by Andrew Garve
“Why pick on me?” she asked resentfully.
“Because,” Haines told her, “I hope that as a friend of Mr. Hind’s you may be able to help us.”
She looked at him coldly for a moment and then her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “All right—go ahead.”
“I’d like to know a little about yourself, first. How long have you been working on the Morning Call?”
“About a month.”
“Quite a newcomer, eh?” He smiled disarmingly. “I suppose you started your career on a local newspaper—that’s the usual way, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” said Sheila. “I skipped that part. I came straight here.”
“Oh? How did you manage that?”
“I knew Joe—Mr. Hind,” she said in a flat voice.
Haines’s expression seemed to invite further confidences.
“At least,” she amended, “my father knew him. He’s Joe’s bank manager—he was, I mean. I’d always wanted to work on a newspaper, and when I heard that one of the bank’s clients was News Editor of the Morning Call I got Dad to talk to him, and Joe took me on for a month’s trial.”
“That was quite a stroke of luck.”
“Yes, I suppose it was.” With startling naïveté she added, “Joe told Dad that it was difficult to find vacancies, but after we’d had a talk he said he thought he could make use of me.”
Haines grunted. “Was your father keen on the idea, too?”
“Not really. Dad’s a bit old-fashioned, but I talked him into it.”
Haines grunted again. He was a bit old-fashioned himself, and he couldn’t help feeling that this young woman’s craving for excitement and romance might have been directed into safer channels. “And Mr. Hind looked after you, I suppose?”
Sheila nodded. “He was frightfully decent. He taught me practically everything I know.”
“And you became very friendly?”
She gave him a defiant stare. “Yes.”
“He took you out sometimes, I suppose—to lunch and so on?”
“Yes, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
Haines saw no need to tell her that it had to do with olives. “Did you ever quarrel with him?”
“Certainly not. Why should I? He was always very nice to me.”
Haines gazed thoughtfully at this pretty chit who had been let loose among the wolves of Fleet Street. There wasn’t much point, he felt, in probing her relationship with Hind, and he’d had enough of that sort of thing for one day. Quite possibly she had been the man’s mistress, thinking it part of the adventure. She might have quarrelled with him, in spite of her emphatic denial. He might have given her cause for jealousy—even in so short a time as a month. But nothing that had been said in this interview so far gave the inspector reason to think that the late Joe Hind’s girl-friend had either the intensity of feeling or the calibre to plan and carry out a skilful, coldblooded murder, even if she had had a motive. A fit of the sulks or a slap in the face would have been more in her line. No, he was wasting his time. She would, he believed, fade quickly from the case, and—now that her patron had gone—probably from Fleet Street too.
Perfunctorily he put a routine question. “Have you any idea yourself who might have wanted to kill Mr. Hind?”
The forget-me-not blue eyes opened wide. “Of course not. How could I have?”
“You knew him very well. You must have heard him speak of other men—if not of other women. Do you know of anyone who was on bad terms with him?”
Sheila slowly shook her head. “That was the thing about Joe—he always got on so well with everybody.” Then she suddenly remembered. “Oh, there was Bill Iredale, though. Joe and he nearly had a fight in the Crown last night.”
Haines sat forward with a jerk. “What about?”
“Well, it sounds absurd,” said Sheila, “but I think it was about me.” She appeared to find the recollection not wholly unpleasant.
“About you? Why, did you know Mr. Iredale?” New possibilities suddenly teemed in Haines’s fertile imagination.
“That’s the absurd part,” said Sheila. “I don’t know what it had to do with the Iredale man, because I’d hardly set eyes on him before, but he suddenly said some awful things to me about Joe as we were going out. He had the hell of a nerve. Joe was furious and so was I. I really thought they were going to hit each other.”
“Do you remember what it was that Mr. Iredale said?”
“Not exactly—but he was definitely the aggressor. He seemed to be trying to warn me against Joe. I think he must have been a bit tight.” A note of excitement was creeping into Sheila’s voice and Haines began to wonder if after all he had under-rated her suitability for Fleet Street reporting. “His eyes were full of hate and he was leaning forward, glowering, and looking just as though he’d like to throttle Joe. It was quite frightening, really—I can’t think what would have happened if Katharine Camden hadn’t separated them.”
“How long did this quarrel last?”
“Oh, it was all over in a moment or two. It had flared up, you see. But it was terribly fierce while it lasted.”
Haines gave a brief nod. It didn’t look as though he were going to get any more hard facts out of the girl, who obviously fancied herself as the central figure in an exciting drama. He would get his information from Iredale.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Miss Brooks,” he said. “You must forgive me if I’ve seemed inquisitive about your personal affairs. We’re doing our very best, you know, to find out who killed Mr. Hind.”
She sensed dismissal, but she didn’t want to go. It was all right as long as she kept talking, but she feared the outer loneliness. “It won’t bring him back, will it?” she said. She looked very forlorn now—a confused, miserable child who’d got into deep water and didn’t know how to struggle out. As she turned to leave, Haines saw that tears were running down her cheeks. She sniffed a “Good-bye” and he stood and watched her till she turned the corner of the corridor.
Chapter Fourteen
Haines had rather taken to Iredale during their short encounter in the Editor’s Room. He had liked the man’s quiet solidity, the rough cut of his features, the astringent frankness of his manner that yet kept something in reserve. As he regarded his visitor now across the desk, his first impressions were confirmed. The deep blue eyes met his with a leisurely, speculative glance; the powerful body was at ease. Here was a man, Haines would have said, with good nerves and no inner tensions—a man who’d come to terms with life. Restful, reliable and definitely likeable. At the same time, he’d shown a capacity for sudden anger. He was a formidable man. He couldn’t be lightly written off as a suspect, as Sheila Brooks had been written off. Coolness and rugged charm meant nothing—the post-homicide behaviour of murderers followed no pattern. The only thing that was absolutely safe to go on was evidence, and that was precisely what was lacking.
Having studied his visitor for a moment or two, Haines got down to business. “I understand, Mr. Iredale, that you had a quarrel with Mr. Hind last night.”
Iredale gave him a slow glance, applied a match to his curved briar, and dropped the stump into the waste-paper basket at his side. “I thought it wouldn’t be long before you got around to that, Inspector,” he said ruefully. “Yes, we did have a bit of a scene.”
“What about?”
“Do I have to tell you? It’s not a thing I like talking about.”
“You’d be well advised to.”
Iredale pondered. “Well, it starts a long way back—about twelve years ago, I suppose. I was a reporter then, and Hind was my chief. He already had a reputation for being a womaniser, and I think he was rather proud of it. He was born in the wrong century—he ought to have been a feudal baron, with the right of first night. Anything young and pretty was grist to him, and he didn’t bother to step outside the office for his material. He took what came to hand …”
Haines nodded. The consensu
s of evidence on this aspect of Hind was conclusive. At that moment there was a knock at the door and Sergeant Miles came in with an official-looking envelope. Haines murmured “Excuse me” and glanced through the document, his brows drawing together in a deep frown as he absorbed the contents. Then he said, “All right, Sergeant, thank you,” and thoughtfully put the paper aside. “I’m sorry, Mr. Iredale—where were we?”
“Talking about Hind’s weaknesses. Well, of course, I didn’t worry about his behaviour—young reporters aren’t exactly censorious, and it seemed no business of mine. Then, not long before the war, it did suddenly become my business. A girl came over from Dublin on a sort of exchange basis. She was a journalist on one of the Irish papers, and she wanted to see how reporting was done on a big London paper. She was a charming girl—lively and gay and very Irish. She was about twenty-two, and I was a little older. Well, she just hit me for six. Hind saw that I’d fallen for her, and the blighter sent me up north to do an industrial series. While I was away, he started his monkey tricks. I expect she was flattered—I don’t know the details. All I do know is that he put her in the family way and got some quack to fix her up. Things went wrong, she became ill, and she went back home in a shocking state. Next thing I heard, she’d taken two hundred aspirins and pegged out.”
“And you’ve borne him a grudge ever since, eh?”
“Not actively. Life’s too short—and I haven’t seen him for years, except for the briefest periods. At the time, of course, it was different. I hated his guts after Molly died, and I switched to the foreign side because I couldn’t bear the sight of him. I had plenty to do, and gradually the whole episode practically went out of my mind. Then, yesterday evening, I was having a drink in the Crown and there was Hind with his latest girl-friend, Sheila Brooks. I knew the form directly I clapped eyes on them. She was pretty, and the right shape, and as unsophisticated as they come. Just Hind’s meat, in fact. Seeing him working on her brought everything back. As they walked by I said something about him being up to his old tricks, and advised her to watch her step. Naturally he didn’t like it, and—well, we practically had to be separated. And that, Inspector, is the whole story.”
“Except that to-day he was murdered,” said Haines.
“That’s a part of somebody else’s story. I won’t pretend I’m sorry. I think he got what was coming to him—but I didn’t do it.”
“I wish I were certain of that,” said Haines.
“I wish I could make you certain. With a motive like mine, I don’t know how I can. But I’ll tell you this—I wouldn’t have used poison. It’s not in my line.” He sat still, quietly smoking. “And if I had used it,” he added as an afterthought, “I certainly wouldn’t have drawn attention to myself by telling you there was some of the stuff in the office.”
“That all depends, Mr. Iredale,” said Haines grimly. He picked up the document which Sergeant Miles had brought in. “I’ve just had word from the Yard that the cyanide in the Process Department is not the stuff that was used for the murder. Our research people have analysed it, and also the poison in the olives, and the two are slightly different. About things like that they never make mistakes.”
Iredale shrugged. “So what? I’m not sure that I follow what’s in your mind. I didn’t say the Process Department stuff was used, I only said it was there. I was trying to be helpful.” In spite of his casual tone, he seemed worried.
“That’s certainly what I supposed at the time,” said Haines. “Now I have to consider the other possibility—that having your own private store of cyanide, you deliberately drew attention to another source, to which anyone might have had access, in order to spread suspicion more widely.”
Iredale looked disgusted. “I wish to God I’d never mentioned the stuff.”
“I’m not making any accusations, of course,” said Haines, putting the document away. “However, these little things do raise questions in one’s mind. How was it you arrived late at the luncheon, Mr. Iredale?”
“I was only a few minutes late. Now what are you getting at?”
“It occurred to me,” said Haines mildly, “that if by any chance you had put cyanide in the olives, it might have been understandable that you should hang back a little.”
“I don’t see why. I wouldn’t have been obliged to eat a poisoned olive myself, simply because I was there punctually.”
“Do you like olives?”
“Yes.”
“Then you might have felt it would be suspicious to refuse, and have hung back to avoid the necessity.”
“Good Lord, what a tortuous mind you have!”
“Not tortuous enough for this case, I’m beginning to fear. There’s another point. If I’d arranged to murder a colleague, I think I’d have tried to arrive after the deed was done—as you did. Less unpleasant, don’t you think?”
“I doubt if I’d have been squeamish at that stage. Anyway, Inspector, it was by pure chance that I was delayed. I got caught up with Edgar Jessop in the Foreign Room—he was keen on my seeing a manuscript he’d been working on, and I couldn’t rush away without offending him. I wasn’t hanging back, as you put it, at all—as a matter of fact I was doing my best to get away.”
“I see,” said Haines reflectively. “In that case, it seems that you owe Mr. Jessop a debt of gratitude. Without knowing it, he may have saved your life.” Haines consulted his file. “Jessop—ah, yes, he’s the Assistant Foreign Editor.” The inspector sat back and began to fill his own pipe. “Well, that seems to be all for the moment.” He looked keenly at Iredale. “What do you think about this murder? You seem to have quite a lot of sense, and you know most of the people in the office. I’d like to hear your opinion.”
Iredale smiled. “Ought you to collaborate with a suspect? Or are you just giving me rope?”
“There are nearly two hundred suspects,” said Haines. “I must talk to someone. Well, have you any views?”
Iredale considered. “Only that it was a pretty crazy thing to do. In a newspaper office, of course, that doesn’t point to anyone in particular.”
“The sort of craziness that would risk killing four people to make sure of one must be uncommon even in a newspaper office.”
“Yes, of course, but there’s plenty of the sort of abnormality that might lead to that kind of thing.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Why not? You don’t have to look far along this street for mild attacks of megalomania, do you now?—and that’s merely the way it takes a few of the people at the top. You’ve got to remember that a lot of the men who gravitate to a newspaper office are artists, in a rather seedy sort of way. Chaps with an unsatisfied creative urge. A good many of them become disappointed artists. They get angry and frustrated and envious. Most newspapermen over the age of thirty are bitter about something. The majority of us just subside into drink or idleness and call it a day, but the odd chap might go really crackers.”
“Have you ever known it happen?”
“I’ve known plenty of close shaves—nervous breakdowns, and that sort of thing. It isn’t a healthy life, you know—there’s too much artificial excitement, too much tension, too much exaggeration of unimportant things. I’ve known a man get drunk every night for a week because he didn’t get a by-line on a story that he thought deserved it. There’s no sense of proportion, and the atmosphere’s always highly charged. I’m not suggesting that a newspaper office is just a rather specialised sort of lunatic asylum, but I do think it’s as likely a place for a really crazy murder as any I know.”
“Well, it’s an interesting point of view,” said Haines thoughtfully. “A possible line of approach, I suppose, though I’m afraid we have to concentrate on humdrum routine in our business.” He smiled. “If you feel that way about the office, you must have been quite glad to get away to something a bit quieter.”
Iredale laughed. “Oh, we carry our temperaments with us.” He thought of his quarrel with Munro and shot the inspector a suspicious glance
, but the grey eyes seemed innocent of guile. “Still, when you’re on your own you can take a breath now and again. I know I shall be relieved when I’ve put a couple of thousand miles between myself and Fleet Street.”
“I dare say,” said Haines, getting up. “I don’t want to appear discouraging, Mr. Iredale, but it may be some little time before that happens.”
Chapter Fifteen
Edgar Jessop had passed a peaceful supper-hour loitering alone beside the river and was now returning at an equally leisurely pace to the office. The quiet beauty of the evening was in keeping with his mood, for he was still soothed by the afterglow of achievement and the knowledge that he would never again be tormented by Hind. For the time being, his mind was as placid as the Thames itself.
In the efforts of the police, so far as they were known to him, he found cause for supercilious amusement—exactly as Haines had foreseen. Scotland Yard were obviously quite at a loss, or they wouldn’t have spent all day systematically combing through the staff. Jessop himself had been briefly questioned by one of Ogilvie’s assistants, but the detective had lost interest in him as soon as it became clear that he didn’t even claim to have an alibi. A few harmless questions about his position in the office—but clearly a formality. His smile was serene as he turned towards Fleet Street. Where did they expect to get by such means? They must know by now that hardly anyone had an alibi. He was one of a great crowd, and in numbers there was safety.
Providence, he felt, had shown good judgment in picking on Hind—and even better in selecting himself as its instrument. Not many people would have thought of such an ingenious plan, with all the details so perfectly worked out. The only pity was that he couldn’t tell everyone how clever he’d been—they’d have realised then how greatly they’d underrated him.
The fact that it was Hind who’d died must have misled the police completely—put them right off the scent. He himself, after all, had never had a public quarrel with Hind; nobody had any inkling of how he’d detested the man. There was nothing to connect him with Hind’s death, nothing at all. There was no reason to suppose he would be questioned any more. As far as he was concerned, the elimination of Hind was a closed chapter. Success had given him a wonderful feeling of confidence. He was a different man altogether.