"Allo, allo! Oui, c'est bien—ah, yes, it is the Pharmacie Cailler, yes, yes…. What is it you say? I do not understand … report? Report of what? … Needle? Hypodermic needle? … But yes, yes, mademoiselle, it has been sent already to your address; it came this afternoon, so we have sent it to you."
"Sent it! But I haven't received it. Are you quite sure?"
"But yes, certainly, one hour ago, to Mademoiselle Rowe, the Villa
Firenze."
What was this? A suspicion crept into her mind.
"Yes, yes, monsieur. I'm afraid it must have gone astray. Could you possibly look it up and tell me over the telephone what the report was? It is rather important…."
Gripping the receiver hard, she held her breath, straining her ears for the reply. It followed without hesitation, distinct and clear:
"But certainly, mademoiselle, I can tell you. The needle contained, tout simplement, what one calls in English the pure toxin of typhoid!"
"Toxin of typh…."
The words died in her throat, the receiver dropped clattering down. For an instant she sat as though paralysed, her dry lips parted, her eyes staring in front of her. Then with a sudden rush the horrible truth swept upon her, overwhelming her utterly. Curiously enough, it seemed as though she had always known it from the first. How could she have shut her eyes to the facts? Incidents, motives, all suddenly fitted together like parts of a puzzle moved into place. It was all clear now; she saw the entire plan, so simple, so natural, so diabolically clever—the unsuspecting old man being done to death by a natural disease that was prevalent at the time, while every effort was made to save him, all the world looking on—"see, just to show you there's no deception"—"all open and above board"—only the one flaw which she, by accident, had hit upon. Yes, she alone of all the household had held the clue in her hand, and had not had the wit to use it, to follow it up! Fool, fool, that she was! Yet, no—not quite that. The first injections were iron and arsenic, just what they pretended to be; only the last one was the pure toxin, renewing and intensifying the disease beyond hope of salvation. Even if she had known then, it would still have been too late to rescue Sir Charles….
But then, there was Roger! Was he, too, an intended victim? Was another murder in progress?