A Press of Suspects Page 7

  “You’re right, doctor.” he said to the elderly man beside him. “They all seem to have been tampered with. Ingenious method, I must say.” Haines was a solidly-built man of medium height, fiftyish, with shrewd grey eyes under bushy grey brows and an expression of benevolence that seemed out of place in an officer who had earned the reputation of being one of the Yard’s most formidable detectives.

  Dr. Mather, who had arrived on the scene too late to do anything but report a homicide, nodded sagely. “Yes, you’re up against a clever fellow. I’ve heard of chocolates being used, but these things must have been much easier to fill, and they’re just as effective. You notice how the plug keeps the smell in. I don’t suppose that poor chap knew that anything was wrong until he’d crunched the thing up—and then it would be too late. It’s deadly stuff.” Looking pointedly at the olive in Haines’s fingers he added, “It should be handled with gloves.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Haines. “I’ll wash in a moment.”

  “The Nazis used to carry it round with them when they were on the run at the end of the war,” Mather went on. “I once saw an SS general die of it in under thirty seconds, but that was hydrocyanic acid—these crystals would take a little longer to absorb.” He picked up his case. “Well, I hope you get your man, Inspector. It’s a good job the brains aren’t all on one side, eh? You know where to find me if you want me.” He gave Haines a friendly nod and departed.

  The Chief Inspector looked round for Sergeant Miles. “You can get these olives packed up now, Sergeant. Don’t touch the plate—I’d like to have that gone over for prints before it’s moved.”

  “Right, sir.” Using the inspector’s tweezers, Sergeant Miles began to put the olives into a small container. He picked them up gingerly, as though they might explode in his fingers. He was an earnest-looking young fellow, with a heavy jaw and a schoolgirl complexion.

  Haines joined Ogilvie, and for a time they watched the routine work proceeding. Haines was wearing a faintly rueful expression. “Pretty bare, eh, Inspector?”

  Ogilvie nodded. They had made their own careful examination of the room, but superficially it was entirely without clues. No initialled handkerchief had been conveniently dropped under the sideboard; no lipstick had fallen from a handbag, or wallet from a pocket. Experts might succeed in probing some of the room’s secrets after hours of labour in dark room and laboratory, but it looked as though there were to be no short cuts.

  “Let’s go and talk to the manageress,” said Haines. He motioned to one of his men. “All right, Johnson, you can take the body away now.”

  Miss Hewson, who ran the restaurant, was sitting alone at a table, waiting to be interviewed, her hands nervously clasping and unclasping in her lap. She was a thin, worried-looking woman of middle age, with fading auburn hair and prominent teeth.

  Haines and Ogilvie drew up chairs and the Chief Inspector came straight to the point. “About these olives, Miss Hewson. Where did they come from in the first place, where were they kept, and who had access to them? I should like to know their whole history.”

  Miss Hewson’s agitation found relief in speech. “Inspector,” she said in a high-pitched voice, “I don’t know any more about them than you do. The only thing I can tell you positively is that they didn’t come from my kitchen.”

  “They didn’t?” Haines stared at her in surprise.

  “Definitely not. I often do provide olives, because I know Mr. Ede likes them, but one has to make a change now and then, and to-day I gave them salted almonds instead.”

  “But you do keep olives in your pantry?” put in Ogilvie, his dark eyes alert and his pointed nose twitching with interest. He was a good ten years younger than Haines and looked his complete antithesis, having a thin, fresh-coloured face, lean body, and elastic step. A naturally impatient man, Ogilvie had sometimes thought his Chief almost too deliberate in his methods, almost over-inclined to reflection, but experience had shown him that Haines was usually justified in the end.

  Miss Hewson gave the younger man a toothy smile. “I do keep them, of course,” she said, “but the only ones I have now are two unopened jars—you can see them if you want to. I buy them in small jars so that once they’re opened they get finished straight away, and we haven’t had olives here for a fortnight. Oh, no, someone brought those olives in from outside, though how they got on to the sideboard is a mystery to me.”

  “What about the plate they were on?” asked Haines. “Where did that come from?”

  “That’s another thing.” Miss Hewson seemed more indignant now than upset. “It was a plate from the table—Mr. Ede’s bread plate. Someone had been interfering with the table after it was laid. I saw that at once.”

  “How do you mean, at once?”

  “Well, it was about five past one, actually. I couldn’t understand why Mr. Ede hadn’t rung the bell for lunch—he usually rings it as soon as he comes up—so I popped my head in to make sure the bell was working Poor Mr. Hind was lying on the floor and I heard Mr. Cardew say something to Mr. Ede about olives, and then of course I looked and saw them, and I noticed that Mr. Ede’s side plate had been taken.”

  Haines nodded approvingly. Miss Hewson evidently had an eye for detail in spite of her present nervousness. “If, as you suggest, some unauthorised person put the olives there, have you any idea when that could have been done?”

  “Well, it must have been after half-past twelve,” said the manageress. “That I can be certain of. Evelyn finished laying the table at half-past, and I went in as I always do to make sure everything was just as Mr. Ede would like it. There were definitely no olives on the sideboard then.”

  “You’re quite certain of that?” Haines pressed her. “It may be very important.”

  “I’m positive, and so is Evelyn.”

  “Did either of you go into the room again?”

  “Not until after everything had happened.”

  “Do you think you’d have noticed if any unauthorised person had gone in from the restaurant?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Miss Hewson. “I shouldn’t think any of the staff would have done because they’re all very busy at that time, but one of the customers might have. In any case, there’s a door from the Board Room and another from the corridor.”

  “Yes, so I see.” Haines pondered. “I suppose you’re quite an expert on food, Miss Hewson. Did you happen to have a look at the olives?”

  “Yes, I did. They were very nice ones—the best quality stuffed Spanish olives, and beautifully fresh.”

  “Are they difficult to get hold of?”

  “Oh no, you can buy them anywhere—at a price, of course.”

  “M’m. Well, thank you, Miss Hewson, you’ve been very helpful. Now perhaps we could have a word with Evelyn?”

  “I’ll send her in,” said the manageress. She was obviously relieved at having cleared the restaurant of responsibility for such a shocking occurrence.

  Haines got up. “Will you talk to the girl, Ogilvie? I expect that story’s all right, but you’d better check it thoroughly. Have a squint round the pantry, too. I’ll go and see Ede.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was a strained, tense group that the inspector found waiting for him when Miss Timmins, her cheeks pallid around their hectic spots of rouge, showed him into the Editor’s room. Discussion of the tragedy had come to a standstill. Ede was sitting at his desk, his face cupped in his hands, brooding on the incredible event and still seeking a way round some of the more alarming implications. Cardew, his own anxieties temporarily submerged, seemed numbed by the swift violence of Hind’s death at such close quarters. He was just beginning to realise the narrowness of his own escape. Iredale was leaning over a low table, turning the pages of a mid-day paper with hardly a pretence of interest. Munro, sunk in an easy chair with his long legs stretched out, was rather regretting that he had consented to come in the first place. Jackson, who had been taking an active part in the conversation, was just going off to
see that the broken routine of the paper was resumed without delay. An almost untouched plate of sandwiches and a bottle of whisky on Ede’s table were an ironical reminder that luncheon had been the object of the gathering.

  When Haines entered there was a general stir. Any news would offer a welcome respite from the weary treadmill of their thoughts. Almost before he was in the room Ede said anxiously, “Well, Inspector, what’s the position?”

  Haines never allowed himself to be hurried, particularly at the beginning of a case. “If you could just give me the names of these gentlemen again, sir …”

  “Of course, Inspector. Mr. Dawson Munro, Governor of the Outward Islands: Lionel Cardew, our Foreign Editor from to-day; William Iredale, one of our foreign correspondents.”

  “Thank you,” said Haines, studying each man in turn. His shrewd eyes rested for a moment on Munro. “I seem to remember having read something about you in the papers lately, sir.”

  “That’s quite possible, Inspector.” Of the four, Munro was clearly the least shaken by Hind’s death.

  Haines grunted. The inclusion of a V.I.P. among the lunch guests wasn’t going to make the investigation any easier. At the same time, it suggested an obvious line of inquiry.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said, taking up a position by the window, “as I suppose you all realise, we’re dealing with a case of murder. The olive that Mr. Hind ate contained poison, and the poison must have been put there deliberately.”

  “How very shocking!” remarked Munro, who never doubted that his observations on any subject would be acceptable.

  “Naturally,” the Inspector went on, addressing Ede, “we’re still very much in the dark about how it happened, but we have established that the olives did not come from the restaurant. They were taken into the dining-room by some unauthorised person some time after half-past twelve to-day. We have to concentrate, therefore, on a single half-hour. It’s obvious, I think, that whoever planted the olives knew all about your little luncheon party, and that he was very familiar with the inside of the office. That seems to point to a member of the staff, or at least someone closely associated with the paper. The first question I want to ask you, Mr. Ede, is who knew about the luncheon?”

  Ede shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Anyone might have known. These office luncheons are a fairly regular institution and there’s nothing at all hush-hush about them. Any or all of the guests may have mentioned it.” He looked at Cardew and Iredale, who both nodded. “Then the restaurant staff knew, of course, and I’ve no doubt Hind mentioned it in the News Room. My secretary, Miss Timmins, knew—it was she who telephoned the invitations. I don’t know whether she managed to contact everyone the first time—if not, she may have left messages with other people. In any case, she’s had the names of the guests on her pad for a couple of days and she’s the Charing Cross of the office. Everyone stops by her desk. I should hardly think it a very promising line of inquiry, Inspector.”

  Haines agreed. “I’m just trying to get a rough idea of the dimensions of the problem,” he explained. “Can you tell me when the invitations were sent out?”

  “Let me see—it was about a week ago that I rang you, wasn’t it, Munro? Then Miss Timmins asked Cardew and Hind the day before yesterday, and I asked Iredale myself yesterday evening.”

  Haines jotted down a note. The murderer had evidently had plenty of time to make his arrangements. “Very well. Now we come to the second point—access to the dining-room between half-past twelve and one o’clock. Have you anything to say about that, sir?”

  Ede slowly shook his head, “Nothing very helpful, I’m afraid. A newspaper office is a free-and-easy sort of place, you know—people are moving about the whole time and no one pays any particular attention to what anyone else is doing. In any case, a good many of the staff must have been going in and out of the restaurant at that hour. The Directors’ Dining Room wasn’t locked—it would have been quite a simple matter for any one of them to have slipped in from the corridor. Or from the Board Room, of course,” he added, and his eyes were troubled. “Our editorial conference broke up at just about twelve-thirty, and I suppose someone could have hung back after the others had gone. If you wish, I can give you a list of those who attended to-day.”

  “I’d be glad if you would,” said Haines. He considered the matter for a moment. “It may not have any bearing if, as you say, any other member of the staff could have got in easily, but I’d like to see the list, all the same. Well, now, let’s pass on. There’s the question of the poison. We don’t know yet exactly what was used, but it was some form of cyanide crystals. There wouldn’t be anything like that around the office, would there, as far as you know?”

  Ede was about to disclaim any knowledge when Iredale broke in quickly. “There would indeed. The Process Department uses something of the sort for making blocks—cyanide of potassium, I think. At least, it did in the old days.”

  Ede gave Iredale a sharp look. “I didn’t know that, Bill.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people do know,” said Iredale. He suddenly wondered whether, in all the circumstances, he’d been wise to volunteer the information, but having done so he met the inspector’s interested gaze with frankness. “The reporters probably do, anyway. They go out on stories with photographers, and when they get back they’re naturally interested to see how the pictures have turned out.”

  “Quite so,” said Haines. “Do I understand that you’ve actually seen this cyanide yourself during a visit to the Process Department?”

  “I did see it once, years ago of course. There was a big drum of it: it looked like grey mothballs.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly given me a valuable piece of information, Mr. Iredale. I shall have to look into that right away.” The inspector made another note and gently cleared his throat. He looked soberly round at his audience. “There’s one point about this tragic affair which I’m sure must have occurred to you all. How could the murderer have been sure that Mr. Hind would be his victim?”

  Munro untwined his legs. “That’s one of the things we’ve been discussing, Inspector. A fascinating problem! In my view, a number of possibilities present themselves …”

  “I don’t think we need make the problem more complicated than it is,” said Ede. “I confess I hadn’t realised it myself, but it seems that when Hind attended these office luncheons—which was quite often, as he was very good company—he was usually the first upstairs. So Mr. Cardew tells me.”

  “You mean he was a particularly punctual man?”

  Cardew, to whom the question had been addressed, looked embarrassed. “It wasn’t exactly that. The fact is that Hind was usually ready for a drink about one o’clock, and by arriving first he could help himself.”

  “I see. Was this—er—little trait of Mr. Hind’s generally known?”

  “I imagine so,” said Cardew, still more uncomfortably. It seemed a bit hard to dwell on the man’s foibles at this stage. “You must have known it, Bill.”

  Iredale nodded. “I guess everyone knew it. The reporters certainly did. Hind used to joke about it himself.”

  “And while we’re on this particular subject,” said Ede, “there’s something else you should know, Inspector. Hind happened to be extremely fond of olives. I can vouch for that, because I am too.”

  “Was his liking for olives also generally known?”

  “I should think a lot of people must have known. A newspaper office is a bit like a large family—we get to know each other’s habits rather intimately.”

  “It wasn’t difficult to know Hind’s tastes,” said Iredale dryly. “He was taken out to lunch a good deal, and naturally he was pretty forthcoming about them.”

  “Taken out by whom? By his colleagues?”

  “By reporters, mostly.” Iredale refrained from adding that the reporters had been encouraged to put the cost of entertaining the News Editor on their expense accounts.

  “H’m.” The inspector appeared to be weighing the in
formation he’d been given with great care. “The suggestion is, then,” he said at last, “that whoever wanted to get rid of Mr. Hind knew enough about his habits to be able to bank on his being the first person to eat an olive to-day?”

  “It looks rather like that,” said Ede.

  “Well, you may be right, of course.” Haines sounded very far from convinced. “If so, then all one can say is that it was an extraordinarily reckless gamble. No one could possibly have been certain of a thing like that. The murderer must surely have been prepared at least to risk other deaths.”

  There was a moment’s heavy silence. Then Ede said, “Yes—I suppose we are all, in a sense, survivors.” He looked doubtfully at the inspector. “It’s difficult to conceive of such callous indifference right here among us.”

  “I can understand how you feel, sir,” said Haines sympathetically, “but such people do exist. You probably remember that case only a few weeks ago, when someone planted a bomb in an aircraft and destroyed twenty people or more just to make certain of killing one individual. We may well be up against that type of mind here. In fact, on the evidence so far, it seems most likely. But that still leaves us with the vital question unanswered. Who was the intended victim—who was the person on whose account the whole plan was made? In spite of what you tell me about Mr. Hind’s known habits, I don’t think we can take it for granted that he was the one. At least, we must allow for other possibilities.”

  “We must allow, in fact, for four other possibilities?” asked Iredale.

  “Just so.”

  “Oh, come,” said Munro, “surely not? Speaking for myself, I really can’t imagine …”