by Andrew Garve
No one helped him out, and presently he took a deep breath and went on. “I’ve been friendly with Nicholas Ede and—and Rosemary Ede, for some time. He’s been frightfully decent to me, and so has she. She—she’s very attractive. He asked me along to his home soon after I joined the paper, and I got used to dropping in quite often. I became a sort of friend of the family, and I took her about a good deal. Ede’s job takes up most of his time, you see, and he seemed pleased that his wife was being looked after. Everything was all right until about a week or two ago. Then I suddenly realised that I’d fallen in love with her. I knew I was being a crass idiot, but I couldn’t help it. God knows what came over me—I lost my head completely. A few days ago I—I told her I was in love with her …” He groaned. “I even asked her to come away with me. I must have been mad.”
“What did she say to that?” asked Haines, his face expressionless.
Cardew gave a mirthless laugh. “She was kind. She treated me like a small boy who’d been asking for too many sweets. It was the most mortifying experience I’d ever known. After I left her I felt like hell. I knew I’d behaved like a swine towards Ede, and I knew I’d made myself ridiculous in her eyes. I felt I never wanted to see her again. I wondered what explanation I could give Ede for not going there any more. I was still thinking about it when he told me he wanted me to be Foreign Editor. I said I would, but only because I hadn’t made up my mind what to do. Then to-day I decided that the only thing I could possibly do was to leave the Morning Call altogether. I determined to clear right out and make a fresh start. As you said. it was about six o’clock when I looked into his room to see if he was there. I was going to tell him that I was tired of newspaper work and wanted a change. I’d forgotten he was going out to dinner until I saw his dress clothes laid out. There wasn’t any point in my trying to talk to him when he was in a hurry, so I went out. I was going to tell him to-morrow. Then about ten minutes later there was a frightful flap in the office and I heard that he’d been poisoned.” Cardew looked unutterably miserable. “That’s the whole story. Now you know everything.”
“I hope so,” said Haines. “Am I to understand, then, that Mrs. Ede gave you no encouragement?”
“None at all,” said Cardew. “I tell you, I was just a complete bloody fool.”
“H’m.” In Haines’s somewhat limited experience, a woman could usually prevent such a situation arising if she wanted to. He sat quietly for a while, digesting the story. “Well, Mr. Cardew,” he said at last, “all this seems to add up to a pretty powerful motive for murder.”
“Do you suppose I haven’t realised that? God only knows what Rosemary may be thinking. It’s bad enough that she should despise me for an idiot, but if she should imagine … Oh, God, I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t do this ghastly thing, Inspector—I swear I didn’t. I like and admire Ede. That’s what’s so damnable about it all. I know things look black for me, but he’s one of the last people in the world I’d have dreamed of harming …” Despair seemed to engulf the young man.
“Take it easy, Mr. Cardew. You might just as well save your breath, you know. Pleas of innocence on their own won’t get us anywhere.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cardew. “I suppose I’m making things worse.” He raised miserable eyes to Haines.
“What is going to get us anywhere? I can’t prove I didn’t do it—I only know the idea is fantastic. I hadn’t the means, if that’s any use to you. I wouldn’t know how to get hold of cyanide if I wanted it.”
“The situation would certainly be much blacker,” said Haines, “if that weren’t the case.”
“Well, it is. And anyway, surely the person who tried to kill Ede was the same one who killed Hind? It stands to reason. You can’t pin a motive for that on to me.”
“There is, I admit, an absence of known motive at the moment,” agreed Haines cautiously, “but all sorts of things seem to be coming to light, don’t they? What are you keeping back about Hind?”
“Nothing.”
Haines looked searchingly at him. “Even if that’s true, there’s such a thing as taking advantage of someone else’s murder—and method. It’s often been done. A murders B; C, who has long wanted to murder D, realises that he has been shown the way and that, with luck, A will be blamed for D’s murder too. There seems to be a great deal of cyanide about, and more than one person may have had access to it.”
“It’s much more likely that there’s a lunatic around the office who did both jobs.”
“That’s also a possibility. The problem is to recognise a lunatic when you see one. Emotional instability, now, is much easier to detect!” Haines gave Cardew a rather grim smile. “Well, we’ll let the matter rest there for a while, and I’ll make some more inquiries. In the meantime, you’ll oblige me by not going anywhere without letting me know. Is that understood?”
“I seem to have no option,” said Cardew. He got up and went painfully out, as though he had been scourged. Ogilvie made a tut-tutting noise as the door closed behind him. “When I was seventeen,” he remarked, “I remember feeling like that about a girl. At his age, he ought to know better. What do you make of it, Chief?”
Haines hesitated. “I’ll know better when I’ve seen the lady in the case. I think I ought to have a talk with her right away.”
“Do you suppose they might be in it together?”
“If they had been, I can’t imagine that Cardew would have given so much away. They’d have worked things out beforehand—he’d never have been in that hysterical condition.” Haines slowly shook his head. “No, I’m inclined to think that his story about Mrs. Ede is true. He could easily have come away from her feeling frustrated and desperate, and have killed Ede out of jealousy. Then he probably would have behaved as he did to-day. Still, we’re a long way from proving it. Cardew was the obvious man to go for first, but he may not be the only one in the picture, and for the time being we’d better assume that he isn’t.” Haines mentally reviewed the most urgent tasks. “Look, Ogilvie, will you find out where Sarge Vickers lives and go and see him now. Get to know all you can about the keys and what’s been happening to them lately. See if anyone else had a chance to get into Ede’s room at any time. Oh, and find out if the cleaners went into the shower-room this morning. If you get any lead at all, follow it up. And I’ll see Mrs. Ede. Okay?”
Ogilvie nodded, pleased at the prospect of getting off on his own for a bit.
“Right,” said Haines. “I’ll see you here in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ogilvie lost no time in getting hold of Sarge Vickers’ address, and half an hour later he was climbing the stairs of the block of council fiats in Paddington where the commissionaire lived. Over a cup of cocoa, he told of the attempt on Ede. Vickers was deeply shocked and obviously anxious to help, but the replies he gave to Ogilvie’s questions were uniformly negative. There was absolutely no possibility, he declared, of any of the duplicate keys or the master key itself having been given to an unauthorised person, or taken by anyone without permission. Instructions on the first point were strict; and the front box was never left unattended. Vickers had not parted with them himself, and he doubted strongly that either of his henchmen, Sergeants Peach and Granger, who shared the night-shift between them, would have done so. He mentioned that the Proprietor and one or two of the directors had master keys of their own, and Ogilvie made a mental note to look into that, though he couldn’t see any hopeful prospects there. In the end, the inspector had to accept Vickers’ assurances. The senior commissionaire was evidently a man who took his responsibilities seriously, and he stuck to his ground. Subject to what the two other commissionaires might say, it appeared most unlikely that the murderer could actually have gained possession of a key.
Ogilvie sat considering the position. Someone had got into the room. Leaving aside Cardew, and on the assumption that Miss Timmins’s evidence was to be believed, there now seemed only one possibility to be investigated—and a slim one.
“Tell me, Sarge, when is Mr. Ede’s room cleaned and how do the cleaners manage about keys? Is there any particular drill?”
“Well,” said Vickers, “Mrs. Little and ’er ladies, they come every morning sharp at seven—that’s in Granger’s shift—and ’ e gives ’ er the master key so she don’t ’ave to bother with a great bunch of ’em. She keeps it till the cleaning’s finished, around nine o’clock, and then she gives it to me.”
“I see. And did she give you the key this morning, as usual?”
“Yes, Inspector, just after nine. She’s a very reliable woman—she wouldn’t leave it lying about, if that’s what you’re thinking. She’s been cleaning them offices near ten year, I reckon, an’ never a complaint from anyone.”
Ogilvie took a thoughtful sip of his cocoa. “Would any of the night staff have been still working, do you suppose, when the cleaners arrived this morning?”
Vickers shook his head. “The last of ’em leaves long before that. Hours before.”
“Well, would any of the staff have arrived as early as that to start the new day’s work?”
“Not they!” said the commissionaire. “Late finishers and late starters, newspaper people are. The boys are the first to get there, an’ they don’t arrive till close on nine-thirty. Then a typist or so comes tripping along, an’ after that they all start rolling in. But while the cleaning’s being done, the building’s empty.”
Ogilvie pressed him. “You told the Chief the other day that you kept track of all strangers calling at the office, but that you didn’t always notice the movements of the staff. Supposing that someone you knew quite well had decided to pop in at about eight o’clock this morning, just for once—would you have noticed?”
“That we should, and I’ll tell you why—’cause it ain’t never ’appened. There’d ’ave been something said, you may be sure. Oh, yes, we’d ’ave noticed that all right.”
Ogilvie rather thought so too. “Ah, well,” he said, getting up, “thanks for the nightcap, Sarge.”
Picking up a cab outside the flats, he managed to arrive back at the Morning Call just in time to catch Sergeants Peach and Granger at their midnight switchover. For ten minutes he questioned them closely, but they both bore out what Vickers had already said. Neither of them had given out keys for the Ede-Timmins rooms; neither had parted with the master key in the past few days, except to Mrs. Little. The front box had at no time been left unattended. Granger was as positive as Vickers had been that no member of the staff could have got into the office before nine o’clock without being noticed. Ogilvie satisfied himself that there was no shaking the men, and went off to get a few hours’ sleep. One way and another, he reflected, things were beginning to look pretty bad for Cardew.
When he returned to the Morning Call just before seven, Mrs. Little was already there, standing before the box in animated conversation with her three assistants. She was a large, cheerful woman, with immense forearms and pudgy red hands. It was evident from her manner that Sergeant Granger had already told them the news.
Ogilvie introduced himself and got briskly down to business. “You won’t be able to clean the rooms belonging to Mr. Ede and Miss Timmins this morning,” he told Mrs. Little, “but apart from that I’d like you to carry on, all of you, just as you usually do, and I’ll follow and watch.”
“Now ain’t that just like a man!” said Mrs. Little “Sure you wouldn’t like to take a pail, Inspector?”
Her flock gave a subdued titter and followed Mrs. Little and the policeman into the lift. When it disgorged them at the main editorial floor Mrs. Little said: “We always start on this floor, see, ’cos it’s left in such a state. Goodness knows what some of their ’omes must be like, ’specially the reporters.” She led the way to a large cupboard room, where the women donned overalls and began to fill their buckets from a tap. There was an air of festival about them as they chattered and laughed. It was a beautiful morning, they had a handsome inspector with them, and there had almost been another murder. What more could anybody ask?
“Now,” said Mrs. Little in a business-like tone, “what ’appens is this. It’s the same every day, so you can’t make no mistake. First of all I goes round with the key what Sarge just give me, and I unlocks all the doors on this floor.” She led her entourage to the Assistant Editor’s room. “I starts with Mr. Jackson and then I goes on to Miss Timmins and Mr. Ede …” She stopped, her way blocked by a young and very large uniformed policeman.
Ogilvie said: “Morning, constable,” and Mrs. Little looked wistfully at the closed door. “Sure you wouldn’t like to go in, sir?”
“Not just now, thank you, Mrs. Little. You can just pretend to unlock them.”
She giggled. “Who do you think I am—Shirley Temple?” Reluctantly she passed Ede’s room, “Well, then, there’s the Leaders and the Sports and the Foreign and the Arty and the Subs and the Reporters and the News. Quite a walk, ain’t it?” Ogilvie followed a pace behind her.
“And that’s the lot,” she said, flinging open the door of Features. She slipped the key back into her overall pocket. “Now we can all get started. My girls know just what they got to do—we ’ave the rooms divided up amongst us, see?”
“Very efficient, Mrs. Little. And who cleans Mr. Ede’s room, as a rule?”
“I do it meself. Always. Then I knows it’s been done proper.”
“Good,” said Ogilvie. “Well, now, when you did Mr. Ede’s room yesterday morning, did you clean the shower-room as well?”
“O’ course I did.”
“What exactly did you do to it?”
“I give the tiles and the floor a wash over and ’ung a clean towel on the ’ook and tidied up a bit like. Mr. Ede ’adn’t used the shower the night before, so there weren’t much to do. Didn’t take more’n a few minutes all told.”
“There was a wooden thing on the floor by the shower, wasn’t there?—you know, one of those things to step out on?”
“Oh, yes, that’s always there.”
“Did you move it to wash under it, or did you just wash round it?”
“Now look ’ ere, young man …” began Mrs. Little indignantly.
“I’m sorry,” said Ogilvie, with a disarming smile. “You moved it, eh? And when you’d finished, you put a clean! newspaper underneath it, did you?”
Mrs. Little looked horrified. “Whatever would I do that for? Shockin’ wet mess it’d make when Mr. Ede come to take ’is shower! No, I didn’t put no newspaper there.” Clearly she pitied the inspector’s ignorance.
“I see,” said Ogilvie, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. Vital facts had suddenly begun to emerge. The period in which the murderer could have operated was narrowing fast. The newspaper had suddenly taken on an entirely new significance. Whatever the commissionaires might say, it was now pretty clear that somebody had been around during the cleaning operations, or soon after. Ogilvie set to work eagerly to discover just what had happened.
“About how long do you spend in each room, Mrs. Little?”
“Ten minutes, near enough,” she said. “There’s no time for more, with so many of ’em to do. We ’ave to keep a strick timetable, or we’d never get through.”
“Quite so. I’m rather interested in that timetable.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I starts in Mr. Ede’s room about ten past seven, and about twenty past I finishes in there an’ goes through into Miss Timmins.”
Ogilvie nodded. “And at about the same time, I suppose, the other cleaners are moving into their second rooms, too?”
“If they’re not, they ought to be.”
“So that at, say, twenty-five past seven, the position would be this. Mr. Ede’s outer door would be unlocked …”
“Wide open,” said Mrs. Little. “Airin’ the room.”
“That’s better still—wide open. And you would be in Miss Timmins’s room—with the communicating door closed, I dare say? It’s on a spring, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is,
and it just won’t prop open nohow. Shockin’ awkward to get through with an armful O’ brooms and pails, I can tell you.”
“And the other cleaners would all be inside their second rooms at that time?”
“Yes.”
“And a little later, you’d all have moved into other rooms, and the outer doors would still be open?”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Mrs. Little, slightly mystified.
Ogilvie looked thoughtfully at the charwoman. “Do you suppose,” he asked, “that anyone on the staff here would have any idea about how you go to work? You know, the routine?”
Mrs Little folded her enormous forearms and stood frowning. “Well, I dunno about now Inspector. It was different during the war, O’ course. A lot of the chaps that work ’ere used to sleep in the building then—down in the shelter.”
“Is that so?” said Ogilvie, with quickening interest. Here was an approach that he hadn’t thought of at all.
“Yes—and we used to see ’em when they come up in the mornings sometimes. Talk about scruffy! Lor, you should’ve seen ’em. We nearly always ’ad a few words with ’em. That’s one thing the war did—made people matey, what it didn’t make corpses.” She sighed reminiscently. “Oh, yes, proper ’ ome from ’ ome it was ’ere for some of ’em.”
“Suppose, Mrs. Little,” said Ogilvie, “that the man who tried to kill Mr. Ede had been around the office while you were cleaning—you know, keeping out of your way and watching his opportunity. Do you think he could have got into Mr. Ede’s room for a couple of minutes after you’d finished there, without being seen or heard by any of you?”
Mrs. Little stared. “It don’t seem all that likely, I must say, but I s’pose it could ’ave ’appened if ’e made sure the coast was clear first, like. There’s a fair racket when we’re cleaning, an’ we certainly don’t ’ave no time to stop and look around.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Now there’s just one more thing—what time did you lock up the rooms on this floor?”