A Mind to Murder by P. D. James Page A

be eliminated since they would have had the opportunity of opening one of the fire-escape doors. But, then, he himself had been in his consulting room on the second floor. In any case, the obvious door for the killer to unlock was the one in the basement and it was hard to believe that he had lacked the opportunity. It would be a second’s work only to draw back that lock and provide evidence that the murderer could have leftthe clinic that way. Yet the basement door had been fast bolted. Why?
    Dr. Steiner came in next, short, dapper, outwardly self-composed. In the light from Miss Bolam’s desk lamp his pale, smooth skin looked slightly luminous. Despite his calmness he had been sweating heavily. The heavy smell hung about his clothes, about the well-cut, conventional black coat of a consultant. Dalgliesh was surprised when he gave his age as forty-two. He looked older. The smooth skin, the sharp, black eyes, the bouncy walk gave a superficial impression of youth but he was already thickening and his dark hair, cunningly sleeked back, could not quite conceal the tonsure-like patch on the crown of the head.
    Dr. Steiner had apparently decided to treat his encounter with a policeman as a social occasion. Extending a plump, well-kept hand, he smiled a benign “how d’you do?” and inquired whether he was speaking to the writer Adam Dalgliesh.
    “I have read your verse,” he announced complacently. “I congratulate you. Such a deceptive simplicity. I started at the first poem and read straight through. That is my way of experiencing verse. At the tenth page I began to think that we might have a new poet.”
    Dalgliesh admitted to himself that Dr. Steiner had not only read the book but showed some critical insight. It was at the tenth page that he, too, sometimes felt they might have a new poet. Dr. Steiner inquired whether he had met Ernie Bales, the new young playwright from Nottingham. He looked so hopeful that Dalgliesh felt positively unkind as he disclaimed acquaintance with Mr. Bales and steered the conversation from literary criticism back to the purpose of the interview. Dr. Steiner at once assumed an air of shocked gravity.
    “The whole affair is dreadful, quite dreadful. I was one ofthe first people to see the body, as you may know, and it has distressed me greatly. I have always had a horror of violence. It is an appalling business. Dr. Etherege, our medical director, is due to retire at the end of the year. This is a most unfortunate thing to happen in his last months here.”
    He shook his head sadly, but Dalgliesh fancied that the little black eyes held something very like satisfaction.
    Tippett’s fetish had yielded its secrets to the fingerprint expert and Dalgliesh had stood it on the desk before him. Dr. Steiner put out his hand to touch it then drew back and said: “I had better not handle it, I suppose, because of fingerprints.” He darted a quick look at Dalgliesh and, getting no response, went on: “It’s an interesting carving, isn’t it? Quite remarkable. Have you ever noticed, Superintendent, what excellent art the mentally ill can produce, even patients without previous training or experience? It raises interesting questions on the nature of artistic achievement. As they recover, their work deteriorates. The power and originality go. By the time they are well again, the stuff they produce is valueless. We’ve got several interesting examples of patients’ work in the art therapy department, but this fetish is outstanding. Tippett was very ill when he carved it and went to hospital shortly afterwards. He’s a schizophrenic. The fetish has the typical facies of the chronic disease, the frog-like eyes and spreading nostrils. Tippett looked very like that himself at one time.”
    “Everyone knew where this thing was kept, I suppose?” said Dalgliesh.
    “Oh, yes! It was kept on the shelf in the art therapy department. Tippett was very proud of it and Dr. Baguley often showed it to House