by J. V. Turner
‘We were no more alone than one generally is when staying in an hotel. You’ve found another mare’s nest, Mr Petrie.’
‘That’s a habit of mine. I really am a most unfortunate man. You didn’t mention this matter of the hotel to Inspector Ripple after the murder. Why not?’
‘He didn’t ask me, and I didn’t think that it was important.’
‘Really, really, really! You astonish me. What hotel was it?’
‘A little place at Milford. We arrived on the Saturday, and returned to London a week on the following Monday. Anything criminal about it?’
‘Not yet, Mr Paling.’ Amos was too deferential. Paling paled again. The little man passed on artlessly: ‘And at the hotel you either met people you knew, or you had visitors?’
‘We had visitors. Mr Curtis and Mr Ferguson used to come over every night for dinner.’
‘Every night—to Milford? Where on earth were they staying?’
‘They were at Brockenhurst—staying for the golf, I think. They may have missed a night or two at the start, but I’m sure they were with us for dinner every day after the first Tuesday.’
‘But whether they were there or not you were always with Reardon, and you stayed in the same hotel at night?’
‘Of course. I’d hardly stay with him all day, and then sleep on the beach at night.’
‘I expect that would have played the deuce with your metabolism. Was there any sort of quarrel or difference between you that week?’
‘Not the least. He was one of the most intimate friends I had, and I’m certain that nobody enjoyed his confidence more than I did.’
‘Had you any other position with him than that of friend?’
Paling looked a polite inquiry. Petrie put the question bluntly:
‘You were not paid any sort of a salary by him?’
Paling laughed scornfully: ‘I should say not.’
‘Thanks. May I take your presence at Milford as a guarantee that nothing untoward happened, or could have happened, to him there?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘And that he met no one there who even threatened him?’
‘Yes. I think I may say that positively.’
‘Good. And you returned from Milford with him?’
‘Yes, we returned together by car.’
‘Arriving at?’
‘Ten o’clock on the morning of his death. Mr Reardon had a lot to do that morning.’
‘And you, Mr Paling?’
‘I had plenty to occupy me, Mr Petrie.’
‘Something absorbing but vague, perhaps?’
‘Pardon me, you are wrong. Something definite, but private.’
‘Very well. I won’t press you. When did you see Reardon next?’
‘After lunch. It would be about half-past two, I think, but maybe a little later. It would certainly be well before three o’clock.’
Paling drew out his watch and looked at it wistfully. He repressed an inclination to yawn. Petrie slid his handkerchief into his breast pocket and interlocked his fingers.
‘Sorry to trouble you with all these details,’ he apologised, ‘but they’re important. Let me make sure that I’ve got them accurately. Ten days at Milford with you during which time he saw no one but the hotel people, and Messrs. Ferguson and Curtis—one a member of the Cabinet, and both Members of Parliament. Then a gap of about four-and-a-half hours, which I can fill up if necessary. After that an hour in his private room at the House of Commons seeing you, his wife, Watson, and Ferguson. After that—’
‘Just one second, Mr Petrie. Not forgetting that the folks you’ve named saw him after me.’
‘I am not forgetting that. After that he spent one hour in the House of Commons in full view of everyone. And after that—death.’
‘From a poison that acted on him within a minute or two of absorption,’ added Paling.
Amos looked at him curiously, pulled out his handkerchief again.
‘I had not forgotten that either,’ he said quietly.
‘I thought you had when you were questioning me about the arsenic. It certainly seemed as though you had.’
‘Then you were wrong, Mr Paling. Your metabolism is not without interest for me. But I have not forgotten for a second that I am looking for a murderer who used quite a different poison.’
Paling moved away from the fireplace and smiled, showing two even rows of white teeth.
‘Then let me advise you to look for your murderer among those who were on the floor of the House rather than among those who were in the galleries. I imagine you’ll find it more productive.’
‘Thank you for the advice. I will remember that.’
Paling commenced to move towards the door. Without moving, without change of expression on his face, Petrie’s voice rose peremptorily:
‘DON’T GO!’
Paling halted in the middle of his stride, stood uncertainly. His eyes distended a little, and his lips had parted. Then he looked from Petrie to the man between himself and the door.
‘Sit down,’ said Amos. ‘You are being most helpful, and I’m sure you can tell me a lot more if you will.’
‘Don’t try ordering me about, please. It isn’t the will that’s lacking on my part. It is lack of knowledge and shortage of time.’
‘We all have to manufacture time when assisting justice forward.’
Without further argument, Paling slumped into a chair and pulled out a cigarette-case. Petrie’s next remark startled him.
‘What you have said to me convinces me that you’ve formed a theory to account for the murder.’
‘Not me! I leave that job to you experts. I have no business with it.’
‘Surely your interest can’t be so casual when the murdered man is your great and intimate friend? You were in the House of Commons and saw it all. You must have formed some impressions. Tell them to me. I’m a good listener, and they may be helpful. Fire away.’
Paling pulled at his cigarette. He spoke reluctantly:
‘I would rather say nothing. If I express an opinion I may well be doing a grave injustice to somebody.’
‘On the other hand, you might do a damnable injustice by remaining silent. I’ll do my best not to be prejudiced by what you say. Come now, confess that you’re thinking of that claret and soda.’
‘It was a thing I noticed,’ said Paling cautiously.
‘When did you first think of that as a means of administering the poison?’
‘When I was trying to work things out in my mind, piece things together, after the tragedy.’
‘It never occurred to you as a possible danger beforehand?’
‘Of course not. The idea never entered my head, and I can see no reason whatever why it should.’
‘From your knowledge of Reardon, you wouldn’t have dreamed that he could be hocussed into drinking poisoned wine that way?’
Paling blew smoke into the air and shook his head.
‘Ah, that I cannot say. There may be so many factors. He might have drunk absent-mindedly, or he may have been thinking deeply.’
‘Let me remind you, Mr Paling, that the dead man drank some of the claret and soda before he became really engrossed in his Budget speech. Have you tried to piece that into your scheme of things?’
‘Yes, I remember … I’d rather not express an opinion.’
‘I want you to help me about this if you will, because you knew Reardon’s habits and faults—’ Petrie hesitated, and added slowly: ‘And you knew his tastes.’
Paling nodded and waited for the inevitable question.
‘The dead man had a cultivated palate so far as wines went?’
‘So, so. I wouldn’t praise it too highly. He didn’t help it by the spirits he drank. But it was pretty fair.’
‘He would know a well-matured wine from one that was rough?’
‘Oh, yes. I should say so. Certainly.’
‘And claret and soda has a much less well-defined taste than pure claret. It’s
rather insipid, isn’t it?’
Paling stifled a yawn and laughed.
‘That depends upon the amount of claret and the amount of soda. You are asking me an impossible question, Mr Petrie. I don’t drink claret and soda, and I have never tasted strophanthin.’
‘I believe you! Let me make one further attempt. After all, I’m only asking for your opinion, based on your knowledge of the dead man. We will assume that claret and soda has as full a taste as pure claret, and I’ll try to give you a means of assessing the taste of strophanthin.’
Paling waved the suggestion away with both hands
‘Let me try,’ persisted Petrie. Paling conceded with a weary bow.
‘You know the taste of arsenic?’
Paling replied with a nod that was almost a start. His eyes were turned towards Petrie with a fascinated stare.
‘Well,’ said the little man, ‘in the Seddon case, and again in the Vaquier case, arsenic was administered in medicine—if you call salts a medicine. But in both cases the victims detected the taste of the arsenic. In the Armstrong murder the stuff used was very much the same as that in this box. And there we had complaints of the taste, though the poison was given in wine. Now arsenic is not regarded as possessing a pungent taste. Generally it is spoken of as comparatively tasteless. On the other hand, strophanthin is referred to as bitter, extremely bitter. Does that help you to judge whether Reardon would be likely to accept doctored claret and soda as a sound drink?’
Paling pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
‘I don’t see why I should be asked to make any guess of the sort,’ he said. ‘You have got the wineglass in which the drink was given. It seems to me that you’re taking an unfair advantage of me by playing on my feelings for my dead friend.’
‘Indeed I am not. I’m simply disregarding your feelings for the sake of obtaining your opinion. The wineglass you mention was washed long before I had a chance of laying my hands on it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been seeking indirect evidence. And you know Watson claims that the murderer is trying to saddle him with the guilt. I don’t say the claim is justified, but I have to take account of it.’
‘Well,’ said Paling gloomily, ‘you seem to be in a better position to judge than I am.’
‘You don’t know the drug strophanthin?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Been to Tropical Africa?’
‘Travelled there quite a lot.’
‘And during those travels you have never even met it in its crudest form?’
‘When I travelled in Africa I was there for the shooting. I did not go there to study native poisons.’
‘So you can’t be of any assistance to me?’
‘I’ve helped you all I can.’ An uncomfortable silence followed.
‘I don’t think so, Mr Paling,’ said Petrie mildly. ‘No, I certainly do not think so. I’m going to ask you to step across to Scotland Yard with me so that you can give the matter further consideration.’
‘And if I refuse?’ Paling showed some of his former spirit. He rose from his chair. The detective moved nearer to him. Petrie watched the scene, and wagged his head almost mournfully.
‘With even your small experience of the ways of Scotland Yard,’ he said, ‘you must know that such invitations are never refused.’
‘Do you mean—do you mean that I’m under arrest?’
‘Dear me, no. But, if you insist upon some element of coercion, you may say quite accurately that you are detained.’
‘Shall I take him, sir?’ asked the detective.
‘Thanks,’ replied Amos. Paling offered no further arguments. He had arrived at the door when Petrie stopped them.
‘Mr Paling, there is just one thing I want to say to you.’
‘Then say it as quickly as you can.’
‘Right. I want you to consider whether your own interests do not require you to make a statement in writing of all that happened at Milford, and up to the time you left Reardon in his private room at the House of Commons. What I have said to you tonight should clearly show you the need for it. If the theory of the poisoned wine has to be rejected, this murder cannot be dismissed as a haphazard affair conceived and carried out on the spur of the moment. There is a real possibility that something you might tell us would lead directly to the discovery of the murderer. Of course, you have to decide for yourself whether your own interests permit you to make such a statement. It is also my duty to remind you that such a statement might be used in evidence. Think it over. And please remember if you do make a statement that it will be of no use to make one which contains only that which you want me to believe. If you can’t tell the whole truth it would be better to say nothing.’
Paling nodded his head, and walked from the room as though he carried a burden of great weight. Amos Petrie continued to sit in his chair, staring with vacant eyes at the open door.
When he finally moved he ambled over to the telephone, and rang Mrs Reardon. The woman’s voice was agitated.
‘How did it come about that Paling did not dine with you after he had made the arrangement?’ asked the little man.
‘I couldn’t really tell you, Mr Petrie,’ replied Lola. ‘He seemed very nervous when he arrived, and suddenly said that he’d remembered another appointment. That’s all I know about it. Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Tell me, how did your husband spend the New Year? Was he at home?’
‘No, he was not. Why do you ask?’
‘I’d just like to know where he went. Surely it’s no secret?’
‘No, it isn’t. He went to Kenya. I remember it only too well, because I was nervous about him. And in Kenya it was difficult to keep in touch with him as he darted all over the place with his plane.’
‘And what was he doing by the end of January—say the 28th?’
‘He would be returning. He had to be back at the Treasury by the end of the month. Oh, I remember. He had met Mr Paling in Paris, and they returned together by plane. Was that what you wanted to know?’
‘Thank you very much indeed. Good night.’
When Amos replaced the receiver he was smiling. He was still smiling when he continued to search the flat. Apparently it was the appointment to meet Reardon in Paris that reminded Paling of the needs of his metabolism!
The telephone bell jangled. Petrie walked over to the instrument. Ripple’s startled voice, came over the wire:
‘For the love of Mike come back to the Yard immediately!’
CHAPTER XIII
A CABINET MEETING
AMOS found Ripple pacing his office ceaselessly. The cadaverous face was more miserable than ever.
‘Cabinet Ministers have been telephoning you here for the last few minutes,’ said the Inspector. ‘I managed to put them off until Sammy Morgan, the Home Secretary, rang up himself. I’m scared stiff. I dare not tell them you were out rifling Paling’s place without a warrant.’
‘What the devil do they all want me for?’
‘It’s a helluva mess all the way round. They got to know somehow what you were doing, and they want you to hold your hand against Paling until they’ve seen you.’
Petrie burst out laughing. Ripple became more worried.
‘I’ll be damned if I can see anything to laugh about,’ he said.
‘I can, Sunshine. I’m glad you didn’t tell me that before. I might not have done what I have done. I’ve sent Paling round here—had him detained. I thought you’d have heard about it by now.’
‘Oh, my God!’ moaned Ripple, sinking into a chair, his face cupped in his hands. ‘I should think you’re sorry now that you did it.’
‘Not I. What exactly do the lads of the Cabinet want me to do?’
‘They want to see you. You know when we’ve worked together before you’ve left me a nervous wreck, but this time I feel as though the roof has fallen in on me. Try and not drag me into it. It doesn’t matter if you get the sack because you’ve got enough money to fish for the r
est of your life—and that won’t last long. But I’m only a poor split. Gosh, I’m scared stiff. Damn Reardon! What did he want to go and get murdered for?’
‘Maybe he enjoyed it. Listen for a moment, Dynamite. I’ve got a job for you, and it’s important. Telephone Milford, or, better still, Lymington, and get the local police to discover all they can about what happened at the Milford Hotel. I want—’
What he wanted was postponed by the strident call of the phone. Petrie lifted the receiver. The Home Secretary was on the line.
‘Yes, Petrie here,’ said the little man. ‘Sorry I was out when you rang before. I am just coming over. Right.’
‘Morgan again?’ asked Ripple as one might ask whether the mourners have yet passed through.
‘Right first guess. I’ve got to go over to the House right away. Do what you can about Milford. I want to know what happened at that hotel during the week before the Budget. Get them to send some sort of a report in the morning. Oh, and get into touch with Paris, and see whether they know anything about Paling.’
Amos was still giving instructions as he hurried from the room. At the House of Commons he found the Rt. Hon. Samuel Morgan in a curious mood. The Home Secretary seemed nervous and vague.
‘There is trouble of some kind,’ he said. ‘I don’t exactly know what it’s all about. But I can tell you, Petrie, that I don’t like it. Ferguson is kicking up the bother. I know that strictly speaking it is none of his affair, none of his business at all, but he’s got some sort of an interest in it. Ferguson is an awkward fellow to run up against, and I want to quieten things down. They’re all in the Prime Minister’s room now, and I told them that I’d take you along. I can’t give you any details about the trouble, because I know nothing myself.’
Morgan seemed so apprehensive that he led Petrie to the P.M.’s as he might have led him to the stake. But in spite of his marked uneasiness he gave the impression that he was prepared to go to the stake himself if the work of the police and Amos was to be thrust under fire. They found five Ministers of the Crown waiting for them. One sat on the corner of the table, swinging his legs, Ingram sat in his chair, the others stood near the fire, watching Ferguson. The President of the Board of Trade was striding up and down the carpet as though on a quarter-deck. He stopped in full stride as Petrie and Morgan entered the room, looking at Morgan with a mute question. The Home Secretary shook his head, and Ferguson commenced to walk to and fro again.