A Press of Suspects

by Andrew Garve

  He had been cool and confident when he had entered the shelter a bare half hour ago, but now his nerves were on edge and there was an ache behind his eyes. He wished he had not begun to think about these things. The printing machines throbbed overhead like a squadron of heavy bombers. When, after tossing and turning for hours, he eventually dozed, nightmares racked him. He was walking through a blacked-out upper floor, a steel helmet on his head, a warden’s lamp at his belt. The air was hot with smoke and fire, and thick with the dust of disintegrating buildings. Outside in the street, voices were shrieking in pain. The guns were thundering. Every time a bomb whistled he cowered back against a wall, yawning with fear. He was supposed to patrol to the end of the building, to listen for the clatter of incendiaries and the heavier thud of missiles that failed to explode. Instead, he was suddenly running downstairs, stripping off his warden’s uniform, throwing away his torch. A figure rose in his path—a gross, simian figure with blood on its face. “Get back,” it cried, with the voice of Hind, pointing upwards into the smoke. Then the face became Ede’s face. “If a bomb falls in the well I shall send you to Malaya,” it said menacingly. There was an ear-splitting noise and the earth rocked. Out of the flames appeared Archer, with a rope round his neck. “It wasn’t me, it was Jessop,” he shrieked. Then two men who looked like Haycock and Golightly pushed Archer off the top of the building and his head came off and went spinning down the street among the tangle of fire-hoses. In a moment the scene changed and there were demons all around, demons with huge distorted features in the likeness of Cardew and Hind and Ede, and they were all prodding at him with red-hot spikes and crying in chorus, “You’re the man, you’re the man!” One of them struck at him with the metal base of the spike and he woke in pain, thrashing violently on the canvas, his forehead bruised by sudden contact with the iron framework of the cot. He lay panting in sweat and anguish. If only these nightmares would stop! It wasn’t true what he’d dreamed. His enemies were seeking to destroy him with false accusations. He had done his duty that night. Archer had been the culprit, and Archer had paid. There was nothing on his conscience. Nothing. NOTHING! He turned on to his face with a groan.

  Presently, when he was calmer, he remembered what he had to do. He switched on his torch to see the time and found that it was nearly seven o’clock. He had slept far longer than he’d thought. The machines had stopped, the building was silent. The last of the night men had gone—in the whole office now, there was no one but the commissionaire. The tin of cyanide was firm against his thigh. It took resolution to leave his hiding place, to go out on this mission which for a few minutes would be so dangerous, but now that the time had come he didn’t falter. With the help of Providence, he would scatter his enemies. He put on his jacket and crept cautiously upstairs …

  When he returned to the shelter half an hour later he felt like a commando back from a hazardous exploit successfully accomplished. His plan had gone like clockwork, and the job was done. Now there was nothing for him to do but relax and wait patiently for news. Elatedly he picked up his dispatch-case and made his way to a first-floor cloakroom, locking himself in. The cleaners had not yet reached this floor—he had plenty of time. He washed and shaved—just as he had done after so many blitz nights. His eyes had a pouchy look, but they were often like that after a bout of sleeplessness, and it was unlikely that anyone would notice. When he had finished his toilet he went back to the shelter. This was the really trying part—waiting for the working day to start. It would be fatal for him to be seen around before the office filled up. The hours passed slowly. He had no longer anything to read. He ate the last of his sandwiches, but still felt hungry. He would go somewhere pleasant for lunch, he decided, and have a slap-up meal with wine. A private celebration of the coming event. He had earned it.

  At about ten o’clock he suddenly heard footsteps on the landing above the shelter, and the sound of workmen’s voices. He gathered up his belongings in momentary panic and crouched motionless in the bunk as the voices came nearer. If the men descended to the shelter they might well see him. Perhaps he ought to leave now, by another exit.

  Gradually his alarm faded—some stores were being taken from the floor above, that was all. After a few heavy bangs on the ceiling the footsteps receded and the voices died away. He felt relieved, but shaken. It would be good to get away.

  As the hands of his watch moved to eleven he emerged from the shelter for the last time. He walked up the back stairs to an upper storey, crossed to the main staircase, and was soon on the editorial floor, moving briskly, telling himself that he must now behave as though he had just arrived by car from Beckenham, as though nothing unusual had happened. The dispatch-case in his hand provided some corroborative detail. He put his head inside the Foreign Room door and said “Good-morning” to Miss Burton and the tape-machine boy. Cardew hadn’t arrived yet.

  “You’re early, Mr. Jessop,” the girl said, with a friendly smile.

  Jessop looked at the clock. She was just making conversation. With nothing particular to do in the mornings, especially since his mother’s death, he had often looked in at this hour whether he was on duty or not. “I thought I’d do some shopping,” he said. He hung his dispatch-case on a peg and strolled out. He felt established now. He had just arrived, like all the other people there—that was accepted. The sight of a couple of plain-clothes policemen jarred him a little. They seemed very active again. Surely they’d finished with their interrogations by now—what more could they possibly expect to learn? Anyway, he had nothing to say to them—and he didn’t at all want to get into conversation with them, not just now. By to-morrow his movements would have merged into everyone else’s, but at present he felt conspicuous. He’d do well to make himself scarce. He still had to run the gauntlet of the commissionaire’s box. He walked downstairs to the front lobby, stopping by the door which led from the garage, with one eye on Vickers. He must be nonchalant as he passed Vickers—just as he would have been if he had called in to leave his things and was going out again for a morning’s shopping. Vickers didn’t seem to be looking his way—he was busy admonishing a boy for some misdemeanour. Jessop braced himself and walked casually past the box without looking at it, out through the door, and into the busy street. He didn’t even know whether Vickers had seen him or not. In any case, he felt quite safe now, and in the highest spirits. He crossed the road and joined a bus queue.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That day passed quietly at the office—more quietly than any since Hind’s murder. Though sporadic police inquiries were continuing, the tide of detection appeared to be ebbing. There were rumours, not altogether discouraged by Haines in his talks with the Press, that the Yard didn’t expect to solve the case on present evidence. The fact that Haines and Ogilvie spent almost the whole day in discussions with various high officials, including the Assistant Commissioner, rather bore out this view. Long discussions, the Fleet Street crime reporters agreed, were almost always a bad sign.

  Nicholas Ede spent a busy day, for the Board of Directors had insisted on meeting to discuss the lamentable happenings in the office. Jackson had his hands full too, attending to numerous delegated duties, including the arrangement of office representation at Hind’s funeral. Otherwise, the tempo of activity was slow. A party of schoolgirls, touring the building in the charge of “Sarge” Vickers, marked the beginning of the summer holiday doldrums. A lunch-time meeting of the trade union chapel could muster only seven people, four of them Communists. Soames was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his reporters occupied. Jessop, being off duty until four o’clock, lazed in the Embankment Gardens after his excellent lunch. Cardew was finding his new job even less bearable than he had expected, and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he could no longer postpone action to resolve his personal problem.

  Even the conscientious Miss Timmins was affected by the imminence of the holiday week-end. As soon as six o’clock struck, she put the cover on her typewriter and prepared t
o leave. It was early for her, but she was seizing the opportunity provided by the Editor’s dinner engagement to visit her sister. She felt in need of a nice quiet talk with someone who had nothing whatever to do with the office, and Ethel was just the person. The past few days had been gruelling for Miss Timmins. She had had to share the burden of the Editor’s anxieties. She had had to make an extra effort to smooth his path, and to put up with his unaccustomed irritability. Inspector Haines had been exacting. The hot weather was very trying, too. She would go to Wembley, she decided, on the top of a bus. There would be a cool breeze—just what she needed.

  She dabbed powder on her moist face and listened for the sounds that would tell her the Editor had returned to his room. He was somewhere around the office, and she couldn’t leave without making sure that there was nothing else he wanted. Presently she heard his outer door open. She waited a moment or two—she didn’t want to give the impression that she was in a hurry to rush away—and then she went in.

  To her surprise, it wasn’t the Editor after all—the outer door was just closing on Lionel Cardew. Miss Timmins looked slightly annoyed. People weren’t supposed to use that door, but the privileged Cardew had got into the habit of popping in and out that way and there was nothing she could do about it since Mr. Ede didn’t mind.

  At that moment Ede returned. He saw that his secretary was made up for the road. “Good-night, Miss Timmins,” he said, with a cheerful smile of dismissal.

  “Good-night, Mr. Ede. I hope the speech goes well.” She returned to her own room and put on her hat. She was just feeling for her keys when Soames came in, a great sheaf of papers in his hand and the usual harassed look in his eye.

  “It’s no good, Mr. Soames,” she said firmly. “He’s just going to have a shower and after that he’s going straight out to dinner. You’ll have to see Mr. Jackson or else wait until to-morrow.”

  “I wouldn’t keep him more than a couple of minutes,” Soames pleaded. From Ede he could expect quick decisions; Jackson, with only delegated authority, might be inclined to leave things over.

  “Sorry,” said Miss Timmins in a tone of finality. “The station’s closed down.”

  Soames muttered something about the “monstrous regiment of women” and went off grumbling to look for Jackson.

  Almost at once, Iredale stuck his head in. This time Miss Timmins was less abrupt. “Well, and what do you want?”

  Iredale gave her a leisurely smile. “Hallo, sweetheart. Is this your half day off?”

  “Sauce!” said Miss Timmins. “If you want to see Mr. Ede, I’ll put you down for six o’clock tomorrow. He’s just going out.”

  “Okay,” said Iredale. “It was only about my future—nothing at all of importance!” He grinned and vanished.

  A flicker of a smile crossed Miss Timmins’ tired face. She’d better go now, before anyone else tried to gatecrash. She gave a last methodical glance round the office. Suddenly there was the sound of a heavy bump from the Editor’s room. What on earth could the man be doing? She went quickly to the communicating door and opened it a fraction. “Are you all right, Mr. Ede?” she called. She listened, and heard ugly, choking noises. She went in and stopped with a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. On the floor, across the threshold of the shower-room, lay the convulsed and naked body of Nicholas Ede. In the air there was a peculiar odour, unmistakable after all the talk there had been about it. She turned and rushed frantically into the corridor. “Mr. Jackson!” she shrieked. “Oh, Mr. Jackson!”

  The Assistant Editor was out in the corridor in a twinkling. “What on earth’s the matter, Miss Timmins?”

  “Oh, Mr. Jackson—it’s Mr. Ede. I think—I think …” Miss Timmins crumpled up.

  Chapter Twenty

  Half an hour later a trio of grey-faced men sat in the Assistant Editor’s room, each silently occupied with his own thoughts. Jackson seemed dazed by the blow. All he could think of at the moment was the tragic waste, the personal and professional loss, if the worst happened.

  Oglivie was tactfully avoiding his Chief’s eye. He sensed what Haines was going through, and felt great sympathy. It could have happened to anybody, but Haines was unlikely to be reminding himself of that fact.

  The Chief Inspector’s features were set in deep lines. He had liked Ede. He had felt a responsibility for him, as indeed for everyone else in this place. It was useless to tell himself that he had done everything in his power to make an occurrence such as this impossible, and that he had given the Editor the plainest of warnings; it was no consolation to know that at every stage of the inquiry he had been in the closest consultation with his superiors and with able, experienced colleagues. The fact was that he had been the man officially entrusted with the case, the man on the spot, and that under his very nose the murderer had struck again, unhindered, while the laborious process of elimination creaked on its way. It was distressing and humiliating beyond words. He would have liked to plunge into work, to stop the treadmill of his thoughts, but he was temporarily condemned to inaction. A decontamination squad had arrived from the Yard, but had not yet completed its preparations for entering Ede’s room.

  The tense silence was broken at last by Jackson. “I suppose there is just a chance?” he muttered, hardly daring to look at the inspector.

  “We can only wait,” Haines said. “I’m afraid the poor fellow looked pretty bad.” At least, he reflected, no time had been wasted after the alarm had been given. Emergency treatment had been prompt, and the ambulance had arrived within five minutes. Ede had appeared to be a man with a strong constitution, and he couldn’t have taken in so very much of the stuff or he would never have reached the door of the shower-room before collapsing.

  Ogilvie tried to be reassuring. “They always say that if there’s any sign of life at all when the doctor gets to work on a cyanide case, there’s a chance.”

  Haines grunted. He felt it somehow safer not to speculate on the possibility of Ede’s recovery—it was too much like tempting Fate.

  The phone rang, and all three men leaned forward with a jerk. Jackson was nearest, and fumbled unsteadily for the receiver. It was an inside call—a query from the Subs’ room about some technical matter. For the first time in his life, Jackson behaved as if he didn’t care whether the paper came out or not. “For God’s sake, man, don’t worry me with that now,” he cried in exasperation. “Use your own judgment.” He flung the receiver down.

  Haines sat back. “Surely those chaps outside must be ready by now,” he said rather fretfully to Ogilvie.

  “I’ll go and see, Chief.” Ogilvie was half-way to the door when the phone rang again.

  This time Jackson handed the receiver over after a moment. “It’s for you, Inspector.” Specks of moisture glistened on his forehead and his white hair looked damp.

  Haines took the phone. “Chief Inspector Haines here. Yes, Sergeant … Say that again, I can’t hear very well … They do!” He looked across at Jackson with shining eyes. “Right. Yes, you’d better stay in case there’s a chance later … All right. ’Bye.”

  He hung up and took a long, grateful breath. “They think he’ll live.”

  “Thank God!” said Jackson with deep fervour. He blinked several times, took off his spectacles, wiped them and put them back. “Oh, that is good news. Has Mrs. Ede been told?”

  “Yes—she’s there with him now.” Haines was smiling, and looked ten years younger. “You know, Mr. Jackson, if he does pull through, there’s not much doubt that he’ll owe his life to you. If you hadn’t gone straight in and pulled him clear when you did, he’d have had no chance at all. Are you quite sure you’re not feeling any ill effects yourself?”

  “Positive, Inspector—you needn’t worry about me. I recognised that smell at once and held my breath—I’m sure I didn’t take any of the stuff in.” Jackson sat back and heaved a sigh. “Oh, what a relief!”

  Haines nodded. With Ede off his mind, he had suddenly become preoccupied with the implications of the mu
rderer’s new stroke. Now that it was clear that Hind had not been the sole target, various possibilities suggested themselves.

  (I) Hind’s death had been a mistake, the accidental result of a method aimed at Ede. But this seemed unlikely, because Ede had been host at the luncheon and no one could reasonably have supposed that he would be the first to eat anything.

  (2) Hind’s death had been a mistake, the olives having been intended for either Cardew, Iredale or Munro.

  (3) Hind’s death had been intended, but only as the first incident in a campaign which was later to include Ede.

  Haines frowned. He had no grounds for choice between the second and third possibilities, but in either case the murderer must have had a motive for killing at least two people. What possible motive could link Ede and one of the other four as victims? And would the murderer’s whole purpose have been accomplished if Ede had died? Was the campaign over—or was a new offensive brewing? Speed of investigation was obviously imperative.

  The door opened suddenly and a plain-clothes man came in. “We’re ready to fix you up now, sir.”

  “Okay, Phillips.” Haines got quickly to his feet. “You’d better come along too, Ogilvie—it’s not very easy to see in those masks.” He turned to the Assistant Editor. “Perhaps you’d tell Miss Timmins the good news? I want to have a talk with her as soon as possible, and it’ll do her more good than all the smelling salts in the world.”