‘Neat,’ admitted the Superintendent slowly. ‘Very neat. But what are we doing here and where’s the crime?’
‘Well, it’s murder, you know,’ said Mr Campion diffidently. ‘Yesterday morning someone gave that poor chap in there a shot of something in his whisky and soda under the impression that he was giving it to Rosemary. Nowell dropped into a coma at the club and young Fielding the surgeon, seeing that he was pretty far gone, took him home. In the cab he died. Morphia sulphate produces very much the same symptoms as the sudden cardiac collapse of the aged, and Fielding, thinking it was a clear case, left the body with Rosemary’s man at the Dover Street flat, ’phoned Sir Edgar Philipson and went away like a polite little medico. When Philipson got there, of course, he saw Rosemary himself,
