A Press of Suspects Page 18

  “Oh, yes,” said Haines inscrutably. “You know something about the ZYKLON, do you?”

  “I certainly do,” said Jessop. He turned a worried face to the inspector. “I wish I didn’t—it puts me in a difficult position. I hate the thought of making trouble, but when people’s lives are at stake …” He broke off.

  “Quite so,” said Haines. “You can trust us not to make improper use of any information you can give us. Go ahead, Mr. Jessop. What exactly can you tell us about the ZYKLON?”

  Jessop lit a cigarette. He felt much better already. Haines seemed friendly—evidently Cardew had not been in yet. “Well,” he began, “Bill Iredale brought the stuff here, of course, and everyone had a look at it. I remember all about it because I was Assistant Foreign Editor and I had a good deal to do with the stories. It was in Mr. Ede’s room for a few days, and then it was moved to the Foreign Room, and Mr. Ede suggested to Mr. Lambert—he was our Foreign Editor then—that it would be a good thing if he got rid of it. That was because Mr. Ede happened to see it lying about in the Foreign Room a few days later, and he didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  Haines nodded. He had seen Lambert, and Lambert had told him the same thing. “And then what happened?” he asked, watching Jessop closely.

  “Mr. Lambert didn’t quite know what to do with it. Somebody said it was just the thing for garden pests and Mr. Lambert asked me if I’d like to take it away, as I was a keen gardener.”

  “Go on,” said Haines quietly. This at least was the truth. This also he had had from Lambert. The fact that Jessop should admit it so readily was impressive.

  “I didn’t want it,” Jessop went on. “It had too many unpleasant associations. Then Mr. Cardew had an idea—he was the Diplomatic Correspondent then. He thought the stuff had historical interest, and that it would be a pity to destroy it. He suggested handing it over just as it was to the National War Museum.”

  “Really?” Haines looked puzzled. “I had a talk to Mr. Lambert to-day, and he didn’t tell me anything about that.”

  “I don’t suppose he’d have known,” said Jessop thoughtfully. “No, of course he wouldn’t. I remember he hurt himself on a Home Guard exercise just about that time, and he was away for nearly six weeks. I was deputising for him. I don’t suppose he gave the stuff another thought after he asked me to take it away, and when he came back, of course, it was gone. I may have told him what had happened to it, but honestly I don’t remember whether I did or not.”

  “And what did happen to it?”

  “Well,” said Jessop hesitantly, “I thought Mr. Cardew’s idea was a good one, so he rang up the Museum and asked them if they’d like it. I remember the conversation, because they had trouble with the spelling of the name ZYKLON. Anyway, from what I heard at his end I gathered that they’d like to have it, and later on he said he’d drop it in himself on his way to the F.O. So the last I saw of it was when Mr. Cardew left the Foreign Room with the tin done up in a brown paper parcel under his arm.”

  “Was anyone else present when this happened?”

  Jessop frowned. “I’m not absolutely sure—there might have been a boy in the room but I don’t think so, because I remember Mr. Cardew wrapping the tin up himself, and he wouldn’t have done that if there’d been anyone around to do it for him.”

  The inspector grunted. “Well, we’d better get on to the Museum right away.”

  Ogilvie had already looked up the number, and in a few seconds Haines was talking to the Director. Jessop sat impassively. He was quite enjoying the interview now. He knew he had done very well, and he met Ogilvie’s scrutiny evenly. He listened with the right amount of interest while Haines probed for information on the phone. His face assumed an appropriately concerned look as it became clear from the tenor of the conversation at Haines’s end that he wasn’t making much progress.

  Presently Haines said, “All right, sir, we’ll have to leave it at that,” and replaced the receiver with a significant glance at Ogilvie. “As far as they know, they never had it.”

  “That’s very odd,” muttered Jessop. “Of course, Mr. Cardew might have left it somewhere—or even taken it home and forgotten about it. It was very easy to forget things in those days.”

  “He might have taken it home and not forgotten about it,” suggested Haines, deliberately inviting an accusation.

  “Oh, no …” said Jessop, looking shocked. “You’re surely not suggesting that Mr. Cardew …” He stopped short. “I never thought of that,” he said slowly. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t …”

  “Why are you so sure? Have you a high regard for Mr. Cardew?”

  “I don’t think he’d do a thing like that,” said Jessop.

  Haines looked at Ogilvie. “I think we’d better have Mr. Cardew in again, all the same.” Ogilvie nodded and went off to find him.

  “Well, now, Mr. Jessop,” said Haines amiably, “I gather that Inspector Ogilvie has already talked to you about your movements the night before last.”

  “Yes,” said Jessop. “He rang me at home this morning. I couldn’t quite understand what it was all about.”

  “Oh, just a routine inquiry. A lot of your colleagues have been troubled in the same way.” Haines glanced at some notes in front of him. “I’d just like to go over the ground again, if you don’t mind. What time did you leave the office on that evening?”

  Jessop felt a tremor of anxiety. “It was just before eleven,” he said. “My usual time.”

  Haines nodded. “Just after the chess game, eh?”

  “That’s right,” said Jessop, forcing a smile. How wise he’d been to take those precautions!—the police were more thorough than he’d supposed.

  “And you went by car?”

  “Yes,” said Jessop. He could feel his heart pounding now. When Ogilvie had questioned him, he’d thought of saying that he’d gone by bus or train, but he wasn’t familiar with the routes and timetables and in any case it would have been a simple matter for the police to check up on. It had seemed better to take the risk that he had taken. Now he was less sure about it.

  “Did anyone actually see you leave?” asked Haines.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Jessop, with a shock of relief as he realised that Haines wasn’t trying to trip him after all—that he simply didn’t know. “There wasn’t anyone in the garage. Sarge might have seen me, but I can’t really say. Anyhow, I’m telling you the truth. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Haines ignored that. “You didn’t stop on the way, I supposed You didn’t buy petrol, or get yourself a, hot dog, or anything?”

  “Not at that hour, Inspector. I wanted to get home.”

  “You live by yourself, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  Haines sat back. “It would be a great help to us, Mr. Jessop, if you could produce someone who could confirm that you were actually in the house that night. You’re not being accused of anything, you understand—it’s really a case of eliminating you, and clearing the decks for others. We’ve already ascertained that your neighbours at Beckenham didn’t hear the car come in, or see it go out the next day. That of course proves nothing …”

  “Except that they mind their own business,” said Jessop.

  “Exactly.” Haines got up. “Well, Mr. Jessop, I know it’s very difficult for you in the circumstances, but if you do happen to remember any incident that would confirm your story, it would help us a great deal. And thank you for coming to me about the ZYKLON.” He nodded. Jessop was dismissed.

  Almost at once Cardew came in, with Ogilvie just behind him. He was pale, and if anything even more strained-looking than on the previous occasion. He ignored the chair that Haines offered him. “What is it this time, Inspector?”

  “When you were last here, Mr. Cardew,” said Haines quietly, “you mentioned as a point in your favour that you wouldn’t have known where to get hold of cyanide.”

  “Oh, so that’s it?”

  “That’s it. You’ve seen the ZYKLON notice?”<
br />
  Cardew nodded. “I’m sorry, but I’d forgotten all about that stuff.”

  “It’s strange that you should have done so, considering your special interest in it at the time.”

  “What special interest?”

  “I’m told that on a day back in 1944 you were seen leaving this building with the tin of ZYKLON under your arm.”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” said Cardew indignantly.

  “I’m told that you had previously talked to the National War Museum on the telephone and arranged to take it to them.”

  Cardew stared in amazement. “The whole thing’s a pack of lies from beginning to end,” he said contemptuously. “I didn’t touch the ZYKLON, and I certainly didn’t talk to any museum.”

  “Did you, perhaps, pretend to?”

  “No, I didn’t. Who told you this rubbish?”

  Haines pursed his lips. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t know. Mr. Jessop told us.”

  “Jessop told you! Jessop!” Cardew threw back his head and laughed—a harsh, unnatural laugh. “Well, I must say that’s pretty rich!”

  “May I share the joke, Mr. Cardew?”

  “You certainly may. For the past hour I’ve been sitting with that ZYKLON notice in front of me, trying to make up my mind whether I ought to come and tell you that it was Jessop who took the stuff away, and now I find he’s got here first and accused me of doing so. The little swine!”

  Haines’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that he invented this story?”

  “Yes, every word of it.”

  “Why should he do that?”

  “I can only suppose it’s because he hates me. He’s jealous—he wanted the job I’ve been given, God knows why. He can have it as far as I’m concerned, and I hope he enjoys it.” Cardew was still regarding Haines incredulously. “But, good God, what a thing to do to anyone!”

  Haines. sighed. “This is getting very difficult,” he said. “There seems to be a little game of tit-for-tat going on between you two, and unfortunately I don’t know which of you is speaking the truth.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Inspector! I’ve nothing against Jessop—I don’t owe him a grudge or anything. Why the devil should I tell you he took the stuff if he didn’t?”

  “To protect yourself, of course,” said Haines dryly, “if you took it. I should have thought that was obvious. He makes a dangerous accusation against you. He’s an independent witness whom I may believe. Your only course is to deny everything and make a counter-accusation and leave me to puzzle it out.”

  Cardew clutched his hair. “This is crazy. I saw Jessop leave with the tin. I didn’t think of it until that notice went up, but directly I saw the word ZYKLON I remembered. He had wasps in his garden, and he said it was the very thing for them. For all I know, the tin’s still at his home. He may even be the murderer—if he’s crazy enough to invent wild charges against me, I should think he might well be. Why do you concentrate on me all the time? Why don’t you search his house?”

  “There happens to be a little formality of search warrants,” said Haines. “And if I searched anyone’s place, it would be yours. You had a motive for killing Mr. Ede, and Jessop hadn’t, unless you think that being disappointed over a job is enough to make a man start throwing cyanide all over the place. Yes, Mr. Cardew, you had the motive, you had the opportunity, and now someone says you had the cyanide!”

  Cardew was breathing hard. “What are you going to do—arrest me?”

  Haines gave him a long, searching look. “No,” he said at last. “Kindly oblige me by getting out. And don’t start anything with Jessop, or you’ll both be in trouble.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Inspector,” Cardew cried. “I’m sure he did it …”

  Ogilvie jerked his head peremptorily towards the door. Cardew looked from one to the other, saw the hopelessness of saying anything more, and turned to leave. The door slammed violently behind him.

  Haines slumped in his chair, his head in his hands. Cardew, Jessop, Iredale? Jessop, Cardew, Iredale? Iredale, Cardew, Jessop? …

  “Anyway,” said Ogilvie, “the ice is breaking up nicely.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The clock over the Sub-editors’ table pointed to ten minutes to six. Jackson had left his own room and was sitting beside Price, the Night Editor, discussing the make-up of page one. Usually he found this an absorbing occupation, but concentration was difficult to-night and there was nothing in the news to stimulate interest.

  Price ruefully scratched the side of his neck. “It doesn’t look as though the customers are going to get much for their penny to-morrow,” he said.

  “If it’s as hot as this,” observed the Chief Sub, skilfully impaling a piece of copy on a metal spike without impaling himself, “the only use they’ll have for the Morning Call will be to keep the sun off their heads.”

  “Still, passers-by might notice if the paper was blank,” said Price. “Bad publicity!” He stared disgustedly at the sheet in front of him. “Damn it, we haven’t even got a lead yet.”

  A chair leg squeaked and the Foreign Sub joined them. “There’s something quite promising here,” he said. “Just in from Belgrade. Only a ‘flash’ so far, but it looks as though it might be worked up into a lead.”

  Jackson took the piece of tape. Five Bulgarian communist leaders, according to the message, had fled across the frontier to avoid liquidation and been given sanctuary. The Assistant Editor pursed his lips. “It’s a possible,” he said, “if we can get something more on it. What do you think, Willie?”

  Price shook his head sadly. “A foreign lead’s all wrong for a holiday weekend.”

  The Foreign Sub, stood up for his story. “These are pretty high-powered chaps.” he pointed out.

  “By Balkan standards, chum! They’ll mean a fat lot to bathing belles at Brighton!”

  “Anyway,” said Jackson, “we might as well get Cardew to do something on it. I believe I’ve heard him talk about this fellow Kolarov.” He called out “Boy!”

  A youth appeared with unusual celerity.

  “Find Mr. Cardew, will you, and ask him to come and see me.” Jackson gave the piece of copy back to the Foreign Sub. “We’d better ask our Belgrade man to send something, too. It might make a second-edition lead, anyway.” He turned to Price. “Otherwise, what have we got?” The discussion was resumed.

  In a few moments the youth re-appeared. “Mr. Cardew isn’t in his room, sir.”

  Jackson frowned. “Doesn’t Mr. Jessop know where he is?”

  “No, sir. He says he hasn’t seen him for a long time.”

  “Well, go and look for him,” said Jackson testily. “He must be somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy. He went cheerfully off on his errand, cuffing another boy as he left the room. Ten minutes later he returned, still without Cardew. He stood at Jackson’s elbow, reluctant to report failure.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t find him, sir.”

  “Blast the fellow!” said Jackson under his breath. He looked at Price. “I wonder if Haines has got him.” He reached for the telephone and dialled the inspector’s office. “This is Mr. Jackson,” he said. “Have you by any chance got Mr. Cardew with you …? No, we can’t find him. I suppose he must be around somewhere, though …” His forehead puckered. “Oh, very well—I’m in the Subs’ room.” He hung up with an exclamation of annoyance. “Now I’ve started something—Haines is coming up. Cardew really ought to know better than to go off without leaving any message. I wonder where the devil he’s got to?”

  Almost at once, Haines came into the room. He looked hot and far from benevolent. Jackson didn’t want a lot of fuss and joined him at the door.

  “I told Mr. Cardew he wasn’t to go anywhere without letting me know,” said Haines.

  “Is that so?” Jackson suddenly looked grave. It was news to him that Cardew was in special trouble. “Well, let’s ask the commissionaire. He may know something.” The Ass
istant Editor dialled the front box. “Mr. Jackson here. You haven’t seen Mr. Cardew go out, have you …? Oh, you have?” He glanced at the inspector.

  “I’ll go right down,” said Haines, and rushed away. He found Sergeant Peach standing expectantly by the front box. “When did Mr. Cardew leave, Sarge?”

  “About ’alf an hour ago, sir.”

  Haines swore softly. “He didn’t happen to mention where he was going?”

  “No, sir. ’E was in a great ’urry, and ’e was cursing like anything on account of ’is car.”

  “What about his car?”

  “’E couldn’t get it out of the garridge, not on ’ is own. Miss Camden’s car ain’t workin’ proper and it took two of us to shove it out of the way. Reg’lar job we ’ad, I can tell yer.”

  “What’s his car like?”

  “It’s black, sir, with a long body. One o’ them fast sporty models. I couldn’t tell you the make, I’m afraid.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Haines. He rushed up to the second floor office and broke the news to Ogilvie. For the next ten minutes, both telephones were busy as the machinery of the Yard was set in motion.

  Finally Haines sat back. “The damned young fool!” he said with great intensity. “Where does he suppose he’s going to get to?”

  “Scared stiff, if you ask me,” said Ogilvie. “I thought he had a pretty wild look about him when he was down here. It seems as though he did it after all.”

  “He must know that he can’t get away with this.”

  “I suppose he thought he had a good start. After all, if Jackson hadn’t happened to want him he might have got a plane and been out of the country before we’d even realised he was missing.”

  “He’d have been picked up sooner or later,” said Haines grimly. “He must be out of his mind. This was the one thing he couldn’t afford to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  With his hands thrust deep into his pockets and a book tucked under his arm, Bill Iredale mouched into the Foreign Room. Since his return to the office after lunch he’d been up on the roof in a deck chair, trying to lose himself in a thriller, but smuts and anxiety had finally driven him down. He felt in a foul temper. He hated above all things to be tethered, and it seemed pretty clear that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave London until the case was solved. And how could the police expect to solve the case if they wasted their time chasing him up a blind alley?