by Andrew Garve
By now, he reflected grimly, everyone would have put two and two together and made five. They’d all have connected him with the ZYKLON, and they’d have pooled their information about his row with Munro, his row with Ede, his row with Hind. They would greet him warily—or, worse still, sympathetically. An unpleasant prospect. Not that he really gave a damn what they thought. At least …
He wondered about Katharine. She didn’t know him very well and he’d given her plenty of cause for suspicion. Hardly a promising start to a beautiful friendship, to get tangled up in a murder case! Why, he’d even said something about breaking Hind’s neck—Katharine wouldn’t have forgotten that. She knew just how mad he’d been with Ede, too. It had been a bad week, he decided—one of those weeks he’d want to forget, for all its pleasant moments. He wished now that he hadn’t made such an exhibition of himself over Sheila Brooks in the pub that night. He must have seemed an uncouth bear. He’d be going away soon, so it didn’t really matter, perhaps, but … What was that idiotic song?—“I’ve got you under my skin.”
He was just wondering whether to drop into the Reporters’ Room and face the music when Jessop came in, obviously excited. “Heard the news, Bill? Cardew’s bolted!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“It’s true.” Jessop went to the tape-machine and tore off the accumulated copy. “The police are after him.” He sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. He could see now that his earlier misgivings had been quite unnecessary. The police were simpletons, and had believed his story. Cardew was finished; he had been scared into flight, and very soon he would be arrested. That would save Jessop trouble. He was conscious once again of an exhilarating sense of power. He strode this office battlefield like a Colossus, and on all sides his enemies were going down. Hind, Ede and now Cardew—and there might be more. In his unstable mind the enemy could change with kaleidoscopic suddenness. He had already ceased to feel animosity towards Ede. It was on Cardew that his present hatred focused. “They expect,” he said, “to catch him before he leaves the country.”
Iredale was staggered. His own anxieties now seemed trifling. “You surely don’t believe that Cardew did it?” he said. “Why, he and Ede thought a lot of each other.”
Jessop sniffed. “You can’t always be sure who your friends are,” he said. “People pretend they’re on your side, and later on you find them out.” He hadn’t forgotten Iredale’s attitude over his opus.
“It’s not a question of being on anyone’s side,” said Iredale in a tone of exasperation. Really, Ed could be very childish sometimes. “Cardew liked Ede—I’ll swear he did.”
“On the surface, yes,” said Jessop. “But what did he really think? Don’t forget what I told you about him and Mrs. Ede.”
“Even if you’re right about that, which I doubt, Cardew wouldn’t have killed Ede. I think the idea’s fantastic.”
“Well, why has he run away?” Jessop was beginning to resent Iredale’s defence of Cardew.
“He’s probably got fed up with all the bloody chatter in the office and gone for a swim. Sensible chap—I wish I’d gone with him.”
A curtain came down over Jessop’s face. “You and Cardew always did get on pretty well, didn’t you?”
Iredale shrugged. “I hardly know the fellow, but I’ve certainly nothing against him. Damn it all, Ed, you’re biased. He stepped in to take the job you wanted and it was bad luck for you, but you really can’t blame him for seizing the opportunity—anybody would have done the same.”
Jessop fiddled with a piece of copy, resentment surging up inside him. “You’ll feel differently,” he said, “when Cardew is hanged for murder.”
Iredale paused in the act of lighting his pipe. “My God, Ed, you do hate him, don’t you?” He puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Anyhow, I’ll wait for the evidence. I’m fed up with flimsy accusations. Why, until he cleared off, people were probably thinking I’d done it. Look at all this ZYKLON business. And I reckon I had a darned sight more motive than he had.”
“Yes, I suppose you had,” said Jessop slowly. He’d been too busy organising the elimination of Cardew to think about Iredale’s position until that moment.
“Well, there you are, then. But I didn’t do it, so why should I believe that Cardew did? My guess is that the murderer is someone who hasn’t come under suspicion at all, and I hope to God Haines soon finds him. This place is getting intolerable.”
Jessop stared at the man who had once been his friend. It began to look as though Iredale were hand in glove with Haines. Iredale obviously didn’t realise that Haines was employed by the forces of evil. He seemed to have dangerous sympathies, dangerous ideas—ideas that must be probed. Jessop said casually, “What do you think about the case, Bill? What do you imagine was the motive?”
“I don’t see how there can be any rational motive,” said Iredale. “The fellow’s obviously a lunatic, chucking cyanide about all over the place. The sooner he’s caught and put out of harm’s way the better.”
“He must have had his reasons,” said Jessop.
“If he thinks he’s got reasons, that proves he’s a lunatic. What sane reason could there be for putting cyanide in olives that any one of five people might have eaten? Damn it all, Ed, if you hadn’t kept me talking that day it might easily have been me instead of Hind. No, he’s crazy, all right, and we shall none of us be safe until he’s locked up.”
Jessop’s hands clenched till the nails pressed into his palms. So he was crazy, was he? Crazy!—when he alone had seen through the stupendous plot that had been woven, when he alone was fighting back against the ruthless men who wanted to destroy him and people like him. If Iredale thought him crazy, Iredale was an enemy too. He was probably in the plot himself. Iredale was ready to humiliate him and torture him and shut him up with lunatics. Yes, and hadn’t Iredale wanted him to go to Malaya, where he’d have been shot and mutilated like Eversley? For the moment, Cardew seemed of secondary importance. As Jessop gazed towards the window where Iredale was standing, he no longer saw the face he knew. Hallucination gripped him. What he saw was diabolical, grotesque and hideous, with eyes that dripped blood. He knew he must destroy it, and gripped the steel spike which stood on his desk.
Before he could rise, the ghastly vision dissolved. He heard Iredale’s voice, coming from far away. “Are you feeling all right, Ed?”
“Yes, I’m all right,” said Jessop, his hand to his head. Iredale’s face looked normal again now, but Jessop knew that it was just a mask. He had been vouchsafed a glimpse into the man’s true nature. He was a traitor, a turncoat, a police stooge. Well, the revelation had come just in time—there was an obvious way of dealing with him. A safer way than physical assault. Jessop got up. “I think I’ll take a turn along the corridor,” he said. “This business is beginning to get me down. Will you keep an eye on the tape, Bill?”
“Sure,” said Iredale good-naturedly.
“I won’t be long. By the way, Jackson’s interested in that Balkan escape story—there may be something coming through now.”
“Okay.” Iredale went into the tape room.
Jessop watched him go, and a crafty smile spread over his features. He had a wonderful plan—a plan that would make things bad for Iredale and worse for Cardew. A plan that would throw the police investigation into chaos. He stopped for a moment by the door, and then went out.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ogilvie had been going from room to room, making further inquiries about the ZYKLON in the hope that independent evidence might bear out either Cardew’s or Jessop’s story. He had had no success, however, and was returning to the second-floor office to make a report when the door opened with a crash and Haines, emerging at speed, almost knocked him down.
“What’s up, Chief?” he asked breathlessly. “Have they got Cardew?”
“No, but he’s not far away.” Haines grasped his arm and plunged with him along the corridor to the stairs. “He’s just been on the phone to me. He say
s Iredale’s the murderer!”
Ogilvie gasped. “Well, I’ll be …”
“He says Iredale keeps the cyanide in a tobacco tin in his jacket pocket. We’ll check first and work it out afterwards.”
“Sounds likely, I must say!” They clattered down the stairs. “Any chance of tracing the call?”
“No,” Haines grunted. “Local—from a box.”
“This is the screwiest case I ever had anything to do with,” said Ogilvie. “What the hell does Cardew think he’s playing at?”
Haines was rushing ahead. As they passed the Reporters’ Room he flung open the door and looked in. No Iredale. Rogers said, “They’ve just taken the body away, Inspector.”
“Let’s try the Foreign Room,” said Haines. Ogilvie was ahead now and threw the door wide as he reached it. Iredale was sitting on the edge of a desk, apparently engrossed in copy. He was alone. Ogilvie shut the door and stood with his back to it.
Iredale slid off the desk and confronted them. He could see that they meant business. “You know,” he said, eyeing each of them in turn, “if this weren’t England I’d say you’d come to beat me up. What is it?” He took a step towards them.
“Stay where you are, Mr. Iredale,” Haines snapped. He had a feeling that someone might do something desperate pretty soon, and without much warning. His glance travelled quickly round the room and came to rest on a tweed sports coat that hung on a peg by the door. “Is this your jacket?”
“It is,” said Iredale. “I wish you’d tell me what this is all about.”
“Any objection if I look in the pockets?”
Iredale shrugged. “Go ahead—help yourself.”
“Watch him,” Haines murmured to Ogilvie. His fingers explored the contours of the two side pockets and an “Ah!” escaped him.
“What exactly do you expect to find?” asked Iredale. “Perhaps I can help you.”
“A tobacco tin, Mr. Iredale,” said Haines. He wrapped a handkerchief round his fingers and felt carefully in the right hand pocket.
“You’ll find one,” said Iredale, frowning. “But I still don’t see …”
Haines drew out a flat, rectangular tin, shook it against his ear, and opened it with a snap. It was full of a strong flake tabacco. He put it back and felt in the other pocket.
“I’m a smoker,” said Iredale, “not an incinerator,” Suddenly he stiffened. He saw that Haines had produced a second tin exactly like the first.
The inspector shot him a quick glance, opened the tin, and sniffed at it cautiously. “Just come over here, Mr. Iredale,” he said, his face expressionless. Ogilvie was teetering on his toes, his hands in front of him, ready for instant action. Haines held out the tin in his handkerchief. “Does that smell remind you of anything?”
Iredale had gone pale under his sunburn. The tin was empty, but there were minute white crystals still adhering to it. He sniffed gingerly, and smelt tobacco and bitter almonds.
“What is this?” he demanded angrily. “A frame-up?”
“You saw me find it there,” said Haines. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” said Iredale. “Nothing at all, except that it might be one of my old tins that somebody else has used. Good God, Inspector, you don’t imagine I’d have left the stuff in my coat pocket if I’d been the murderer?”
“I’m assuming the murderer’s crazy,” said Haines. “He thinks he can get away with anything.”
“Well, I’m not crazy. I wouldn’t think so.”
“How do I know that?”
Iredale felt a spasm of fear. It was bad enough to be suspected of something he knew nothing about, but if they were going to start doubting his sanity too …
He stared at the tin. “Who suggested you should come here and search my coat? Who put you up to this?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Haines, his voice tinged with derision, “it was Mr. Cardew.”
“Cardew!” Iredale was utterly at a loss. “Cardew did that …?” He looked incredulously from one policeman to the other. “But I thought he’d cleared out?”
“He just telephoned me,” Haines told him. “He said that you were the murderer and that I should find the cyanide in your pocket. And I have.”
Iredale’s face was dark. “Well, of all the dirty …!” He broke off, baffled. “It’s too monstrous.”
“And you said you were on such good terms with him,” said Haines. “You remember?—you made quite a point of it.”
“It’s true. I don’t know what’s happened—I’m completely at sea.” Iredale made an effort to think calmly. “How would Cardew know about this tin, anyway?”
“I didn’t have a chance to ask him,” said Haines. “I shall ask him—as soon as I can lay my hands on him. Perhaps it was an inspired guess!”
“Inspired guess, my foot! Look here, Inspector, I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on, but I can tell you I know nothing whatever about this stuff. I haven’t touched any cyanide and I didn’t know the tin was there. I’m sorry to have to say it, but if Cardew knew that tin was in my pocket, he must have put it there himself!”
“Could he have done?”
Iredale looked bewildered. “I suppose he could. I’ve been up on the roof most of the afternoon, and he’s been working here. God, it’s unbelievable!”
Haines frowned. More tit-for-tat! He wrapped the tin carefully in his handkerchief. “Well, you’re all very plausible. We shall have to hope for fingerprints.” A new rhythm was beating in his head. Iredale, Cardew; Cardew, Iredale. Soon he would be driven in sheer desperation to arrest one of them. Perhaps he ought to arrest Iredale now. He stood still, trying to marshal the evidence.
Suddenly the door opened and Sergeant Miles looked in. “Ah, here you are, sir. I’ve got a bit of information that I think you ought to have.”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
Miles bent to the inspector and his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “Pringle’s alibi has fallen down, sir. It seems he checked in at the hotel in Baldock, but he changed his mind and didn’t stay there. He now says that he spent the night at his own home, but as all his family’s on holiday we can’t be certain of that either. Apparently he was trying to save the hotel bill and make a bit extra on his expenses. That’s his explanation, anyway.”
Haines groaned. “That fellow ought to be in a home for inveterates!” He looked dubiously at Iredale for a moment, then turned and left without another word.
Chapter Thirty
Cardew was driving his Riley through the southern suburbs at a speed well in excess of the legal limit. He was in a reckless mood, matching his purpose. No trouble he could get into now, he told himself, could be worse than the mess he was in already. He was in imminent danger of arrest for murder, with a mass of circumstantial evidence against him and no convincing answer to the charge. He could feel the net closing round him—motive, opportunity and means, all were there. Knowledge of innocence only made him more determined to prove it in the only way he could think of. Rosemary’s attitude had been the last straw. He’d had to ring her up, to say how sorry he was about everything and to find out what she was thinking, and though she’d brushed aside as ridiculous the idea that he might have been concerned in the affair, the embarrassment in her voice had not been lost on him. Well, he couldn’t blame her. The last words he had spoken to her during that humiliating scene they had had together came back to him now. “I’m so jealous of him. Why did it have to be him and not me?” And a few hours later, Nicholas had been nearly murdered. What could she be expected to think?
He crouched over the wheel, his young face drawn with the intensity of his emotions. He’d made a mess of things, but he could still struggle out of the mess if only he could prove his innocence. Jessop had done it, of course. Cardew was sure of that. Jessop must have done it, because he’d taken the ZYKLON away, and he couldn’t possibly have forgotten that he’d taken it away, and yet he’d deliberately lied about it and accused Cardew. Th
at added up to guilt. Cardew knew that his own memory hadn’t betrayed him. He could perfectly recall the evening when it had happened. He had a clear picture in his mind of Jessop with the tin under his arm. And Jessop must have taken the stuff to his home, as he’d said he was going to. If he’d done anything else with it, it would hardly have been accessible after all this time. By now, of course, he might have taken fright and found a new hiding-place for the stuff, but it was only to-day that the ZYKLON had been mentioned, and Cardew didn’t see how he could have had an opportunity. In any case, it was worth making the search. Anything was better than waiting to be arrested.
How Jessop must hate him! How he must hate everybody! A man with a chip on his shoulder. No—worse than that. He must be completely cracked, even though he hadn’t shown any obvious signs of it. It was difficult to believe that a man you’d known and worked with for years was a murderer—an insane, indiscriminate slayer. Fantastic when one thought of Jessop’s quiet manner, his unassuming diffidence. But why, otherwise, should he have told that monstrous lie?
As the car approached Beckenham, Cardew’s thoughts became more practical. The first step had been easy—to find Jessop’s home address in the telephone book—but he didn’t know at all how he was going to set about the search. It was broad daylight, and there might be neighbours about. The house would be locked, and he was certain to make some noise getting in. Boldness seemed to offer the best hope. He must march up to the house as though he had a perfect right to be there, as though Jessop had authorised him to be there and to do what he was doing. That was the right mental approach, anyway. People were always slow to interfere if you gave an impression of self-confidence. If he were challenged, he would make up some yarn—anything. It didn’t matter what he said if only he could get his hands on the cyanide, the one proof of Jessop’s guilt that couldn’t be explained away.