“Thank you, Miss French,” said Henry. He was fascinated by the precision and alertness of this woman’s mind. She had run ahead of him, forestalled him at every turn. She could be an invaluable ally, or a formidable opponent. He wondered which.
As if in answer to his thought, Margery said, “I want to help you in every way, Inspector. I will put an office at your disposal. I presume you’ll want to interview everybody who was here last night.”
“Yes.” Henry glanced at the notebook which he held in his hand. “Perhaps you’d just go through them with me. I have yourself, Teresa Manners, Michael Healy, and Patrick Walsh. Oh, and your secretary, Miss Field. Now, was there anybody else?”
“Donald MacKay was here—Patrick’s assistant in the art department. He left shortly before the rest of us. And Ernie was here until about midnight—that’s Ernest Jenkins, the darkroom boy. Oh—and Olwen. I was forgetting.”
“That would be Miss Piper? The girl Miss Pankhurst shared her flat with?”
“Yes. She came along to write her copy after the theatre.”
“Do you know what time she left?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Margery shortly. “I saw her in her office soon after half past twelve, and I told her to go home, but heaven knows how long she stayed.” She paused. “That’s everybody.”
“Except Mr. Goring.”
“Godfrey? But you can’t really…”
“I suppose there was nothing to stop him from going into the darkroom before coming into your office?”
“No…but…”
It was at that moment that pandemonium broke loose in the corridor outside. Henry could hear sounds of a scuffle, and the stentorian voice of the sergeant shouting. “Sir, I forbid you to…” but this was drowned by a vast, bass, Irish bellow.
“Get out of me way, you miserable little man! By God, something’s going on here, and nobody’s going to keep me out of me own office!”
“Sir, the Chief Inspector has given orders…”
“The Chief Inspector be damned to hell! If you don’t get out of me way, I’ll break every bone in your wretched body, God’s truth I will!”
Margery French. with a smile, said quietly, “Patrick has arrived.”
“So I hear,” said Henry, returning the smile. “I think I’d better go and investigate. The sergeant seems to be in need of reinforcements.”
The corridor seemed to be entirely filled with flailing arms, encased in rough tweed. The sergeant was pinioned, as though crucified, against the door which was marked “Absolutely NO ADMITTANCE on ANY pretext whatsoever.” This statement was clearly being challenged by the huge man in tweed, who was making bull-like assaults against the door, shouting as he did so. Fortunately for the sergeant’s arms, Henry’s arrival diverted him for a moment. He wheeled to counter this attack from the flank, and demanded, “Who th’hell are you?”
“Chief Inspector Tibbett,” said Henry. “I presume that you are Patrick Walsh.”
“You damn well presume rightly,” said Patrick. “Now, will you kindly tell this whippersnapper of yours to get out of me way and let me go into me own office?”
“No,” said Henry, “I won’t.” There was an electric pause. “There has been a murder. Will you come into Miss French’s office and talk reasonably for a moment?”
“Murder?” All the fury went out of Patrick, and he stood quite still, with his great arms swinging by his sides. “Why did nobody tell me? Who is it?”
“Helen Pankhurst,” said Henry, “was poisoned last night. She died here after you had all left.”
Embarrassingly, without warning, Patrick began to cry. He leant against the wall and moaned with Celtic abandon. “Helen, me darlin’. Helen, me beautiful. It’s not true…Helen…”
“Patrick.” Margery French’s voice was sharp as a razor. Patrick stopped moaning. Then Margery said gently, “Pull yourself together, Patrick, my dear. Come into my office.”
Docile as a lamb, Patrick followed her. The sergeant mopped his brow. “Couldn’t stop him, sir,” he said, ruefully. “Came roaring up them stairs like a bulldozer. Shook off two constables easy as swatting flies. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Never mind,” said Henry. “I’ll deal with him.”
“You’re welcome,” said the sergeant, and added meaningly, “I told you so, didn’t I?”
Margery French came out of her office, and said, “I’ll be in Mr. Goring’s room on the floor above if you need me, Inspector.” Then she disappeared up the stairs, leaving a faint smell of expensive scent behind her. Henry went into the office and closed the door.
Patrick Walsh had pulled himself together. His face was even redder than usual, but the emotional outburst was over. He stood with his back to the door, looking out of the window and down into the wet street below. He did not move nor look around when Henry came in.
Henry cleared his throat. “Mr. Walsh,” he said formally, “I am afraid I shall have to ask you to make a statement.”
Slowly, Patrick turned away from the window and came over to the desk. He slumped into the chair facing Henry’s, passed a huge hand over his face, and said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s very understandable,” said Henry. “This must have been a shock to you.”
“Shock. Yes.”
“Will you tell me what happened here last night?”
“Last night?” Patrick seemed to come to life a little. “There were some fine fights,” he said.
“Fights?”
“Teresa wanted to use the Monnier chiffon, and crop Michael’s Dior picture into a big close-up of the hat, and Margery…”
“You said there were fights…”
“That was one of them. Then there was the Balmain spread. Margery thought we ought to show at least three dresses, but I wasn’t going to have…”
Henry sighed. “You mean, what you call fights were purely professional discussions about what pictures were to be used?”
“Of course.” Patrick looked surprised. “What else would there be to fight about?”
“When did you last see Miss Pankhurst yourself?”
“I didn’t. Didn’t clap eyes on her all evening. Last time I saw her was at lunchtime. I took her out for a meal. She needed it, poor kid.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why do I say what?” Patrick was growing belligerent again. “I say what I damn well please, and nobody’s going to go round being bitchy about Helen now the poor girl’s dead.”
“Who was being bitchy about her?”
Patrick looked surly and suspicious. “Nobody,” he said. “Not a living soul.”
“You liked Helen personally?”
“I loved her,” said Patrick, simply.
“Do you know of anyone who disliked her?”
There was a long pause. Then abruptly, Patrick said, “No.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Walsh?”
“Sure? Of course I’m sure! Sure as the devil! Everybody loved her.”
“Including Michael Healy and Teresa Manners?” Henry asked mildly.
Patrick jumped to his feet. “What have people been saying?” he shouted. “What filthy lying bastards have been putting ideas into your head? I know. I can guess. It’s not true, d’you hear me? Not a bloodstained word of it, and may I drop dead if I’m not telling God’s truth!”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Henry, not quite truthfully. “I simply asked you if Michael Healy and Teresa Manners liked Helen, that’s all.”
“That’s not all, and well you know it,” yelled Patrick. “I’m not saying another word, and you can’t make me!”
“Very well,” said Henry. “Let’s talk about something else. Like cyanide, for example. I suppose you know where it’s kept.”
“I know where the darkroom store cupboard is.”
“Will you show me?”
“A pleasure.”
Patrick led the way out of Margery’s office by the communicating door into
his own art department—a big, light room furnished with drawing boards and liberally decorated with layouts and cropped portions of letterpress and photostat pictures.
“All these rooms intercommunicate,” explained Patrick, “from the studio to the darkroom, through the art department and into Margery’s office on the corner of the building. From there, into Helen’s office, through editorial into Teresa’s den and the fashion room. We’ve all got our own doors out into the corridor, of course, but this way we can lock ourselves away from the general run of pests and still keep in touch with the people who matter.”
He opened a door on the far side of the art department. “The darkroom,” he said.
A whiff of chemicals greeted Henry as he stepped into the gloomy, unlit anteroom that led to the photographic section. Patrick switched on a dim light, and Henry saw that they were in a small room lined with cupboards. It had three doors—the one from the art department through which they had just come, another on their left leading into the passage, and a third, heavily curtained, ahead of them, which presumably led to the darkroom proper. Against the fourth wall was a sink, where some prints were still washing, and on the floor beneath it stood an electric kettle.
Patrick waved a vague hand. “This is the storeroom,” he said. “Everything’s kept in here—paper, chemicals, the lot. Don’t ask me where the cyanide actually is, because I haven’t the faintest idea.”
It did not take Henry long to locate it. All the cupboards, he found, were unlocked, and most of them contained ranks of shiny yellow boxes of photographic paper. One, however, was stacked with dark brown bottles and bulging paper bags. Very prominent was a bottle marked in red on its label, Cyanide. POISON. It was empty.
“I’ll have to take this for fingerprinting,” he said.
Patrick shrugged. “Since it’s empty, I can’t see any objection,” he said. “I suppose there’s more somewhere.”
Henry looked down at the two suitcases in the corner of the small room. “Whose are those?” he asked.
“Teresa’s and Michael’s,” said Patrick. “They came back from Paris last night.” He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. Suddenly he said irritably, “Well, we can’t hang about here all day. I have a lot to do. When can we start work?”
“Very soon,” said Henry. “Come back into Miss French’s office for a minute, will you?”
Patrick did not reply, but led the way silently back through the art department and into the editor’s office.
Henry said, “Did you know Miss Pankhurst’s Thermos flask by sight?”
“Of course. Everybody did. It was a sort of tradition—a terrible, battered old thing that Helen would never be parted from on Collections night.”
“Did you notice it standing around unattended at any time?”
“It was there in the storeroom the whole evening,” replied Patrick promptly. “I suppose Ernie had made Helen some fresh tea, and then forgotten to take it along to her.” He grinned ruefully at Henry. “We’re all suspect,” he said. “We were all in and out of there, and any of us could have slipped cyanide into it.” He paused. “And please don’t insult me by saying, ‘And how did you know she was poisoned by cyanide in her tea, Mr. Walsh?’ You’ve as good as told me.”
“I agree,” said Henry. “Now, tell me about the party at Mr. Goring’s house last night.”
Patrick snorted. “What is there to tell? Damn silly idea, if you ask me. I’d have got out of it if I’d been able. Not my idea of fun—sipping genteel champagne with pansies and vulgar bloody upstarts.”
“What—or whom—do you mean by that?”
“Nicholas Knight and Horace Barry,” said Patrick, with infinite contempt. “I don’t know which I despise more. Godfrey may have to be civil to them, in the name of the great god advertising, but I don’t see why we should be subjected to—”
“Just tell me what happened.”
“I’ve already told you. Nothing. We had a glass of champagne, and made hideous small talk, carefully avoiding tricky subjects. Then I got fed up and so did Michael, and we began being fairly damn rude to Knight and Barry, in a subtle way. You’d be surprised how rude I can be, Inspector.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Anyhow, they soon had enough of it, and went off, taking Rachel Field with them. The rest of us…”
“What did you mean by tricky subjects?”
“Nothing that would interest you.”
“Most things interest me.”
“Not this sort of thing.”
“I wish you’d tell me.”
Without warning, Patrick became angry again. “I’m damned if I’ll tell you, you bloody nosey-parker,” he shouted. “Why can’t you concentrate on finding out who killed the darling girl, instead of grubbing round, meddling in people’s private affairs…”
Henry sighed. “I’ll talk to you later on,” he said, “when you’re in a more reasonable frame of mind.”
“Reasonable!” thundered Patrick. “Of all the people in this madhouse, I’m the one reasonable—”
“Please go away now,” said Henry very distinctly. He was beginning to sympathize with the sergeant.
“You’re damned right I’m going,” said Patrick. He stalked into the art department and slammed the door behind him.
Henry watched him go with mixed emotions. Then he climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.
This was clearly the part of the building dedicated to the business—as opposed to the editorial—side of Style. It, too, was carpeted, but in sombre navy blue. The door which faced Henry, corresponding to Helen’s office on the floor below, was marked Managing Director. The door of the office above Margery’s had a small stenciled sign on it saying NO ADMITTANCE, and Henry surmised that this was, in fact, Goring’s office. Other doors were labeled Advertising Manager, Chief Accountant, and Staff Director. The atmosphere was masculine, and redolent of big business. Henry contrasted it with the floor below, and began to respect Margery French more than ever. She, obviously, was at home in both worlds. Henry walked boldly up to the door marked NO ADMITTANCE, knocked, and walked in without waiting for an answer.
Godfrey Goring and Margery French were standing by the window with their backs to the door. Their faces, as they wheeled abruptly to look at Henry, bore the expressions of people who have been interrupted in the middle of an important and private conversation, and who are worrying about how much has been overheard. He also thought that Margery French looked considerably shattered about something.
This was, however, a fleeting impression. Both of them recovered their composure in a split second, and Margery said, “Godfrey, this is Chief Inspector Tibbett. Inspector—Mr. Goring, our managing director.”
Goring advanced, hand outstretched. “My dear Inspector…” he said. He looked, not unnaturally, very worried indeed, but at the same time he exuded the confidence-inspiring air of a man of affairs who has weathered worse crises in his time. “Margery has told me the terrible story. I realize that we shall have to—” he checked himself—“that you will have to have an absolutely free hand to pursue your enquiries, and you must think of us as here to help you in any way we can. I would ask, though, that you arrange for the normal working of the office to go ahead again as soon as possible. We are all busy people, you know.”
“I know,” said Henry. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I’m afraid Miss Pankhurst’s office will have to be put out of bounds for the time being, but if Miss French will come down there with me, she can sort out the papers she needs for her Paris edition, and take them. I shall also have to seal off the storage compartment of the darkroom for the moment. Once that is done, your staff can come up and start work. Miss French has kindly promised me an office where I can hold interviews.”
Goring nodded. “I am delighted that we have such a businesslike person to deal with,” he said, with a rather strained smile.
“You’ll be here for the next hour or so, will you, Mr. Gori
ng?” said Henry. “I’d very much like a word with you later.”
“Don’t worry, Inspector. I won’t run away,” There was neither animosity nor humour in Goring’s voice.
“Good,” said Henry cheerfully. “I’ll see you later, then. Shall we go down, Miss French?”
Helen’s office was as stifling and depressing as ever, but this time Margery showed no signs of weakness. She sorted quickly and expertly through the piles of paper, and eventually said, “Right. I have everything I need here.”
“Splendid,” said Henry. “Now, where may I establish my HQ?”
“There’s an empty office beyond the fashion room,” said Margery. “I’ll show you.”
The room to which she escorted Henry was small and bleak, with a linoleum-covered floor and a small window overlooking a dingy area.
“Sordid but private,” said Margery shortly. “You can telephone for anybody you want to see. There’s a list of internal phone numbers on the desk. I’ll be in my office if you need me,” She smiled quickly, and went before Henry could thank her.
Henry sat down at the desk, and studied what he had written so far in his notebook. Then he telephoned down to the sergeant, confirmed that the staff could be released from durance, and asked that Ernest Jenkins should be sent to his office.
“I don’t think he’s arrived yet,” said the sergeant. “I’ll check up. You say I can let the others out?”
“That’s right.”
“Blimey,” said the sergeant, with deep depression. “You don’t know, sir. You just don’t know.”
It was about a minute later that Henry heard the tide of voices surging up towards him. A shrill, excited tide, pitched in a high feminine register, squealing and squeaking and giggling and exclaiming and rapidly increasing in volume as it reached the landing and began flowing towards the various offices. The main concentration seemed to come from the fashion room next door, and since there was no sign of Ernest Jenkins, Henry decided to go out into the corridor and take a look.
Murder a la Mode Page 5