by John Rhode
There was one fairly obvious thing to be done. Jimmy had brought with him to Scotland Yard the torn slips of paper on which the letter from Novoshave had been written. These he had stuck together with transparent paper. He went to his own room, placed the letter in an envelope and started off for the offices of Novoshave Ltd.
Upon reaching them he asked to see Mr Topliss. After a short interval he was shown into a private office where a keen-faced middle-aged man greeted him.
‘Well, Inspector,’ he said sharply, ‘what brings you here?’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’ve no objection, Mr Topliss,’ Jimmy replied. ‘In the first place, do you know anybody of the name of Victor Harleston?’
‘Harleston,’ said the other. ‘Harleston. Why, yes, of course. He was the fellow who was here last week from Slater & Knott. They are our accountants, and they sent Harleston in to do our audit. Rather a surly sort of chap, I thought, but he seemed quick enough at his work.’
‘Do you know his private address?’ Jimmy asked.
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Topliss replied.
Jimmy withdrew the envelope and produced the letter. ‘Then I should be glad if you would explain this,’ he said.
Topliss read the letter with growing amazement. ‘I can’t explain it,’ he replied. ‘All I can tell you is that I never dictated this letter, nor did I sign it. The signature is not unlike mine, I’ll admit, but if you compare it with the genuine article you will see for yourself at a glance that it’s an obvious forgery.’
He took some letters from a tray on his desk and passed them over. ‘You’ll find half a dozen specimens of my signature there,’ he said.
Jimmy compared these with the signature of the letter to Harleston. There was a certain resemblance, but, even to his inexpert eye, it was plain that it had not been written by the same hand.
Mr Topliss picked up the letter and glanced through it for a second time.
‘I can’t make this out at all,’ he said. ‘The whole thing is nonsense from beginning to end. In the first place, our model K. razor is not yet ready. Delivery from the factory won’t begin for another month or six weeks. And we aren’t in the habit of distributing our goods gratis. We are quite capable of satisfying ourselves of the excellence of our products without seeking outside opinion. In any case, we should not be likely to set a high value upon the opinion of a man like Harleston.’
‘The letter appears to have been written on your official notepaper,’ Jimmy remarked.
‘Yes, this is our notepaper right enough. But I don’t suppose it would be very difficult for anybody to get hold of a sheet of that.’
‘Who, besides the members of the firm, would be likely to know that this new model was in preparation?’ Jimmy asked.
‘That’s just what I was wondering. We’ve kept the matter secret so far as possible, our idea being to spring a surprise upon our competitors. Of course, the factory staff know about it, and the people in the office here. But I don’t see how any outsider could have got to hear of it.’
‘Harleston was engaged upon your audit last week,’ said Jimmy. ‘I suppose it is not impossible that he should have learnt of the new model?’
‘He’s almost certain to have heard of it. But have you any reason to suppose that he wrote the letter to himself?’
‘Not at present. The peculiar thing is that the letter was apparently accompanied by a razor and a tube of shaving cream. I’ve got the razor here and I’d like to show it to you. But I must ask you not to touch it on any account.’
Jimmy had brought with him the razor which he had found in the garden. He now produced it and laid it upon Mr Topliss’ table. The latter glanced at it and laughed. ‘That’s not one of the new models,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the present model J. which we have been marketing for three or four years. I can tell from the serial number that it is of very recent manufacture.’
‘Would Harleston have been able to distinguish between models J. and K?’ Jimmy asked.
‘I don’t see how he could,’ Topliss replied. ‘Nobody but myself in this office has ever seen the completed specimen of the new model.’
‘Is there any means of tracing the hands through which this particular razor has passed?’
‘I’m afraid not. The serial number is used for manufacturing purposes only. We do not invoice this to our customers, and the sales department keeps no record of the numbers. This razor might have been bought anywhere. I’m proud to say that our products are widely distributed throughout the country.’
‘Would analysis of your shaving cream reveal the presence of cold cream and glycerine?’ Jimmy asked.
Mr Topliss smiled. ‘You mustn’t expect me to reveal trade secrets, Inspector,’ he replied. ‘But I think I may tell you without being indiscreet that it would.’
‘The formula does not by any chance contain nicotine, I suppose?’
‘Nicotine! Good heavens, no. We are shaving experts, not tobacconists.’
After having extracted a promise from Mr Topliss that he would make inquiries in his office about the letter, Jimmy returned with it to Scotland Yard. His inquiries had had the results which he had expected. The letter was not genuine. Somebody had bought a Novoshave razor, and tampered with it. They had also bought a tube of shaving cream and poisoned this with nicotine. Then the letter had been written, the parcel made up, and both sent to Harleston.
Perhaps this way of looking at it appealed to Jimmy because it exonerated Janet and Philip. If the razor and cream were already dangerous when they reached Harleston nobody in his household was involved. But who could have been the writer of the letter? Harleston had certainly not written it to himself. And, according to Mr Topliss, any other person possessing the necessary knowledge must be in the employ of Novoshave Ltd.
Was it possible that Harleston had some enemy in that firm? Jimmy decided that he might as well pursue that line of inquiry. He made a second journey, this time to Chancery Lane, and secured an interview with Mr Knott. The latter, upon learning his identity, greeted him genially.
‘You’ve come to talk about this unfortunate business of poor Harleston, I suppose?’ he said.
‘I have, and I should be very glad if you could help me, Mr Knott,’ Jimmy replied. ‘You told Superintendent Hanslet that Harleston had no connection with the firm of Novoshave beyond the audit, I believe.’
‘That is so,’ replied Knott. ‘We have audited the accounts of Novoshave for several years. But, as it happens, this was the first year in which Harleston had been put on to that particular job. So far as I am aware, he knew nothing whatever about the firm, except of course, that they were among our customers.’
‘How long was Harleston engaged upon this audit?’
‘About ten days. I can tell you exactly if you wait a minute.’
Knott picked up his diary and turned over the pages. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Harleston started the audit on Monday, the 7th of this month and finished on Thursday the 17th.’
‘Was he engaged alone upon the audit?’
‘No, he had one of our juniors with him. A fellow of the name of Fred Davies.’
‘I wonder if I could have a word with Davies?’
‘Of course, I’ll send for him,’ Knott replied readily.
He telephoned the necessary instructions, and in a couple of minutes Davies appeared. Knott introduced him to Jimmy, who began questioning him at once.
Davies’ account was not very illuminating. He had been in Harleston’s company during the whole time they had been working together at the offices of Novoshave Ltd. So far as he was aware, Harleston had had no conversation with any member of the staff, except the cashier and his assistant, and that only upon matters connected with the audit. Harleston had always been a taciturn sort of man who was not likely to go out of his way to talk to strangers.
‘Could Harleston have discovered any irregularity in the books without your knowledge, Mr Davies?’ Jimmy ask
ed.
A new and rather fanciful theory had occurred to him. Perhaps there might have been a falsification of the books by some member of the firm. Harleston alone had discovered this. The culprit, seeing himself threatened with exposure, had removed Harleston before he could reveal his knowledge. The theory seemed far-fetched, and Davies’ reply disposed of it.
‘That’s hardly possible,’ replied the latter. ‘Harleston and I were working in very close collaboration. We checked one another’s figures throughout.’
‘Do you know that Messrs. Novoshave are shortly about to put a new model razor on the market?’ Jimmy asked.
‘I remember seeing references to it in some of the documents we examined,’ Davies replied. ‘Since it did not directly concern us, I never thought about the matter.’
‘Can you tell me the letter of the alphabet which was to be a sign to the new model?’
‘No, I couldn’t. Their present model is J. so presumably the new one would be K. But that’s nothing more than a guess.’
‘Were you on friendly terms with Harleston?’
Davies and his employer exchanged a smile. ‘We got on all right,’ the former replied. ‘But I doubt anybody in the office could claim to be on particularly friendly terms with Harleston.’
‘He might have invited you to his home?’ Jimmy suggested tentatively.
At this Davies laughed outright. ‘Nothing like that!’ he exclaimed. ‘Harleston never by any chance asked any of us to come and see him.’
‘You are not by any chance acquainted with his half-sister, Janet Harleston?’
‘I didn’t even know he had a half-sister. I never once heard him mention his own affairs.’
There was nothing more to be learnt from Davies, and at a nod from his employer he left the room.
‘I’m afraid it’s very little use making inquiries about Harleston’s private life here,’ said Knott. ‘Although he had been employed by us for the last fifteen or twenty years, we none of us knew anything about him. He never spoke about himself and repelled all advances in that direction. He appeared at the office punctually and disappeared as regularly when his work was finished. Where he spent the rest of his time we never took the trouble to inquire. Of course, I was aware of his private address, and once, in a burst of overwhelming confidence, he told me that he had a sister who kept house for him. Beyond that I know nothing whatever about his private life and I am quite certain that nobody else in this office knows even that much.’
‘You are possibly aware that he had certain means of his own beyond his salary?’
‘I always suspected it, though I never knew for certain. He never mentioned anything of the kind—in fact, he deliberately gave the impression that he had a hard struggle for existence. If he had money, I can’t imagine what he spent it upon. Certainly not upon his fellow-men, of that I am quite certain.’
‘I believe you gave him a bonus of a hundred pounds at the beginning of this year. Was there some definite reason for this, or was it merely a matter of routine?’
Knott smiled benignly. ‘Hardly a matter of routine,’ he replied. ‘It has always been our custom to give a bonus to such of our clerks as have been with us fifteen years, and whose service has been in every way satisfactory. Purely as a mark of our appreciation, you understand. There was no question of anybody becoming entitled to this bonus. As a matter of fact, Harleston completed his qualifying period of service two years ago, but my partner, Mr Slater, then opposed the granting of the bonus in his case.’
‘Was there any reason for his opposition?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Merely the fact that Mr Slater disliked Harleston. I really can’t say why, but I believe they had a serious difference of opinion years ago, before I joined the firm. Mr Slater has now retired from active participation in the business and lives in the country. He never comes to the office now, and so far as I know, he and Harleston have not met since his retirement. Since their antagonism was no longer irritated by daily meeting, I brought up the question again this year, and was successful in getting Mr Slater’s consent to the payment of the bonus.’
‘Has Mr Slater any knowledge of Harleston’s private affairs?’
‘That I couldn’t tell you. It is quite possible. If you want to ask him, you will have to go down to Torquay where he lives. I’ll give you his address.’
Having obtained the address, Jimmy returned to Scotland Yard. He had made some slight progress and there was nothing more to be done until Hanslet returned.
7
Meanwhile, Superintendent Hanslet was having a day in the country. He had travelled by train to the nearest station to Lassingford, and walked the remainder of the distance. He had no difficulty in finding Hart’s Farm and in assuring himself that Philip Harleston and his sister had returned there after the inquest. He did not make his presence known to them but repaired to the village inn, knowing, by experience, that this was the best place in which to acquire information.
He found the Plume of Feathers to be a pleasant little pub, not inconveniently overcrowded. In fact, when he entered, the only occupants of the bar were the landlady, a cheerful, elderly woman, and a single labourer, consuming a hunk of bread and cheese and a pint of cider. He ordered himself a drink and waited patiently to be drawn into their conversation.
The opening moves followed their usual course, the landlady taking the lead. Hanslet’s part was merely to reply to her questions.
Yes, it was wonderful weather for the time of year though the wind was still a bit cold. No, he had never been to Lassingford before. He had merely come down from London for a country walk. That was the worst of living in town, one could never get enough exercise. Yes, he thought he might come down again in the spring when the fruit trees were in blossom.
The mention of fruit trees gave Hanslet his opportunity. ‘There seems to be quite a lot of orchards round here,’ he said innocently.
The landlady smiled benevolently. Londoners were so ridiculously ignorant. Surely everybody must know that Lassingford was the very centre of the fruit-growing district of Kent?
‘Oh yes,’ she replied, ‘all the farmers here grow fruit. Apples and pears mostly. You’ll have to go to the next parish if you want to see cherries and plums.’
Hanslet evinced a lively astonishment. ‘What, do you mean to say that they grow nothing but fruit!’ he exclaimed.
‘There used to be hops as well, but they’re mostly grubbed out now. Over at Hart’s Farm, for instance, there used to be fifty acres of hops, but it’s all planted with apples now.’
The subject had been reached earlier than Hanslet had dared to hope. ‘That seems a pity,’ he said. ‘I prefer beer to cider, myself. Hart’s Farm, you said. I wonder if I passed it in my walk?’
‘If you came from the station, you must have walked right along the edge of it. It’s a fair-sized place. Over two hundred acres of fruit.’
‘Who does it belong to?’ Hanslet asked idly.
‘Old Mr Burrage, and it belonged to his father before him,’ the landlady replied. ‘They’ve made a lot of money out of the place, and that’s a fact. But Mr Burrage is getting a bit past work now. He’ll be nigh upon eighty, won’t he, Sam?’
The labourer, thus appealed to, nodded his head. ‘He’ll be all that, missus,’ he replied, somewhat indistinctly, since his mouth was full of bread and cheese.
‘And so you see he’s taken on a manager,’ the landlady continued. ‘Young Mr Philip Harleston. At least he’s rather more than a manager, so people do say. Mr Burrage’s sons didn’t somehow take to farming. That was always a grief to the old man. So he offered a share in the farm for sale and Mr Harleston bought it. He became a sort of very junior partner as you might say. And now I hear that he’s got a young lady staying with him.’ The landlady paused, then added darkly, ‘They do say that she’s his sister.’
‘Very charitable of them,’ remarked Hanslet lightly. ‘Nice job for a young fellow, I should think. Out in the open all day. I wish I�
��d had his chances when I was that age.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of work with it. Out in all weathers from daylight to dark. There’s more to be done to fruit trees than you might think. There’s the washing and the spraying and the pruning and the picking. You won’t never get a crop of apples if you don’t look after the trees.’
‘Bless my soul!’ exclaimed Hanslet ingenuously. ‘I always thought the things just grew. Now, all this washing and spraying you talk about. That must take a lot of time and labour, doesn’t it?’
‘’Tis mostly done by machine nowadays,’ the landlady replied. ‘But still it does make a bit of work, there’s no denying.’
‘What do they wash and spray with? Just ordinary water?’
‘Oh no, they use all manner of chemicals. Sam can tell you more about them than I can.’
Sam, who had now finished his meal, lighted a short clay pipe. He puffed at it vigorously for a few seconds before re-entering the conversation.
‘There’s a lot of different washes, depending on the time of year and what not,’ he said. ‘Tar oil, for instance, that they’ll be using round about now. And then there’s sulphur lime that some like to use a little later. And then there’s nicotine. You have to be careful when you’re using that.’
‘I suppose at a place like Hart’s Farm they use all these washes?’ Hanslet suggested.
‘Oh, you may be sure of that,’ the landlady replied. ‘There isn’t much about fruit trees that old Mr Burrage doesn’t know. And Mr Harleston, he’s pretty quick to learn, so they do say. Last year between them they had a better crop than anybody else in the parish. Isn’t that so, Sam?’
‘Ay, that’s so,’ Sam replied. ‘Clever young chap, that Mr Harleston. Spends all the time he can spare at the research station and picks up a lot of tips there, I don’t doubt.’
‘His time must be fairly well occupied,’ Hanslet remarked. You don’t see much of him in here, I suppose?’