by Andrew Garve
“Not necessarily,” said Haines. He was wondering if the unnerving experience—an experience which had evidently made a powerful impression on Iredale’s mind—could possibly have affected the man’s mental balance. “What was the stuff like to look at?”
“Small whitish-grey crystals.”
“Was the tin full when you brought it here?”
“Yes—and it was still full the last time I saw it!”
“When was that? What happened to it?”
Iredale made an effort to cast his mind back. “Well, I showed it to Ede first of all, and he got the Art Department to photograph it. Practically everyone in the office had a look at it. Someone called from the F.O., and someone else from the War Office, and a few of the Embassies sent people. It was quite a sensation.”
“Where was it kept while it was here?”
“It was in the Editor’s room for quite a time,” said Iredale slowly, “because of V. I. P. s calling. I think after that it went to the Foreign Room. I don’t know what happened to it then—I flew back to Russia. I suppose someone was told to dispose of it in the end. Perhaps it was sent to Scotland Yard!”
Haines glowered. “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Mr. Iredale. Can I take it you’ve no idea where the stuff is now?”
“None whatsoever.”
“H’m. Where were you between seven and eight o’clock yesterday morning?”
Iredale looked surprised. “In bed, I imagine. Why?”
“In bed where?”
“In my flat in Chancery Lane.”
“Can you prove that? Any porters or neighbours who heard you come and go?”
“I’m afraid not—it’s not that kind of place. As a matter of fact, the whole building’s empty at night. It’s a block of offices, and I have a pent-house above the sixth floor. It’s not a place that most people would want to live in.”
“I see. Well, that’s all rather unfortunate. Tell me, Mr. Iredale, have you ever spent a night in this building?”
Iredale looked surprised. “Once or twice during the war, yes, when I was home on leave and there was a bad blitz. I don’t make a practice of it—it’s hardly my idea of comfort.”
“Did you spend the night before last in this building?”
“Good God, no! I told you—I was at my flat.”
“Someone appears to have spent the night here,” said Haines, “and laid the cyanide which almost killed Mr. Ede.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. You can think what you like, but I don’t know anything at all either about Hind’s murder or about the attempt on Ede—not a thing.”
Haines regarded him thoughtfully. “I was inclined to believe your protestations the last time we talked, Mr. Iredale, but you must see for yourself that the evidence is beginning to pile up. Of the four people who attended that office lunch in addition to yourself, you had quarrelled—to my knowledge—with three. Hind died—that was one out of the way. You knew he liked olives and you expected him to be first in the room. You had no alibi. Then Ede nearly died—that would have been another. Again you have no alibi. You now admit—but only after I’ve discovered the fact for myself and taxed you with it—that at one time, at any rate, you handled the poison which was probably used in both cases. You also admit you’re very familiar with the technique of the gas chamber. Munro, of course, is out of your reach, but don’t you think that perhaps I ought to offer Mr. Cardew police protection?”
“I happen to be on the best of terms with Mr. Cardew,” said Iredale shortly.
“That’s something I shall certainly have to look into. Well, that’s all for the moment, Mr. Iredale. Don’t go far away—I may be wanting you again.”
Iredale went out gloomily. It was damned unpleasant being suspected of murder, however preposterous the idea. Facts could be misinterpreted in such a devilish way. Before long, the whole office would be talking about ZYKLON. Still, he wasn’t obliged to listen. He left the building and strolled down to the Embankment, wishing he were in China.
After he had gone, Haines sat for a while considering the new situation. It looked as though Iredale had moved up into the position of suspect number one. However, the main thing at the moment was to trace the ZYKLON and link the result with whatever emerged from Ogilvie’s inquiries. Lambert, the ex-Foreign Editor, seemed the obvious person to talk to first. Haines had just found out that he was back from his holiday and could be seen any time that day when Ogilvie came in, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face.
“It was just as I thought, Chief,” he said, drawing up a chair. “Almost everyone has a water-tight alibi for the night before last. There are only ten people who aren’t fully accounted for, and we should be able to get that number down to six or seven before long.”
“Splendid!” said Haines. “I’ve got some news for you, too.” He told his assistant about the ZYKLON.
Ogilvie could hardly contain his excitement. “But that’s terrific, Chief. Damn it, we ought to be able to get some line on the stuff, even after all this time.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Haines. “Well, now, what about these names?”
Ogilvie spread out his papers. “There’s Iredale, of course—you know about him already. Then there’s Cardew. He is still in the picture. He says he spent the night at his flat in Jermyn Street, but there’s no night porter and I can’t get any confirmation. The woman who cleans remembers that the bed was rumpled, but he could have set the scene the evening before if he’d wanted to. That’s two. Then there’s Pringle …”
“Ah, yes—what about Mr. Pringle?”
“He was sent out of town on a job in the afternoon, and he says he spent the night at a pub in Baldock. He may have done, but there’s been some difficulty about checking, so I’ve kept him on the short list for the time being. He’s sort of in suspense.”
“I bet he is! If he really was at Baldock, that let’s him out, of course, but otherwise he’s very much in the running. He’d have been sure to know about the ZYKLON—he has a finger in every pie. The chief doubt I have about him is whether he has the intelligence to have worked things out so well. Low cunning, yes, but is that enough? However, we’ll see. Who else?”
“There’s Edgar Jessop. He lives by himself at Wimbledon. He says he spent the night at home, but again there’s no confirmation.”
“I’d better see him again,” said Haines. “He’s one of those quiet fellows—he didn’t make much of an impression on me last time, one way or the other.”
“The only thing about him,” Ogilvie remarked, “is that he was working in the Foreign Room during the war. If the ZYKLON really finished up there, as Iredale seems to think, he’d have had easy access to it.”
Haines nodded. “I’m going to see Lambert—perhaps he’ll remember something. That’s four.”
“The fifth is Miss Timmins. She lives by herself, but as she could have got into Ede’s room at any time that’s hardly of importance in her case.”
“We’ll keep her in mind,” said Haines, “although frankly I don’t see her as a Borgia.”
“Then there’s a young Sub-editor named Bird,” Ogilvie went on, “but he doesn’t appear to have any possible grievance against anyone and he’s new to the office. Two reporters were out of town in addition to Pringle, and we’re still checking their movements—I imagine they’ll be ruled out in the end. That’s eight. There’s a fellow in the Art Department who refuses to say where he was. He’s in quite a state about it, but I suspect he was only spending the night with a woman. We shall break him down with a little patience, if it’s necessary. That’s nine. Oh, and there’s a fellow named Rowbotham who works in Features. He’s enormously fat—he must weigh about seventeen stone. I can’t see him playing ‘Peep-bo’ with the charladies in the early hours.”
“And that’s the lot?”
“That’s it, Chief. Unless we’re on the wrong lines altogether, one of these is our man. If I were guessing, I should say it lay between Iredale and Cardew, with Jes
sop an interesting newcomer because of his ZYKLON contact, Pringle a runner-up until he establishes his alibi, and Bird and this Art Department fellow as outside chances.”
Haines grunted. “It’s satisfactory as far as it goes, but we’re still a long way from making an arrest.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Ogilvie. “The case is beginning to move—and when ice breaks up, anything can happen.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Reporters’ Room that afternoon was heavy with pre-holiday lethargy and a charged thundery heat. Haycock was in a telephone box, trying to take down a long-range weather forecast on a pad that stuck to his fingers. Katharine was passing the time by helping Grant with his last thousand postcards. Rogers was studying a road map of the West Country and wishing that he could have had the coming Saturday off as well as the Sunday and Monday. An occasional flicker of facetiousness from his corner stabbed the conversational gloom, but the response was poor. Everyone had been sobered by the attempt on the Editor’s life. Murder in the office no longer seemed a good story; it was becoming too much of a habit. A threat hung over all, none the less disquieting because it was vague.
Presently Golightly came in, his jacket over his arm, his tie wrenched askew to give him air. “Phew, it’s like a Turkish bath in here,” he muttered.
Rogers looked up from his map. “How’s the drought in Hampshire, old boy?” Golightly had been out of town on a story since early morning.
“It’s nothing to the drought in Golightly, I can tell you!” The reporter flung his jacket over a peg with an irritable gesture. His day in the country hadn’t improved his temper. “What a bloody place our garage is! That old Morris wouldn’t be yours, Kate, would it?”
“It would, as a matter of fact,” said Katharine anxiously. “Don’t say it’s in the way—I parked it most carefully.”
“It’s taking up a damn lot of room,” he grumbled. “It’s been there for three days to my knowledge.”
“It needs a new battery,” said Katharine. “I’m getting one to-morrow.”
Golightly grunted. “I should hang on to the old battery and just let the car go!”
“Katharine isn’t the worst offender,” said Grant, feeling under a moral obligation to come to her support. “Cardew keeps his car there the whole time.”
“Oh, him!” said Golightly. “He’s one of the over-privileged.” He cast a jaundiced eye over the diminished heap of postcards. “I hear they’re thinking of running another competition!”
“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Katharine to Grant. “He’s just a troublemaker.”
“Quiet, children!” said Rogers.
The News Room door swung open and a boy came in with the peculiar slouch of adolescence, bearing a sheet of paper which he pinned to the notice board. Golightly strolled over with a bored air, gave it a casual glance, and then suddenly bent to read it. “I say,” he cried, “take a look at this, all of you!”
Rogers quickly joined him and the others crowded round. The notice, signed by Jackson, read: “A seven-pound tin of cyanide crystals, with a German label and the name ZYKLON in red capitals, was brought to this office in 1944. Its subsequent history cannot be traced. Anyone who has any knowledge of what happened to it is asked to report to me at once. Meanwhile, all members of the staff are warned to be on their guard when eating or drinking with their colleagues or when in proximity to basins, sinks, etc.” The notice ended hopefully, “It is requested that no mention shall be made of this matter outside the office.”
There was a moment of thunderstruck silence while the notice was digested. Then Rogers exclaimed, “Well, what do you know!”
“I like the ‘etc.’,” said Golightly. “Very prim.” Haycock turned from the board in disgust and went back to his seat. “I don’t know what this place is coming to,” he muttered. “Now we have to watch our colleagues! It’s getting as bad as a police state.”
The others were still grouped round the notice when Pringle came in, closely followed by a waitress bearing a large strawberry ice and a packet of charcoal biscuits. “What’s going on, eh?” he asked. Katharine silently made way for him and he read the notice, moving his lips like a child learning its letters. “You see!” he said, triumphantly, looking at Golightly. “What did I tell you?”
Rogers was sniffing the ice-cream. “I shouldn’t touch this, old man, if I were you. It has a distinct smell of bitter almonds.”
No one laughed. Rogers shrugged and went back to his map. “No sale? All right, be stuffy. Let’s talk of worms and graves and epitaphs.”
“Hell, it’s getting beyond a joke,” said Golightly. “They must be in a flat spin to put a notice like that up. Who brought the stuff into the office, anyway? I wasn’t here in 1944. You ought to know, Katharine—you were around.”
Katharine was pale. “I’ve no idea,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“Bill Iredale brought it” Haycock volunteered, “from a camp in Poland. I remember the story very well.”
“Where is Iredale?” asked Pringle. “I haven’t seen him about to-day. You don’t suppose …?”
“You are a rat, Pringle,” said Rogers. “Why don’t you shut up?”
“I was only thinking …”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Golightly exclaimed, and slammed his typewriter open. For a few moments there was an oppressive silence, and then, to everyone’s relief, Soames came in from the News Room. “Katharine,” he called, beckoning her, “there’s a story here that’s just up your street.” She gathered up her belongings with alacrity and followed him out.
“I wish someone would send me out on a story,” sighed Grant, mechanically turning over his postcards. “It’s a good thing we’ve got the weekend ahead—perhaps that stuff will have turned up by Tuesday and then we’ll be able to breathe again.”
“It may turn up to-night,” said Pringle darkly, “and then we’ll never breathe again.” He looked round, inviting appreciation of his humour. A copy of Whitaker’s Almanack landed with a crash on his desk, spattering him with strawberry ice-cream. “Now will you shut up?” said Golightly.
The door opened and Jessop looked in. He had just come on duty, and was anxious for news. Ever since last night, things had been going wrong—it was almost as though Providence had deserted him. In the first place, it seemed that Nicholas Ede was going to recover, so all that effort had been wasted. Then Ogilvie had rung him up at home that morning and asked him a lot of questions about the night before last. It was just as though the police knew all about the laying of the cyanide—as though someone had spied on him, and told them. And that wasn’t all—not by any means. He had had a stroke of very bad luck. He had overlooked something important, and got caught up in a dangerous lie. He had discovered his mistake last night when he had gone off duty, and there had been no way of putting it right. It wasn’t very likely that the police would find out about it, and in a day or two it would be forgotten. In the meantime, though, it was worrying.
He put his dispatch case on one of the desks and said, “Anything doing?”
“Hallo, Edgar,” said Rogers. “Seen the notice?”
“No.” Jessop went over to the board. He stiffened as his eye caught the word ZYKLON, and suddenly he felt that everyone must be staring at his back. He read the notice through twice.
“You ought to remember what happened to that stuff, Jessop,” said Haycock. “Wasn’t it taken to the Foreign Room in the end?”
Jessop fought to control his agitation. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. It had never occurred to him that anyone would remember the ZYKLON after all this time. Why, he’d even forgotten it himself, until a few days ago. Now people would begin to search their memories, as the notice invited them to do—as Haycock was already doing. Someone might recall that he had been the last person to handle it. Cardew would almost certainly remember that. In a flash, he saw that there was only one thing to do if suspicion weren’t to fall on him. He must get his blow in firs
t. He looked across at Haycock. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I think I do remember what happened to it!”
“You do!” exclaimed Golightly.
“What?” asked Pringle.
“Don’t tell him,” said Golightly quickly. “But for Heaven’s sake go and find Jackson before we’re all bumped off.”
“I suppose I’d better,” said Jessop slowly. He was moving towards the door when Soames looked in again. “Oh, there you are, Ed! Inspector Haines is asking for you. He’s down in his office.”
“Telepathy!” said Rogers. He held out his cigarette case. “Anyone like a pinch of cyanide?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jessop went slowly downstairs, his face as expressionless as a sleepwalker’s, his mind on fire. The summons was ominous. Perhaps the police had already discovered his mistake. Perhaps Cardew had already seen them about the ZYKLON. Whatever it was, his defences had begun to crumble. His enemies were closing in on him. With almost no warning, he was called upon to face a crisis.
Well, if they thought he was done for, they were mistaken. They couldn’t prove anything. To-night he would hide the ZYKLON. In the meantime, he would do anything he could to confuse the police. He was more ingenious than they were, and with luck he still had the initiative. He would conduct this interview skilfully, and pluck safety from danger. He would fight back with all he had. His fingers tightened on the tin in his pocket and once again it gave him assurance. He knocked boldly at the inspector’s door and went in. Haines and Ogilvie were both there.
Haines scrutinised his visitor with much more interest than on the previous occasion. Jessop had been one of a crowd then—now he was one of a handful, one of three or four. An innocent-seeming little man, and almost a blank page as far as Haines was concerned. There was no evidence against him whatsoever—and yet he was under suspicion. The machine had ground slowly, but it had ground small.
Jessop didn’t wait for the inspector to question him. “I was on my way to have a word with Mr. Jackson about that notice he’s put up,” he said. “I’ve only just seen it.”