by Andrew Garve
“I expect it all looks rather different when you’re in charge,” said Katharine. “It must be hard to keep everyone happy.”
Jessop sneered. “Amateurs like Ede make a lot of fuss about running a newspaper, but it’s not all that difficult. I could do it on my head.”
“You mean you could do it on half a dozen whiskies,” she teased.
“I could do it stone sober—Bill knows that.” Jessop glared at her. “I’d make some changes.”
“Heads would roll,” said Iredale lightly. What a bore, he thought, that Ed had got on to this topic.
“They would,” said Jessop. “A lot of people would get their deserts. Fleet Street stinks, the way it’s run now. There’s no sense of responsibility anywhere, no principles, no conscience. Everyone’s climbing on somebody else’s shoulders. It’s just a bloody jungle.”
“Is it worse than any other business?” asked Katharine. “I think you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about it—don’t you agree, Bill?”
Iredale nodded. He was feeling pleasantly mellow. “You ought to have gone to Malaya, old son.”
“Oh, no,” said Jessop. “Oh, no! They’re not getting me like that. I know they want me out of the way, but I’m not falling for that trick. I’m going to expose them, and I’m going to stay here till I’ve done it. They’ll live to regret the way they’ve treated me.”
Katharine was staring at him. “I do believe you mean it,” she said.
“You bet I mean it.”
“He’s his own Royal Commission,” said Iredale in a bored voice.
“I may be something more than that one of these days,” said Jessop mysteriously.
Katharine wanted to ask him what he meant, but the barman called “Time” and the three of them finished their drinks and went out into the warm night. Jessop lurched a bit, steadying himself against Katharine’s arm. She drew away and stood on the kerb, biting her lip. All the pleasure of the evening had faded. She felt more strongly than ever that Bill had a blind spot.
“Suppose we all go back to my place and brew some coffee,” suggested Iredale. “It’s early yet. What do you say, Katharine?”
“I’d like that,” she said, but her eyes were fixed uneasily on Jessop. “Bill …” She broke off. She couldn’t even hint at her fears with Jessop there. “All right, let’s go,” she finished abruptly.
“We’ll take a cab,” said Iredale. “It’s too hot to walk.”
They strolled into the Strand and he hailed a passing taxi. Katharine seated herself between the two men on the back seat. Jessop lolled in his corner.
“Are you all right, Ed?” asked Iredale. He knew that Jessop had a poor head for liquor, but the man really hadn’t had very much.
“Of course I’m all right,” Jessop muttered. He lay back with his eyes closed, and strange images floated in his brain.
“He needs coffee,” said Katharine with a strained laugh. She stirred restlessly, and her hand touched Iredale’s. He gathered it up.
“Don’t,” she said, releasing it quickly.
“Sorry.” Iredale flushed in the darkness. He heard her bag snap, and a faint perfume filled the taxi. “Why do we all have to sit on this narrow seat?” she said, and moved to a collapsible one opposite. “That’s better. Where is your place, Bill?”
“We’re just coming to it now,” he answered, peering out into the deserted canyon of Chancery Lane. “Wake up, Ed.”
Jessop stumbled out as the taxi stopped. Katharine stayed by Iredale while he paid the driver. Then the three of them squeezed into the old lift and creaked their way past six unlighted office floors. Katharine gave an exaggerated shiver. “What an eerie place! Do you mean to say you live here alone?”
“I have a mistress, of course,” Iredale said nonchalantly. The lift stopped with a shudder and they emerged on to a tiny landing with a single door opening out of it. “I know it isn’t exactly palatial—it’s really only an attic—but I’m here so seldom and for such short periods that there’s no point in looking for anything better.” He opened the door. “Go on in, folks.”
Katharine looked curiously round the flat. There certainly wasn’t much of it—a small bed-sitting room, a kitchen and a miniature bathroom, with the minimum of ancient, battered furniture. It was all rather cramped and angular and hot from the day’s sun on the roof just above, but there was a fine view of the lights of London from the dormer window, and the place had unexploited potentialities. The sitting-room itself was littered with books, suitcases, sun helmets, ski sticks and a collection of curios from odd corners of the earth. There was a rack of tobacco pipes containing, it would seem, every known variety from corn-cob to hookah.
“It’s more like a repository than a flat,” she observed.
“I know,” said Iredale, “but don’t let that put you off. I promise you the coffee will be good.”
Katharine ran a finger over the carving on a heavy wooden chest that stood just outside the kitchen door. “This is rather nice.”
“Very fine, isn’t it? I picked it up in Saigon.”
She looked at the tip of her finger. “You should tell your mistress to dust, though.”
Iredale smiled, and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Jessop had become very quiet and was stalking round the little room with his hands in his pockets. He seemed to have lost interest in the other two. His manner scared Katharine and she joined Iredale in the kitchen. “Bill…” she began again.
Before she could put her mounting fears into words the telephone rang shrilly. The strident bell was like an alarm and her nerves gave a convulsive leap. “I won’t be a minute,” said Iredale. “D’ you mind getting the cups out—they’re in the cupboard over there.”
He went into the sitting-room, casting a quizzical glance at the sombre Jessop. “I bet they’ve discovered you’ve been playing truant, Ed.”
Jessop said nothing, and Iredale bent over the phone. “This is Chancery 45321. Yes, Bill Iredale speaking … Oh, yes?” He had suddenly become wary, for it was Haines on the line. “Yes, I can hear you—go ahead.” As he listened, his expression changed. Incredulity and horror froze his face. He gave one appalled look at Jessop. The knuckles that held the phone showed white, and the receiver felt moist against his cheek as he pressed it hard to keep the sound from the room. “Very well,” he said at last. He saw that Jessop was making for the kitchen. “I must go now,” he ended hurriedly, and threw the receiver back on its rest. Quickly and quietly he followed Jessop, fearful lest Katharine should come to harm.
She was at the sink, washing cups. When she saw. Iredale’s strained, tense face she stood quite still, a mop poised in her hand. “Trouble?” she asked.
“Nothing much,” said Iredale, making a supreme effort to sound unconcerned. He was watching Jessop out of the corner of his eye. “Rather bad news about someone I know, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry,” said Katharine quietly. She went on with her cup-washing as though nothing had happened, but he saw that she knew.
“Now what about this coffee?” he said with feigned heartiness.
Jessop’s mind was still on the telephone call. “Anyone I know?”
Iredale shook his head and wondered how long it would take Haines to arrive. Three or four minutes, perhaps. It should be possible to stall for that time. “It was my girl-friend, as a matter of fact.”
“I didn’t know you had one,” said Jessop suspiciously.
Iredale put a hand on his thin shoulder. “What’s it got to do with you anyway, you old busybody? Can’t you see I’m trying to make Katharine jealous?”
“Was it the office?” Jessop persisted.
“It was not. I told you. Now why don’t you go and take the weight off your feet, old man? Coffee won’t be a minute.”
Jessop’s face had turned a blotchy grey. It had been a man’s voice on the telephone, he knew. He felt certain the call had been about him. That suddenly concentrated manner of Iredale’s, that quick glance across at him,
had given everything away. Iredale was keeping something from him. Iredale’s whole manner was peculiar. Peering at him, Jessop no longer saw the pleasant companion of the evening. This was the man who had said he was crazy, the man who wanted to get rid of him by sending him to Malaya, the man who had inveigled him into coming to his flat. This was a trap. Jessop clutched the tin in his pocket. Well, he wouldn’t stay in the trap.
“I think I’ll be off,” he muttered. “It’s getting late.”
“Oh, not yet,” said Katharine. “The coffee’s just ready.”
Jessop gave a cunning smile. “I suppose you think I don’t know what you’re up to. You’re wrong—I can see through you. I tell you, I’m getting out of here.”
“Take it easy, Ed,” said Iredale gently. There was a moment of dead silence in the room. The place felt horribly cut off. Iredale couldn’t think what to do—he had never had to handle a homicidal lunatic before. Ought he to cajole and wheedle? Ought he to be firm? Ought he to seize Jessop and hold him until help came? The man’s face was working; he looked as though he might lose control of himself at any moment. “Take it easy,” Iredale said again, “there’s a good fellow. Come and sit down. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“Nobody will have the chance,” snarled Jessop, and turned to the door.
With a quick movement Iredale blocked the way. “You can’t go, Ed, not now. You’re not well. Stay here and we’ll look after you.”
“You bloody swine!” Jessop suddenly screamed. A stream of frightful obscenities burst from him. “You damned police spy! I’ve been watching you. You’re all against me. You all want to kill me. You fool, Iredale. You can’t kill me, but I can kill you. You’re in my power. Everyone’s in my power. I’ll show you.”
“No!” yelled Iredale, and leaped at the hand that held the tin. Jessop, twisting and contorting with maniac agility and strength, wriggled from his grasp and with a shout of triumph threw the tin into the wet sink, scattering its contents.
“God, it’s the cyanide,” cried Iredale, and grabbed Katharine. As he did so the kitchen door slammed behind Jessop and there was a sound of something heavy being dragged against it.
“Choke, you swine!” Jessop shouted. “Choke, both of you!” He gave a monstrous cackle and went on piling furniture against the door.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The police car raced up Chancery Lane and screeched to a standstill by the kerb. Four men tumbled out.
“Stay and watch the lift, constable.” cried Haines to the uniformed policeman. He pounded up the stairs, with Ogilvie and Sergeant Miles just behind him. The pace was killing, but he kept going. Noises from above reverberated through the empty building. It sounded as though a dozen people must be rioting up there.
As they turned to take the last flight they could hear Jessop’s voice. “I am the instrument of Providence,” he was shouting, as though addressing a multitude. “All my enemies shall be swept away. The Augean stables shall be cleansed.”
“Christ!” muttered Ogilvie. They reached the landing. There was a peal of maniacal laughter from the flat. Jessop was yelling and raving. Suddenly he began to sing “For I’m a jolly good fellow” in a high-pitched, unnatural voice.
Haines put his shoulder to the door. The racket stopped. He motioned to Miles and the two of them stepped back and flung their combined weight against the lock. It gave a little. They tried again, and the door burst open with a splintering crash.
The room looked as though a bomb had exploded in it. Battered and broken furniture had been piled up against the kitchen door. Jessop was sitting on top of it, giggling to himself. “They’re dead,” he said in a jubilant whisper, seeming not to notice the policemen, and giggled again.
The police advanced. From the inner room a voice suddenly called out, “Is that you, Inspector?”
“Yes, Mr. Iredale. Are you all right?”
“Yes, we’re okay.”
“Thank God for that.”
Jessop gave a wild scream of rage as he realised that Katharine and Iredale were still alive and that these men had come for him. He struggled off the barricade and hurled himself at Ogilvie, biting and kicking like a child in a tantrum. It was a job to hold him, but in a few seconds he was overpowered.
“Take him downstairs,” said Haines, wiping the sweat from his face. He set to work to dismantle the barricade. He could see now why Iredale had been unable to break out—a heavy chair was wedged firmly under the door handle. He worked it loose, moved the wooden chest and a divan, and pulled the door open.
“Thanks, Inspector.” Iredale helped Katharine out and looked grimly round the shattered room. Jessop’s frenzied cries were still faintly audible. “Where are they taking him?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about him, Mr. Iredale—he’ll be well looked after.”
“Poor devil!” Iredale took a long breath. “My God, that was a darned near thing.”
“It certainly was,” said Haines. “I was afraid he’d use the cyanide.”
“He tried to. Take a look in the sink.”
Haines went into the kitchen. Under the tap there was a dirty mass of tobacco from which brown stains were spreading over the wet surface. He turned in astonishment. “What on earth …?”
“It’s quite simple,” said Katharine. She opened her handbag and took out a tobacco tin. “Here’s the cyanide.”
Haines looked inside and saw grey-white crystals. “I still don’t see …”
“I switched the tins round,” Katharine explained. “It was in the taxi on the way here—we were all three sitting close together and I happened to feel the tin in Jessop’s pocket. I couldn’t share Bill’s faith in him—he wasn’t my friend. So just as a precaution, I took it out and gave him the one from Bill’s pocket instead.”
“Well, I’m damned!” ejaculated Haines.
“And I thought you were being amorous,” said Iredale.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Iredale slept little that night. The excitement of action, the interest of the story Haines had told them, relief that the suspense was over at last, pity for Jessop and warm, disturbing thoughts about Katharine, combined to keep him wakeful. The disturbing thoughts were still with him in the morning, and as soon as he decently could he rang her home number. He tried if several times, but failed to get any reply. It worried him a little, because he knew she was off duty that day.
At about eleven o’clock he strolled along to the office, hoping to pick up some news about her there. The place seemed unusually active for a holiday Saturday—the story of the night’s events had evidently got around, and a lot of people had come in who weren’t obliged to. One of the first he ran into was Lionel Cardew, looking a bit sheepish. Iredale impulsively gripped his hand. “So they let you out of the cooler? What was it like?”
Amusement flickered over Cardew’s face. “I was comfortably accommodated—I’ve no complaints.” The smile faded. “Shocking thing about Jessop, isn’t it?”
Iredale nodded, and they walked along the corridor together. “By the way, Bill,” said Cardew suddenly, “is your heart set on Malaya?”
“Not by any means,” said Iredale in surprise. “Who said I was going there? As a matter of fact I rather wanted to stick around here for a few weeks. I’ve some unfinished business to attend to.”
“Really?” Cardew seemed relieved. “Then I shall ask to go.”
“Muscling in, eh? What’s the trouble—claustrophobia?”
“Something like that. I thought I’d better ask you.” Cardew nodded cheerfully and walked away with a light step.
Iredale gazed after him for a moment and then turned into the Reporters’ Room. He looked at the duty list. Someone, he noticed, had scored Pringle’s name through. As he had thought, Katharine was not down for duty.
Rogers, the skeleton staff, said “Hallo, Bill.” He seemed unusually subdued. “I hear you had a busy night.”
“Yes,” said Iredale. “Wretched affair, isn’t it?” He gaz
ed disconsolately round the room. He didn’t want to talk about Jessop, but he was at a loss what to do next.
“Looking for someone?” asked Rogers innocently.
“Not ’specially—why?”
“Well, she’s touring the South Coast. She blew in about half an hour ago to collect a railway voucher—a special assignment. First stop, Bournemouth—the Grand Hotel. That’ll be seven and six!”
“Thanks,” said Iredale gratefully. He called in a loud voice, “Boy!” A youth appeared. “Bring me a timetable, will you?”
He began to fill his pipe, wondering if Katharine would think him a damned nuisance. She might have given him a ring, though, after all that had happened. He was looking up trains when the door opened and Jackson came in.
“Oh, hallo, Bill,” he said warmly. “Well, it’s all over, eh? How are you feeling?”
“Not so hot, as a matter of fact.”
“I suppose not.” Jackson gave a little cough. “What you need is work. I was wondering if you’d mind taking over the foreign desk to-morrow.” He noticed the open timetable. “I don’t want to upset any plans, of course, but we’re in a bit of a spot, Cardew’s got a long-standing engagement for tomorrow.”
“Hell!” said Iredale. He tossed the timetable aside. “Oh, all right.”
It didn’t much matter, he reflected. Katharine obviously hadn’t given him another thought, or she wouldn’t have cleared off like that without a word. A job was a job, of course, but it wouldn’t have taken her a moment to ring him …
He drifted disconsolately along to the Foreign Room and took up the bunch of newspapers that lay on Cardew’s desk. There was a fat envelope beside them, addressed to himself. He opened it, and a new, very handsome tobacco pouch fell out. There was no other message.
