Chapter 13

Lal Das, to whom Brady had referred so contemptuously, was a tall, cadaverous Indian. A Doctor of Medicine and a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, he could have secured a senior post in a major hospital any time he wanted and yet he preferred to run a large general practice in one of the less salubrious parts of the city. He had a national reputation in the field of drug addiction and, in this connection, Miller had frequently sought his advice.

The Indian had just finished breakfast and was working his way through the Sunday supplements when Miller was shown in. Das smiled and waved him to a seat. “Just in time for coffee.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Business or did you just happen to be in the neighbourhood?”

Miller took the cup of coffee the Indian handed to him and shook his head. “You had a call earlier—a query concerning a Mrs. Phillips of 10, Narcia Street.”

The Indian nodded. “That’s right. The officer who spoke to me wasn’t terribly co-operative. Wouldn’t tell me what the whole thing was about, so I simply refused to give him the information he required until I knew more about it. A doctor/patient relationship can only function satisfactorily when there is an atmosphere of complete trust. I would only be prepared to discuss a patient’s case history and private affairs in exceptional circumstances.”

“Would murder be extreme enough?” Miller asked.

Lal Das sighed and put down his cup carefully. “I think you’d better tell me about it. I’ll judge for myself.”

“Fair enough. The man at the centre of things is the woman’s son—Harold Phillips. Presumably he’s a patient of yours also?”

An expression of real distaste crossed the Indian’s face. “For my sins. A particularly repellant specimen of present-day youth.”

“He had a girl friend called Grace Packard. Ever meet her?”

Das shook his head. “I notice you use the past tense.”

“She was murdered last night. Naturally Harold was called upon to explain his movements, especially as he’d had some sort of row with her earlier in the evening. His story is that he was home by nine-thirty. He says that his mother was in bed and that he took her a cup of tea and went himself.

“So his mother is his alibi?”

“That’s about the size of it. The murder was committed around ten-fifteen you see.”

Das nodded. “But what is it you want from me? Surely it’s straightforward enough.”

“It might have been if something rather strange hadn’t occurred. Two police officers went to Narcia Street just after midnight to bring Harold in for questioning. They had to kick on the door for a good five minutes before he showed any signs of life. His mother failed to put in an appearance at all. He said she was sleeping like a baby and hadn’t been very well, but according to the officer in charge, no one could have slept through such a disturbance.”

“Unless drugged of course,” Das said.

“He did find a box of Canbutal capsules on the mantelpiece, which seemed to offer a solution.”

“So what you’re really wondering is whether or not Mrs. Phillips could have been in bed and asleep when Harold returned home—whenever that was.”

“Naturally—I understand Canbutal is pretty powerful stuff. I also understand that it’s not usually prescribed in simple cases of insomnia.”

Das got to his feet, went to the fireplace and selected a black cheroot from a sandalwood box. “What I tell you now must be treated in the strictest confidence. You’re right about Canbutal. It works best in cases where the patient cannot sleep because of extreme pain. It’s as close to the old-fashioned knock-out drops as you can get.”

“Mrs. Phillips must be pretty ill to need a thing like that.”

“Cancer.”

There was a moment of silence as if darkness had drifted into the room. Miller took a deep breath and went on, “Does Harold know?”

“She doesn’t know herself. She’s had bronchial trouble for years. She thinks this is the same thing she gets every winter only a little worse than usual. She’ll go very quickly. Any time, any day.”

“What kind of an effect would the Canbutal have—can she be awakened, for example?”

“That would depend on the amount taken. Mrs. Phillips is on a dosage of two each night. She visits me once a week and I give her a prescription for a week’s supply. As a matter of fact I saw her yesterday morning.”

“But she definitely could be awakened even an hour or two after having taken a couple of these things?”

“Certainly. Mind you, it depends on what you mean by awakened. What took place might seem like a dream to her afterwards—there might not even be a memory of it.”

Miller got to his feet. “Very helpful—very helpful indeed.”

They went out into the hall and Das opened the door for him. “Do you intend to arrest young Phillips? Is there really a case against him?”

“I’ve been ordered to take him in again for further questioning,” Miller said. “I can’t be more definite than that. I suppose you’ve heard that Grant’s in hospital after a car accident? That means the Scotland Yard man, Chief Superintendent Mallory, is in charge. If you want to go any further with this, he’s the man to see.”

“I’m concerned with one thing only,” Das said. “The welfare of Mrs. Phillips. I would hope that you could keep the seriousness of this business from her until the last possible moment. If you intend to question her then I think I should be there.”

“As I said, I’m going round to pick up her son now,” Miller told him. “And there are obviously certain questions I must put to his mother. You’re perfectly at liberty to come with me. In fact I’d welcome it.”

“Very well,” Das said. “I’ll follow in my own car. You’ll wait for me before entering?”

“Certainly,” Miller said and he went down the steps to the Mini-Cooper and drove away.

Brady was standing in the doorway of a newsagent’s shop just round the corner from Narcia Street and he ran across the road through the heavy rain and scrambled into the Mini-Cooper as Miller slowed.

“Not bad timing,” he said. “I’ve only just got here.” He produced the gloves. “The girl’s father recognised these straightaway. He bought them for her as a birthday present. She was with him at the time. He even remembers the shop. That boutique place in Grove Square.”

“Good enough,” Miller said. “I’ve seen Das. He tells me you only prescribe Canbutal when a patient can’t sleep because of pain.”

“So the old girl’s in a bad way?”

“You could say that. Das is following on behind, by the way. He’s coming in with us, just in case she gets a funny turn or anything.”

“Good enough,” Brady said.

A horn sounded behind them as Das arrived. Miller moved into gear, drove round the corner into Narcia Street and pulled up outside number ten.

When Harold opened the door there was a momentary expression of dismay on his face that was replaced in an instant by a brave smile.

“Back again then?” he said to Brady.

“This is Detective Sergeant Miller,” Brady said formally. “He’d like a few words with you.”

“Oh, yes.” Harold glanced at Das curiously. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m interested in one thing only,” Das said. “Your mother’s welfare. In her present state of health she can’t stand shocks so I thought it better to be on hand.”

They all went into the living-room and Miller said, “I wonder whether you’d mind getting dressed, sir? We’d like you to come down to Central C.I.D. with us.”

“I’ve already been there once,” Harold said. “What is this?”

“Nothing to get excited about, son,” Brady said kindly. “One or two new facts have come up about the girl and Chief Superintendent Mallory thinks you might be able to help him, that’s all.”

“All right then,” Harold said. “Give me five minutes.”

He went out and Brady picked up the box of Canbutal capsules from the mantelpiece. “These are what she’s been taking,” he said, holding them out to Miller.

Das took the box, opened it and spilled the capsules out on his palm. He frowned. “I gave her the prescription for these at two-thirty yesterday afternoon. She’s taken three since then.” He put the capsules back into the box. “I think I’d better go up and see her.”

“All right,” Miller said. “I’ll come with you.”

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

Miller nodded. “I must ask her to confirm Harold’s story—can’t avoid it. Better with you here surely.”

“I suppose so. It might help for the present if you could handle it other than as a police enquiry though. Is there really any need to upset her at this stage?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Das obviously knew his way. They went up the stairs and he opened the door that stood directly opposite. The curtains were still half-drawn and the room was grey and sombre. The furniture was many years old, mainly heavy Victorian mahogany and the brass bed had now become a collector’s item if only its occupant had realised that fact.

She was propped against the pillows, eyes closed, head turned slightly to one side, the flesh drawn and tight across the bones of her face. Someone on the way out. Miller had seen it before and he knew the signs. Death was a tangible presence, waiting over there in the shadows to take her out of her misery like a good friend.

Das sat on the bed and gently touched her shoulder. “Mrs. Phillips?”

The eyes fluttered open, gazed at him blindly, closed. She took several deep breaths, opened her eyes again and smiled weakly. “Doctor Das.”

“How are you today, Mrs. Phillips. Little bit better?”

The Indian’s slightly sing-song voice was incredibly soothing carrying with it all the compassion and kindness in the world.

“What day is it, Doctor?” She was obviously muddled and bewildered, the effects of the drug Miller surmised.

“Sunday, my dear. Sunday morning.”

She blinked and focussed her eyes on Miller. “Who—who are you?”

Miller came forward and smiled. “I’m a friend of Harold’s, Mrs. Phillips. He was supposed to meet me last night, but he didn’t turn up. I thought I’d better call and see if everything was all right.”

“He’s about somewhere,” she said in a dead voice. “A good boy, Harold. He brought me some tea when he came in.”

“When would that be, Mrs. Phillips?” Miller said softly.

“When?” She frowned, trying to concentrate. “Last night, I think. That’s right—it was last night when he came in.” She shook her head. “It gets harder to remember.”

“Did Harold tell you that he brought you tea last night, Mrs. Phillips?”

“I don’t know—I don’t remember. He’s a good boy.” Her eyes closed. “A good boy.”

Behind them the door opened and Harold appeared. “What’s going on here?” he demanded angrily.

“Your mother is very ill,” Das said. “I must make arrangements to have her admitted to hospital at once.” He held up the box of Canbutal capsules. “Did you know she has been increasing her dosage? Didn’t I warn you that the effects could be disastrous?”

Harold had turned very pale. Brady appeared behind him and took his arm. “Come on, son,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They moved to the head of the stairs and Miller went after them. “Are those the clothes you were wearing last night?” he asked Harold.

Harold turned, answering in a kind of reflex action, “Sure.” Then it dawned on him and fear showed in his eyes. “Here, what is this?”

“Take him down,” Miller said and turned away.

Das closed the bedroom door quietly. “Things don’t look too good for him, do they?”

“He’s in for a bad time, that’s as much as I can say at the moment. What about her? Anything I can do?”

“Don’t worry. They have a telephone next door. I’ll ring for an ambulance and stay with her till it comes. You’ll keep me posted?”

Miller nodded and they went downstairs. When he opened the door, rain drifted to meet him, pushed across the slimy cobbles by the wind. He looked down towards the Mini-Cooper where Harold sat in the rear with Brady.

“Sunday morning,” he said. “What a hell of a way to make a living.”

“We all have a choice, Sergeant,” Das told him.

Miller glanced at him sharply, but nothing showed in that brown, enigmatic face. He nodded formally. “I’ll be in touch,” and moved out into the rain.