by Andrew Garve
Iredale couldn’t repress a smile. Jessop’s talent for mimicry was always amusing, even though his targets were not always kindly chosen.
“And that’s just what I did,” Jessop added. “I took the so-and-so under my wing and hatched him out and now I’ve got to take orders from him and pretend that he knows best.”
Iredale sat silent for a moment, frowning. He didn’t know Cardew well, but what little he’d seen of him, he’d liked. In any case, there had been special reasons, he knew, for giving Cardew an opportunity on the paper, and he couldn’t let Jessop’s remarks pass without protest. “He may not have known the difference between a galley and a spike, Ed, but by God he knew the difference between a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt. He didn’t get that D.F.C. and bar for nothing. I reckon he more than earned any special consideration he got.” He saw that Jessop had turned pale, and wished the subject of Cardew had not come up. “It must have been galling for you, though,” he added. “I know just how you feel. What happens now? Didn’t Ede offer you a break at all?”
“He wanted to send me to Malaya, if you call that a ‘break’.”
Iredale’s face cleared. “You don’t say!” He sounded delighted. “Well, that’s fine, Ed. What are you hanging about for? Take my advice, old boy, and go. Shake the dust of the office from your feet—it’s a wonderful place to be a long way away from. You’ll feel a new man out there.”
“Eversley is a dead man,” said Jessop darkly. “I don’t believe Ede would be sorry if I came to a sticky end too. He’s always had it in for me.”
“Don’t be bloody silly,” said Iredale. He flung an empty tobacco tin into the waste paper basket with unnecessary violence. When Jessop got that sort of hump there was really nothing to be done about him.
Suddenly the door opened and Katharine Camden’s well-groomed head appeared. “You haven’t got Joe Hind, have you?” she asked, glancing round. Iredale pretended to look under the desk and said, “Sorry!” He was about to suggest a drink when he remembered his lunch appointment. Regretfully he watched the door close behind her.
“Nice girl,” he observed.
Jessop snorted. “I thought you were sore with her about that article.”
“I was, but she talked me out of it last night. I met her in the Crown. Have you ever noticed the way she walks? Beautiful action!”
Jessop had noticed. He always noticed attractive women, but that was as far as it went. He had never been able to overcome his natural diffidence sufficiently to do anything about them, except weave romantic fancies. He couldn’t even manage the fluffy ones, let alone the sophisticated beauties. “She’s not my type,” he said.
“Is she tied up with anyone, do you know?” Iredale tried to make the question sound offhand.
“I don’t think so. She’s always with the crowd. She used to go around with O’Shea …” Jessop broke off with a jerk, as though he’d suddenly touched a live wire.
“O’ Shea? Ah, yes, I remember him. Tall fellow with a long chin. Wasn’t he killed when that bomb blew up?”
“Yes,” said Jessop.
“Tough luck for her. I suppose she’s still getting over him.” Now that Iredale’s interest was aroused he realised that he’d never heard the full story of the office bomb. It took a long time to catch up with things missed during the war—there had been so many of them. “Were you here when it happened, Ed? It must have been quite a night.”
“It wasn’t at night,” said Jessop, fiddling nervously with a piece of copy. “It was just before morning conference. The bomb fell in the well on the Saturday night and blew up on the Monday morning. Delayed action.”
“Oh, was that it? It must have made a hell of a row when it fell—wasn’t it reported?”
“No. It should have been, of course. There was a rota of wardens—we all took turns. We had to patrol during raids, just in case something like that happened. As a matter of fact, I was on duty myself at that end of the building on the Sunday night—if the bomb had fallen then I’d have heard it and we’d have been all right. But, as I say, it must have dropped on the Saturday night, when a chap named Archer was supposed to be doing his spell. I don’t think you ever met him. The blighter was playing pontoon in the shelter.”
“Bad show, eh? Was there a row about it?”
“The directors took a very poor view from their safe country retreats,” said Jessop sardonically. “They stopped asking for Archer’s deferment after that. He was killed in Normandy. With all those deaths on his conscience, I’m not sure it wasn’t the best thing that could happen to him.” Jessop’s hands were still busy with the piece of copy. “Actually,” he said after a pause, “it was lucky for me that Archer was playing pontoon on the Saturday, or they might have thought I was responsible. But nothing dropped while I was on deck—I’d swear to that any time, in any place.” He had become very intense.
Iredale looked at him in mild surprise. “Okay—nobody said it did.” He glanced up at the clock and gave a low whistle. “I must be off.”
“What’s the hurry?” asked Jessop. “You’re not running after Katharine Camden, are you?”
“No such luck. I’m lunching with Governor Munro, believe it or not!”
Jessop stared at him, a look of incredulity spreading over his face. “You—with Munro?” He choked back his rising panic. This was frightful. Iredale was on the side of the angels. Iredale was a good fellow—his friend—almost his only friend. “I don’t get it,” he said. “I thought you and he were at each other’s throats.”
“It’s a fool idea of Ede’s. As a matter of fact, I believe I’m on his conscience a bit. Anyway, he seems to want us all to shake hands and be friends. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the session.”
“It’s more than I’d do with Munro,” said Jessop slowly. Delay—that was the only thing that would help now. The conversation must be kept going somehow. “He always used to behave as though he was God Almighty when he worked here, and he hasn’t changed. He passed me in the corridor a few minutes ago and he looked straight through me.”
Iredale took his feet off the desk. “You go to Malaya, old son,” he said lightly. “You’ll be appreciated there.”
Jessop leaned forward, willing him to stay. “It’s all very well, Bill—I can’t suddenly go off like that. I’m not footloose the way you are. I’ve got things to do here. Just look at this for a moment and you’ll see what I mean.” He opened his dispatch case and took out the opus, smoothing out a dog-eared corner of the folder. “It’s nearly finished—it’s a report I’m doing on Press methods in Britain for the Human Rights Commission of U.N. O. What chance would I have of getting on with it in Malaya?”
Iredale, with one eye on the clock, allowed Jessop to press the bulky manuscript into his hand. He had known that Jessop did some scribbling in his spare time, but it was a rare privilege for anyone to be shown the results. He glanced curiously at the title page.
“My idea,” Jessop explained, “is that the Human Rights Commission should lay down common standards of Press behaviour for all countries—and make sure that they’re enforced, of course.”
Iredale raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that a bit dangerous? And impracticable, I would have said. Still …” He paged rapidly through the manuscript. “Gosh, you’ve been busy. All in your own fair hand, too.”
“The Press is a sewer,” Jessop declared. “It’s got to be cleaned up.”
Iredale laughed. “You need a drink. I’d like to read this, Ed, but it’ll have to be later on.” He pushed the opus back across the desk. “My God, it’s five past one. Ede’ll shoot me. So long—don’t fall down the sewer!” He jumped up and rushed from the room.
Jessop sat still, waiting. Tiny beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.
Chapter Eight
At ten minutes to one, while Ede and Munro were still getting acquainted and Iredale and Jessop were discussing the bomb, Lionel Cardew had dropped into the News Room to tell Hind about a home news angle to o
ne of his diplomatic stories. His new appointment had not yet been announced, but he knew it was going to be at any moment. In the circumstances, he might have been expected to seem pleased with life, but the look of anxiety that had been noticeable at the conference had now settled more deeply on his usually sunny features. The fact was that he was torn apart with worry. His affairs were in a mess.
Cardew was a man whose whole life and outlook had been changed by his war experiences. In September 1939, he had just left his public school and was about to go up to Oxford to read for his degree before entering the diplomatic service, thereby following a firm tradition of the upper middle class family from which he came. With the outbreak of war he had scrapped all his plans and rushed impulsively into the Royal Air Force. He had had the youth, the intelligence and the dash to make a first-class fighter pilot, and in 1940 he had been one of “the few” in the Battle of Britain. Twice he had been shot down and survived; twice he had been decorated. The final inevitable crash had left him with a considerable “bag” of enemy planes to his credit, a broken body, and an exhausted nervous system. He had been ill for two years and had then been invalided out of the service, an honourable veteran of twenty-two.
His people had wanted him to resume his studies, thinking that a year or two at Oxford would have a tranquilising and stabilising effect on him, but the Foreign Office no longer had any appeal for him. His highly-strung, mercurial temperament had boggled at the thought of the cloistered life, the pre-occupation with precedent, code and protocol. Post-war diplomacy would no doubt demand courage, flair and the lively, nimble brain, and all of these he had, but it would also require orthodoxy and restraint. As a diplomat one could be eccentric but not erratic; brilliant but not independent. Violent feelings must be curbed, their expression confined to the raised eyebrow, the measured reproof. Cardew rightly doubted his patience and prudence. When an opportunity had occurred, after a meeting with Nicholas Ede at a party, he had given a new twist to the family occupation by joining the Morning Call. Very soon he had been appointed Diplomatic Correspondent.
He had enjoyed the next few years. The atmosphere of the office had proved informal, human, and alive. Ede had befriended him and watched over him. Rosemary Ede had admired and encouraged him. The work had been fascinating. He had attended all the crucial post-war conferences and written about them with verve and spirit. When at times he had seemed a bit too brilliant, taking a line too much of his own, Ede had restrained him with affection and understanding.
Now all that pleasant chapter had ended, not because of his new appointment—as Foreign Editor he would have a new and wider field for his gifts—but because his personal life had got out of hand. He knew that he faced a crisis, and must make a quick decision.
He had just begun to explain his errand to the News Editor when a slip of paper was brought in announcing his promotion. Hind, all bonhomie, clapped the ex-Diplomatic Correspondent heartily on the back. “Splendid news, Lionel,” he said genially. “I’ve always felt you were the man for that job.”
Cardew winced slightly, but his smile was polite. “Thanks,” he said. He had little in common with the News Editor.
Hind glanced up at the clock. “Pity we can’t celebrate,” he said. An idea seemed suddenly to flash into his mind, and Cardew guessed what it was. “You’re going to this Munro lunch too, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t we pop up there now and have a quick one before the others arrive?”
Cardew could think of no reason for refusing. “All right,” he agreed. These office luncheons were informal affairs, and it was recognised that whoever arrived first would start pouring the drinks.
“Of course,” said Hind as they went up in the creaky old lift, “it won’t be so easy to fill your old post. It isn’t every Diplomatic Correspondent who can stand up to the Foreign Office.” Now that Cardew was so obviously on the up-and-up there could be no harm in laying it on a bit. “Any idea who’s to succeed you?”
“Not the remotest.” Cardew was not disposed to become expansive with Hind. He felt in a false position, and it made him uncommunicative.
The Directors’ Dining Room looked pleasantly hospitable. The table, laid for five, was gay with flowers. On a sideboard stood a generous assortment of bottles, flanked by a plate of stuffed olives and a dish of salted almonds.
Hind went straight to the bottles. If they were quick they might manage a second drink before the others arrived. “What’ll you have, Lionel?”
“Sherry, please,” said Cardew. Hind poured the drink, then mixed a generous gin-and-French for himself.
“Well,” he said, lifting his glass, “here’s luck—and may you always know the answers at Conference!” He gulped his drink and gave a deep “Ah!” of satisfaction. His small greedy eyes swept the sideboard. “Have an olive.”
“Not for me, thanks. I don’t like the things. You go ahead.” Cardew helped himself delicately to a few almonds.
“I can’t understand anyone not liking olives,” said Hind. “They’re one of my weaknesses. I always remember a night in Malaga … Did I ever tell you about that, I wonder?” He carefully selected a large olive, popped it into his mouth and chumped it up.
“What about the night in Malaga?” asked Cardew in a bored tone as he strolled over to the table to look at the menu card. He had no interest in the News Editor’s reminiscences, which were usually lecherous. Suddenly there was an agonised cry behind him and the sound of shattering glass. He swung round in alarm. Hind’s face was fearfully distorted and his great frame was swaying. Before Cardew could reach him he had crashed to the floor. His muscles were twitching and there was froth on his lips.
After one shocked glance Cardew dived for the telephone and dialled the News Room. Soames, the Assistant Editor, answered. “This is Cardew. Get a doctor quickly and send him to the Directors’ Dining Room. Hind’s had a fit or something. Hurry!” He dropped the receiver, knelt down beside the unconscious man and loosened his collar. Hind was obviously in a very bad way. His eyes were fixed and glistening; his skin felt cold and clammy. Cardew, leaning over him, became aware of a faint smell of bitter almonds. A scared look came into his face.
A moment later there was a booming laugh in the corridor and the door opened. “As a matter of fact I think it was all bluster,” Munro was saying as he preceded Ede into the room. “I don’t think he meant it at all …”
Cardew looked up at them. “Hind’s ill. I’ve sent for a doctor. He’s pretty bad.”
“Oh, dear me,” said Ede with quick concern, and dropped to his knees beside Hind.
“We had a drink,” said Cardew shakily. “He ate an olive and collapsed at once. It all happened in a few seconds.”
Ede was trying to find a pulse. His face was very grave. “Who’s getting the doctor?”
“I asked the News Room.”
“Better hurry them up. I can’t feel anything here.”
There were more footsteps in the corridor and Iredale came hurrying into the room, an apology for lateness on his lips. He stopped short suddenly and stared at the tableau. “What’s the trouble …?” he began.
“It’s Hind,” said Ede over his shoulder. “He’s …” He broke off, and for a moment there was complete silence. Then he got slowly to his feet. “I’m very much afraid the poor fellow’s dead.”
Chapter Nine
News of the tragedy swept quickly through the office and brought the editorial wheels to a sudden halt. People collected in small groups, outwardly grave yet inwardly excited, as after a declaration of war. Members of the staff who were just going out to lunch spread the sensational tidings in the street; others, just coming in, were swiftly apprised and swelled the undercurrent of commotion. There was a dearth of hard facts, but according to Pringle, who had precipitately dropped his feature article on the crime wave and had been nosing about on the fringe of the police cordon upstairs, it was definitely murder—“no doubt about it, old man.” Signif
icant arrivals at the front entrance of the building were recorded by a dozen heads thrust from windows above the crawling Fleet Street traffic: a man with a brisk walk and a black bag, a squad car with a full quota of policemen, an ambulance, and another police car bearing three plain-clothes officers. Yes, it looked as though Pringle was right. The brazen infiltration of reporters from rival papers was noted, not without indignation. Up from the seething pavement below came the patient, appealing tones of two uniformed constables—“Move along there, please, move along.”
To Jessop, sitting alone in an ecstatic glow, the information he had been waiting for came from someone shouting in the corridor to someone else who passed—“They say it’s Hind!” Jessop smiled quietly. A very satisfactory choice by Providence, in view of Hind’s behaviour that morning! He felt no compunction—only the sort of elation that comes from reading a communique recording an enemy disaster. This was his first victory over the powers of evil. Now he must show, by wise discretion, that he was worthy to be the instrument of Nemesis. He went out in search of a group to which he could unobtrusively attach himself.
Up in the Directors’ Dining Room investigations had begun. Plain-clothes men were taking photographs, dusting doorhandles and furniture for the chance fingerprint, and packing up china, glass and cutlery for closer scrutiny at leisure. Hind’s body still lay on the floor, a napkin over the contorted face. Ede had answered the first obvious questions, and he and his guests had been shepherded downstairs until the police were ready to see them.
Chief Inspector Alfred Haines, of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department, took a stuffed olive from the plate on the sideboard, drew out the plug of red pimento with a pair of tweezers, and sniffed cautiously at the opening. He passed the olive to his colleague, Inspector Ogilvie, with a significant glance, and repeated the operation with a second and a third. Each gave off the characteristic odour of cyanide.