by J. V. Turner
‘You told him all about the way in which Reardon died?’
‘Yes, just as you told me.’
‘H’m. A tragedy, a very painful tragedy. But poor Mellor seems to have caused it by his own carelessness. There’s no blame attaching to you, my lad, so don’t upset yourself about it. Lock that speech in the safe immediately, and don’t issue any statement to the papers about the cause of death. I’ll be back early in the morning.’
Petrie slammed down the receiver wearily and returned to the dining-room. Mrs Reardon was dabbing her eyes with a fragment of cambric. The others still hovered round her.
‘I’m afraid I’ve been making a silly of myself?’ she said to Amos.
Ferguson did not wait for any comment from Petrie.
‘Go to bed, dear,’ he urged. ‘What you need now is a long sleep.’
The advice was taken and Watson assisted her out of the room. As they left the Minister turned to Amos and shook his head reprovingly.
‘You’ve been pressing, Petrie, and if you were a golfer you’d know how useless it is.’
‘I’m not playing a game,’ snapped Amos. He was still thinking of Mellor, picturing the effects of his death on the melancholic Ripple.
‘A game!’ snorted Ferguson. ‘I call it a damned outrage.’
Watson returned. The widow’s faint seemed to have shaken him more than it did her. The man was pallid and shivering.
‘I’m feeling rough,’ he said to Amos. ‘If anything you want to say to me will wait until the morning I’ll go to bed.’
‘That will suit me,’ agreed Petrie. Mrs Reardon’s father made the same request. It was granted. When they left the room Amos led the Minister into the small smoking-room.
‘How often did you see those seeds?’ he inquired as soon as he closed the door.
‘Only the once.’
‘But Edgar Reardon talked of them more than once?’
‘Quite a lot. I’ve told you that he made a joke of it.’
‘Never mind the joke. Everybody but you seems to have forgotten it. In any case the joke wasn’t very amusing at the finish for Reardon. Tell me where he kept them.’
‘I don’t know. When I saw them they were in a sort of earthenware jar on his table. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more about them than that—except that he seemed to have shoved the jar to one side to make room for something else on the table. It was standing just beyond the edge of that screen he had round his table.’
Petrie tugged at his handkerchief and was silent for a time.
‘The screen is news to me,’ he said. ‘There was no screen in the room when I saw it, and I was definitely told that nothing had been moved. Are you quite certain about this screen?’
‘Not the slightest doubt. Whoever told you that nothing had been moved gave you the wrong story. Edgar always had a screen at the back of his desk. It was specially put there to cover his chair, so to speak, and cut off any draughts. Edgar had a few eccentricities. The fear of draughts was one of them. I’ve never known a man so scared of them—even worse than the King’s Bench Division judges, and that’s saying something. Why, of course the screen was there. We used to pull his leg about it and ask him how his pneumonia was getting on.’
Petrie sat with his legs crossed, one of the few remaining wisps of hair drooping over his forehead, his hands fastened round his knees, his mouth twisted in a way that might have indicated anything from complete surprise to subdued amusement.
‘Was that screen in its usual position when you saw him before the Budget speech?’ he asked.
‘I’m almost certain it was. But I can’t swear to it. I was so used to seeing it there that I might have imagined I saw it, even if it had been moved. Have a drink, Petrie?’
‘Beer for me, thanks. Push the bell and sound the alarm for the waiter. While we wait for him tell me some more about this screen. Had Reardon erected that screen as soon as he took over office?’
‘I think not. You’re carrying my memory back a fair way, but I seem to remember that he’d been Chancellor a few months or so before he complained about the draught and insisted that a screen should be installed. We weren’t surprised. A draught to Edgar was about the same as a sick headache to an ordinary man.’
‘Some folks are reared that way. I’ve met them. Now let—’
He ceased speaking as the waiter entered and took the order. Even when the man vanished he continued to stare into the fire. He didn’t want the questioning interrupted by the rattle of glasses on a tray.
The waiter arrived. They toasted each other in silence. Petrie laid his tankard on the table and resumed the barrage:
‘You say the earthenware pot containing these seeds had been moved. Curious thing to be certain about, Ferguson. Why?’
‘I can easily answer that. The jar, when I saw it, was standing at the side of a bundle of documents, about a foot from the inkstand. I told Edgar that when the messenger came to collect the papers he might take a fancy to his golden kites as well. He laughed. But when I came into the room on the afternoon of Budget day I noticed, quite casually, that the jar was standing on the far side of the table. I suppose it would be about a foot beyond the edge of the screen.’
‘Where was the Budget speech when you were in the room’?
‘Let me think. Eh … it was lying on the table at the side of the jar. Yes, I’m sure it was, because that’s when I noticed that the jar had been moved. But what the hell is all this talk about?’
‘Nothing much. I’m sure you’re tired. I know I am. Heading for bed?’
They mounted the stairs together. Petrie sat in his bedroom and amused himself by jotting down the known facts of the case. When he had finished writing and was considering what he had written, a low murmur of voices attracted his attention. The sound came from Watson’s room. Listening carefully, Amos thought he detected a note of distress. He rose quietly and walked into the corridor. Without noise or ceremony he opened a door on the far side of the passage and looked inside. Mrs Reardon’s hat and coat hung on a peg. The lady herself was absent. Amos went back to his own room as quietly as he had come. But before retiring to bed he added another to the list of facts.
CHAPTER XXI
PALING DECIDES TO TALK
PETRIE left the hotel in the misty haze of early morning, stifling yawns as the car tore towards London, wakening himself by performing mental somersaults. His thoughts strayed from chub to Mellor, from pike to Edgar Reardon, from roach to Watson, from perch to Ferguson, from tench to the widow, and from thence to an odd association of ideas linking coloured water with the screen that had been in the Chancellor’s private room. Of one thing he was certain—that, although the solution of the problem seemed a mile away, the intervening barriers might easily fall under a lucky assault.
Big Ben was chiming nine o’clock when the car turned under the arch and pulled up outside the Yard. The little man was surprised to find that Ripple had already begun work. The Inspector looked gaunt and drawn. Blue shadows threw half moons under his eyes, his lips seemed even more bloodless than ever, his hands revealed an unexpected twitch.
‘Never expected to see you so soon,’ he said listlessly. ‘I haven’t been to bed all night. This case is breaking me, busting me up.’
‘Rubbish, Sunshine. Never say die. Are you letting Mellor’s tragedy weigh on your mind? The fault wasn’t yours, lad. Anything else keeping you awake?’
‘I’m working in the dark. I don’t know what you’re doing, and I hardly know what I’m doing myself. There are half a dozen reports here for you to look at, but it doesn’t seem to me that they take us any further. You’d better look them over. I was working like hell until three this morning after I got the report through from the City police. You’ll find their stuff, and mine, among the pile.’
‘Did you happen to telephone Paris about the purchase of that arsenic we got from Paling’s place?’
‘Yes. No doubt about it—Paling bought it.’
‘One mo
re question and then I want you to settle down in the corner and sleep for a couple of hours. You’ve had the servants at Reardon’s place questioned and you’ve seen the stuff that was left at Watson’s flat. Did any of your men find a servant who had seen those seeds at 11 Downing Street?’
‘Yes. One of the maids said that she had seen them.’
‘That explains little Lola’s fainting fit,’ said Amos.
‘Dunno what you’re talking about.’
‘Doesn’t matter, Insomnia. Bed yourself down in the corner. If you are wanted I’ll kick you in the stomach. Go to sleep like a good boy. Can I get you anything to eat or drink before you settle down?’
‘Nothing, thanks. Wake me when I can arrest the murderer. That’ll give me time to sleep for a month. Best of luck.’
Petrie threw off his hat and coat, settled down before the pile of papers. Within ten minutes Amos realised that the news from the City, like everything else connected with the case, was tantalising. Ripple had been supplied with a list of names, detailing all the big operators speculating in the pre-Budget market. The City police identified most of them as eminently respectable businessmen buying in the normal course of business, taking advantage of the market movements they saw around them. Not one of them could, by any possibility, have seen Reardon on the day of his death. There were a few others still to be checked.
Petrie read twice through the list before looking at Ripple’s detailed report on each man. He noticed that three names stood out. And all were newcomers to the market. Amos turned with increased interest to read Ripple’s reports on the three strangers, the three big speculators of whom the City police knew nothing. The more he read the greater his interest became.
One was Mr J. P. Hermanos, of Rasdon Chambers, Jermyn Street. Ripple had made a call on the gentleman without success. Still, his comments upon the matter were illuminating. Mr Hermanos had taken a most comfortable suite of rooms two months before the Budget. He had not been seen in them since the day following Reardon’s death. According to the description he was of medium size, dark, foreign looking, and seemed a little shy. Amos imagined that the same description might well fit another million men and decided that for the moment Mr Hermanos could be left to seek his own salvation.
The second man on the list was even more mysterious. He was Mr Thomas Price, of Wigan Street, Bloomsbury. It seemed from Ripple’s report that Mr Price was a much-travelled man. He stayed away from his rooms for weeks and months at a stretch. The Yard man had missed Mr Price’s last stay by about a couple of weeks. Even more singular was the fact that on that occasion Mr Thomas Price had almost rendered the landlady delirious by paying six months’ rent in advance. It was only natural that after that the landlady was prepared to take an indulgent view of his eccentricities. It was even possible that the effect of being six months in advance with the rent instead of six months in arrears had disturbed her descriptive faculties at the time when Ripple asked about the appearance of the elusive Price.
She described him—enthusiastically, but vaguely—as a perfect gentleman. Beyond that she did not seem prepared to commit herself. From the tone in which Ripple penned his report Amos gained the impression that a cross-eyed mulatto with a list of convictions long enough to cross the Atlantic, with a partiality for robbery with violence, and a general tendency towards murder, would have affected the wings of an angel, the disposition of a saint, the manners of a complete courtier, and the air of a nobleman if he paid a year’s rent in advance.
Ripple had certainly concentrated his attention on the third mysterious buyer. He was Mr William Hepworth, of the Rue du Fossee aux Loups, Brussels. Like the other men of mystery, there were some peculiarities about Hepworth. He had arranged for the opening of his Stock Exchange account by letter. The brokers had never seen him in person. Nor were they anxious to meet him. He had deposited the ‘cover’ for his transactions in cash. Who were they to question why?
Mr Hepworth had stayed in England during the two or three weeks which covered his active buying. His operations were certainly of a size to justify the visit to London, and he had stayed at a West End hotel which fitted well with the importance of his business. It seemed curious that on inquiry at the hotel, Ripple discovered that William Hepworth had occupied a most modest room there. His conduct, also, had been most unobtrusive. He was seen very little, and the only thing by which he could be recalled with any certainty was the punctuality with which he had paid his bill.
Perhaps the most significant thing about the man was his address at Brussels. Ripple had communicated with the Belgian police. Their inquiries revealed that his name did not appear in any of the Brussels directories, and he was entirely unknown, even as a visitor. Furthermore, his address in the Rue du Fossee aux Loups was tenanted by people who had neither seen nor heard of him. Even more curious was the fact that the Belgian police had telephoned Ripple again, and he had added their message as a postscript to the report. One of the tenants had broken down sufficiently to admit that he had drawn money by handling a desultory correspondence for William Hepworth.
It seemed that the elusive Hepworth did not call for the letters in person. Sometimes he sent telegrams instructing their dispatch to hotels in other towns. Occasionally a messenger arrived—always at weekends—with a letter authorising the tenant to hand over Hepworth’s correspondence to bearer. The Bruxellois could only describe the caller as ‘un Anglais.’
Ripple had done his work well. Originals of the telegrams sent to the Fossee aux Loups had been produced for him by the Post Office. But they were typed, even to the signature. Added to that the typing looked as though it had been done on a brand new machine with a virgin ribbon. It was completely characterless. Mr Hepworth, like Mr Price, had run to earth.
Even the specimen signatures secured by Ripple from the brokers revealed nothing. The signature of Price was large and untidy; that of Hepworth almost Gallic in its neatness. There was a noticeable thickening of the e in Hepworth, indicating the use of a fine, soft nib, and all the other letters were finished with scrupulous care down to the crossing of the t. The writing of Hermanos was different from either. Without being small, it was round and backhanded, and had a squat appearance.
Amos drew from Ripple’s drawer a few original notes they had in Edgar Reardon’s handwriting. The comparison did not enable him to draw any definite conclusions. He was still poring over them when Ripple rose and stretched himself.
‘No good,’ he announced. ‘I can’t go to sleep here. I’ll carry on now until I collect a real sleep. What do you think about things?’
‘These things are purposely confused, Sunshine. That’s painfully obvious. Still, I may be able to persuade these most retiring gents to step out into the open.’
‘I wish you’d tell me how you’re going to do it. I’m bent, battered and bewildered. Gosh! I feel bad.’
‘You ought to sleep, laddie. These men, Dynamite, will come to me fast enough if this confusion and muddling was only arranged to protect Edgar Reardon. In the meantime you’ll have to send a man over to watch that address in Brussels. I suppose you’ve got folks watching the two addresses on this side?’
‘A bright lad on the doorstep of each now.’
‘Good. Since you don’t want to sleep get in touch with the private detective who looks after Ferguson.’
‘Collins?’
‘Yes. He hasn’t been taken down to Brockenhurst. Find out from him what Ferguson was doing last Tuesday. If Collins was told to run away and play that night he’d better say so; then he, or you, can find out what Ferguson did during his absence. But make it plain to him that I want to know what he was doing, what Ferguson was doing, and how he knows what Ferguson was doing. I don’t want guesswork.’
‘I’ll do that now. It might keep me awake. Anything else?’
‘Yes. When you get down below tell them to bring Paling here to me. Have you seen him while I’ve been away?’
‘Yes. You might as well talk to a lump of
ferro-concrete.’
Petrie turned again to the reports, and was still reading when a detective knocked, opened the door, and ushered Paling into the room. Petrie looked at him, and was surprised. The man was as spruce as when he had been taken into custody. But the doubts and worries of the intervening time had left their mark on his face. A rim of discoloured flesh showed under each eye, and his movements had an abruptness that advertised jangled nerves. There was a suggestion of dread in the look he fastened on Amos, but his voice was steady:
‘How much longer do you intend to detain me from my business?’
‘That depends. I’m afraid I can’t give you any promises, or even hold out any hopes at present, Paling. Since I last spoke to you I’ve found out very many things. Sit down, and make yourself as much at home as possible.’
Paling sat down. His escort moved over and stood with his back against the door. The prisoner raised his trousers to preserve the crease, and elevated his eyebrows.
‘So you’ve found out many things, eh? Such as?’
Amos thought the matter over before speaking. Then he gambled:
‘I heard, for instance, that while you were staying at Milford an attempt was made to murder Edgar Reardon by poisoning him.’
Paling jumped from his chair and threw his hands aloft.
‘I thought that would be the next thing,’ he said. ‘I could rather see it coming. I’ve never heard such utter rubbish in my life.’
‘There are witnesses,’ remarked Amos quietly.
‘Witnesses? Of course there are! Witnesses who can prove that an attempted murder was tried by poisoning at Milford. Apart from that they’re absolutely and entirely wrong.’
‘I don’t follow you at all. What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t try to poison Reardon. He tried to poison me!’
‘With arsenic that you had bought. Doesn’t sound reasonable to me.’
‘But it’s true, horribly and damnably true,’ shouted Paling. His face whitened. Then words burst from him in a torrent, like water streaming through a suddenly opened sluice. ‘I bought the arsenic. Oh, yes. I bought it to oblige Reardon by his special request. That was the devilish, the damnable cunning of the man. And I was such a fool I couldn’t see it at the time. My God! I can see it all now. Why, as long ago as the beginning of last January, Edgar Reardon had decided to murder me. And all the time, before then and since, he fawned round me as a friend, making plans with me about the future, getting me to help him in a hundred and one ways. Oh, Edgar Reardon was a fine friend. And I was the sucker, the boob, the fool to fall for the murdering hypocrite.’