The Poisoned Chocolates Case

by Anthony Berkeley

  Glancing at the advertisements of The Creaking Skull, he saw that the terrible thing began at half-past eight. Glancing at his watch, he saw that the time was twenty-nine minutes past that hour.

  There was an evening to be got through somehow.

  He went inside.

  The night passed somehow, too.

  Early the next morning (or early, that is, for Roger; say half-past ten), in a bleak spot somewhere beyond the bounds of civilisation, in short in Acton, Roger found himself parleying with a young woman in the offices of the Anglo-Eastern Perfumery Company. The young woman was entrenched behind a partition just inside the main entrance, her only means of communication with the outer world being through a small window fitted with frosted glass. This window she would open (if summoned long and loudly enough) to address a few curt replies to importunate callers, and this window she would close with a bang by way of a hint that the interview, in her opinion, should now be closed.

  “Good morning,” said Roger blandly, when his third rap had summoned this maiden from the depths of her fastness. “I’ve called to——”

  “Travellers, Tuesday and Friday mornings, ten to eleven,” said the maiden surprisingly, and closed the window with one of her best bangs. That’ll teach him to try and do business with a respectable English firm on a Thursday morning, good gracious me, said the bang.

  Roger stared blankly at the closed window. Then it dawned on him that a mistake had been made. He rapped again. And again.

  At the fourth rap the window flew open as if something had exploded behind it. “I’ve told you already,” snapped the maiden, righteously indignant, “that we only see——”

  “I’m not a traveller,” said Roger hastily. “At least,” he added with meticulousness, thinking of the dreary deserts he had explored before finding this inhospitable oasis, “at least, not a commercial one.”

  “You don’t want to sell anything?” asked the maiden suspiciously. Impregnated with all that is best in the go-ahead spirit of English business methods, she naturally looked with the deepest distrust on anybody who might possibly wish to do such an unbusinesslike thing as sell her firm something.

  “Nothing,” Roger assured her with the utmost earnestness, impressed in his turn with the revolting vulgarity of such a proceeding.

  On these conditions it appeared that the maiden, though by no means ready to take him to her bosom, was prepared to tolerate him for a few seconds. “Well, what do you want then?” she asked, with an air of weariness patiently, even nobly borne. From her tone it was to be gathered that very few people penetrated as far as that door unless with the discreditable intention of trying to do business with her firm. Just fancy—business!

  “I’m a solicitor,” Roger told her now, without truth, “and I’m enquiring into the matter of a certain Mr. Joseph Lea Hardwick, who was employed here. I regret to say that——”

  “Sorry, never heard of the gentleman,” said the maiden shortly, and intimated in her usual way that the interview had lasted quite long enough.

  Once more Roger got busy with his stick. After the seventh application he was rewarded with another view of indignant young English girlhood.

  “I’ve told you already——”

  But Roger had had about enough of this. “And now, young woman, let me tell you something. If you refuse to answer my questions, let me warn you that you may find yourself in very serious trouble. Haven’t you ever heard of contempt of court?” There are times when some slight juggling with the truth is permissable. There are times, too, when even a shrewd blow with a bludgeon may be excused. This time was one of both.

  The maiden, though far from cowed, was at last impressed. “Well, what do you want to know then?” she asked, resignedly.

  “This man, Joseph Lea Hardwick——”

  “I’ve told you, I’ve never heard of him.”

  As the gentleman in question had enjoyed an existence of only two or three minutes, and that solely in Roger’s brain, his creator was not unprepared for this. “It is possible that he was known to you under a different name,” he said darkly.

  The maiden’s interest was engaged. More, she looked positively alarmed. She spoke shrilly. “If it’s divorce, let me tell you you can’t hang anything on me. I never even knew he was married. Besides, it isn’t as if there was a cause. I mean to say—well, at least—anyhow, it’s a pack of lies. I never——”

  “It isn’t divorce,” Roger hastened to stem the tide, himself scarcely less alarmed at these quite unmaidenly revelations. “It’s—it’s nothing to do with your private life at all. It’s about a man who was employed here.”

  “Oh!” The late maiden’s relief turned rapidly into indignation. “Well, why couldn’t you say so?”

  “Employed here,” pursued Roger firmly, “in the nitrobenzene department. You have a nitrobenzene department, haven’t you?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, I’m sure.”

  Roger made the noise that is usually spelt “Tchah! You know perfectly well what I mean. The department which handles the nitrobenzene used here. You are hardly prepared to deny that nitrobenzene is used here, I hope? And extensively?”

  “Well, and what if it is?”

  “It has been reported to my firm that this man met his death through insufficient warning having been issued to the employees here about the dangerous nature of this substance. I should like——”

  “What? One of our men died? I don’t believe it. I should have been the first to know if——”

  “It’s been hushed up,” Roger inserted quickly. “I should like you to show me a copy of the warning that is hung up in the factory about nitrobenzene.”

  “Well, I’m sorry then, but I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” said Roger, much shocked, “that no warning is issued at all to your employees about this most dangerous substance? They’re not even told that it is a deadly poison?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? Of course they’re warned that it’s poisonous. Everybody is. And they’re most careful about the way it’s handled, I’m sure. It just happens that there isn’t a warning hung up. And if you want to know any more about it, you’d better see one of the directors. I’ll——”

  “Thank you,” said Roger, speaking the truth at last, “I’ve learned all I wanted. Good morning.” He retreated jubilantly.

  He retreated to Webster’s, the printers, in a taxi.

  Webster’s of course are to printing what Monte Carlo is to the Riviera. Webster’s, practically speaking, are printing. So where more naturally should Roger go if he wanted some new notepaper printed in a very special and particular way, as apparently he did?

  To the young woman behind the counter who took him in charge he specified at great length and in the most meticulous detail exactly what he did want. The young woman handed him her book of specimen pieces and asked him to see if he could find a style there which would suit him. While he looked through it she turned to another customer. Not to palter with the truth, that young woman had been getting a little weary of Roger and his wants.

  Apparently Roger could not find a style to suit him, for he closed the book and edged a little along the counter till he was within the territory of the next young woman. To her in turn he embarked on the epic of his needs, and in turn too she presented him with her book of specimens and asked him to choose one. As the book was only another copy of the same edition, it is not surprising that Roger found himself no further forward.

  Once more he edged along the counter, and once more he recited his saga to the third, and last, young woman. Knowing the game, she handed him her book of specimens. But this time Roger had his reward. This book was one of the same edition, but it was not an exact copy.

  “Of course I’m sure you’ll have what I want,” he remarked garrulously as he flicked over the pages, “because I was recommended here by a friend who is really most particular. Most particular.”

  “Is that so?
” said the young woman, doing her best to appear extremely interested. She was a very young woman indeed, young enough to study the technique of salesmanship in her spare time; and one of the first rules in salesmanship, she had learned, was to receive a customer’s remark that it is a fine day with the same eager and respectful admiration of the penetrating powers of his observation as she would accord to a fortune-teller who informed her that she would receive a letter from a dark stranger across the water containing an offer of money, on her note of hand alone. “Well,” she said, trying hard, “some people are particular, and that’s a fact.”

  “Dear me!” Roger seemed much struck. “Do you know, I believe I’ve got my friend’s photograph on me this very minute. Isn’t that an extraordinary coincidence?”

  “Well, I never,” said the dutiful young woman.

  Roger produced the coincidental photograph and handed it across the counter. “There! Recognise it?”

  The young woman took the photograph and studied it closely. “So that’s your friend! Well, isn’t that extraordinary? Yes, of course I recognise it. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “About a fortnight ago, I think my friend was in here last,” Roger persisted. “Is that right?”

  The young woman pondered. “Yes, it would be about a fortnight ago, I suppose. Yes, just about. Now this is a line we’re selling a good deal of just at present.”

  Roger bought an inordinate quantity of note-paper he didn’t want in the least, out of sheer lightness of heart. And because she really was a very nice young woman, and it was a shame to take advantage of her.

  Then he went back to his rooms for lunch.

  Most of the afternoon he spent in trying apparently to buy a second-hand typewriter.

  Roger was very particular that his typewriter should be a Hamilton No. 4. When the salesman tried to induce him to consider other makes he refused to look at them, saying that he had had the Hamilton No. 4 so strongly recommended to him by a friend, who had bought a second-hand one just about three weeks ago. Perhaps it was at this very shop? No? They hadn’t sold a Hamilton No. 4 for the last two months? How very odd.

  But at one shop they had; and that was odder still. The obliging salesman looked up the exact date, and found that it was just a month ago. Roger described his friend, and the salesman at once agreed that Roger’s friend and his own customer were one and the same.

  “Good gracious, and now I come to think of it,” Roger cried, “I actually believe I’ve got my friend’s photograph on me at this very minute. Let me see!” He rummaged in his pockets, and to his great astonishment produced the photograph in question.

  The salesman most obligingly proceeded to identify his customer without hesitation. He then went on, just as obligingly, to sell Roger the second-hand Hamilton No. 4 which that enthusiastic detective felt he had not the face to refuse to buy. Detecting, Roger was discovering, is for the person without official authority to back him, a singularly expensive business. But like Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, he did not grudge money spent in a good cause.

  He went back to his rooms to tea. There was nothing more to be done except await the call from Moresby.

  It came sooner than he expected.

  “Is that you, Mr. Sheringham? There are fourteen taxi-drivers here, littering up my office,” said Moresby offensively. “They all took fares from Piccadilly Circus to the Strand, or vice versa, at your time. What do you want me to do with ’em?”

  “Kindly keep them till I come, Chief Inspector,” returned Roger with dignity, and grabbed his hat. He had not expected more than three at the most, but he was not going to let Moresby know that.

  The interview with the fourteen was brief enough however. To each grinning man in turn (Roger deduced a little heavy humour on the part of Moresby before he arrived) Roger showed the photograph, taking some pains to hold it so that Moresby could not see it, and asked if he could recognise his fare. Not a single one could.

  Moresby dismissed the men with a broad grin. “That’s a pity, Mr. Sheringham. Puts a bit of a spoke in the case you’re trying to work up, no doubt?”

  Roger smiled at him in a superior manner. “On the contrary, my dear Moresby, it just about clinches it.”

  “It what did you say?” asked Moresby, startled out of his grammar. “What are you up to, Mr. Sheringham, eh?”

  “I thought you knew all that. Aren’t we being sleuthed?”

  “Well!” Moresby actually looked a shade out of countenance. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Sheringham, all your people seemed to be going so far off the lines that I called my men off; it didn’t seem worth while keeping ’em on.”

  “Dear, dear,” said Roger gently. “Fancy that. Well, it’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “So what have you been doing, Mr. Sheringham? You’ve no objection to telling me that, I suppose?”

  “None in the least, Moresby. Your work for you. Does it interest you to know that I’ve found out who sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace?”

  Moresby eyed him for a moment. “It certainly does, Mr. Sheringham. If you really have.”

  “Oh, I have, yes,” said Roger very nonchalantly; even Mr. Bradley himself could not have spoken more so. “I’ll give you a report on it as soon as I’ve got my evidence in order.—It was an interesting case,” he added. And suppressed a yawn.

  “Was it now, Mr. Sheringham?” said Moresby, in a choked voice.

  “Oh, yes; in its way. But absurdly simple once one had grasped the really essential factor. Quite ridiculously so. I’ll let you have that report some time. So long, then.” And he strolled out.

  One cannot conceal the fact that Roger had his annoying moments.

  CHAPTER XIII

  ROGER called on himself.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as the one responsible for this experiment, I think I can congratulate myself. The three members who have spoken so far have shown an ingenuity of observation and argument which I think could have been called forth by no other agency. Each was convinced before beginning to speak that he or she had solved the problem and could produce positive proof in support of such solution, and each, I think, is still entitled to say that his or her reading of the puzzle has not yet been definitely disproved.

  “Even Sir Charles’s choice of Lady Pennefather is perfectly arguable, in spite of the positive alibi that Miss Dammers is able to give to Lady Pennefather herself; Sir Charles is quite entitled to say that Lady Pennefather has an accomplice, and to adduce in support of that the rather dubious circumstances attending her stay in Paris.

  “And in this connection I should like to take the opportunity of retracting what I said to Bradley last night. I said that I knew definitely that the woman he had in mind could not have committed the murder. That was a mis-statement. I didn’t know definitely at all. I found the idea, from what I personally know of her, to be quite incredible.

  “Moreover,” said Roger bravely, “I have some reason to suspect the origin of her interest in criminology, and I’m pretty sure it’s quite a different one from that postulated by Bradley. What I should have said was, that her guilt of this crime was a psychological impossibility. But so far as facts go, one can’t prove psychological impossibilities. Bradley is still perfectly entitled to believe her the criminal. And in any case she must certainly remain on the list of suspects.”

  “I agree with you, Sheringham, you know, about the psychological impossibility,” remarked Mr. Bradley. “I said as much. The trouble is that I consider I proved the case against her.”

  “But you proved the case against yourself too,” pointed out Mrs. Fielder-Flemming sweetly.

  “Oh, yes; but that doesn’t worry me with its inconsistency. That involves no psychological impossibility, you see.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Fielder-Flemming. “Perhaps not.”

  “Psychological impossibility!” contributed Sir Charles robustly. “Oh, you novelists. You’re all so tied up with Freud nowadays that you’ve lost sight of human nature altog
ether. When I was a young man nobody talked about psychological impossibilities. And why? Because we knew very well that there’s no such thing.”

  “In other words, the most improbable person may, in certain circumstances, do the most unlikely things,” amplified Mrs. Fielder-Flemming. “Well, I may be old-fashioned, but I’m inclined to agree with that.”

  “Constance Kent,” led Sir Charles.

  “Lizzie Borden,” Mrs. Fielder-Flemming covered.

  “The entire Adelaide Bartlett case,” Sir Charles brought out the ace of trumps.

  Mrs. Fielder-Flemming gathered the cards up into a neat pack. “In my opinion, people who talk of psychological impossibilities are treating their subjects as characters in one of their own novels—they’re infusing a certain percentage of their own mental make-up into them and consequently never see clearly that what they think may be the impossible for themselves may quite well be the possible (however improbable) in somebody else.”

  “Then there is something to be said after all for the detective story merchant’s axiom of the most unlikely person,” murmured Mr. Bradley. “Good!”

  “Shall we hear what Mr. Sheringham’s got to say about the case now?” suggested Miss Dammers.

  Roger took the hint.

  “I was going on to say how interestingly the experiment had turned out, too, in that the three people who have already spoken happen each to have hit on a different person for the criminal. I, by the way, am going to suggest another, or even if Miss Dammers and Mr. Chitterwick each agree with one of us, that gives us four entirely different possibilities. I don’t mind confessing that I’d hoped something like that would happen, though I hardly looked for such an excellent result.

  “Still, as Bradley has pointed out in his remarks about closed and open murders, the possibilities in this case really are almost infinite. That, of course, makes it so much more interesting from our point of view. For instance, I began my own investigations from the point of view of Sir Eustace’s private life. It was there, I felt convinced, that the clue to the murder was to be found. Just as Bradley did. And like him, I thought that this clue would be in the form of a discarded mistress; jealousy or revenge, I was sure, would turn out to be the mainspring of the crime. Lastly, like him I was convinced from the very first glance at the business that the crime was the work of a woman.