‘Your name is Collins,’ he said slowly. ‘Roy Benjamin Collins. You are wanted for the murder of a girl named Rita Allenby.’
‘It’s a lie!’ shouted Ben. ‘You can’t pin a “rap” on me like that.’ He looked round wildly at the door and window, as if searching for a means of escape.
‘We don’t have to pin anything, Ben,’ said Forbes calmly. ‘The facts are here.’ He indicated the slip of orange paper.
Once more Ben looked round like a trapped animal.
‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Where have they taken Hardwick?’ asked Forbes quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ muttered Ben. ‘For God’s sake, leave me alone!’
‘Ben, if you pull yourself together, I might be inclined to overlook this afternoon’s incident,’ said Temple.
‘Don’t you see, you’ve got to tell us the truth sooner or later?’ Forbes rapped out.
‘But I’ve told you,’ protested Ben, ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘How did you know that Temple was leaving for Aberdeen in the morning?’ said Forbes.
Suddenly Ben made up his mind to talk. If Scotland Yard already knew about Rita Allenby, he reflected, then obviously he had nothing to lose.
‘Mrs Moffat told us,’ he replied. ‘She came to the house—’
‘Mrs Moffat!’ echoed Forbes, more than a little surprised.
Iris jumped up from her chair. ‘Shut up!’ she ordered desperately, addressing Ben for the first time. ‘Keep your mouth shut, you damn’ fool, or…’
Temple quietly interposed himself between Iris and Ben.
‘Carry on, Ben. Mrs Moffat came to the house and—’
‘She came to the house,’ continued Ben, licking his lips nervously, ‘and told us that she’d received instructions from—’
‘Ben, for God’s sake keep your mouth shut!’ shrieked Iris.
‘That she had received instructions from Z.4?’ suggested Temple.
Ben nodded. ‘Yes…from Z.4.’
‘How did Mrs Moffat receive the instructions?’
‘I—I don’t remember.’
‘Ben—’ Temple reproved him gently.
‘I don’t remember, I tell you! Let me get out of here!’
Forbes waved the telegram form suggestively. ‘We’ve got to know how Mrs Moffat received those instructions,’ he said quietly.
‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ cried Ben hysterically. He seemed to be almost on the verge of a nervous collapse, and Steiner regarded him with a certain amount of alarm.
‘Sir Graham,’ he suggested tentatively.
Forbes did not relish the interruption, but Steiner insisted. ‘Perhaps a drink would enable him to—’
Ben looked up.
‘Yes…get me a drink. Please get me a drink,’ he begged.
Sir Graham nodded and turned towards the bell push.
‘I’ll slip downstairs,’ Rex offered, but Temple forestalled him.
‘There’s no need for that, Rex. I’ve got a flask here.’
He took a small flask from his coat pocket and unscrewed the cap. The flask was new and probably held about half a pint.
‘Scotch?’ asked Ben, and Temple nodded.
It had just occurred to Forbes that it was rather unusual for the novelist to carry a flask, when his gaze rested on Ben.
Ben had already taken a very long drink, and there was something both strange and rather frightening about the way he was staring. The flask dangled from his fingers and after a second or two fell with a clatter onto the wooden floor. Suddenly his head fell forward too, as if he was still anxious to keep his eyes on the flask without the necessary effort of moving his body.
Sir Graham was puzzled. He made a movement towards Ben, but a sudden exclamation from Iris made him halt.
‘My God!’ cried Iris. ‘He’s dead!’
Forbes crossed over to Ben and took hold of his wrist. After a little while he looked up.
‘Yes, he’s dead all right,’ he said quietly.
‘Then I think perhaps under the circumstances you had better take care of this, Sir Graham,’ said Temple, and picked up the flask.
‘My God, Temple!’ breathed Iris, in complete bewilderment. ‘You killed him – you killed him!’
Temple shook his head. He seemed completely unshaken by the sudden turn of events.
‘I didn’t kill him, Iris,’ he said quietly. ‘Ben was killed by Z.4.’
‘Z.4!’ cried Iris, and there was no mistaking the astonishment in her voice.
It must be recorded that for some unknown reason Rex Bryant was looking at Doctor Steiner.
CHAPTER V
In Which Mrs Moffat Receives a Visitor
1
John Hardwick was an embittered man. His rather simple outlook on life, which was a natural outcome of his calling, had been badly bruised in the course of its contacts with the War Office.
After expending far more nervous energy than he could afford in threading his way through the annoying departmental inquiries and counter-inquiries, his patience was at an end. When he had at last discovered an official capable of comprehending his technical language, he managed to arrange various tests for the Hardwick Screen.
By a stroke of ill-luck, a trifling hitch had upset the final tests, and rather than offer him a little human encouragement the officials had put in a half-hearted report that was now gathering dust in the files.
After several weeks of irksome inquiries Hardwick had received the shabby specification in a registered envelope.
About two months after his visit to the War Office Hardwick About two months after his visit to the War Office Hardwick received a visitor in the person of Major Guest. Guest drew a very pleasant picture of a perfectly equipped laboratory in the wilds of Scotland, where no outsider would interfere, and where there was every facility for experiment.
Reasonably enough, he pointed out that no inventor immersed in his job could be expected to market his inventions to the best advantage. No one saw his point more clearly than Hardwick. It seemed that Guest represented a syndicate which could be relied upon to negotiate the screen with a more interested party than the War Office. All they asked in return was a third share of the proceeds. Since they had to fit up a laboratory in a large house which they had already purchased at considerable expense, in addition to making all the arrangements for the disposal of the screen, this seemed fair enough.
Hardwick had by this time remedied the flaw in the Hardwick Screen, and was eager to start work on the Hardwick Beam, which would involve the purchase of several crates of costly apparatus. To say the least, this offer was opportune.
In any case, John Hardwick was never particularly interested in money, except as a medium for the acquiring of the apparatus he needed. All he asked from life was a simple mode of existence and eighteen hours a day to devote to his experiments.
He was basically a dreamer, but recent events had developed a certain shrewdness in his make-up. Outside his own work he closed up like an oyster.
At Skerry Lodge he took no particular notice of the people who received him. They saw that his bodily comforts were attended to, and procured any particular piece of apparatus he wanted at exceptionally short notice. He was, in fact, left very much to himself, and all that was asked of him was a weekly report detailing progress to date and written as simply as possible. This was read by Guest and van Draper, then forwarded to Z.4 under various fictitious names at post restantes.
On his arrival, Hardwick had been asked for the specifications of the screen, but it was understood that these were to be kept in the safe at Skerry Lodge, and should be available to either party. As his hosts politely pointed out, they might have to produce evidence that they had the goods to deliver.
Hardwick was not particularly interested in the nationality of any such purchaser. Any traces of patriotism in his make-up had been very firmly erased during his negotiations with the War Office. Of course, if Great Britain mad
e the best bid they were welcome to the Hardwick Screen. The inventor was quite indifferent.
This attitude could not have suited Guest and van Draper better. Hardwick gave them very little trouble; in fact he might almost have been one of the organisation. All the same, they had a shrewd suspicion that once the beam was perfected, Z.4 would not be content with a third share.
A few weeks after his arrival, Hardwick had suggested that they might like a demonstration of the screen, and this had proved so successful that Guest, who was well informed on military matters, had sent a special report to Z.4, urging an immediate disposal of the screen. But Z.4 had preferred to await the result of the beam experiments, which would more than double the value of the first invention.
His experiences with the War Office had bred a certain amount of caution in Hardwick. Although his reports appeared quite comprehensive, they did not contain every detail. In fact, he was keeping back just enough detail to prevent any appropriation of his ideas until he received his share of the proceeds. Somehow, he did not altogether trust Guest and van Draper. He didn’t quite know why, though for that matter he hardly trusted anyone nowadays except his brother Hubert. Strange he had not heard from Hubert for some time. He usually wrote about once a week. A short flippant letter telling of some recent misadventure. He had written twice to Hubert without receiving a reply, which rather worried him.
Hardwick had been so absorbed in his work that he had not noticed the atmosphere of strain that had become very apparent at Skerry Lodge during the past week. Guest and van Draper had been careful to conceal it as much as possible on the few occasions they were in contact with Hardwick. So the inventor was more than a little startled when van Draper entered his laboratory one day and peremptorily ordered him to pack up as much apparatus as he could, leaving nothing of any importance.
Hardwick was inclined to resent this. He ran his hands through his thinning hair in some perplexity and frowned. Van Draper was impatient.
‘There’s no time to be lost!’ he snapped.
The inventor still appeared bewildered.
‘We’ve got to get out of here – half of Scotland Yard will soon be on the doorstep,’ rasped van Draper.
‘But look here—’ Hardwick began to protest.
Van Draper made an impatient gesture. ‘If you don’t pack up and come along now, this will mean the end of all your experiments, and our chance to sell the screen.’
But Hardwick was still perplexed.
‘I still don’t see what right anyone has to interfere—’ he was beginning, when van Draper cut him short.
‘It seems as if I’ll have to use a little persuasion,’ he declared. And Hardwick found himself looking into the barrel of the neat little revolver.
John Hardwick shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and turned to pack his apparatus.
2
Even the placid Steiner was plainly upset by the revolting spectacle of Ben’s death agonies. It appeared as if Temple had engineered the whole business, and Temple had always seemed such a trustworthy sort of person. Why should he wish to be rid of Ben, who seemed to be on the verge of divulging some rather important evidence? And now he declared that Z.4 was the man who had been responsible for the murder.
‘Z.4? But I do not understand. Who is this Z.4, and what—’ he was beginning, when Rex Bryant interrupted.
‘What’s in that flask, Sir Graham?’ he demanded abruptly.
Forbes sniffed the flask rather tentatively. He paused, then sniffed again. At last he spoke.
‘Cyanide,’ he murmured softly.
‘Cyanide!’ echoed Rex with a shudder. ‘No wonder the poor devil went through hell.’ He regarded the body with a puzzled frown.
Steiner was equally perplexed.
‘But surely you must have known, Mr Temple,’ he gasped incredulously.
‘Of course he knew,’ snapped Iris angrily, but Temple ignored her and faced Steiner.
‘Doctor, do you really think I’d have given him that flask if I’d had any idea of the contents?’
Steiner shook his head helplessly.
‘No—no—of course not,’ he replied with an expressive gesture. ‘Naturally, I would not dream of suggesting—’ He broke off in obvious dismay.
‘That’s all right, Doctor,’ Temple cut in quietly.
But Iris was not to be denied. Hands on hips, she stared at Temple accusingly.
‘It seems quite obvious to me,’ she pronounced deliberately. ‘If Z.4 killed Ben – then Paul Temple is Z.4.’
There was a dry chuckle from Sir Graham, but the others were silent. Temple was the first to speak.
‘It’s an interesting theory, Iris,’ he smiled. ‘An interesting theory, if nothing else.’
‘I agree, Temple,’ said Forbes. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t stand up to close examination – still, it’s a theory.’
‘There’s no need to be so damned smug about it,’ cried Iris angrily. ‘We know that Temple gave Ben the flask, and we know from what Mrs Moffat said that Z.4 is here at the inn—’
Realising that she had said too much, she stopped short.
‘What did Mrs Moffat say?’ Temple asked quietly.
There was a pause. Iris looked at each of them in turn. Steiner was obviously awaiting her reply with some eagerness; so was Sir Graham. Rex was bending over Ben, and apparently taking little notice of the conversation. Temple’s face was quite expressionless, but his rather dreamy eyes had taken on a piercing quality.
‘You were about to tell us what Mrs Moffat said,’ he reminded her politely.
‘Nothing,’ retorted Iris with an air of bravado. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Then,’ proceeded Temple, ‘perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining that remark of yours.’
Iris appeared to flare up again.
‘If there’s any explaining to be done, don’t you think you ought to explain away this murder? Where did you get that flask?’
‘Yes,’ put in Forbes, falling into Iris’ trap to sidetrack the conversation, ‘where did you get that flask?’
Temple smiled rather sleepily.
‘Well, it’s a long story,’ he began. ‘An uncle of mine who keeps an antique shop in Bangkok has a passion for these flasks…Chinese flasks, Japanese flasks, Russian flasks. It’s positively astounding…’
With annoying deliberation he paused and lit a cigarette.
‘Though I suppose it isn’t astounding really,’ he went on. ‘Because, you see, he isn’t really my uncle…after all.’
There was a quiet laugh from Rex, who seemed to be the only one to appreciate that Temple was playing Iris at her own game.
‘Well…er…I think we’ll leave the question of the flask for the time being,’ said Forbes at length. He realised that Temple had some reason for not wishing Iris to know the story of the flask.
‘Why should we leave it?’ demanded Iris. ‘Just because—’
‘Just because there’s a more important question, Iris,’ Temple quietly informed her.
‘A more important question?’
Temple threw his cigarette into the grate.
‘Where have they taken John Hardwick?’ he demanded abruptly.
If Iris was surprised to hear the name she did not show it.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she answered.
‘Don’t you, Iris? Perhaps Mrs Moffat would enlighten you.’
‘Mrs Moffat? Who is this Mrs Moffat?’ asked Steiner, still very mystified.
‘I say!’ cried Rex, suddenly enlightened. ‘You don’t mean the old girl in the village with the elastic-sided boots? The old dear in the sweet shop-cum-post office?’
Temple nodded.
‘Well, how on earth does she fit into all this?’ Rex was anxious to discover.
‘You know Mrs Moffat?’ demanded Forbes, eyeing him intently.
‘Well, I don’t exactly know her,’ replied Rex. ‘I’ve been in the shop once or twice, that’s all.’ He seemed to be about to enl
arge on this, but Sir Graham cut him short. He exchanged a glance with Temple, then turned towards Rex once more.
‘I should consider it a favour, Bryant, if you and Dr Steiner would leave us for a short while.’
‘Yes, yes!’ Steiner readily agreed. ‘We are in the way, young man. Come along!’
Rex followed him lazily to the door.
‘There’s nothing like a subtle hint, is there, Temple?’ he grinned. ‘I presume this is one of the many occasions when the police consider it is not advisable for the Press to be represented. Come along, Doctor, you can buy me a large glass of your favourite lager.’
When the door had closed, Forbes and Temple returned to Iris once more.
‘Now, Iris—’ began Temple quietly.
‘What’s this a cue for?’ she demanded insolently, standing with her back to the fireplace and eyeing them with a certain amount of contempt. The pose suited her admirably, and even Sir Graham could not help reflecting that her beauty was more than a little startling in spite of her recent experiences. But Temple was quite unimpressed.
‘We want to know where they have taken John Hardwick,’ he declared flatly.
‘And who, precisely, are “they”?’ she replied, a contemptuous smile flickering around the finely chiselled lips.
But Temple had decided that they had no more time to waste.
‘Listen, Iris,’ he said in determined tones, ‘there’s been quite enough beating about the bush…’
‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘let’s stop beating about it.’ But she made no attempt to answer the question. After a while the Chief Commissioner spoke.
‘Miss Archer, I don’t know whether you realise it or not, but I have a warrant for your arrest.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Attempted murder.’
Iris was obviously taken by surprise.
‘The cigarette, Iris,’ Temple reminded her softly. ‘Remember the cigarette?’
A thoughtful expression passed swiftly across her features, then she laughed lightly.
‘You’ll never get away with that, Temple. Why, how can you prove that—’
Paul Temple 3-Book Collection Page 55
