The major sat down in the visitor’s chair, smiled nervously at Oates, and fumbled in the leather brief-case which Mr Culvert held open for him. He found the notebook for which he was searching at last and looked up with a sigh.
‘We’ve hardly begun yet, of course,’ he said with a nervous giggle. ‘This is going to take some time. You do realise that, don’t you? I know you people are always in such a hurry. I haven’t prepared any sort of statement and I haven’t had time to go into the analysis of the metal at all, but there are just one or two points that may be of interest to you at the moment.’
Oates thanked him gravely.
‘Make it simple,’ he said.
The major blinked. ‘I don’t think I follow you …’
‘Make it simple, sir. I’m not very up in chemistry. Let’s just have the straight tale first.’
‘Oh yes, I see. I see. Of course.’ The expert seemed alarmed, and he glanced at his assistant helplessly. Mr Culvert coughed.
‘First of all the Superintendent should know that you’re satisfied it was a grenade, sir,’ he murmured.
Oates nodded. ‘Oh, ah, it was, was it? Well, we feared so. An amateur grenade would you say, sir?’
‘Well, no, you know. It’s a funny thing, but I don’t think it was.’ The major got up and walked down the room; his shyness dropped from him and his voice rose with sudden authority. ‘I can’t be certain, but as far as I can see the explosive was either amatol or tetrol. That’s as near as we shall ever get. Tetrol. Tetramethylaniline, you know. I think it was that. That’s by the damage and the action on the cast-iron casing. One of the doctors gave me a most valuable specimen of the casing, taken from the porter’s chest. We can say that for certain, can’t we, Culvert?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Amatol …’ The Superintendent was making notes. ‘Where would that come from, now? Could an amateur obtain it?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose he could. It’s very usual stuff. The wholesalers have it.’ The expert appeared to resent the interruption. ‘However, what I’m trying to tell you is that it didn’t look like amateur work to me. The casing was grooved inside, you see. It wasn’t one of your petrol cans, or the dreadful tea-caddy things that we get sometimes. As far as we can tell at the moment from the evidence we’ve received, it was a very decent, well-constructed grenade, not at all unlike a Mills bomb but rather more powerful.’
‘How much more powerful?’ Oates sat up with frank interest.
‘My dear good man, how can I possibly tell you? A Mills bomb, now, holds about three ounces of explosive. I think in this case you might multiply that by anything up to four. That’s on the damage. Don’t run away with the idea that the grenade used was four times as large as a Mills bomb. That’s not what I’m saying at all. It might have been any size. It depends on the casing and on the filling. And don’t ask me how big it was or what shape it was because I can’t possibly tell you and no one on earth except the men who made it and placed it can.’
He paused and eyed them with frank, weak blue eyes.
‘I’m working now on the scraps of metal which we’ve been able to collect, you understand, and while I think of it, there are some pieces embedded in the platform. I’d like those. Every tiny piece is of value to me. You never know … I may with luck be able to tell where the iron came from. The country of origin, I mean.’
He stopped, seemed suddenly to become aware of the unfamiliar surroundings, and sat down abruptly.
Oates remained quiet for a moment, digesting his astonishing information.
‘How do these things go off?’ he inquired at last. ‘Can you tell me that, sir?’
The major permitted himself one of his unhappy little giggles.
‘There are nine-and-sixty ways,’ he murmured, ‘but in this particular case I think there really must have been the usual cap and detonator. This isn’t evidence, you understand. This is simply my present opinion. It was something very like a Mills bomb; I really can say that.’
Oates sat looking at him, his head a little on one side.
‘You mean someone must have pulled a pin out before throwing it?’
The major seemed to hesitate on the brink of a confidence, but thought better of it and remained cautious.
‘Something like that. A pin, or a switch, or a screw.’
‘I see.’ Oates seemed only fairly satisfied and after an inquiring glance at his chief Mr Culvert broke in to remind the Superintendent in his prim, deferential way that the investigations were at a very elementary stage.
The major rose again and heaved himself over to the desk, where he made a rough sketch on the Superintendent’s clean blotting-paper.
‘You take an iron casing filled with explosives and projectiles,’ he said, breathing gustily on Oates’s bent head. ‘Into that you introduce a tube of thin perforated metal, which is roughly hour-glass in shape, narrow in the middle. Inside the tube you put a striker, which is held in place by a rod, with an arm on the end of it. The rod is connected with the switch or screw on the outside of the casing. Now above the striker you put a little spring, so that when the rod is turned the arm slips aside and the striker plunges down, being guided by the construction in the hour-glass, on to a small anvil. The anvil is formed by the base of the hour-glass. On the anvil is the cap and detonator, probably fulminate of mercury. Understand what I’m telling you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Oates was blinking. ‘And this is what was used?’
The major shrugged his shoulders.
‘That’s what I can’t tell you. I’ll never be able to tell you. But I think so. Something very simple, but professional work. I may have something more to say later on. It’s a rather interesting point, but I don’t like to commit myself at the moment. All I’ll admit now is that it was a grenade and it was professionally made.’
‘Ah!’ said the Superintendent and was silent.
A young constable knocked and put a polished face inside the door.
‘Chief Inspector Yeo, sir.’
The Superintendent looked up with a grin.
‘Hallo, Freddie,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you. Come in. We’ve got some nice bad news for you here, my lad.’
19
CHIEF DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR YEO came in briskly. He was square and efficient, with a solid bullet head and an insignificant, almost comical face. His snub nose and round eyes had been a serious disadvantage to him all his life, undermining his dignity and earning him friends rather than admirers. Even Oates, who had the utmost respect for his quite extraordinary ability, was inclined to sympathise with him whenever he saw him.
At the moment he was very tired and his plump face was drawn.
The Superintendent performed the introduction briefly. He ignored Yeo’s sharp glance of inquiry and offered no explanation for Mr Campion’s presence.
‘You wouldn’t have had time to prepare any sort of report, of course?’ Oates was inclined to put the question mischievously. ‘You’re just off the train, aren’t you? Anything new?’
Yeo shook his head.
‘Nothing,’ he said gloomily. ‘Plenty of negative evidence. However, my men are still slogging away at it and the local people are very helpful, but they’ve got their hands full. One rather wretched thing happened. The porter’s wife chucked herself into the local millpool this morning. She was left with two little kids. Couldn’t face life without her husband and all that. She was a bit crazy, of course; demented by the shock, probably. They got her out, but it was no good. Makes you feel a bit sick, don’t it? It’s a nasty callous business. No sense in it.’
He wiped his forehead and his thick short neck with a vast handkerchief and looked glum.
The Superintendent made no comment on the extraneous tragedy so briefly recorded, but his face grew very hard and Mr Campion, who was sitting quietly in his corner, was reminded that Oates was a countryman who had come from just such another village with just such another millpool, and more than probably just
such another porter.
The Superintendent plunged into business.
‘Major Bloom holds the view that the grenade was professional work. Does that help at all?’
‘Professional?’ Yeo looked at the major blankly. ‘That’s a funny thing. It must have been in a parcel lying around. Someone’s hiding some little technical offence against the railway. Must be.’
He spoke hopefully, but without great conviction.
‘We’ve made fifty-four interviews and taken thirty-nine statements,’ he went on slowly, ‘and at the moment, if I heard you gentlemen had decided it was a thunderbolt I should be convinced and thankful. It’s an extraordinary thing, but no one admits to having seen anyone throw anything at any time, and they’re nearly all strangers to each other, so it can’t be conspiracy.’
The major, who had been listening with interest, leant across the arm of his chair.
‘Could you give me a good eye-witness report of the two or three minutes before the explosion?’ he inquired.
Yeo grimaced.
‘I can, sir, but I’m afraid you’ll find it very ordinary. There doesn’t seem to have been much to see. There’s one young chap who gives the down platform view very clearly.’
He opened a battered attaché-case and took out a sheaf of typewritten sheets.
‘I’ll read it to you. Here he is. Joseph Harold Biggins, 17 years of age, 32, Christchurch Road, N.E. 38. He was one of the cyclists and he’s in the cottage hospital with half the skin flayed off his chest, poor chap. I won’t bother you with all the preliminary stuff, about how he got to Boarbridge and so on. This is what he says about the actual thing.’
He cleared his throat and began to read in expressionless police-court tones.
‘When the train pulled out of the station, Mr Konrad, our President, whom we had come to meet, was standing about half-way down the platform holding his bicycle. We advanced to meet him and as our secretary had been detained outside the booking hall I and Duke went forward in front of the others. Mr Konrad was in cycling costume and seemed very pleased to see us. He smiled as we came up and said “Hallo, boys, here I am,” or something like that. I cannot swear to the exact words.
‘There was a bit of a pause because of shyness on the part of the members, and to make everybody comfortable Mr Konrad indicated the bicycle he was holding, which was a present from the club, and said: “Is not she a beauty? She runs like a bird.” He then turned the bike sideways, showed off the drop handlebars with the special grips, pretended to switch the lamp on and off, et cetera. That is the last I remember.
‘There was a sort of roar and I remember falling. When I came to I was in great pain and Duke was lying over me. I did not realise he was dead until I saw his face.’
The Inspector ceased abruptly.
‘A terrible business,’ he said. ‘All the statements are like that. Just horror coming out of the blue, you might say. One woman in the up train said she saw Konrad and the bicycle shoot into the air, but the porter with the milk-cans was between her and him and he staggered forward, you know, pulling the whole thing on top of him. The sight of all the churns toppling over on to the line in a shower of glass from the roof seems to have sent everything else out of her mind. The thing couldn’t have been in a milk-can, could it? I don’t know much about these things, but it seems to me –’
He broke off questioningly. The two experts, who had been exchanging glances, were on the verge of speech. Mr Culvert appeared to be urging his chief to make some sort of confidence and the major suddenly capitulated.
‘I wanted to be more sure, d’you see,’ he began in his soft, homely accent, ‘because, frankly, the idea is so – so peculiar. But in view of that first statement made by the young boy I think we really might consider the evidence of the fragments of glass and the bicycle, even at this dangerously early stage.’
Both policemen and Mr Campion regarded him with polite bewilderment.
‘What glass?’ demanded the Superintendent.
Yeo was interested.
‘You’re referring to the little chunks of thick glass taken from Duke’s body?’ he said. ‘I wondered about that myself. What’s on your mind, sir?’
Although he had decided to confide, the major was still very guarded.
‘You must understand that I’m not giving you evidence,’ he said. ‘There’s still an enormous amount of work to be done before I could consider the case for the bicycle lamp to be absolutely watertight. There are certain comparisons we’ll have to make, or a clever counsel could make us look like a pack of idiots. These legal fellows, you know, are very difficult.’
‘We haven’t got that far,’ murmured the Superintendent dryly. ‘We don’t know if we’re going to have to make an arrest at all. You people may have to go to war or something. It may be a political business, clean out of our province.’
The Inspector, however, had heard remarkable words.
‘The bicycle lamp?’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes. As far as we can see, though I really don’t like to commit myself.’ The major was excited. ‘The grenade was inside the bicycle lamp – where the dry battery should have been. Some of these lamps turn on with a screw, you know, and my own personal theory – which isn’t evidence – is that the man with the bicycle exploded the grenade when he turned on, or attempted to turn on, the lamp. That explains all the facts, you see: the state of the bicycle, which was injured in a most significant fashion; the tiny pieces of thick lens glass in the one man’s body; the general direction of the damage; the fact that nothing appears to have been thrown; the –’
He broke off. No one but Mr Culvert was making any pretence of listening to him. The two policemen were staring at each other, speculation in their eyes, while Campion had frozen and sat staring rigidly in front of him, his mind leaping from one appalling conjecture to the next.
‘He brought it with him …!’ said Yeo. ‘God Almighty, he brought it with him!’
‘You’ll have to trace the original lamp and find me a similar one for comparison with my fragments,’ put in the major, who appeared to be completely blind to the sensation he was creating. ‘That’s most important if it comes into court. That woman in the train, too. You spoke of her just now. She must have seen the explosion itself. If one of us were to question her she might remember a great many little details which seemed to her unimportant at the time, and we may get a lot of stuff to help us to establish absolute proof. You see, I’m thinking that there was probably a very short time-fuse – say two or three seconds – fitted to the thing. That would have made it considerably safer to handle, and he could have moved the bicycle, or spoken even, actually after he’d ignited the fuse by turning on the lamp. As far as we know he made no attempt to save himself.
‘I haven’t gathered all the circumstances yet. What was he doing? Making a protest of some sort?’
His final words percolated through the Superintendent’s preoccupation. Oates looked up slowly.
‘He had no idea what he was doing,’ he said. ‘That’s certain. He was ignorant. He didn’t know it was there.’
Yeo rose to his feet.
‘But all those people?’ he began, his round eyes wide and shocked.
As the obvious truth dawned upon him the colour rushed into his face.
‘It was a mistake!’ he ejaculated. ‘It was a mistake. It ought not to have happened there. It ought to have happened on a lonely road somewhere. It’s a mistake. It’s a murder gone wrong!’
He remained for a moment bewildered by his own discovery and then, as another thought occurred to him, he swooped down upon his brief-case.
‘Oates,’ he said unsteadily, ‘it’s all here. That bicycle was given to Konrad by the cycle club. The collection was taken and delivery made by the Secretary. His name is Howard. I’ve got his statement somewhere. He didn’t like Konrad. That has emerged in several statements. It struck me at the time. He wasn’t present on the station at the time of the explosion and – this
is the point – he works in a wholesale chemist’s. I’ve just remembered it.’
Mr Campion rose from his chair in the corner and came quietly forward. His voice was heavy and impersonal and he stood limply, as though the weight of his own body had suddenly become oppressive to him.
‘I’m afraid that’s no good,’ he said, unaware of the Chief Inspector’s startled glance. ‘Konrad was given that bicycle weeks ago. You’ll have plenty of proof that he’s been all over it with the excitement of a woman examining a new handbag. But he had not seen it for five days before he collected it on Sunday morning, and hurried down to Birley station on it to catch the slow down train for Boarbridge. During that five days it had been standing in the cloakroom at White Walls.’
‘Where’s that?’ The Inspector put the question sharply.
Oates answered for Campion.
‘Jimmy Sutane’s country house. He’s the actor chap Blest was telling you about. Remember?’
20
‘MR CAMPION –’
The Chief Inspector set down his modest glass of Bass and leant confidentially across the coarse linen table-cloth.
‘When Mr Sutane phoned you last night and you spoke to him, what did you say?’
It was late in the day for lunch and Bonini’s stuffy upper room was practically deserted. They had that corner by the window which gives into Old Compton Street to themselves, and Yeo’s gentle murmur carried no further than the ear for which it was intended.
Campion, who was looking a little leaner and, in the Inspector’s opinion, a good deal more intelligent than his usual, casually elegant self, blinked thoughtfully as the explanation of the hasty and pressing invitation was revealed to him. He glanced at Yeo, sitting square and absurd before him, and was inclined to like him very much.
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