by J. V. Turner
‘Of course, I did. Damn it, man, what do you take me for? The speech was in seven sections and I took all of them.’
Amos pursed his mouth and produced his handkerchief. It was the first time that he had heard the sections mentioned. Ferguson noted the little man’s concentrated interest. Petrie saw that the change in his expression was observed and immediately swerved away:
‘Now I want to ask you something that must have come under your notice as one of Reardon’s executors. Have you come across any trace of Paling acting as Reardon’s nominee in the speculations on the Budget you’ve been trying to cover up?’
‘No, I believe Reardon used a bank as nominee.’
Petrie straightened in his chair, looked at Ferguson incredulously.
‘Are you trying to tell me that a man fitted to be Chancellor of the Exchequer let his bank into the guilty secret? You honestly astound me, Ferguson. I thought the one thing certain about this man was that he wanted to save his reputation. And yet you suggest to me that he gave those big buying orders through the bank?’
Ferguson stroked his bald scalp as though it tickled.
‘I’m afraid I hadn’t much thought about the machinery involved in the speculation. I know he used his bank. But, of course, you’re right in thinking he wouldn’t let them know any more than he was forced to. He dare not.’
‘Quite. And for another reason he couldn’t have given these big orders to stockbrokers, could he? That would have let them know what his game was, and they would have dived into the market on the ground floor with him.’
‘More than one broker would be used, Petrie. Not one individual broker would know all that he was doing. He camouflaged it.’
‘But, Ferguson, the man was buying wholesale, and he was doing nothing but buying, and all the securities were of the same class. Do you mean he scattered hints of what he was doing among half a dozen stockbrokers? Surely if that had been the case, prices would have rocketed before the Budget? And there would have been no interruption of buying during the last account. He must have had a nominee. Perhaps more than one. I want their names.’
‘Then I’ll have to find that out for you.’
‘You don’t know now?’ Amos found the fact hard to credit.
‘No, I don’t. Will it do if I get the information on Monday?’
‘It might be a member of the Cabinet who was acting.’
‘Oh, come. I can see you don’t like my position at all.’
‘Were I in your position I’d be praying that I might never be subjected to cross-examination. But Monday will do.’
‘I don’t think you see, Petrie, how unimportant the name or names of the nominees can be from my point of view. As executors we will have to use them—because Reardon used them, and because the only way out of the mess is to sell as quietly as possible all that Reardon bought. Still, we haven’t got to set up the machinery ourselves. We’ve only got to use what is ready to our hands and pray hard that we don’t get burnt while we’re doing it. The very last thing we want is to have more to do with these tools than we can possibly help.’
‘From your point of view—splendid. But I haven’t your choice.’
‘I can see that yours is a different point of view. You may rely on me. I’ll have the information for you on Monday. What about the rest of the inquisition, or has it finished?’
‘Not quite. We’ll get a couple of drinks to sustain us, and then finish the talk. I’ll order them.’
Ferguson seemed grateful for the break. It was not until the drinks were served that Amos resumed his questioning:
‘Tell me about the Budget Day Cabinet. I don’t want to pry into secrets of State. I am more interested in procedure than anything. Did you spend the whole time discussing the Budget?’
‘No, we did not. Another rather urgent matter cropped up, and, as a matter of fact, we took that first. That delayed us with the Budget, and made the meeting last longer than any of us anticipated. I remember that because we’d arranged a little luncheon at the House and it had to be put back half an hour.’
‘You didn’t go to the House with Edgar Reardon?’
‘No, he had to rush back to the Treasury as soon as the meeting was over. He was having the notes of his speech typed out for him.’
‘You mean the notes he did not take to the Cabinet meeting?’
‘Exactly. Forgive me if I forget sometimes that you’re a stickler for precision. What I meant was that he wanted to check the typing, and see that everything was in order for the speech.’
‘I’m afraid I let you run away from the Cabinet meeting before you told me about the discussion.’
‘I didn’t mean to evade anything. But there isn’t much to tell. Reardon expounded, and we listened, and criticised or approved. For myself I was one of the strong silent men that morning.’
‘And may I take it that Reardon had no occasion to part with his notes at any time at that meeting?’
‘None of us fingered any of the papers, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Don’t lose patience just when you’re beginning to tell me what I consider is useful. It is essential for me to know these details.’
‘Perhaps my patience does need stimulating,’ said Ferguson, raising his glass and taking another drink. ‘Now, fire away!’
‘If those papers were not touched at the Cabinet meeting we go straight from there to Reardon’s private room at the House. Is your memory equally clear about the people you met on your walk along the corridors at the House? Be careful before you answer!’
Ferguson accepted the warning and hesitated for a space.
‘I don’t know that it is,’ he said. ‘There was nothing to recall.’
‘Do you mean by that that the corridors were empty?’
‘Of course not. There were plenty of people about, but they were just the ordinary folks.’
‘You saw nobody there who had no right there?’
‘Not a soul. I would have remembered that, naturally.’
‘All right. Let us see if you can help me about something else. How did you find Edgar Reardon? Was he alone?’
‘Practically. Watson was with him, of course. He doesn’t count. He made himself scarce as soon as he saw me—just as every well-conducted P.P.S. should.’
‘And Watson was a model of good behaviour that day?’
‘Quite. I begin to wish he hadn’t been. That would have helped to keep me out of the bunker, wouldn’t it?’
‘It might have assisted. What was Watson doing when you called?’
‘Nothing in particular. I think he was waving the stump of a cigar in the air and talking. Reardon was doing the same.’
At least, thought Amos, that meant that Reardon had not got Quiller’s opinion in his hand. He questioned Ferguson about that document. The Minister had seen no sign of it.
‘He might have given it to Watson to put away?’ asked Petrie.
‘Most certainly. In his position you’d trust him with anything.’
‘How far would you carry that trust? Might a Parliamentary Private Secretary see a confidential Cabinet document?’
‘He ought not to—except to fetch it, or take it back again.’
‘He might see it?’
‘Yes, he might. After all, he is not a servant. He’s a friend. Quite often a friend who expects you to give him a leg up into office the week after next.’
The questioning lagged. Into his vaguest replies Ferguson imported a suggestion of anxiety to help. There was in his answers an undertone of confidence, quiet, and unexpressed in words, but always suggested. However awkward his position Ferguson created the impression that he was relying upon Petrie to get him out of it. Suddenly the door opened and a servant entered. He spoke to Ferguson:
‘Your friends have just returned, sir, and will be dining shortly.’
‘Join us at table, Petrie,’ said Ferguson rising and heading for the door. He seemed grateful to escape.
‘No, thanks,’ a
nswered the little man. ‘It’s most kind of you, but I have one or two odd jobs to do before I can grub and I wouldn’t like to keep you waiting. But I’d be glad to join the party with coffee after dinner, if I may.’
‘We will be delighted,’ said Ferguson, closing the door behind him.
Petrie smiled. Ferguson did not always tell the truth!
CHAPTER XX
GOLDEN KITES WITH SILKEN TAILS
PETRIE dined alone. Mrs Reardon, her father, Watson, and Ferguson were in sight, but out of hearing. Canned music was being injected into the room from a loudspeaker. Amos listened and winced. The party of four seemed jolly enough, though obviously conscious of the little man’s presence. The widow had extended a gracious bow as he took his seat. But until the meal was over, his desire for solitude was respected.
Then Ferguson strolled over to his table.
‘Come and join the mob, Petrie. Coffee for one sounds like the aftermath of a duel.’
‘I always thought duels were affairs involving questionable wounds and tremendous honour for both parties. I’ll join you with pleasure. The meal, I thought, was good; the music, nerve shattering.’
Petrie ambled across the room at the side of the taller man as though uncomfortable. The surroundings were not arranged for men like Amos. Nor could it be said that his dinner suit had been a work of inspiration. It hung about him as though the tailor cut it with a view to allowing his customer ample scope for growth.
Watson and the widow’s father rose with forced smiles on their faces. Mrs Reardon sat with an elbow lolling on the table, handling a cigarette with an expertness that sat oddly upon her. Petrie settled down in a proffered chair at the side of the window. The commencement of the conversation was dramatic and sudden.
‘I’m offering you my assistance again,’ said Mrs Reardon, almost cheerily. His eyes were brighter, her tone almost sarcastic.
The implied challenge was accepted with a promptitude that made her gasp and caused the men to stare. Amos dived into a pocket and produced a small metal case. He unclipped the lid and with one sweep of his arm scattered part of the contents over the tablecloth in front of her.
‘Have you ever seen these before?’ he asked.
Mrs Reardon recoiled, pressing back into her seat as though on the brink of a faint. A chill coursed through her body and a shadow of fear flickered in her brown eyes. She seemed fascinated as she stared at the objects on the table. They were of a rich fawn colour, tinged with green and each of them had a tiny tuft of silk attached to it as if by an invisible filament. The widow did not seem able to avert her gaze.
‘Are these the things,’ she asked huskily, ‘that the police have been questioning my servants about?’
‘They are. Mr Watson will recognise them. They were left at his flat last Tuesday night. Seen them before?’
Mrs Reardon was slowly recovering her composure. The men were watching her anxiously. So, also, was Petrie.
‘Why should you think that I know something about them?’
Amos did not reply for a while. Ferguson pushed a cigar case across the table. The little man shook his head and slid it back again. The atmosphere had become suddenly uncomfortable.
‘I thought there was just the chance,’ he said at last, ‘that your husband might have brought them with him when he returned home from Africa. I’ve been trying to trace their arrival in this country and many inquiries lead me to think that something of the kind must have happened.’
His manner was reassuring, but it did not reassure. The elbow on the table supported an arm held rigid by conscious effort. There was a tell-tale waver in the smoke that rose from her cigarette. Petrie noticed the quiver on her lips as she shaped her mouth to speak. When the voice did come it was little more than a whisper.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Petrie.’ There was an interruption; one that the widow appreciated. It came from Ferguson:
‘What are the golden kites with silken tails, Petrie?’
‘That’s not a bad description of yours. If it’s original you must have remarkably keen eyes.’
Amos was assessing the distance at seven feet. The Minister was not slow to appreciate the implication. But Amos was shaken somewhat by the reply:
‘I’d like to claim that it was original. But it’s not. That’s what Edgar used to call them.’
The widow dug her nails into her palms until the knuckles shone whitely. Watson bent over her almost protectively.
‘That’s strange, too,’ remarked the little man. ‘Mrs Reardon has just been telling me that she had never set eyes on them before. When did Reardon apply that description to them and where did you see them?’
‘I remember it well. He showed them to me in his room at the House almost immediately after he returned from his African trip.’
‘How long would he have been back in England when he showed them to you?’
‘About a week; maybe a little less.’
Petrie glanced at Lola Reardon. She had turned her profile to the man she was anxious to assist. The hand holding the cigarette had fallen to her side. Only a sharp rise and fall of her chest betrayed emotion. Amos turned to the Minister again:
‘Did Edgar Reardon happen to tell you why he’d brought this very deadly poison back from Africa with him?’
‘Not in so many words, Petrie, not in so many words.’
‘I don’t mind whether he informed you by suggestion, implication, indication, or in any other way. I just want the effect of it.’
‘He treated them as a joke. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he looked upon them as a curiosity. I’m not defending his taste, but the fact remains that he did joke about them. To be quite honest with you I didn’t know that they contained poison at all. I got the impression that they were just the sort of things people do bring back from outlandish places.’
‘A most interesting impression. So he looked upon them as a mere curiosity, as something of a joke?’
‘Certainly. I never thought of them in any other way.’
The widow turned her head and found Amos staring full into her eyes. She was averting her glance when he smiled and spoke:
‘Seems very remarkable that he didn’t show these items of such curiosity, these examples of what he considered a joke, to his wife.’
The widow bit her lip and Watson swung round in her defence:
‘Can’t we have a holiday from this wretched business for a single night? I hear of strophanthus seeds and strophanthin all day and dream about it all night. For the love of everything, lay off.’
Ferguson looked across the table at the widow. She was trembling. The colouring on her cheeks showed up hard and patchily against the white skin.
‘Perhaps we might postpone the remainder of this interrogation for the time being,’ suggested the Minister. ‘After all it can’t be very pleasant for Mrs Reardon and I’m available at any time so that you can question me all night if you like.’
‘Very kind and considerate of you,’ said Lola, ‘but I’d rather you didn’t make any fuss about it on my behalf. I’m all right. Really, I am. I’m just a little tired and worn out and that’s why things affect me that ordinarily I wouldn’t notice at all. I think my nerves have been tried up more than they can stand.’
‘And not surprisingly, either,’ asserted Watson, as though issuing a challenge to the world to contradict him.
She smiled the palest of pale smiles and reached for the water. Petrie sat wondering which move to make. If he antagonised the party he might close their mouths; if he permitted the opening to pass it might never offer itself again. He was still undecided when the matter was entirely removed from his mind. The wireless began to bellow again.
‘This is the Second General News Bulletin,’ said the announcer in tones so magnified that each syllable was a buffet to the ears. Petrie remained silent. To have spoken would have been like talking in a railway tunnel with the carriage window open.
‘Powers … B.B.
C.… against you,’ shouted Ferguson, laughing. The little man closed his eyes for an instant and sat back. Then every thought was beaten out of his head by the words of the announcer:
‘Detective-Sergeant Mellor, of New Scotland Yard, one of the officers engaged in investigating the death of the late Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr Edgar Reardon, on Budget Day, collapsed and died while in his office late this afternoon. Detective-Sergeant Mellor …’
A wineglass full of water fell from the hand of Mrs Reardon, and crashed on the floor. With a low moan, she fainted. Watson clutched her body as it toppled from the chair. Ferguson sprang forward to assist him. Brandy was poured down her throat, more trickled down her chin. Her father seized her hands and commenced to chafe them. They gave her more brandy. Slowly she opened her eyes, thrust the glass away from her mouth with a shudder and was half carried to a settee in the corner of the dining-room. There she sat moaning, rocking to and fro as though in pain.
Petrie had been left alone. He was not sorry. Fear was flooding his mind. Mellor was handling routine inquiries under Ripple’s direction … the fatal Budget speech had been left with Ripple … Mellor had to report to the Yard every three or four hours … The little man shivered, jumped from his seat and ran into the hall, heading for the reception office.
‘I want to make a private call to London at once. Which phone can I use?’
‘I’ll get the number, sir, and put it through to you in that box.’
‘Whitehall 1212,’ said Petrie and marched nervously up and down the hall until the bell jangled in the box.
‘I want Chief Inspector Ripple,’ he called, closing the door behind him as he waited. Ripple’s agitated voice came over the wire.
‘Amos Petrie here. What’s happened to Mellor?’ The tone was curt.
‘He’s dead. Went the same way as Reardon.’ Ripple’s voice trembled.
‘How the hell did it happen, man?’
‘I told him about the poison just as you told me. Then I had to leave the office for a few minutes. I left the speech on my desk. He was looking at it when I left. I got back to find him on the floor. We did the best we could. It was hopeless. Mellor was dead!’