Mystery at Olympia

by John Rhode

  ‘What’s Philip’s little game?’ Hardisen demanded, as soon as the door was closed behind them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied the superintendent shortly. ‘It’s none of my business. Now, look here, Mr Hardisen. I want to know all about your meeting with Mr Pershore at the Motor Show.’

  ‘Meeting? It wasn’t a meeting. Just caught sight of him. That’s all. He didn’t see me. Or, if he did, he pretended not to. Walked straight past me. We didn’t speak.’

  ‘What were you doing at the Motor Show, Mr Hardisen?’

  ‘What was I doing? What do people do at the Motor Show? Looking round. May buy a new car one of these days. Didn’t expect to see Nahum there. Didn’t like cars. Wouldn’t go in one, if he could help it.’

  ‘What time was it when you saw him?’

  ‘Getting on for two. Waiting for a chance to get lunch. Terrible crush in the dining-room. Standing outside the door. Saw Nahum come out. Passed close by me. He’d had lunch. Anyone could see that.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Went in to lunch. Didn’t get out till three. Wandered round for a bit. Didn’t see Nahum again. Then went home. Six o’clock from Paddington.’

  ‘Was Mr Pershore alone when you saw him?’

  ‘Hadn’t got anybody with him, if that’s what you mean. Can’t call anybody alone at the Motor Show. Hardly room to turn round.’

  ‘Did you visit the stand of Comet Cars Ltd, Number 1001?’

  ‘Saw it in the distance. Didn’t go there. Too many people. Might have looked up young George Sulgrave, though. Not a bad fellow in his way. Knew his father very well. Lucky chap, George. His house is his own now. Might have turned up at the funeral. Too busy, I suppose. Could have sent his wife, though. Ever met Irene? Pretty girl. Great friend of Betty’s. Where is Betty? Must see her while I’m here.’

  Once more Hanslet evaded the question. ‘Look here, Mr Hardisen, there are several questions I should like to ask you,’ he said. ‘As Mr Pershore’s oldest friend, you can tell me a lot about him I don’t know. Shall we go and have a quiet chat in the study?’

  ‘As you like,’ Hardisen replied. ‘Doesn’t matter, now Nahum’s dead. Couldn’t do it if he was alive. Hated anyone going there. Come along.’

  There was no fire in the study, and it was cold and cheerless. But they made themselves as comfortable as they could, and Hanslet set to work. He had taken a fancy to Hardisen, and decided to confide in him, up to a point.

  ‘The first thing I want to ask you, Mr Hardisen, is this,’ he said. ‘Do you think that either Mr or Mrs Sulgrave knew that the mortgage on High Elms was to be cancelled on Mr Pershore’s death?’

  ‘Probably. Can’t say for certain. I didn’t know. Nothing to do with me. No reason for Nahum to say anything. Betty knew, no doubt. He told her pretty well everything. Betty’s sure to have told Irene. Bosom friends. Great secret. Eh?’

  ‘Did you know that Mr Pershore was in the habit of taking a dose of medicine, and eating an olive afterwards, every night before he went to bed?’

  ‘Yes. Knew that. Nahum told me. Silly fad. Much better have drunk port.’

  ‘You say you read the account of the inquest. There was arsenic found in the body, you will remember. I was able to trace where that came from. The olives, which were kept in a cupboard in this room, had been poisoned.’

  Hardisen looked at him narrowly. ‘Who did that?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait a minute. Did you know that Mr Pershore used some stuff called Hewart’s Inhalant, to stop a cough at night?’

  ‘Didn’t know that. Another fad. Nahum loved patent medicines. Better have spent his money on good wine. Done him more good. Well?’

  ‘A mixture had been substituted for that inhalant, which gave off carbon monoxide instead of medicinal vapours. Hence the traces of carbon monoxide mentioned at the inquest.’

  Hardisen frowned. ‘Dirty tricks,’ he exclaimed. And then he looked at the superintendent with a slow light of understanding in his eyes. ‘I quarrelled with Nahum. Or rather, he quarrelled with me. Threatened to take proceedings. Damned insulting letter. I meant to get my own back. Tried to murder him. Is that it?’

  ‘If I thought that you had had anything to do with the olives or the inhalant, I should have warned you before I questioned you, Mr Hardisen. I want you, with your knowledge of Mr Pershore’s family and household, to help me find the guilty person.’

  ‘Then you don’t suspect me? Glad of that. I wouldn’t have tried those games. Poison’s not in my line. You ask me who did it? What’s your own idea?’

  ‘I have no idea at present. But I’m bound to look at it this way, Mr Hardisen. The people who benefit most by Mr Pershore’s death are Miss Rissington and the Sulgraves. Now, both Miss Rissington and Mrs Sulgrave disappeared on Monday morning, and haven’t been heard of since.’

  Mr Hardisen shook his head, slowly and decidedly. ‘Not Betty,’ he said. ‘You can wipe her off the slate. She’s not the sort of girl. Hot-tempered perhaps. Like her uncle. Might jab a hatpin into him. Not poison. No. Wouldn’t vouch for Irene. Strange girl, that. Deep. Lot deeper than George. Didn’t like Nahum. Don’t know why.’

  He shut his eyes and for a minute or two appeared to be wrapped in profound thought. Then he opened them suddenly, and peered maliciously at the superintendent. ‘When did Betty leave here?’ he asked.

  ‘On Monday morning. She went up to London with her uncle. She told him she was going to stay with her aunt, Mrs Capel, near Colchester. But she never intended to do so, for she told Mrs Capel that she would not be with her till the end of the week.’

  Mr Hardisen shut his eyes again, and uttered a strange noise, which sounded like a saturnine chuckle. ‘Couldn’t have been Betty, then,’ he murmured. ‘See that?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t see it,’ Hanslet replied coldly.

  ‘Listen, then. Betty puts out the poison. Arsenic and carbon monoxide. Nasty things, both of them. Sure to be fatal, sooner or later. Then she clears out. Leaves uncle to die. What you call an alibi. That’s what you think. Eh?’

  ‘You must admit that the facts suggest something of the kind, Mr Hardisen.’

  ‘I don’t admit it. Nothing of the kind. Betty’s no fool. Got her head screwed on remarkably straight for a woman. Listen to me. You say she put out the poison. Right. What would she do? Any idiot can see that. Stay here. Look after uncle. Nurse him. Smooth his dying brow. Then, when all’s over, destroy the clues. Throw away the poisoned olives. Bury the other stuff. Where would you have been then?’

  This was an aspect of the matter which had not occurred to Hanslet. There was, undoubtedly, something in Mr Hardisen’s contention. Miss Rissington, if indeed she had attempted murder, would have been well advised to destroy the evidence before her departure. But perhaps, knowing that another attempt was to be made at the Motor Show, she had thought that her own attempts would not come to light. He made no reply to Mr Hardisen, and a long pause ensued, during which each pursued his own train of thought.

  It was Hardisen who broke the silence. ‘About that inquest,’ he said suddenly, without opening his eyes. ‘Something else, too, wasn’t there? Shot found in his legs? When did that happen? Betty shot him, I suppose. Eh?’

  ‘I have discovered that the shot was fired on Saturday evening, soon after nine o’clock,’ Hanslet replied. ‘I do not know who fired it. But it is well within the bounds of possibility that it was fired by Miss Rissington or Mrs Sulgrave.’

  Again Mr Hardisen emitted that saturnine chuckle. ‘It wasn’t,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I don’t know how you can be sure of that,’ replied the superintendent. ‘Unless, of course, you happen to know who did fire the shot?’

  Mr Hardisen opened his eyes. He looked at Hanslet speculatively for a moment or two. And then he grinned, as though he had come to the conclusion that the joke was too good not to be shared.

  ‘I fired it myself,’ he said.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Hansl
et leapt out of his chair in his amazement at this bald statement. ‘You fired the shot that wounded Mr Pershore!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that the truth?’

  Of course it couldn’t be. The superintendent assured himself of that, as soon as he recovered from his momentary amazement. Hardisen was clearly very fond of Miss Rissington. He saw the mess she had got herself into, and was chivalrously trying to take the blame upon himself. It would be interesting to hear how he accounted for his presence at Weybridge on that occasion.

  He seemed not in the least disturbed by Hanslet’s manner. ‘Truth?’ he replied. ‘Why shouldn’t it be? You didn’t know Nahum. I did. Sit down, and I’ll tell you.’

  Hanslet sat down obediently. ‘I’m waiting to hear, Mr Hardisen,’ he said.

  ‘Listen, then. I came up from Wells on Saturday morning. Stayed at an hotel I know of. Nice quiet place. Give you the address, if you like. Might find it useful. Brought a twelve-bore up with me. Wanted adjustment. Left it at a gunsmith’s in Pall Mall on Monday morning. It’s there now.’

  ‘One moment, Mr Hardisen. I’d like the name of the hotel and the gunsmith, if you don’t mind.’

  Hardisen supplied these particulars without the slightest hesitation. ‘Couldn’t leave the gun on Saturday,’ he continued. ‘Shops closed by the time I got up. Left it at the hotel. Went to the Motor Show. Too crowded for comfort. Came away. Found myself at a loose end. Nothing to do. Thought I’d come down here. Meant to take a rise out of Nahum.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Hanslet asked.

  ‘Just going to tell you. Nahum had been devilish offensive. All over nothing. Could have had his thousand back. If he’d asked properly, that is. Wouldn’t have hurt me. Wrote out a cheque yesterday. Soon as I saw the notice of his death. Got it on me now. Here it is. Look!’

  He produced from his pocket a cheque for one thousand pounds, made out in favour of Mr Pershore’s executors, and brandished it in the superintendent’s face. ‘Nahum could have had it,’ he continued. ‘Only had to ask for it. Decently, of course. But not he. What does he do? Goes to that ass Philip. Tells him to write me threatening letters. Finally writes himself. Tells me he’s instituted proceedings. Says he’ll make my name mud. Ruin my business. Send me to the workhouse. Dance on my grave. Look down from Abraham’s bosom. Watch me writhing in hell. Ever read your Bible?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Hanslet replied. ‘Did he really use those expressions?’

  ‘Plenty others besides. That was last week. Still got the letter. Having it framed. Shan’t do that now, though. All forgiven and forgotten. Still, you can see it.’

  ‘I should like to do so. You were indignant when you received that letter?’

  ‘Indignant? Good word, that. Dancing mad. That’s more like it. Bit irritable myself. Mightn’t think it, to look at me. It’s vintage port, that’s what it is.’

  Whether vintage port was responsible for Mr Hardisen’s irritability, or for his benign appearance, Hanslet was left to guess. The other continued, in his staccato style, before he had time to put the question.

  ‘Wasn’t going to stand that. Couldn’t expect me to. Wrote to Nahum. Tore up the letter. Not abusive enough. Wanted time to think. Came up to London on Saturday. Still thinking. Thought of several things. Really nasty. Wanted to make him sit up. Then the idea came.’

  ‘What idea?’ asked Hanslet.

  ‘How to get my own back. Frighten him. Better than writing. Nahum was a coward. Always had been. Even as a boy. Run away if anyone chucked a stone at him. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Let alone a gander. Afraid it might bite him. Ah, well, he’s gone now.’

  Mr Hardisen closed his eyes once more. He was silent so long that Hanslet fancied he had gone to sleep. ‘So you decided to give Mr Pershore a fright?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ murmured Mr Hardisen, as though from the depths of a dream. ‘Give him a fright. Startle the wits out of him. Make him think his precious skin was in danger. That was the idea that came to me. On the way back from the Motor Show. Damn silly. See that now.’

  He opened his eyes and stared pessimistically at the unlighted fire. Then he felt in his pockets, found a match, struck it, and put it to the paper. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Devilish cold in here. Nahum wouldn’t mind. Never grudged fuel. Cost will fall on Philip now. He won’t be so pleased. Stingy devil, Philip. What’s his game, eh? Tell me that!’

  But Hanslet was not to be led away from the original subject. ‘I want you to tell me exactly what you did on Saturday evening, after you had decided to give Mr Pershore a fright,’ he said firmly.

  ‘What I did?’ Mr Hardisen replied. ‘Dined early. Half-past six. Against all my principles. Never done such a thing before. Won’t again. Couldn’t enjoy my glass of port. Went and got the gun. Taxi to Waterloo. Train down here. Half-past eight when I arrived at the station. Thought I’d walk round by the back lane. Less chance of being seen.’

  ‘Did you expect to find Mr Pershore in the garden?’

  ‘Not I. Not on a cold night like that. Expected Nahum would be asleep after dinner. In this very chair I’m sitting in now. Meant to walk in at the front gate. Creep round the house. Knock on the window. Wake Nahum. He’d draw the curtain. See me. I’d point the gun at him. Then fire it in the air. He’d think he was shot. Frighten him to death. Meanwhile I clear off. Damn fool idea.’

  Hanslet smiled, in spite of himself. This old boy was certainly a character, he thought. ‘But you didn’t carry out your scheme?’ he said.

  Mr Hardisen shook his head. ‘Hadn’t a chance. Got to the end of the lane. Found a car there. Small Comet saloon. Nobody in it. Lights out. Thought this queer. Walked up the lane. Far as the gate leading into the garden. Heard voices. Other side of the paling. Recognised Nahum’s. Other was a woman’s. Didn’t know it.’

  He leant forward, picked up the poker, and very cautiously lifted the fire. ‘Badly laid,’ he growled. ‘Just like women. Never can lay a fire properly. That’s better. Couldn’t make out that voice. Wasn’t Betty’s. Wasn’t Nancy’s. Seemed to me I’d heard it before. Didn’t know what to do. Went a few steps up the lane. Then the door opened. Drat that fire!’

  ‘Never mind the fire, Mr Hardisen,’ said Hanslet impatiently. ‘It’ll burn up all right in a minute. The door in the paling opened. What happened then?’

  ‘Woman came out. All muffled up. Moonlight night, but dark in the lane. Couldn’t recognise her. Door shut again. She started up the lane. Towards the car. Didn’t see me. Not for the moment. Not till I sneezed. That startled her!’ And he chuckled heartily at the recollection of the scene.

  ‘You seem to have frightened more than one person that night, Mr Hardisen. What did the woman do when you sneezed?’

  ‘Looked round. Caught sight of me. With the gun. Couldn’t tell who it was. Not in that light. Sort of gasped. Took to her heels. Towards the car. I let her go. Couldn’t be bothered with her. It was Nahum I was after. He was my bird.’

  ‘Where was Mr Pershore all this time?’ Hanslet asked.

  ‘Other side of the paling. There’s a gap by the door. One of the slats gone. Looked through that. Saw Nahum walking up the garden. Towards the house. Hadn’t heard me sneeze. Or thought it was the woman. Saw him quite plain. In the moonlight. Waited a bit. Didn’t want to kill him Just pepper him a bit. That’s all.’

  ‘Very humane of you, Mr Hardisen. You waited until he was some distance away?’

  ‘That’s right. Watched him go up the path. Put the gun through the gap. Aimed at his backside. Pulled the trigger. Bang! Just like that. Poor old Nahum! Fool trick.’

  ‘It was a fool trick,’ said Hanslet, with as much gravity as he could muster. ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Saw Nahum jump. Just like a rabbit. Then make tracks. Up towards the house. Heard a yell from the woman. Car started up. Drove off like hell. Thought she’d gone for the cops. Time I cleared out. Walked back to the station. Caught a train to Waterloo. Then to my hotel. Cleaned the gun.
Went to bed. Slept like a log.’

  Mr Hardisen obviously considered this to be the end of the story. He lay back in his chair, closed his eyes, and folded his hands contentedly over his stomach.

  The superintendent frowned at him for a moment or two in silent disapproval. His manner left no room for doubt that he was telling the truth. So picturesque an account could not have been the fruit of his unaided imagination. But had he told the whole truth? Hanslet doubted it. ‘It seems to me, Mr Hardisen, that there’s only one thing for me to do,’ he said sharply.

  ‘What’s that?’ Hardisen replied, in a sleepy voice.

  ‘Why, to arrest you on a charge of unlawful wounding.’

  Hardisen shook his head slowly. ‘No go!’ he replied without opening his eyes. ‘Couldn’t prove it. Where are your witnesses? Nahum’s dead. Lady won’t show up. Not she. Needn’t fret about that. What was she doing here? Answer me that!’

  ‘I could charge you on your own confession, you know.’

  ‘All right. Go ahead. Put me in court. In front of the beak. What do I say? Sorry, your Worship. Not guilty. Superintendent’s a lamb. Child could play with him. But a bit too credulous. All a fairy story. Simple tales for simple ’tecs. Where’d you be then? Beak furious. Wasting his time. Prisoner discharged. No stain on his character. Police look silly. Eh?’

  ‘Look here, Mr Hardisen. I’d be glad if you’d be serious!’ exclaimed Hanslet angrily. ‘Is this story the truth, or is it not?’

  ‘That depends,’ Hardisen murmured. ‘Arrest, you said. What about it?’

  There was something so ludicrous about the situation that Hanslet laughed aloud. Quite clearly Hardisen was not a man to be moved by threats. But already he had shown signs of responding to gentle treatment. ‘All right, Mr Hardisen,’ he said. ‘We won’t say anything more about arrest. You did a very silly thing, as you admit yourself, but I think we can afford to overlook it. Now, entirely between ourselves, as man to man. Is what you have just told me the truth, or is it merely a fairy story?’