A Press of Suspects

by Andrew Garve

  Fifteen minutes later they drew up outside the Morning Call office. Cardew led the way in, avoiding the commissionaire’s eye. The sergeant was close beside him; the constable carried the cyanide. They went up in the lift to the second floor and along to Haines’s office. Haines was sitting at his desk, waiting. Ogilvie was standing with his back to the window, waiting. Sergeant Miles was beside him. They all looked as though they had gathered for the final curtain.

  “Well!” said Haines, getting up and advancing across the carpet. “Here we are again, eh, Mr. Cardew?” He surveyed the dirty, dishevelled figure in front of him. “A little the worse for wear, too! I thought I told you not to leave the office without permission.”

  “I can explain everything …” began Cardew.

  “Just a minute.” Haines went to the table on which the constable had placed the tin of ZYKLON and prised off the lid. He looked at the grey crystals almost lovingly for a moment, and then slammed the lid back.

  “All right, Mr. Cardew, let’s hear what you have to say.”

  “I knew the cyanide was at Jessop’s house,” Cardew burst out. “I told you it was, but you wouldn’t believe me. As you wouldn’t make a search, I had to. I found it in the garden shed.”

  Haines nodded slowly. “Very pretty,” he said, “very clever. So you found it in Jessop’s shed.” With a change of tone that electrified Cardew he rapped out, “How do I know you did?”

  Cardew gasped. “Now what are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that you picked up the cyanide from wherever you’d hidden it and that you took it to Jessop’s house and ransacked the place to make it appear that you’d found it there.”

  “It’s a damned lie!” Cardew cried. He was almost weeping with rage and frustration. “I found it in his shed.”

  “Why did you ring up and tell me that some of the stuff was in Iredale’s pocket? What was the idea?”

  Cardew ran his hands through his tangled hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said frantically.

  It was Haines’s turn to look bewildered. “Mr. Cardew, did you or did you not ring me up a couple of hours ago and tell me that Iredale was the murderer and that he had the cyanide in his pocket?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Cardew shouted. He was near breaking point. “Iredale has nothing to do with this. I tell you Jessop’s the murderer. I didn’t ring anybody. Why the devil should I say it was Iredale when I knew damn well it was Jessop? And would I have been planting this stuff in Jessop’s house and accusing Iredale at the same time? You can’t have it both ways.”

  “I answered the telephone myself,” said Haines slowly. “It was your voice.”

  “It was not my voice, I tell you. Do you think I don’t know whether I spoke to you or not? It must have been someone else …” He suddenly broke off as light flooded in. “It must have been Jessop. Yes, of course it was Jessop. He can mimic anybody.”

  “And why should Jessop pretend to be you, and tell me that Iredale was the murderer when he’d already told me that you were the man who took the cyanide from the office in the first place?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cardew, “I just don’t know.”

  “This case is going to drive us all crazy,” said Haines in disgust. He stood in momentary reflection. “Well, Mr. Cardew, you’ve given us a hell of a lot of trouble, but as far as you’re concerned this is the end. You won’t get up to any more mischief. You’re under arrest.” Turning to the sergeant who had brought Cardew he said, “You can take him away, officer.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant looked puzzled. “What exactly is the charge, sir?”

  “Housebreaking,” said Haines.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Inspector dealt swiftly with the new situation. The tin of cyanide was sent off to the Yard for fingerprinting and laboratory tests. Ogilvie was dispatched to Beckenham to see if he could get any confirmation of Cardew’s story on the spot. Sergeant Miles was instructed to attach himself at once to Jessop and keep him under continuous observation until the inspector called for him. With this precaution taken, Haines relaxed. He felt immeasurably relieved. Whatever the final solution turned out to be, there should be no more deaths now. For the first time since he had been called in, he could reflect on the case free from the constant dread that the murderer might be a step ahead of him, and that he might at any moment find another body on his hands.

  Cardew or Jessop—that was what it boiled down to now. If Cardew had really found the cyanide concealed in Jessop’s shed, then Jessop was obviously the murderer. If Cardew had only pretended to find it there, then Cardew was obviously the murderer. Pringle was out, and Iredale was out, and endless other speculations were cut short by simple logic. Cardew or Jessop. So far, so good. But which?

  Once again Haines mentally reviewed the evidence against Cardew. Access to the cyanide in the first place. Jessop’s assertion that Cardew had taken it away with him. No alibi for the time the poison was placed in the shower room. A classic motive—desire for another man’s wife. Guilty behaviour—an attempt to cast suspicion on someone else. There were loose ends in plenty, but as far as the attempt on Ede was concerned, there was undoubtedly a strong case. And Ogilvie might find a clinching piece of evidence. If some independent witness could say definitely that Cardew had been carrying a large parcel when he entered Jessop’s premises—the neighbour who had telephoned, for instance, or a postman, or a passer-by—that would settle it. Or, of course, that he had not been carrying anything—that would settle it, too. In the absence of such evidence, it was going to be very difficult to reach a decision about Cardew. The worst complication in his case was the death of Hind. That was still completely unexplained.

  What of Jessop? Haines felt on even less secure ground where he was concerned. Almost the only evidence against him came from Cardew, and for the moment that couldn’t be accepted without reservations. Jessop would obviously have to be questioned again very closely. Otherwise, what was there? No alibi for the murder of Hind, no alibi for the attempted murder of Ede. Nothing could be more negative than that. There was barely a trace of motive. There certainly wasn’t enough evidence to justify Jessop’s arrest. He was residual, that was all—one of the two suspects left over after all the sifting. A prosecution based on that alone would have no chance in court.

  Some of Cardew’s accusations against Jessop seemed pretty wild. There was the episode of the telephone call, for instance. It might have been Jessop—the telephone always distorted voices, and Cardew’s public school accent was an easy one to imitate. Haines wasn’t prepared to commit himself about it. But what on earth was Jessop supposed to have against Iredale, that he should have made such a call? It was Jessop, after all, who had delayed Iredale on the ocasion of that fatal lunch, and perhaps saved his life as a result. He’d hardly have done that if he’d had such a grudge against Iredale that later he was prepared to frame him for murder. It didn’t make sense.

  Of course, if the murderer were crazy, perhaps it made sense in some crazy way. Jessop showed no outward signs of unbalance, but that meant nothing. Haines remembered a woman he’d had to question at a mental hospital a few weeks earlier—a white-haired old lady, the respected wife of a clergyman, sweet as lavender and very gentle. She’d been so lucid and intelligent that after a quarter of an hour’s conversation with her he’d begun seriously to wonder whether she ought to be there at all. And then, at the end, the startling request—would he stop the Medical Super-intendent coming into her room at night and trying to rape her? Paranoia, they’d called it.

  Haines shook his head unhappily. He was a bit out of his depth with that sort of stuff. He had learned enough in a lifetime of police work to know that you couldn’t hope to be a good detective unless you were prepared to probe people’s minds, but insanity was something different. Better to concentrate on solid evidence and sound deduction, and leave it to the psychiatrists to find an explanation afterwards.

  Where, h
e wondered, was Jessop at the time when the telephone call had been made? Haines was so deep in his reflections that he scarcely heard hurried footsteps in the corridor. Suddenly Sergeant Miles burst into the room, looking very worried. “I’m sorry, sir—Jessop seems to have given us the slip. He’s not in the building.”

  “Hell and damnation!” cried Haines. So his relief had been premature! Jessop might be the murderer and in that case he might still have some cyanide, and if he thought the net was closing in on him he would be desperate. There was nothing he mightn’t attempt. “We’ve got to find him, Sergeant—and quickly. Doesn’t anyone know where he’s gone?”

  “Apparently not, sir. He left his room about half an hour ago without saying where he was off to.”

  “Is his car in the garage?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I thought I’d better report to you first.”

  “Okay, let’s have a look.”

  They rushed downstairs, and once again Haines tackled Peach. “Do you know which is Mr. Jessop’s car, Sarge?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, sir. It’s the green Austin. I think it’s still there—it was earlier on. I’ll show you, if you like. Boy, look after the box.” He led the way through the garage. “Yes, that’s the one,” he said, pointing. “That one over there’s Miss Camden’s, the one what me and Mr. Cardew ’ad to push. Proper old crock, it is. They didn’t ought to allow cars to be left ’ere the way they do, if you ask me. Three days it’s been there, to my knowledge, cluttering up the place, and Mr. Cardew ’ardly ever takes ’is out, ’cept for weekends.”

  Haines was turning away, his mind eased. “If Jessop hasn’t taken his car,” he said to Miles, “I don’t suppose he’s far away. We’d better find out what his haunts are.” He began to move towards the door, then suddenly stopped abruptly. “What was that you said, Sarge?”

  “About what, sir?”

  “About cars being left here?”

  Peach looked surprised. “I only said Miss Camden’s car’s been stuck ’ ere three days, and Mr. Cardew’s don’t often go out.”

  “Do you know when it last went out?”

  “It come in Monday morning and I’m pretty sure it ain’t been out since—not till to-day, o’ course.”

  Haines was conscious of a surge of excitement. He stood still and looked all round the garage. The floor sloped down from street level. Jessop’s car was parked parallel to the wall at the bottom of the slope, with its rear wheels almost touching Katharine Camden’s Morris. Ahead of it there was a space, just large enough to hold one car lengthways.

  He found a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Look, Sarge,” he said eagerly, “I want to know just how the three cars looked when you and Mr. Cardew were here. Do me a sketch, will you?”

  “Okay, sir.” Peach began to draw. “I ain’t exactly an artist, you know,” he said, licking the end of his pencil and standing back to survey his work. “Still, that’s about it.” He handed over the sketch. “We ’ad to push out Miss Camden’s, shift Mr. Jessop’s along, get Mr. Cardew’s out, shove Mr. Jessop’s back where it was before, and then let Miss Camden’s run back into its old place.”

  Haines studied the diagram. “Well, just tell me this, Sarge. If Mr. Cardew’s car has been here since Monday, and Miss Camden’s has been here three days, and it took two of you to push Miss Camden’s car out of the way before you could release Mr. Cardew’s, how do you suppose Mr. Jessop got his car out the night before last?”

  Peach scratched his head. “I don’t reckon ’e could—not without ’e got someone to ’elp ’im. ’E couldn’t ’ave done it ’ imself. Miss Camden’s car ain’t exactly ’eavy, but it’s a blinking steep slope, and don’t I know it!”

  Haines’s thoughts went back to his talk with Jessop earlier that day. He had pressed Jessop to produce some evidence that he had actually gone home on the crucial night. If someone had helped him to push Katharine Camden’s car out of the way, he’d certainly have mentioned the fact to strengthen his alibi. He had lied. He hadn’t gone home by car. He hadn’t gone home at all!

  The inspector turned to Miles. “We’ve got to get Jessop! By God, if I’ve left this too late, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Katharine was sitting on a stool near the wide-open door of the Green Man in Covent Garden—the third and, it would appear, the last pub they would visit that night, for closing time was at hand—listening with amused interest to the professional reminiscences of the two men and occasionally prompting them to fresh efforts. After a couple of hours of “shop” talk she could better understand the nature of the bond between Iredale and Jessop. They were like old campaigners recalling battles jointly fought, or ship-wrecked sailors who had survived a common ordeal in an open boat. There wasn’t any special affinity, but their sense of comradeship was secure. So, at least, it now appeared to Katharine. In the light of their friendly exchanges her earlier fears seemed absurd, and she felt rather sorry that she had deliberately skipped several rounds in the interests of mental clarity. She might just as well have relaxed, for there was evidently nothing for her to be vigilant about.

  A few drinks had made Jessop more voluble than usual, but up to now he had been neither self-revelatory nor aggressive. His pressing sense of persecution had been eased by the lance of action. In a glow of good fellowship, he had temporarily forgotten his grievances against the world. He had even forgotten that his original purpose in accompanying Iredale had been to revel in the man’s discomfiture. For the moment—though the old bitterness might flare up at a word—Iredale was his friend again. Katharine, too, was acceptable. As Jessop talked he looked at her repeatedly for appreciation and approval, and from her expression he judged he was getting it. That warmed him. From time to time his fingers touched the tin in his jacket pocket, but without menace or intention.

  Iredale, too, was in a much more tranquil frame of mind. Alcohol and pleasant conversation had dispersed his cares. It had been a good idea, this pub crawl a’/ trois. Three were better than two when there was tension in the air—less effort was called for. Jessop’s presence gave him a chance to study Katharine’s profile for long moments without risk of embarrassment. Somehow he felt nearer to her with Jessop there than he had when they had been alone together.

  The talk had traversed the world, lingering at the points of laughter. Iredale had been recalling some of his Russian experiences and was telling a story about an American air base in the Ukraine that he had visited during the war. “It was guarded by Russian sentries,” he said, “simple peasant types but very much on their mettle and highly disciplined. Some of the G.I.s told them that the correct thing to do when an American officer went by was to spring smartly to attention and say, ‘Hiya, bud!’ And they did. It was damn funny while it lasted.”

  Jessop grinned and ordered a last round. Katharine said, “You two make me feel like one of those starry-eyed boys in the picture, listening to Sir Walter Raleigh talking about the undiscovered lands.”

  “Oh, I’m a stay-at-home, too,” said Jessop. “But in my day it wasn’t necessary to go abroad for excitement. Home reporting gave me all the thrills I needed Of course, reporting was a very different sort of job fifteen years ago, eh, Bill?”

  Iredale took a reminiscent sip of whisky. “It certainly was,” he said.

  “I don’t find it exactly dull now,” said Katharine.

  “That’s because you’ve never known the real thing,” Jessop told her condescendingly. “There’s no space to print anything these days, and anyway all the news is streamlined and organised. Most of your stuff’s handed to you on a plate. The readers are blasé, too—they simply don’t get the kick out of good home stories that they used to do.”

  “It may only be nostalgia,” said Iredale, “but there seemed to be far more really good stories in those days. Do you remember that fire at Wapping, Ed?—the rubber blaze. Now that was really something. It burned for more than a week, and we covered it in relays. The pla
ce was knee-deep in liquid rubber and water from the hoses. It’s the only time I ever charged up thigh-boots on my expenses. Then there was the night the Crystal Palace burned down. What a story!” He smiled at Katharine. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen what we’d call a real fire.”

  “I do happen to have seen practically the whole of London burning,” she protested.

  Jessop frowned. “That was wartime. Wars have ruined the newspaper business—they’ve made everything else seem flat.” He shied away from the subject. “You know, Bill, one of the stories that made the biggest impression on me was a Mosley riot in the East End. I remember as if it were yesterday. There was a short street with half a dozen mounted police lined up at one end. In the street there was a seething mass of men, women and kids—Fascists and anti-Fascists and people who’d come to look on and people who lived there, all packed tight. Suddenly the police charged straight into the mass at full gallop, swinging their batons and hitting out wildly. You could hear the skulls cracking—it was brutal. They cut swathes, the murderous swine!”

  “From what I remember of those riots,” said Iredale, “the police couldn’t do much else at that stage.” He glanced mischievously at Katharine. “I suppose old Munro would have clapped his hands and said, ‘Now, children …”’

  “There’s no need to bring that up again,” she said.

  “I still say they were swine,” Jessop persisted. He had become rather flushed. “It was all the same to them whose heads they bashed; they probably enjoyed it. What did they care about the underdog? What does anyone care, for that matter? Look at the way people trample on you at the office.”

  “Oh, come off it,” said Iredale gently. “You haven’t done so badly, Ed, in spite of all your grousing.”

  “Small thanks to them!” The sudden venom in Jessop’s tone startled Katharine, and her slumbering uneasiness revived. “What encouragement did I ever get? There was always some playboy around to take the plums while I did the dirty work.” He plucked the cigarette end from his lips and ground it angrily under his heel. “That sort of thing should be stopped, and it could be. I’d like to get my hands on the place for a few days, I know that.”