Death of a Frightened Editor

by E.

  The man made no answer. Doctor Manson pushed a letter towards him. “Would that be the reason?” he asked.

  The man slumped back in his seat so violently that the chair toppled over backwards. Kenway caught it, and restored its balance. Starmer called out—it was almost a scream. Manson waited for him to regain some semblance of self-control. Then:

  “This letter was held by Mortensen,” he said. “He had been blackmailing you for years. It has come into the hands of the woman you knew as Jenkinson, who has followed the example of Mortensen.

  “You have told me on no fewer than three occasions that you knew nothing of Mortensen outside the confines of the Pullman car. You made that statement despite the fact that you were aware the question was a police inquiry concerned with his death.”

  The Doctor glanced at the shorthand-writer, and then back to Starmer, who was watching him as though fascinated by his glance.

  “We have been searching for someone who had a sufficient motive for murdering Mortensen,” he said very deliberately.

  “Murdering . . . Mortensen was murdered, did you say?” His voice rose as in a scale. At the end he really did scream.

  “Do you think I murdered him? Is that why I’m here? Do you?”

  “I am not sure,” Manson said. “If I were, you would not leave this room, except in custody. As it is, you can go. But I want your passport.”

  He looked at the man, now slumped in his chair.

  “Better send him home in a car,” he said to Kenway.

  23

  “One of you murdered Mortensen!”

  Doctor Manson made his uncompromising accusation to the seven people facing him and other executives of the Yard.

  And he stared hard at them, his glance roving slowly from face to face.

  It is one of the misfortunes of the majority of ordinary people, that though they may deny, emphatically, with their voice, and carry conviction, a trained observer can see in the face the evasion, the lie or the truth. Some there are who, from long training, can control superbly their feelings, and give away nothing: to them is applied the description ‘poker-face’. But even so, the dead-pan expression with which they hear and answer is, of itself, a warning of their wariness: a man or a woman with nothing to conceal will, with perfect naturalness, show interest, query, concern or unconcern in the fleeting forms of expression which chase each other in the eyes and the pitch of the countenance; he, in fact, talks with his face equally with his lips. Thus, Doctor Manson had arranged the seven in a position which would allow no shadows to conceal any tell-tale reaction on their faces.

  The gathering had been arranged after a long discussion with the Assistant Commissioner. Made acquainted with the latest developments, including the arrest of Mary Ross, Sir Edward had viewed with some doubt the Doctor’s proposal to confront all seven together, with a charge of withholding vital information.

  “I don’t like it. It is all against the standard of police conduct. Why not challenge each one separately?”

  Doctor Manson snorted. “I have done so,” he protested. “Not once, but on three occasions. The result has got me nowhere. NO, I must employ shock tactics.” He got his way. So now he confronted the seven.

  “I will tell you now that we have known since the night of Mortensen’s death, that he did not commit suicide.”

  “Mortensen was murdered. And I repeat one of you killed him.”

  The repetition produced a more pronounced, and more varied reaction. Betterton jumped to his feet. Starmer, who from his earlier visits to the Yard, already knew that murder was in the minds of the Yard, slumped in his chair. Sam Mackie glared; and so did Phillips. A gasp came from Mrs. Harrison. Edgar sat quite still; he looked horror-struck. Crispin, the journalist, showed no sign other than as an interested spectator of a drama which might make his paper good ‘copy’ at some later stage.

  “Which of you?” Manson went on.

  Are you accusing me?” the surgeon demanded.

  “Are you confessing?” Manson retorted. To Betterton’s further protest he said, brusquely, “If you are not, sit down and listen.” The fuming surgeon sat.

  “I have not minced my words so far,” Manson said, unnecessarily. “I am not going to mince them now.”

  “When I interviewed you all in the Pullman car that night I asked each of you a certain question. Subsequently, on two occasions I put the same question to you all, separately. You have all showed yourselves to be liars—with one exception.”

  “Betterton was the first to begin the lying. Liars require good memories; Betterton has not that aptitude.”

  He eyed the man’s rising phlegm, and addressed him directly. “Three times I have asked you ‘did you know Mortensen?’. Three times you answered that, outside the nightly Pullman journey, you knew nothing at all of him, and had no acquaintance with him. You had forgotten one thing you said earlier—that nobody could see Mortensen at his office after four o’clock in the afternoon. You knew because you had been there—on more than one occasion. You went there to pay him blackmail.”

  The Doctor paused. He let his eyes rest for a moment on each of the other six. Momentary amusement flickered in his eyes as he noted the look of stunned surprise that dawned on their faces, and the efforts each made to overcome it. Wondering if I know about them, he thought to himself.

  “That disposes of Betterton,” he went on. “But not of the remainder of you. You have all equally lied, with the exception of Crispin, who admitted to a personal and social knowledge of Mortensen.”

  “We have discovered that one and all of you knew Mortensen. We know the circumstances in which each of you came to know him; we are aware of the reasons why you made blackmail payments to him. We have, in fact, all the evidence in black and white.

  “Murder requires a motive. Sometimes that motive reaches a stage where foolish people are concerned—and you are foolish people—when it can no longer be held in check. Then, murder follows. That happened in the case of Mortensen.”

  “Now we will see if we can get some truth out of you, for a change. If I don’t get it willingly, or if I find any of you withholding vital information again, I’ll put him in the dock on a charge of obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.”

  He looked at Betterton. “Were you at any time that night in proximity to Mortensen?”

  Betterton shook his head. “I was not near the man at any time,” he said. “I sat, as you will remember, at the other end of the car.”

  Manson picked up the dossier again. “I want to be quite fair to you,” he announced. “Your memory may be disturbed by this questioning. When I asked you in the car if you had shared in the ‘free-for-all’ Bismuth bottle you replied ‘As a matter of fact I did, I think it was the only time I had indulged. But I had sardines on toast, and you know what that does to you.’ You must, of course, have gone to Mortensen’s table to take the tablets.”

  “I’m sorry,” Betterton apologised. “I had forgotten. I did have two tablets. I took them on my way from the lavatory. I had, of course, to pass his table on the way there and back. I did not leave my seat again.”

  “Mr. Starmer?”

  The banker looked up, and swallowed nervously. “Yes,” he admitted. “I had one. Nothing unusual in that. I generally did.”

  “And you, Mrs. Harrison?”

  “I had a tablet. But I didn’t take it. It was brought to me.”

  “And you did not visit Mr. Mortensen?”

  “I never left my seat until after it happened.”

  “I had a tablet. I fetched it,” Phillips volunteered. “So I went to Mortensen’s table.”

  Edgar wiped his brow. “I sat with him,” he said. “And that puts me in a very unpleasant position. I had tablets.”

  “What about you, Mr. Mackie?”

  The bookmaker was perspiring profusely. He wiped his face with his hand.

  “No.”

  “That leaves only Mr. Crispin,” Manson pointed out. The journ
alist shook his head.

  “Not me,” he said. “I never eat on the train, so don’t need ’em. I have an ulcer, and have to diet.”

  “Then let us see if we can go a little further. I want you to cast your minds back to the time you took the tablets. In what state was Mortensen’s bottle—in the way of contents, I mean?”

  The question brought a variety of answers. Betterton and Phillips’s recollection was that the bottle would be about half full. Mackie put the contents at something like two thirds full. Crispin passed the kitty, so to speak. He said that he had had no interest in the contents, and hadn’t looked at the bottle. Starmer, his head on one side, and looking more than ever like a red robin, put the bottle half full. Mrs. Harrison said that she couldn’t see the bottle from where she sat. Nobody seemed to recall that the question tended to the unnecessary, since the police themselves had the bottle in their possession, and could easily satisfy themselves on its state without any trouble.

  Manson turned to another subject. “As I remember your positions in the car,” he said. “Betterton, Mrs. Harrison, Crispin and Edgar were in the seats which would be facing in the direction of Mortensen. Did either of you notice whether he partook of anything up to the time he left the car—I mean apart from his meal?”

  There was a general shaking of heads.

  “Did anyone for instance offer him a cigarette?”

  “He wouldn’t have taken it if we had,” said Crispin. “He smoked only Sullivans—we can’t afford them.”

  “Or offer him anything else—chocolate, peppermints, and so on?”

  There was silence for a moment. Phillips broke it. “You have told us,” he said, “that you know certain circumstances concerning each of us, except Crispin here. Do you think, therefore, that any of us except he would be likely to offer Mortensen anything in the nature of a gratuitous gift?”

  “I rather object to the way that was said,” Crispin protested. “Are you suggesting that I offered him something?”

  “No, no! I merely meant that, if we have interpreted Doctor Manson’s remarks correctly you were not in the same circumstances that we were.”

  “I would like an admission or denial of any offers,” Manson reminded them. Denials were forthcoming, except from Edgar. “I gave him a whisky, Doctor,” he said. “I told you about that.” Manson confirmed the admission.

  “Well, you have all been of some assistance to our investigations,” said Manson, with a slight emphasis. He looked again at them. “I think that is all for the moment. But if any of you thinks of anything after this meeting, and cares to pass on the information, I shall welcome it.”

  Starmer broke the silence. He was hopping from one foot to the other, and with his red waistcoat looked, thought Manson, like a robin that had lost its eggs. He voiced the question which was uppermost in the minds of six of them:

  “About the . . . the . . . t-things you have intimated, Doctor,” he began. “What . . . er . . .”

  “You need worry no further about it, Mr. Starmer. The . . . er . . . information is safe with us. It will be returned to you when we have disposed of this case.” There was a pause, pregnant with drama.

  “Or, rather, to all of you except one. The possession of it will not matter to that person.”

  The seven filed out. They left almost as strangers. Each was careful to avoid looking at the others, and none evinced any desire to enter into any conversation.

  Manson noted the fact with lively interest. It will be an uncomfortable journey home in the Pullman tonight, he thought, if indeed, they travel Pullman at all.

  (He was right! The Pullman first-class car lacked all its regulars that evening, and the steward had to remove the papers, etc., with which he had, as usual, reserved the seats. The mass desertion of that night never ceased to puzzle him.)

  With the room empty, except for the officers, the A.C. waited for Doctor Manson’s reaction to the meeting. He had suffered anxious moments during the questioning at his executive’s blunt accusations; and had wondered what would be: the attitude of the Law Officers of the Crown if they got to know of them. “Did you do any good?” he queried.

  “Oh, I think so. Both directly and indirectly. I expect that some one anxious to get himself in the clear., will be coming to us before long with something he saw, or remembered, or thinks he remembered, but which he didn’t like to come out with at the meeting in case the others held it against him. Each of them is being watched from now on, particularly in Brighton. Where they go, whom they see, and so on.”

  “But the actual results from the questioning?”

  “Well, A.C., if it was the tablets that were concerned, we’ve eliminated two of the crowd,” Merry pointed out. “Harrison and Crispin did not have any and were not near Mortensen at any time.”

  “It was the tablets?” the A.C. asked.

  “Well—it couldn’t have been the meal or the drink, because too much time elapsed between consumption and the attack. So far as I can see only the tablets are left. But how—” His voice ceased.

  Superintendent Jones had contributed nothing to the conversation. He had not, indeed, spoken at all, a fact which intrigued Merry and Kenway. It was not like him, not like him at all. He sat in his chair, quite still; his demeanour was that of a man bowed down with some heavy burden. Jones was, in fact, engaged in deep thought. Suddenly, he woke up.

  “Let’s have it, Old Fat Man!” Manson said.

  “Church haze la femmee,” he said, and stalked out of the room.

  The A.C. stared after him. “What was it he said?” he asked.

  Manson chuckled. “He was, I gather, addressing us in French,” he said. “I think he meant cherchez la femme—”

  A sergeant looked in from the door and crossed to Manson. “A Mr. Edgar would like to have a word with you, Doctor,” he intimated.

  “Take him up to my room in about ten minutes, Sergeant.” He laughed. “See what I meant, A.C.? Like to come along?”

  Edgar came in, or rather he slipped in. He was in a highly nervous state. He fumbled with his hat, dropped it, picked it up and put it on the table, took it off again, and finally sat holding it on his knees.

  “It’s about the Bismuth bottle. Doctor,” he said, after Manson had invited his confidence under the seal of secrecy; “I’m almost sure the others are mistaken about the contents.”

  “In what way, Mr. Edgar?”

  “W . . . well, I . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . like to contradict them because I haven’t any p . . . proof, really, and it w . . . would . . . look like accusing somebody. You see, it’s only what I seem to remember. But I was s . . . sitting opposite to Mortensen, as you know, and I . . . I . . . c . . . could be the . . . f . . . first do you know what I mean,” he ended desperately. “I . . . I’ve g . . . got to clear myself.”

  “What about the bottle?” Manson encouraged.

  “I didn’t say anything when you asked about the number of tablets—”

  “I had noted the fact,” Manson said, grimly.

  “Well. I don’t think it was half or three-quarters full. In fact, I think it was practically empty.”

  Manson exchanged a glance with the A.C. “What makes you say so?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you. I had had rather a big lunch that day, and a very late one. I really ought not to eat pork. Well, Mortensen had just finished his meal when I came on the train, and I was going to have a tablet from his bottle. He wasn’t there, but the steward was just putting his cup of coffee on the table. Mortensen always had his tablets with the coffee—to wash them down. I was just going to tip out a tablet for myself. But there were so few there that I didn’t like to. I knew Mortensen wanted them.”

  “So few there?” Manson echoed the words. “Then how many tablets did he take after his meal?”

  “Always two, Doctor. So I—”

  “Two? Do you mean that there were only two tablets in the bottle?”

  “I t . . . t . . . think so . . . so,” he said.
“I mean, if there had been more I should have taken one.”

  Doctor Manson stared hard at his visitor. The man, he decided, appeared to be genuinely worried over the discrepancy. “But, Mr. Edgar,” he said, “you heard three of your fellow travellers say they each took tablets that evening, and—”

  “I know. That’s what I don’t understand. Later on, I saw the bottle on the table and there were a lot of tablets in it. In fact I took two myself, then.”

  “How long would that be after your first refusal to take some?”

  “Oh, a good time. After the others had had their refreshment.”

  “Did Mr. Mortensen have any more?”

  “No. That is, I don’t think so. I didn’t see him take any more, and he only had two as a rule.”

  Manson went across the room to the Laboratory. He returned with the bottle of Bismuth tablets confiscated from the Pullman’s table. He laid it on the table. It was a little less than half full.

  “That is the bottle we took away,” he said. “You see the contents?”

  Edgar nodded. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” he said. “Not unless I’m imagining things.” He looked a little bewildered.

  Doctor Manson ushered him into the care of a constable to see him to the street. “Don’t force yourself to think about it,” he said. “But if you can recall any other details let me know.”

  “Properly got the wind up, hasn’t he?” the A.C. commented. “It’s working out as you expected. However, the thing seems easy of explanation.”

  “How come?”

  “I suppose Mortensen took the last two tablets in the bottle that Edgar saw, and then brought out a new bottle for the free-for-all, and for himself, if he needed any more. He would have bought a new bottle seeing that his stock was running out. He was a bismuth addict—a daily one.”

  The Doctor pointed to the bottle still on the table. “At the outside, six tablets were taken from the bottle during the journey, Edward,” he said. “Eight, if we allow Mortensen another couple. Yet it shows more than half the contents gone.