five days before the great effort became possible. Meanwhile, certain preparatory matters must be seen to, and on the following Saturday he took advantage of a visit to London to deal with them.

His business was at the London Zoo, and when it was completed he went down to the East End and bought a pair of black sand shoes, rubber gloves and other small items, as well as thirty feet of light rope, to the end of which he got the shopman to attach a small hook. The rope he knotted at intervals of about a foot, and when he had finished he had a light and portable ladder which would easily reach from his bedroom window to the ground. The staircase creaked so much that he dare not use it. He took the rope upstairs in a suitcase, leaving the case locked in his room.

On the Tuesday afternoon he saw that business took him, not to the snake-house, but to areas from which he could see it. To his mixed relief and disappointment Burnaby did not put in an appearance, which gave him a week's respite, as well as an extra week's suspense.

The next Tuesday he was again on the look-out, and this time he saw Burnaby going to the snake-house. He busied himself in the neighbourhood, and about a quarter of an hour before closing time saw Burnaby leave, as usual by the side door.

To-night, then, was to be the night of his great effort, perhaps the most momentous in George's life. After to-night there would be no drawing back: he would be irrevocably committed.

He did not, as a matter of fact, wish to draw back. Familiarity with Capper's plan had largely removed its horror, while the fear of financial ruin had grown more insistent.

That evening George's dominating aim was to be natural. He must do the things he was accustomed to do, he must speak as he usually spoke, he must not betray the anxiety which was consuming him; he must not, in short, do anything which would enable Clarissa or Miss Hepworth or any other person to say afterwards: “Well, he
was
in an excited condition that night.”

When at long last he was able to go to bed, he believed he had succeeded. Conversation at dinner had been normal. After the meal he had read the evening paper for his usual time in the sitting-room, then going, as he so often did, to his study. Later he returned to the sitting-room for a drink, making a few quite ordinary remarks to Clarissa.

But after reaching his room his actions no longer continued normal. First he softly locked his door. Then he changed into the clothes which he had prepared: a black suit, black socks and sand shoes, while he left aside to be assumed later, thin black rubber gloves and a black cap with a hanging mask all round. Then he disarranged his bed, got out an electric torch, and sat down to wait till it was his normal time to turn out the light.

This moment having arrived, he switched on his torch, put out the mains light, and got out his knotted rope. Inch by inch he pulled his window curtains back, opening two adjoining sashes. The window was fitted with lead lights and dividing mullions, and this left a mullion standing clear. Round the mullion George wrapped a cloth, and on the cloth he hooked his rope, satisfied that, thus protected, his weight on the rope would not mark the paint. Then once again he settled down to wait.

As he sat there in the dark, he learnt something about the passage of time which he had never known before. He simply could not have conceived that it could drag so slowly. He would look at his luminous watch, decide he would not do so again for half an hour, and when he did look, find that only four or five minutes had passed. He had read of time passing like that in the case of prisoners: how dreadful for them! He had also read about that converse phenomenon: how for those awaiting execution there was added to these dragging minutes the terribly swift and inexorable approach of the final day. This thought, which had come unbidden to his mind, filled him with a sudden panic. For a few moments he felt physically sick, while a cold sweat broke out all over him. With trembling hands he took out the flask which he had put in his pocket for use in this very emergency, and swallowed a small quantity of the spirit. There was danger here also: he could so easily take too much.

The whisky steadied him and he grew more normal. As he looked out of the open windows he congratulated himself that the weather at least was aiding him. A better night indeed he could scarcely have had. It was dark, but not absolutely black. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and the stars gave just the right amount of light. No rain had fallen for some days and the ground was too hard to show footmarks. Finally, there was just enough wind in the trees to cover up any slight sounds he might make, but not enough to flap his curtains and prevent him leaving his window open.

Over and over again he reviewed what he proposed to do, so that he would forget nothing. It would be easy, he felt sure. He had only to keep his head and all would be well.

Except for a telephone call on the previous Tuesday, saying in an innocuous code that he was unable to despatch the snake, George had not communicated with Capper since the vital interview at which the affair had been agreed on. That call, he told himself, would be the last. To-night would finish his part in the affair.

At long last the hands of his watch drew on to half-past one, zero hour for his operations. With a look round he crept noiselessly to the window, climbed out, and lowered himself to the ground.

His immediate danger was now the night watchman, though as he knew the man's rounds, he felt he should be able to avoid him. Without incident he reached his office, let himself in, and took from his safe certain articles which he had prepared: a tiny phial, a Pravaz syringe, a special tongs consisting of a leathern loop at the end of the stick for picking up a snake by the neck, and a screw clamp of a novel kind. Carrying these under his coat, he let himself out of the office and crept silently towards the snake-house.

His nerves were on edge and twice suspicious sounds sent him crouching behind shrubs. But these proved to be false alarms and he reached his goal unobserved. Safely he entered, locking the door behind him.

He had already solved one of his major problems: which snake to select. It must be small enough to go into a package which could be posted in a letter box, and its venom must be deadly and act quickly. He had decided on the smallest of the Russell vipers. As well as meeting Capper's requirements, these snakes were rather sluggish and comparatively easy to handle. Moreover, there were four of them in the cage, and as they frequently lay coiled together, it was unlikely the keeper would immediately miss the absentee.

Now that he was actually at the critical stage of his operations, George's nerves steadied. From the service passage at the back of the cages he unlocked and slid open the metal door of the vipers' cage, put in his tongs, skilfully slipped the noose over the selected snake's head and drew it out, twisting and wriggling, but held securely by its neck. Then, with the Pravaz syringe, he collected the drops of venom which in its rage and fear oozed from the ends of its poisonous fangs. Having transferred several drops to the phial, his work in the snake-house was done. He looked carefully round to see that everything was in place, then slipped stealthily out and drew the door behind him.