by Richard Hull
“And now, sir, as it is getting late——”
I interrupted at once. “It is only seven, Inspector. I am at your disposal for some time more if you would like. In fact I should prefer it, so that I may get on with my work to-morrow unimpeded. I should like, though, to send the staff away.”
Apparently he had forgotten the staff as he immediately walked down the passage. “You can all go home now, but please understand that you are to say as little as possible. In particular you will not talk to the press.”
“But if they ask us,” twittered Miss Wyndham. “I’m sure there are ever so many of the press in the crowd the constable’s keeping back downstairs.”
“You will refer them to me.” Then he turned back to me. “I should like a few words with you, sir, before I go.”
“As many as you like. In fact, as I have already told you, I should prefer them to-night.”
Hoopington waved this aside as calmly and majestically as he had dismissed the staff. “That will be impossible, sir,” was his only comment. He did not condescend to give any reason, but I imagine he wanted to see what information would be given by the results of the examinations of his various experts. I noticed, too, that without asking my leave, he had quietly appropriated some of my rough copy about Galatz-si. Since it contained, naturally enough, a reference to the fact that the preparation was a poison, I was not surprised; but the calm way he did it rather annoyed me.
“If you would fetch your hat and coat, if you require them, we will now go.”
“But the envelope on the balcony below?” It was amazing that I should have to remind him!
“That I am just about to get. In the meanwhile, good night, sir.” And with that he calmly locked up my own door and took away the key! I am not sure which staggered me most, the calmness with which I was dismissed, or the effrontery with which he pretended that he had not forgotten that envelope; or the fact that, having said that he wanted a few words with me, he had confined them to saying ‘good night’. Apparently he had either changed his mind or he wished to convey to the staff the impression that he was going to talk to me.
Chapter Three
Sitting alone quietly, after finishing my supper in my own rooms off the Holland Park Road—not in fact a remote suburb as Spencer would insist on referring to it—I reviewed the position carefully.
It was perfectly absurd, but I could not help seeing that with a man like Hoopington about, I must consider my position carefully, for Hoopington was exactly the type of man who would look for a motive, and, having found that, would look for nothing else. Perhaps in that though (and this was the first comforting thought), I wronged him. He would look for everything, even though he would find very little.
So far as motive was concerned, it must be quite clear to him that I had more than one very good one. There was first a matter of psychology, a science which would probably not appeal very deeply to the Inspector. But even if he could not see how greatly both my late colleagues had jarred on me, he must at least learn that they were irritating people. Miss Wyndham and Thomas would probably tell him that. Even the office boys would be bound to say that Latimer was idle and incompetent and Spencer tactless and rather foolish. Hoopington must therefore learn that their absence was no loss to the company, and therefore no loss to me.
Then there was the financial side. When the articles governing the company were drawn up, I had allowed much to pass to please both of them on points which seemed to me to be unimportant, but I had carefully controlled anything which dealt with finance. I had had no difficulty in so doing, since finance was my recognized subject, and when anything had come up Latimer had always said, “I propose that we leave that to Barraclough. It is his department, and the great principle of this company is that three separate brains will unite to make one entity.”
“Don’t keep a dog and bark, eh?” had been Spencer’s way of putting it.
They might word it how they liked for all I cared. I had simply quietly concurred. The result was that I had retained, without their knowing it, complete control of everything that I wanted and though Spencer had been shrewd enough to suspect this, Latimer never knew it. But then the ‘three separate brains’ had never become “one entity”, largely because I really had the only brain that there was in NeO-aD.
But however that may be (and I am anxious not to be self-opinionated), the terms under which a deceased director’s share could be bought were extremely favourable to the survivor. I had not of course, got the exact figures before me, but I knew them approximately. Spencer, and more especially Latimer, was careless about money. They both considered that they were worth more than their real value, and they lived accordingly. The result was that they had overdrawn their director’s fees to a considerable extent, and although I had made every effort to prevent them, I had been entirely unsuccessful, at any rate temporarily.
As a matter of fact I had just been about to take very drastic steps to reduce their drawings when Galatz-si came along. The profits on that would put them in credit again, but since they had died before any of it was earned, they would get no benefit from it. So far as I could calculate, I could buy Spencer’s share by cancelling his debt to the company. It would be a matter of a few pounds only either way. As to Latimer, I was very much afraid that he would still have drawn more than he should. I sighed rather sadly and refilled my pipe. I dislike bad debts intensely and that one of my co-directors should so defraud me, was positively improper. It was the crowning act of a mischievous career that Latimer should die bankrupt.
However, there was no use grieving over it. I must make it up by more and harder work. There was a great deal to be done at once over Galatz-si and I made up my mind to do some of it that night, directly I had cleared my mind of thoughts of how to act towards Hoopington.
If there were psychological and financial motives why I should be glad to be rid of both my colleagues, what possible clue was there which could connect me with the crimes? Over this I thought for a very long while and finally I decided that there was none.
But if I was to be quite safe, I must be able to prove how both of those crimes had happened.
Of course, with Spencer’s document in my pocket, I had little difficulty in guessing what had happened to Latimer. Spencer must have gone in and started his lecture; then, when Latimer tried to interrupt him, he must have held him down and returned the black eye. Then in a spasm of rage, he must have suddenly crammed Tonescu’s crystals down his throat.
There seemed to be several questions to answer about that. Why had he got any of those crystals there? What was the last final thing that made his rage ungovernable? And how had he managed to keep Latimer so quiet?
Suddenly a rather wild thought came into my mind. Had Spencer fantastically contemplated using the crystals to play the part of the mud? And then, finding of course that they could not be rubbed in until they were dissolved, had he forced them into Latimer’s mouth instead? It was a preposterous theory of course, but all things were possible with Spencer.
At any rate all these were questions to which I had to find a solution. Moreover I had, for the benefit of Inspector Hoopington, to prove my answers to all of them, without the advantage of any assistance he might derive from medical examination, fingerprints and so on, but with the advantage of Spencer’s chronicle and the doubtful help of Latimer’s diary, which was of course not so clear as to his plans as I have made it.
Two more questions came into my mind, and I decided to tabulate them all. First, would it ever be necessary or advisable to show Spencer’s chronicle to Hoopington, and, secondly, if I decided to do so, what excuse should I offer for having suppressed it? So far as the latter was concerned, I believe an honest avowal of my dislike of its description of myself and my fear that it might lead the police to a wrong theory, would be my best plan.
But if I was pretty certain that I knew that Spencer had killed Latimer, I was very far then from knowing how Spencer had died. It must always be re
membered that I had still to build up Latimer’s intentions. I thought about the whole problem calmly for some time, but eventually I came to the conclusion that I was trying to build up a theory without knowing any facts. I must wait until I could find out more as to the trail the Inspector was following. It was a pity, I felt, that the Inspector was so uncommunicative. Perhaps when I had more fully obtained his confidence, he would tell me more. Another good reason for keeping Spencer’s notes to myself.
Meanwhile I resolutely put the whole matter aside and turned my attention to Galatz-si. There was now no one else to help or to impede me, and I must work fast. I must complete my ideas that night, so that Thomas could do what art-work was necessary the next morning during the time when I was very likely to be interrupted by Hoopington. It was rather an effort to concentrate on such a matter, and for once I was really rather tired. There is no doubt about it; murder in one’s office is a sad hindrance to work.
However I comforted myself with the thought of the profits to be made out of it—the work, I should say—and resolutely pinned my attention to that and that only.
Chapter Four
Although the account of my character which it pleased Spencer to give, was very far from accurate, he did happen to be correct in one detail. I do pride myself on keeping to the point at issue and not wandering off into vague general speculations or into details which have no bearing on the question in hand.
But I only wish that a similar virtue could be instilled into Inspector Hoopington.
He has by now wasted a great deal of my time in interviews which I cannot but feel are most unduly prolonged by his irrelevance. After all, Spencer and Latimer are dead and nothing will bring them to life again, but both I and NeO-aD are still in existence and I am under the necessity of earning a living. While, therefore, I recognize that I must devote some periods to assisting Inspector Hoopington, I think that he, for his part, should realize that he should not make me spend many fruitless hours exploring points quite unconnected with the question.
I have indeed taken a great deal of trouble on his behalf. I have explored the mentality of Latimer and though much of the account that I have put into his mouth has been written and amplified after the proof of what had occurred had been demonstrated finally, the first draft which I made of that was the real means of bringing to light what was ultimately decided to be the truth. That is to say, to speak accurately, it was the means of enabling me to suggest to the Inspector what I believed had occurred in such a way that I ultimately convinced him.
But at first he had an entirely different theory.
Perhaps, since I have taken so much trouble already, I may as well put down on paper an equally full record of the remaining events. The very fact of completing the story will enable me to clear all thought of it from my mind and dismiss it as a matter finally settled and finished.
In the days that followed the deaths of both my colleagues I had several interviews with the Inspector. They were so long and so dull that, while I can still remember most of the details, I cannot be absolutely sure of the exact sequence. Indeed Hoopington had such a tiresome way of jumping from subject to subject with so amazing a lack of continuity, that an exact transcript of our conversation would not be the most easily comprehensible way of describing its general purport.
He began, however, I remember, by saying: “Mr. Spencer and Mr. Latimer were very good friends of yours?”
So general a question was a little difficult to answer and accidentally, of course, was rather an acute one. It would be idle to pretend that there had never been a rift in the lute. It was equally misleading and inadvisable to express too freely my opinions. A man such as Inspector Hoopington might so easily get a wrong impression and consequently cause me some inconvenience.
I therefore prepared to answer after a second’s thought, with some care, but with a great deal of accuracy and frankness. “Yes, I think I may call them my friends. I had voluntarily entered into this very close relationship with them after having known Latimer for some years previously. I left: a salaried position to come here. But I must admit–––”
“One minute, sir. You had known Mr. Latimer for some time before the formation of this company, but not Mr. Spencer?”
“That is correct.” (What had that got to do with it?) “But–––”
“Were Mr. Latimer and Mr. Spencer previously known to each other?”
“I believe for quite a long time, but they had not previously worked together, nor really known each other very well.”
“You were, however, about to qualify your statement as to your personal friendship for them?”
We thus got back to where we had been when I was interrupted. “I must admit that after we had been working together for some time, whilst my relationships continued to be on a friendly footing, I did not sometimes see eye to eye with them as to business.”
“Your relationships continued friendly—and your feelings?”
“And my feelings.” I remember as I made that remark wondering if it was quite true, but it was wiser to leave it at that, and no one could ever prove that they were not. I am not at any time given to displaying my sentiments and however much the Inspector might gossip with the staff, he would not find out how very poor an opinion I had had of both Latimer and Spencer. Doubtless Miss Wyndham would hazard a guess and call it a ‘woman’s intuition’ in her usual silly way, but she would have no facts to support it, and, despite his shortcomings, Inspector Hoopington would have a short way with intuitions.
“But you did not see eye to eye in business?” The Inspector’s voice broke in on my meditations. Having let my mind wander, I contented myself with repeating the phrase once more.
“In what way?” he persisted.
“Frankly, I considered that they did not work so hard as I did. I left a safe position—at least a fairly safe one—because I wished that my energies should be of profit to myself. I imagined that their views were of a similar nature. Perhaps they were, but they did not always show the same amount of energy.”
The Inspector nodded quietly, and in case I had produced too strong an impression on his mind, I hastened to express their point of view. “But that is not entirely fair to them—I think I was always prepared to admit that there was much truth in their contention. Spencer used to point out that it was his job to visit clients, and when there were none to visit there was no point in his pretending to do something when there was nothing to do. As to Latimer, he was, you know, in charge of the production side, and he claimed that good work could not be done by a tired brain.
“Personally,” I went on, “I am inclined to think that the ‘tired brain’ story is an excuse and that one does not work well until one has, as it were, worked the stiffness off. Besides one often has to go on working when one is tired, whether one likes it or no. No doubt you have to do so frequently yourself.”
“Very often. So, on the whole you found your colleagues lazy?”
“Well, perhaps that is putting it too strongly. I only felt that they did not work so hard as I did—that, I expect both Thomas and Miss Wyndham will tell you. Still we had just collected a new and important account, on which as a matter of fact we are very busy at the moment.”
I remember emphasizing the last words slightly, but during all the many conversations I had with him, I never once knew Inspector Hoopington take a hint.
“Yes, I quite understand,” he remarked blandly, and then proved he did not by continuing to ask pointless questions—at least they seemed pointless and to my mind they actually were but, though I did not know it, the Inspector attached great importance to them.
“And how did the members of your staff view the deceased? Thomas—for instance, or Miss–––” he looked at his notebook—“Wyndham?”
“How should I know, Inspector? I was not in the habit of discussing my fellow directors with the typist.”
It was rather a more severe snub than I had intended to produce, but somehow I must keep
this man to the point. In any case it was wasted.
“Am I not right in saying that Mr. Latimer was occasionally rather rude to both of them?”
“Rude? No. No. I should hardly say that. He used to order them about rather autocratically.”
“And had not Mr. Spencer an openly expressed objection to employing married women?”
“Oh, Paul Spencer was capable of saying anything. I do remember once that he made some remark to Miss Wyndham—I believe it was intended to be facetious—about sacking her if she ever got married. He ended by saying, ‘You can’t keep your mind on the home, the baby and the typewriter.’ I remember now Miss Wyndham asked me to ask him not to be humorous in that vein. She is just a little old-fashioned, and rather easily shocked.”
“I am not surprised,” the Inspector commented, writing hard all the while. “So Mr. Spencer had threatened to dismiss Miss Wyndham if she was married.”
“Yes, but I am not sure that he meant it seriously.”
“But do you think that she thought that he did?”
“Of that I really have no idea.”
Once more the snub was wasted. Inspector Hoopington continued imperviously. “And what were Mr. Latimer’s views on the subject?”
“Again I hardly know. He treated her more or less as a machine, and found fault frequently with her work, but I attach very little importance to that. Latimer was of rather a censorious nature. I think he would have fallen into line if Spencer had strongly insisted; but really the incident was a trivial one and I do not imagine that any of us took Spencer’s remark seriously. Latimer’s chief complaint was that Thomas would make sketches of Miss Wyndham when he had nothing else to do. It is Thomas’s ambition to develop his art into other forms, but Latimer used to say that he wanted him to concentrate on what was strictly useful to the agency, namely, lettering mainly and simple sketches. ‘If we want portraiture,’ he used to say, ‘or a chocolate box picture, we shall employ an outside artist and a different model’.”
