Chain Reaction

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  Mobels nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Well, for a start, how long have you been here?’

  ‘I came here nearly fifteen years ago. In those days we were Mayhew’s Quality Foods — and I mean quality. Spigett bought this factory four years ago, when Mayhew got into financial trouble.’

  ‘I thought Spigett started manufacturing baked beans immediately after the war?’

  ‘He did. But he had a much smaller factory then. Somewhere in Kent, I believe. Anyway, when he bought out poor old Mayhew he sold his other one.’

  ‘I see. Cigarette, anybody?’ They lit up. Gatt continued: ‘Is the factory still run on the same lines as it used to be?’

  Mobels and Richards exchanged glances. ‘I don’t think Mr Spigett would love us very much if I answered that question truthfully,’ said Mobels.

  ‘But I gather you don’t exactly love him?’

  ‘He fills my pay packet.’

  ‘Look,’ said Gatt. ‘I didn’t come down here this morning merely because I am fascinated by canning factories. You know that, though, don’t you?’

  ‘I gather that there is something in the wind. If you wouldn’t mind telling me what it’s all about —’

  ‘I can’t just at the moment. You’ll have to take my word for it that it is exceedingly important for me to get at the truth.’

  ‘All right. This is about the long and the short of it.

  ‘In the old days we used to be meticulous here. Not only did we taste every single batch that went out, but we carried out exhaustive tests to ensure the absolute purity of each product. You know, everything from the overall pH to growing moulds on the food in high-humidity cubicles and checking the chemical content of the tomato sauce. Even regulating its viscosity. Well, we still do. Only it’s a complete farce; because whatever we find and recommend the tins go out on the market just the same. The beans can be overcooked or undercooked, the sauce can be sour, the cans may be imperfectly sealed. But nobody cares. I think we are only kept here to keep up appearances — to impress Public Health inspectors who are used to the meticulous habits of the reputable companies. And having told you that, I suppose I’d better start looking for another job.’ This was said without the smile that should have gone with it.

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Mobels. For I can assure you that Mr Spigett’s only chance of avoiding being closed down altogether is to restore the vigilance that should be kept to protect the public. You would, in fact, be doing your employer a service if you were to be completely frank. So how about it?’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  Gatt rested his elbows on the table and looked at him penetratingly. ‘There are already three question-marks in my mind; two of them have arisen since I came here this morning; the other cropped up last night. Let’s deal with the new ones first.

  ‘Mr Richards told me that the numbers stamped on the lids of the cans denote the date and contents. Well, in view of what you have said about the working of the factory under Spigett, would you say that these can be relied upon?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes. Inasmuch as anything here can be relied upon.’

  Gatt raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s pretty important, Mr Mobels.’

  ‘So is everything else, when you are dealing with products for human consumption. But that’s my answer.’

  ‘Well, if the numbers are okay, I take it that the cans are identifiable even if they are issued under new labels in foreign countries?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Right. That’s the first point. Now for the second: what went wrong with the tomato sauce about a year ago?’

  Richards said sharply: ‘I didn’t say anything went wrong. I said I noticed a difference in the smell.’

  Mobels silenced him. ‘Nothing went wrong. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Then why did it smell different?’

  ‘Because a different type of sugar was used. Beet instead of cane.’

  ‘For how long did you use a different sugar?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Long enough for one batch?’

  ‘For one run, you mean? I don’t know. I would have to look it up.’

  ‘How many cans in one “run”, as you call it?’

  Mobels shrugged. ‘Could be anything. Depends on the orders.’

  ‘Could you find out how many cans were in that particular run — the one when you used beet sugar?’

  Mobels picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. He scarcely looked at the dial at all; his eyes were on Gatt. ‘I don’t know why you’re so interested, but that’s something I can find out straight away. I still keep records, you know — even if no one else ever looks at them.’ He spoke into the instrument and gave some instructions. ‘They’ll call me back on it,’ he said when he had replaced the receiver.

  Gatt said: ‘It is hard for me to believe that the smell would be different, merely because the sugar was refined from beet instead of cane.’

  ‘I agree that on the face of it one wouldn’t think so. But, on the other hand, a slight chemical difference would result in a slightly different chemical reaction with the other constituents in the sauce. What was your third point?’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, I had a phone call last night from Mr Seff — my colleague — which led me to check on your supplies of sheet metal. So would you mind telling me this: where does Spigett get the steel with which to manufacture the cans?’

  ‘Has a contract with Keith and Rogers.’

  ‘A lot of people have contracts with Keith and Rogers. And they told me this morning the quantities they delivered during the period in question. But does your company get it all from them?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You suppose so.’ Gatt stubbed out his cigarette angrily. ‘Mr Mobels, how is it that Mr Spigett sells more tins than he had metal for? Is he a magician or something?’

  Mobels said calmly: ‘You’ll have to ask him that question yourself. I don’t buy the metal.’

  ‘Ever heard of Newlands Steel?’

  A flat ‘No’. Gatt believed him: he was inclined to think, in any case, that the ‘contaminated metal’ theory was a false lead. The probability that Spigett was, in fact, getting cheap metal from somewhere was beside the point, in his opinion.

  He focused his eyes on a dreadful reproduction of a pseudo-Dutch painting that hung on the wall behind Mobels. ‘Somewhere along that production line,’ said Gatt, only just speaking aloud, ‘something happened which we don’t know about. It could have been anywhere — the solder in the seams of the cans, impurities in the blanching oven — even some sort of dust that got into the empty tins on their way along the conveyer.’ A thought struck him. ‘Mr Richards, didn’t you say that the beans are passed over a system of electro-magnets?’

  Richards still seemed rather bored with it all. ‘That is so, yes.’

  Mobels said: ‘What about it?’

  ‘Just trying to narrow down the possibilities.’

  ‘I get you,’ said Mobels. ‘Of course, not all the oxides of metals are necessarily attracted by magnets. So if you’re thinking about an impurity of that sort, it could have gone clean through.’

  ‘Which means,’ added Gatt, ‘that we can’t exclude the possibility of the impurity existing in the beans themselves.’

  Mobels looked directly across the table at Richards. ‘And of course in any case the magnets only work when they are switched on.’ An accusation here.

  Richards didn’t like this game of cat-and-mouse. ‘We stopped the line,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I see,’ said Gatt, wondering if there was any limit to their negligence, ‘but how long had the process been going on without the magnets working?’

  Richards’ throat had tightened up slightly. ‘I don’t know for certain. The coils of the magnets had burned out.’

  ‘Isn’t there an ammeter, or something, to show when the thing is working?’ Richards agreed reluctantly that there was. ‘Well, whose job is it to watch
the ammeter?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘And were you watching it?’

  ‘No,’ he said. Then blurted out: ‘I was too busy showing visitors round the factory.’

  Gatt laughed shortly. ‘You win that set!’

  Mobels said. ‘I still think you’re on the wrong tack.’ He had not laughed.

  ‘Possibly,’ rejoined Gatt, ‘but, as any detective will tell you, you must examine every possibility before the true facts can emerge. Still, I think you may be right; after all, the beans are washed, aren’t they, as well as being passed over the magnets. I’m more interested in the tomato sauce. Let’s get back to that.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know. I can’t say anything more until they phone down with the information you asked for.’

  ‘You can tell me this: would it not be usual for you to investigate any abnormal situation that might arise — such as a change in flavour or smell — unless, of course, it was intentional?’

  ‘I would naturally be a little … curious.’

  ‘Exactly. So no doubt you made some tests.’

  Mobels was silent for a few moments, as if undecided whether or not to answer. Then he said: ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘As I said. The sugar was different.’

  ‘Uhuh. Now, when you did these tests, are you quite sure that you found nothing else besides the fact that a different type of sugar was being used?’ Mobels hesitated, bridged the pause by lighting another cigarette. Gatt persisted. ‘You must answer this question.’

  ‘All right. I’ll tell you. We did find traces of something that we couldn’t identify.’

  ‘In the cans or in the sauce?’

  ‘Well, both. The tests were made on the finished product.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know for certain where the impurity was introduced?’

  ‘Not for certain. But I personally thought it was the sugar in the sauce.’

  ‘What were the characteristics of this impurity?’

  ‘Well, the concentration was very slight, so it wasn’t easy to isolate. But I think it was some kind of oxide. Perhaps calcium.’

  Gatt found his voice had suddenly become difficult to control. But he went on: ‘What did you do when you found this oxide that you thought was calcium?’

  Mobels weighed each word. ‘I immediately sent word to dispatch that the entire block was to be held pending investigation.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  Spigett had entered quietly through the other door and was listening intently. Gatt took no notice of him but repeated the question.

  Mobels looked up uneasily. Then he said: ‘The whole lot had already been shipped. There was nothing I could do.’

  Spigett said sharply: ‘What’s all this? I instructed Richards to take you round the factory; not to waste Mr Mobels’ time with questions about our own private business.’

  Gatt said quietly: ‘It’s not exactly “private business” any longer, Mr Spigett. And I’ve got one question for you.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What are the batch numbers of the contaminated tins?’

  ‘I already told you at the meeting.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten. Tell me again, please.’

  ‘I don’t see what it’s got to do with either Mobels or Richards.’

  ‘Would you prefer to tell me privately, then? It doesn’t make any difference.’

  Spigett shrugged impatiently. Then he burrowed in his breast pocket and produced a screwed up piece of paper. ‘The series begins,’ he said, ‘with J4-17: contents QN4W. The figure “17” indicates the date of canning; the QN4W shows what’s in the tin, and remains the same for the whole run — that is, up to J4-23. Satisfied?’

  Gatt’s smile did not carry humour. ‘Not entirely. I won’t be until I know what happened to every single tin in that batch.’

  Spigett consulted his watch ostentatiously. ‘Well, I’m afraid you won’t discover anything much about their distribution from this end. Hadn’t we better get back? Your Mr Seff will be back by now.’

  ‘Yes, I knew.’ Gatt wondered about the promised telephone call. ‘Do you mind if we have another cup of tea first?’

  Spigett expressed no surprise at Gatt’s sudden new passion for tea-drinking. ‘Why, of course!’ he effused. ‘How inhospitable of me. I’ll order another pot.’

  ‘Don’t trouble,’ said Gatt. ‘This one will do.’

  ‘What do you think I have a canteen staff for?’ He busied himself giving unnecessary orders to the manageress, who was instantly thrown into a state of utter confusion.

  When comparative peace had been restored, Gatt said: ‘Mr Spigett, how often do you eat your own products?’

  ‘How often? Do I eat my own products?’ He laughed. ‘How often would you eat your products if you got them for free, Mr Gatt?’

  Gatt had long-since learned that he couldn’t expect Spigett to give a simple answer to any question. ‘I gather, then,’ he said, ‘that you eat them fairly often?’

  ‘Of course! They’re the best, aren’t they? Of course I do. I was brought up on baked beans. Sydney Spigett,’ he said proudly, ‘does not change his habits, even if he changes his suits more often these days!’ He gave Gatt a terrific nudge with his elbow. ‘That’s a good one, eh, Gatt? Here’s your tea.’ The Jovial Spigett now.

  ‘I wonder if it’s occurred to you,’ said Arlen very quietly, ‘that if there was ever anything wrong with those beans — and indeed we do know, don’t we, that something was wrong — you might have been poisoning yourself.’

  Spigett’s smile remained. ‘Well,’ he said, drawing the word out as if it were made of rubber, ‘to tell you the truth, I don’t often eat them myself really. If we have them at home at all, they’re usually eaten —’ He broke off, the smile frozen stupidly on his face.

  ‘You were saying?’

  Spigett put the teapot down with a thump. When he spoke again his voice was entirely different. ‘They’re usually eaten,’ he continued, into a silence only broken by the rattle of tins in the distance, ‘by my wife.’ He walked slowly across the room and seemed suddenly dazed. ‘You see,’ he explained, talking almost to himself, ‘I’m a busy man. I’m always eating out. Margaret stays home. She likes to. I bought her a new TV set not long ago. The biggest and best you can buy. When the servants are out, she opens a few cans and roughs it, like we used to. If you can call sitting in a Mayfair flat “roughing it”. She’s proud of me; proud of my achievements. And proud of my tins. She even designed the label, you know. And she really eats the stuff.’ Between that moment and the point, a few seconds later, when the phone-bell menaced them, Gatt was conscious of a new and surprising thought. ‘Funny,’ his mind spoke out, ‘this man really cares about his wife.’

  Mobels picked up the phone. He listened, most of the time, just uttering an occasional ‘yes’ and writing things on a piece of paper. Then: ‘No. No one told us here. But I can tell you now that they are. Yes. And any lab samples you may have.’

  He hung up. The others stared expectantly. Spigett was tapping out a message on the table-top with his signet-ring. When Mobels spoke, it was to Gatt. ‘I’m not clear,’ he said, ‘why we weren’t told before at the factory what the suspected batch-numbers were.’

  ‘All right,’ said Gatt, ‘I’ll tell you. But you won’t like it much. There were two reasons: first, that we knew there were no cans of that batch left — they were all sent out almost before the contents were cold; and second, I’m afraid we didn’t trust anyone beyond the few who knew already.’

  Mobels’ voice was sulphuric but calm. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, ‘because it so happens that besides the samples that are still up in my laboratory, there are still some ten thousand cans of J4-22 in the store.’

  Richards gaped at him stupidly. ‘But … how?’

  ‘Because,’ explained Mobels imperturbably, ‘they were returned by a wholesaler. Somebody didn’t like the taste.’


  ‘And you didn’t know?’ said Gatt incredulously.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed glibly, ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Gatt controlled himself with an effort. ‘How did your man find out just now?’ he asked, more calmly.

  ‘Because the numbers tie up with the tomato sauce that was manufactured for J4-22. My assistant has just checked with Dispatch.’

  ‘And where are the cans being held?’

  ‘In the main dispatch hall.’

  Spigett began to stammer something. Gatt just said ‘Shut up,’ and turning to Mobels he asked how long the cans had been stacked in the dispatch hall.

  Mobels’ face was expressionless. ‘It must be several months since they were returned,’ he said.

  Gatt banged his cup down on the table with savage force. ‘You fools! You bloody, half-baked, incompetent fools! You, Mobels! You spend fifteen minutes running down your employer, telling me he “isn’t greatly taken with scientific matters”, and, at the same time, display a degree of negligence yourself which is perilously near the actually criminal. You’re quite happy to take his money, yet you sit back and permit the most incredible hazards to public safety that one could possibly have conceived. You carry out so-called “tests” on some contaminated fluid and come to the conclusion that it is “perhaps calcium”. Incredibly, you leave it at that. Well, I’ll concede that in small concentrations it is impracticable to discriminate between calcium and other substances with very similar characteristics. But you could at least have sent a sample for outside analysis. Or would that have been too much trouble?’

  Infuriatingly, Mobels still didn’t react. Just sat there with a slight, humourless smile on his face, enjoying the performance. ‘I fail to see,’ he said, in his own good time, ‘what you’re getting all worked up about, Mr Gatt. Nobody’s going to eat the contents of the condemned tins.’

  Gatt answered him equally quietly. ‘Is your knowledge of chemistry so rusty that you have forgotten your Periodic Tables?’

  The cynical smile broadened slightly on Mobels’ smug, self-satisfied face. ‘I don’t think so. Let me see: calcium is number 20, isn’t it?’