Chapter Eighteen
“Now, Mr. Akibombo,” said
Inspector1 Sharpe, resignedly, “let’s hear, please, what all this is
about.”
Mr. Akibombo had been provided with a chair. He sat facing the others who were all looking at
him with keen attention.
“Thank you. I begin now?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, it is, you see, that sometimes I have the
disquieting2 sensations in my stomach.”
“Oh.”
“Sick to my stomach. That is what Miss Sally calls it. But I am not, you see, actually sick. I do
Inspector Sharpe restrained himself with difficulty while these medical details were elaborated.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Very sorry, I’m sure. But you want to tell us—”
“It is, perhaps, unaccustomed food. I feel very full here.” Mr. Akibombo indicated exactly
where. “I think myself, not enough meat, and too much what you call cardohydrates.”
“Carbohydrates,” the inspector corrected him mechanically. “But I don’t see—”
“Sometimes I take small pill,
soda4 mint; and sometimes stomach powder. It does not matter
very much what it is—so that a great pouf comes and much air—like this.” Mr. Akibombo gave a
most realistic and gigantic
belch5. “After that,” he smiled seraphically, “I feel much better, much
better.”
The inspector’s face was becoming a congested purple. Mrs. Hubbard said
authoritatively6:
“We understand all about that. Now get on to the next part.”
“Yes. Certainly. Well, as I say, this happens to me early last week—I do not remember exactly
which day. Very good macaroni and I eat a lot, and afterwards feel very bad. I try to do work for
my professor but difficult to think with fullness here.” (Again Akibombo indicated the spot.) “It is
after supper in the common room and only Elizabeth there and I say to her, ‘Have you bicarbonate
or stomach powder, I have finished mine.’ And she says, ‘No. But,’ she says, ‘I saw some in Pat’s
drawer when I was putting back a handkerchief I borrowed from her. I will get it for you,’ she
says. ‘Pat will not mind.’ So she goes upstairs and comes back with soda bicarbonate bottle. Very
little left, at bottom of bottle, almost empty. I thank her and go with it to the bathroom, and I put
nearly all of it about a
teaspoonful7 in water and stir it up and drink it.”
“A teaspoonful? A teaspoonful! My God!”
The inspector gazed at him fascinated.
Sergeant8 Cobb leaned forward with an astonished face.
Mrs. Hubbard said obscurely:
“Rasputin!”
“You swallowed a teaspoonful of morphia?”
“Naturally, I think it is bicarbonate.”
“Yes, yes, what I can’t understand is why you’re sitting here now!”
“And then, afterwards, I was ill, but really ill. Not just the fullness. Pain, bad pain in my
stomach.”
“I can’t make out why you’re not dead!”
“Rasputin,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “They used to give him poison again and again, lots of it, and it
didn’t kill him!”
Mr. Akibombo was continuing.
“So then, next day, when I am better, I take the bottle and the tiny bit of powder that is left in it
to a chemist and I say please tell me what is this I have taken that has made me feel so bad?”
“Yes?”
“And he says come back later, and when I do, he says, ‘No wonder! This is not the bicarbonate.
It is the borasseek. The acid borasseek. You can put it in the eyes, yes, but if you swallow a
teaspoonful it makes you ill.’ ”
“Boracic?” The Inspector stared at him stupefied. “But how did boracic get into that bottle?
What happened to the morphia?” He
groaned9. “Of all the haywire cases!”
“And I have been thinking, please,” went on Akibombo.
“You have been thinking,” Sharpe said. “And what have you been thinking?”
“I have been thinking of Miss Celia and how she died and that someone, after she was dead,
must have come into her room and left there the empty morphia bottle and the little piece of paper
that say she killed herself—”
Akibombo paused and the inspector nodded.
“And so I say—who could have done that? And I think if it is one of the girls it will be easy, but
if a man not so easy, because he would have to go downstairs in our house and up the other stairs
and someone might wake up and hear him or see him. So I think again, and I say, suppose it is
someone in our house, but in the next room to Miss Celia’s—only she is in this house, you
understand? Outside his window is a balcony and outside hers is a balcony too, and she will sleep
with her window open because that is hygienic practice. So if he is big and strong and
athletic10 he
could jump across.”
“The room next to Celia’s in the other house,” said Mrs. Hubbard, “Let me see, that’s Nigel’s
and—and. . . .”
“Len Bateson’s,” said the inspector. His finger touched the folded paper in his hand. “Len
Bateson.”
“He is very nice, yes, said Mr. Akibombo sadly. “And to me most pleasant, but psychologically
one does not know what goes on below top surface. That is so, is it not? That is modern theory.
Mr. Chandra Lal very angry when his boracic for the eyes disappears and later, when I ask, he
says he has been told that it was taken by Len Bateson. . . .”
“The morphia was taken from Nigel’s drawer and boracic was substituted for it, and when
Patricia Lane came along and substituted soda bicarbonate for what she thought was morphia but
which was really boracic powder . . . Yes . . . I see. . . .”
“I have helped you, yes?” Mr. Akibombo asked politely.
“Yes, indeed, we’re most grateful to you. Don’t—er—repeat any of this.”
“No, sir. I will be most careful.”
Mr. Akibombo bowed politely to all and left the room.
“Len Bateson,” said Mrs. Hubbard, in a
distressed11 voice. “Oh! No.”
Sharpe looked at her.
“You don’t want it to be Len Bateson?”
“I’ve got fond of that boy. He’s got a temper, I know, but he’s always seemed so nice.”
“That’s been said about a lot of criminals,” said Sharpe.
Gently he unfolded his little paper packet. Mrs. Hubbard obeyed his gesture and leaned forward
to look.
On the white paper were two red short curly hairs. . . .
“Oh! dear,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“Yes,” said Sharpe reflectively. “In my experience a murderer usually makes at least one
mistake.”
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