by Andrew Garve
“And I’m obliged to you,” said Haines. “I shall have to talk to Pringle, of course. I should like to see those expense sheets myself, if I may.”
“Very well,” said Ede wearily, “I’ll send them down to you. Mind you, Inspector, I don’t for a moment think that Pringle had anything to do with this business. He’s not a very prepossessing individual, but I can’t believe he’d kill Hind out of revenge, or even to keep him quiet. It’s too melodramatic altogether—even for a crime reporter.”
“I dare say, sir. Well, now, is there anything else you can tell me about Hind’s relations with his colleagues while we’re on the subject?” Haines looked at the Editor with a quizzical expression. “Is there by any chance a lady in the case, for instance?”
“Where Hind was concerned,” said Ede with an expression of distaste, “I imagine there was always some lady in the case, but the private affairs of the staff are none of my business.”
“I appreciate your feelings, sir. At the same time, if Hind was abnormally mixed up with women, that obviously has a bearing on the investigation. Was he a philanderer? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“That’s what I’m trying not to tell you, Inspector.”
“Quite so, sir. Do you happen to know which lady was the latest object of his attentions—or would you prefer me to inquire elsewhere about that?”
“Oh, if you’re going to be told I may as well tell you. He’s been going around with one of his reporters—a girl named Sheila Brooks. She hasn’t been here long and I don’t know a great deal about her. A mere child, I believe—I’m sure she can’t have had anything to do with this business.”
“She may be able to give us some useful information, all the same,” said Haines, making a note. “Now is there anything else you can tell me about possible motives?”
“Nothing,” said Ede shortly.
“I understand that Mr. Iredale had some trouble with Mr. Munro.”
A look of exasperation crossed Ede’s face. “Iredale had a row with Munro in the course of his duty, Inspector. He also had a row with me over the same matter. He would no more have murdered Munro because of it than he would have murdered me. That was an incident, not a motive.”
“I see, sir. Well, we’ll leave it at that for the moment. Oh, there’s one other thing. What about Mr. Cardew’s relations with Mr. Hind?”
Ede stared. “They were quite normal as far as I know. Why do you ask that?”
“It must have occurred to you, sir, that Mr. Cardew occupies a unique position in this case.”
“Because he happened to be present when Hind ate the olive?”
“Did he just happen to be present? We don’t know that. As things stand at the moment, he appears to be the one man who could have planned to kill Hind and carried out the murder without any risk that the wrong person would be killed.”
“I’ve never heard such damned nonsense,” cried Ede, shaken at last out of his natural politeness. “If Cardew had had anything to do with it, do you suppose he’d have allowed himself to become so conspicuous? I’m quite sure it was pure chance that took him up with Hind. You’re on the wrong track altogether. Good God, man, if you go on like this you’ll poison the whole atmosphere in the office.”
“At least I shan’t have poisoned a colleague,” said Haines grimly. “I wish, sir, you could see this case from my point of view. Of course you don’t like all this prying and suspicion, and neither do I, for that matter, but it’s unavoidable.”
“There’s such a thing as moderation,” said Ede.
“If you mean by that that some people can be automatically ruled out because they’re nice people, I’m afraid not, sir—not by me. You said just now that I was on the wrong track, but the fact is that I’m not on any track at all. I’ve no evidence—none. I’ve a couple of hundred suspects, but they’re just faces to me, and they all start equal. What I do know is that one of them is a murderer—as clever and ruthless and dangerous a murderer as I’ve ever come across. He’s on my mind a great deal, Mr. Ede. He’s probably sitting somewhere out there now, behaving as innocently as you or I, with all his tracks covered and nothing to worry about. He’s probably watching me, laughing up his sleeve and thinking as you do that I’m causing a great disturbance and not getting anywhere. He’s got everything in his favour. In all my experience I’ve never known a tougher problem. That’s why I can’t afford to be squeamish. If it’s humanly possible I’m going to drive him to the end of that cul-de-sac before he does any more harm, and the only way to do it is to go on probing without any regard whatever for people’s feelings. You see, sir, if Hind wasn’t the intended victim, the murderer is more than likely to try again. As far as we know he still has cyanide in his possession. Very soon there may be one survivor less! That’s the thought that haunts me.”
Chapter Twelve
Half an hour later Inspector Haines was sitting back in his chair and surveying Mr. Pringle with faintly malicious pleasure. “So you’re the Crime Reporter?”
“That’s right, Inspector,” said Pringle jauntily. “Glad to meet you. I don’t know how it is I’ve never run across you before. Anything I can do to help?”
“That remains to be seen, Mr. Pringle. I’m always open to suggestions—provided, of course, you don’t try to make them the basis of an interview.”
Pringle looked quite shocked. “That’s understood. This is a private talk, eh?” He cast a wary glance round the empty room, and drew his chair a little nearer to the inspector’s desk. “I think I can tell you a thing or two. I’ve been working things out. It’s going to be a very sticky case.”
“So far I’m with you,” said Haines.
Of course, you don’t know the office the way I do. You haven’t got the dope. That’s where I can help you. I don’t shout the odds around the place, but I don’t miss much. I keep my eyes and ears open.” He leaned forward confidentially and words oozed from the corner of his mouth. “Has it occurred to you, Inspector, that the poison may not have been intended for Hind at all?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“It had, eh?” Pringle wagged his sandy head in admiration. “I’ve always heard you were pretty smart. Mind you, it could have been Hind. Between ourselves, Inspector, he was a nasty bit of work. Women, you know—and he liked talking about it. Of course, we mustn’t be narrow-minded. I’m a married man. You’re a married man. We don’t expect perfection.” Pringle winked. “All the same, he went too far. He seduced one of the waitresses.”
“Really!”
“Yes, a girl named Rose. She was a nice little thing—he took her on Epsom Downs. She married a G.I. and went to Arkansas.”
“That seems to let her out, then.”
“Yes, but there are plenty of others. There’s old Jackson’s secretary—he’s the Assistant Editor, you know. Girl named Penelope.” He made the word rhyme with “envelope”. “Hind gave her the works all right, and she’s still around. He had a try with Katharine Camden, but she was out of his class—I don’t think he got anywhere. Then there’s an old flame of his in the Art Department—girl named Phyllis. He told me about her when he was tight. That all started when she showed him something in the dark room.”
“Mr. Hind certainly seems to have got around.”
“Oh, he tore pieces off right and left. But there’s a lot more dirt in the office that doesn’t concern Hind. Those little kids wouldn’t have had the nerve to poison him—they took everything lying down. What you want to look for, Inspector, is the big stuff. Let me tell you something.” He inched forward until he could lean his cuff on the desk. “There’s an eternal triangle in this office.” He pointed significantly to the ceiling. “Upstairs.”
“Is that so?”
“It certainly is. Have you met Ede’s wife?”
“No.”
“You should. She’s a real smasher. And do you know whose girl-friend she is?” Pringle paused impressively. “Cardew’s. Lionel Cardew’s.”
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“You have my whole attention,” said Haines.
“Good. I’m glad to be able to collaborate. We’ll break this case wide open between us, you see if we don’t. Anyway, that’s the lowdown. Ede doesn’t know about it—he’s one of those saps that work evenings. He thinks Cardew’s a pal of his—thinks he can trust him with his wife. But I’ve seen Cardew and Mrs. Ede together. Cardew showed her over the office, you know, not long ago. Talk about friendly! She called him ‘sweetie’ every other word. They go out together too. On the river—that sort of thing. It sticks out a mile. I reckon she’s his mistress.”
“That’s interesting,” remarked Haines. “Possibly slanderous.”
Pringle was startled. “Oh, come off it, Inspector, this is in confidence. I wouldn’t say a word about it to anyone but you. Anyway, there’s your triangle.”
“I’m still not clear,” said Haines, “exactly what it is you’re suggesting. Who do you think meant to kill whom, and why?”
“Just work it out for yourself, Inspector. After all, there’s no smoke without fire. Maybe Ede found out about his wife at last and tried to bump off Cardew. Maybe Cardew got tired of working someone else’s claim and decided to get rid of Ede. Maybe Mrs. Ede hates her old man and planted the stuff herself—she comes to the office now and again. More likely she got Cardew to do it for her, though. Of course, these are just suggestions—sort of raw material for you to work on.”
“You’re certainly full of ideas.”
“I know what’s going on, that’s why,” said Pringle complacently. “I have my spies.”
“All the same, Mr. Pringle, I think for the moment I prefer to concentrate on Hind. A man who behaved as you say, he did no doubt made enemies. He seems quite a likely victim to me.” Haines’s mask of good-natured interest suddenly dropped. “By the way, how did you get on with Hind?”
“Eh?” The pale eyes blinked. “Well, as I told you, Inspector, I couldn’t really approve of him.”
“Did he approve of you?”
Pringle looked hurt. “What are you getting at, Inspector?”
“I have my spies too. I’m told that you and Hind had words yesterday evening.”
“Oh, that!” Pringle gave an uneasy laugh. “I thought for a moment it was something serious. He got a bit shirty about some expenses I’d put in—that was all. He must have been feeling liverish.”
“Did he not say he intended to report you to Mr. Ede?”
“He did say something of the sort, as a matter of fact, but I don’t suppose he meant it. Hell, he was once a reporter himself—he knows about expense sheets.”
“What about them?”
“Well, everyone makes a bit on their expenses. After all, what’s a copper here and there?”
“It depends who the copper is,” said Haines grimly. He lifted his notes and disclosed a bundle of green slips, which he waved menacingly in Pringle’s direction. “These, Mr. Pringle, are your expense sheets for the past four months.”
Pringle’s jaw dropped. He was conscious of an unpleasant sensation in his stomach. He felt in his pocket for a bottle of indigestion tablets he always carried, popped one in his mouth and put the bottle back. “Oh,” he said.
“I’ve been having a look through them,” Haines went on. “They’re fascinating. There’s an item here, for instance, for July 3rd. ‘Hospitality—Yard turn. £4 7s. 6d.’ I presume you were entertaining the Commissioner that evening!”
Pringle pretended to peer. “You can hardly expect me to remember what it was for after all this time,” he muttered. “Probably just drinks with the boys.”
“What boys?” asked Haines. “Do you by any chance mean the police?”
“Well,” said Pringle resentfully, “you know how it is. We’re all in the pub together …”
“We? I don’t remember ever having been bought a drink by you, Mr. Pringle. I should be very reluctant to recall such an occasion. Could you name a Chief Inspector, an Inspector, a Sergeant, or even a constable of the C.I.D. for whom you’ve ever bought a drink? Just one.” His tone was pleading. “I assure you the information will go no farther.”
Pringle wriggled. “Look, Inspector,” he said, “stop kidding, will you? You know how it is. All the chaps do it. It’s the recognised thing.”
“I see. You mean the Press Bureau at the Yard gives you the stories, and you charge them up to the office in drinks that you don’t buy. A very cosy racket, I must say.”
“It’s always done, anyway,” said Pringle sullenly. “As for Hind saying he’d report me, that was just bluff. No self-respecting Editor would give it a thought. Anyway, he was a fine one to talk—what about all the free lunches we used to buy him? He was just being difficult. He never liked me.”
“That I can understand,” said Haines. “Well, now, let’s take another item. ‘June 12th—Missing Child at Farnborough—£14.’ I admire the rotundity of your figures. You—er—you seem to have spent nearly a week on this story. Who was this missing child? Farnborough—let me see—no, I must say I don’t recall the case.”
“It was a private tip I had,” said Pringle, beginning to edge his chair back from the inspector’s desk. “It turned out that there wasn’t anything in it, but I had to look into it all the same. It actually costs more when the story’s a stumer—you must know that.”
“Who gave you this tip?”
“We never disclose the sources of our information,” said Pringle with dignity.
“What was the alleged child’s name? What hotel did you stay at? Of whom did you make inquiries? Well, Mr. Pringle, I’m waiting.”
Pringle’s front collapsed. “All right,” he muttered. “You win, Inspector. I didn’t go. I needed the dough, and the paper’s got plenty. It made up for the times when I didn’t charge enough.”
Haines tossed the green packet back on to his desk. “In fact, Mr. Pringle, you’re a cheat and a thief. Well, now we know where we stand. Do you still think the Editor would have considered this of no importance?”
Pringle licked his dry lips. “What are you going to do? I’ve got a boy in boarding school—he’s doing well—it’ll be hard for him if I get into trouble. It was really for him that I did it.”
Haines gave an exclamation of disgust. “I’m not going to charge you, if that’s what you mean—not with fraud, anyway! Mr. Ede can take care of that.” He selected another paper from the pile on his desk. “I’ve got a report here of the order in which people who attended the editorial conference this morning left the Board Room. It seems that you were the last to leave.”
Pringle, whose thoughts were still concentrated on how to get out of the expenses jam, looked puzzled. “I was a bit behind the others—what of it?” Suddenly he caught up with the situation. “I say,” he said with a squeak of alarm, “you surely don’t think I killed Hind?”
“Since you ask me,” said Haines, “I think you’re as likely a person as anyone I’ve met so far. You’re a pretty unpleasant piece of work, Mr. Pringle. You had a grudge against Hind, and a good reason for silencing him. You’ve been doing your utmost to throw suspicion on others, which you naturally would do if you were guilty. Yes, you seem to me a very promising candidate. Did you by any chance know there was cyanide in the Process Department?”
Pringle swallowed. “No,” he said.
“That’s a lie if ever I heard one,” said Haines cheerfully. “I suppose you didn’t know Mr. Hind liked olives, either?”
Pringle hesitated, his pale eyes darting a glance across to the inspector and away again. “I did happen to know that,” he said.
Haines smiled. “You’re a very simple man, Mr. Pringle, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t do it, anyway,” said Pringle. Consciousness of truth gave his voice an honest vehemence at last. “I swear I didn’t, Inspector. I may have been a bit careless about those expenses, but I wouldn’t kill a man. I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
“Not after all those drinks with Chief Inspectors, Mr. Pringle
?” Haines looked disdainfully at the Crime Reporter and his tone suddenly changed. “Get out,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
The inspector waited until the door had closed behind Pringle and then called up Miss Timmins on the house phone. “Will you see if you can find Miss Sheila Brooks for me and ask her to come and see me?” Then he had a wash. After Pringle, he felt he needed it. He couldn’t get it out of his mind that there might be something in that story about Cardew and Mrs. Ede. That’s what happened when people threw dirt—some of it stuck.
He greeted the girl who knocked at his door some ten minutes later with a solicitude that was only in part tactical. Here, presumably, was a damsel in distress, and he was by nature chivalrous. She was also extremely pretty, if one liked that blonde chocolate-boxy type. He didn’t, as a matter of fact, except on chocolate boxes. As he looked at her, he thought how little he would have wished to see his own daughter, who was about the same age as Sheila Brooks, with such vivid fingernails, such drastically plucked eyebrows, and such an expression of calculated hardness. However, his gaze was so benevolent that she could have guessed nothing of what was passing in his mind.
“I’m sorry to have to bother you with questions at a time like this, Miss Brooks,” he began, as soon as she was comfortably seated. “I’m afraid Mr. Hind’s sudden death must have been a great blow to you.”
He saw the girl’s lips tremble. Blinking, she felt in her bag for a cigarette and fumblingly lit up, and presently her face was again set in a sophisticated mask.
“It’s bloody, isn’t it?” she said, puffing out a cloud of smoke that almost hid her from view. “Have you any idea who did it?”
Haines shook his head. “Even if we had, Miss Brooks, we’d hardly be announcing the fact to up-and-coming young newspaper reporters. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions.”
