“That which was sold to casual visitors was harmless, Inspector. But I strongly suspect that regular clients were supplied with something quite different. You see, I know no fewer than thirty unfortunate women in the West End of London alone who are simply helpless slaves to various drugs, and I think it more than a coincidence that upon their dressing-tables I have almost invariably found one or more of Kazmah’s peculiar antique flasks.”
Chief Inspector Kerry’s jaw muscles protruded conspicuously.
“You speak of patients?” he asked.
Margaret nodded her head.
“When a woman becomes addicted to the drug habit,” she explained, “she sometimes shuns her regular medical adviser. I have many patients who came to me originally simply because they dared not face their family doctor. In fact, since I gave up Army work, my little practice has threatened to develop into that of a drug-habit specialist.”
“Have you taxed any of these people with obtaining drugs from Kazmah?”
“Not directly. It would have been undiplomatic. But I have tried to surprise them into telling me. Unfortunately, these poor people are as cunning as any other kind of maniac, for, of course, it becomes a form of mania. They recognize that confession might lead to a stoppage of supplies—the eventuality they most dread.”
“Did you examine the contents of any of these flasks found on dressing-tables?”
“I rarely had an opportunity; but when I did they proved to contain perfume when they contained anything.”
“H’m,” mused Kerry, and although in deference to Margaret, he had denied himself chewing-gum, his jaws worked automatically. “I gather that Mrs. Monte Irvin had expressed a wish to see you last night?”