by John Rhode
Dr Priestley interrupted him without apology. ‘When does the Motor Show end?’ he asked.
‘Tonight, at ten o’clock,’ Oldland replied.
Dr Priestley rose from his chair and glanced at the clock. ‘It is now five minutes to nine. We can reach Olympia in twenty minutes in a taxi-cab. I should like to see the actual conditions. Will you accompany me?’
Oldland laughed mirthlessly. He would far rather have sat over the fire, sipping his friend’s most excellent whisky. ‘I wish I’d kept my mouth shut,’ he replied. ‘If you insist on dragging me off, there’s nothing else for it. All right.’
Harold Merefield was already at the telephone, summoning a taxi. Within five minutes they were on their way, and well before half-past nine they were inside the vast building. As usual the crowd on the last night was overwhelming. Not only the stands, but the passageways between them, seemed to be packed solid with a mass of human beings.
Both Dr Priestley and Oldland were determined men. They had the advantage of a definite object, whereas most of those who surrounded them were wandering without definite purpose. By the exercise of patience and pressure they forced their way to the vicinity of Stand 1001.
Beyond this further progress was impossible. On the stand itself George Sulgrave, looking utterly fagged out after the strenuous ten days of the Show, was demonstrating the Lovell transmission. His voice was drowned in the deep hum of the crowd. Round him, packed closely together, was a throng of watchers, their eyes fixed upon him as he explained the various points of the chassis before him.
‘You see?’ Oldland exclaimed. ‘Not a man jack of them is taking the slightest notice of his neighbours. Let’s see if we can’t worm ourselves into the edge of the mob. Then, I think, you’ll see for yourself how it could be done.’
It seemed that closing time would come before they accomplished their object. But they insinuated themselves foot by foot towards the stand, until at last they found themselves within a yard or two of it. Here they were hemmed in on every side, and forced to peer over the shoulders of those in front of them if they wished to witness the demonstration. And they were conscious that those behind them were standing on tiptoe, peering over their shoulders in turn.
‘We’re precisely on the spot where Pershore was standing when he fell,’ Oldland whispered. ‘I was there, in the front row, actually on the stand itself. Hell!’
His exclamation was caused by a sharp blow under the ribs. He looked quickly about him. Not one of his neighbours had averted his eyes from the demonstration. Dr Priestley, standing beside him was gazing straight in front of him with an expression of rapt attention.
Oldland laughed. ‘Example is better than precept,’ he said. ‘It could be done, you see. You’ve convinced me, anyhow. And nobody saw you do it. Pershore fell at once, and that scattered the crowd a bit. His assailant took advantage of the confusion to clear off. Now, look down, at the edge of the stand. You see that row of metal parts?’
‘Yes, I see them,’ said Dr Priestley, after a brief glance. ‘They are laid on the woodwork of the stand. But they are joined together by what appears to be stout twine. It would be impossible to raise anyone of them more than a foot or two without disturbing the rest.’
‘Hullo, so they are!’ Oldland replied. ‘That’s queer. I’ll swear they were lying loose when I was last here. I wonder …’
But at that moment the band struck up ‘God Save the King.’ It was ten o’clock. There was an instant hush, and a pause of immobility as the familiar notes rang out. Then, as the music ceased, the crowd about them dissolved. A slow current of humanity, like the first ebb of the tide, began to sweep towards the exits. The Motor Show was over for that year.
‘Well, are you satisfied?’ Oldland asked.
‘One moment,’ Dr Priestley replied. ‘I should like to ask a question of one of the attendants on the stand.’
They waited until the current had swept past them. At last there was nobody left between them and the chassis which had been the object of so much curiosity. Dr Priestley stepped forward, and George Sulgrave, who was bustling about in preparation for his own departure, turned and saw him.
‘Excuse me,’ said Dr Priestley quietly. ‘Would you mind telling me why these component parts are tied together in this way?’
Every attendant on a stand at the Motor Show gets used to silly questions. It is his first duty to reply to them with what patience he can command. If he is asked why the tyres are placed on the rim of the wheels, instead of being laid flat upon the roof, he must explain courteously that this is done in order to lessen road shocks. George Sulgrave smiled into the earnest eyes of this elderly gentleman, who had lingered behind in order to propound such a foolish conundrum. ‘Why, to prevent anybody making off with them, sir,’ he replied.
‘I should not have thought that anybody would have been tempted to do such a thing,’ Dr Priestley remarked blandly.
‘Nor should I. We left them lying loose on the stand, at first. But one of them was actually carried off the other day, and since then we’ve tied them together, as you see.’
‘Was it last Monday that this part was taken?’
George Sulgrave glanced at Dr Priestley in astonishment. ‘Yes, it was,’ he replied. ‘You don’t happen to know who took it, do you, sir?’
‘I do not. May I ask which particular part it was that was taken?’
Sulgrave pointed to one of the mushroom-shaped pressure valves. ‘One of those,’ he replied. ‘Some idiot picked it up and took it away. He didn’t carry it far. Found it too heavy, I expect. He put it in one of the cars on the Solent stand. A friend of mine there found it and brought it back in the evening.’
Dr Priestley surveyed the pressure valve with interest. ‘Can you tell me the weight of this piece of metal?’ he asked.
But Sulgrave was getting impatient. ‘About twelve pounds, I believe. But may I remind you sir, that the Show is closed. If you wish for further particulars, and would care to call at our showrooms on Monday, I should be happy to give you any information you may require.’
But Dr Priestley’s curiosity was satisfied. Having bidden Sulgrave a polite good-night, he and Oldland made their way to the exit which they reached as the last stragglers were leaving. Dr Priestley noticed that almost the last stand they passed was that of the Solent Motor Car company.
They took a taxi back to Westbourne Terrace, and there, in the study, they found Merefield entertaining Superintendent Hanslet. ‘Hullo, Professor!’ exclaimed the latter as they entered the room. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind me waiting. I turned up about half an hour ago, and Mr Merefield told me that you had gone to the Motor Show. You left it a bit late, didn’t you?’
Dr Priestley seemed to be in an excellent humour. ‘Better late than never, superintendent,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘A most interesting experience. Most interesting indeed. Have you come to tell me that you have solved the mystery of Mr Pershore’s death?’
‘I’m not far off the solution, I fancy. But before I tell you my news, I think that Mr Merefield has something to say.’
‘I’ve had another visitor, sir,’ said Harold. ‘He came about a quarter of an hour before the superintendent, and asked for him. He said that he had been told at Scotland Yard that he would find him here. He wouldn’t wait, and he wouldn’t give his name, but he said that he would come back later. He seemed very anxious to see Mr Hanslet as soon as possible.’
‘So I waited here, in order not to miss him,’ said Hanslet. ‘He hasn’t turned up again yet, I rather fancy, from Mr Merefield’s description, that he is my friend Hardisen.’
‘I should be very pleased to make his acquaintance,’ replied Dr Priestley. ‘Meanwhile, I am anxious to learn how nearly you have approached to the solution of the mystery.’
Hanslet repeated his conversations with Betty Rissington, Mrs Sulgrave, Mr Chantley and Philip Bryant. ‘I’m beginning to understand the conditions which existed before Pershore’s death,’ he continu
ed. ‘He seems to have been surrounded by people, all anxious to make away with him, but for different reasons. And these people seem to group themselves into pairs.
‘First of all, we have Miss Rissington and her friend Mrs Sulgrave. They both protest that they knew nothing whatever about the affair. Miss Rissington had the necessary opportunities. Both of them benefit under Pershore’s will. And they had a representative at Olympia at the time of his death, in the shape of Mrs Sulgrave’s husband.
‘Then we have Hardisen and Mrs Markle. Hardisen admits having shot at Pershore on the preceding Saturday evening. Mrs Markle’s opportunities were even better than Miss Rissington’s. Hardisen quite freely told me that he wanted to get his own back upon Pershore. Mrs Markle may well have resented her treatment at Firlands. Hardisen confesses to having been at Olympia at the time of Pershore’s death.
‘Lastly, Mr and Mrs Bryant. Bryant’s manner, when I first saw him on Monday evening, was queer. His opportunities existed, though they were not so good as those of the other two groups. His motive is not yet revealed, though I believe that I have an inkling of it. He was seen by Mr Chantley at the Motor Show. But he made no mention of his presence at the Motor Show until I taxed him with it.’
‘And which, if any, of these groups do you consider to be guilty?’ Dr Priestley asked.
‘That’s just what I came here to talk to you about, Professor. I look at it this way. One of these groups made two attempts to murder Pershore, by means of the olives and the inhalant. I don’t count the shooting, for that may have been merely a passing impulse of Hardisen’s. Since these attempts failed, they had another shot, and succeeded. But how they can have done him in at the Motor Show, I’m blest if I know.’
‘There we may be able to help you,’ said Dr Priestley. ‘Since it involves medical details, perhaps you will be good enough to explain our suspicions to the superintendent, Oldland?’
Oldland picked up the text-book, and once more read the significant passage. ‘We went straight to Olympia, where Priestley made the necessary experiment, with myself as the victim. I can feel the effects now, and shall prescribe a drop of whisky for myself.’
He poured himself out a glass, and sipped it appreciatively. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now Priestley, in that insinuating way of his, discovered that a heavy lump of metal had been removed from the Comet stand some time on Monday. What did the fellow call it? A pressure valve, that’s it. It’s a mushroom-shaped piece of steel, weighing twelve pounds. Just the thing for the job. You hold it by the stem, and punch the other fellow in the tummy with the head. A perfect blunt weapon, as the book calls it. The head must be fully six inches across, and wouldn’t leave the vestige of a mark.’
‘The method of the crime is, I think, apparent,’ Dr Priestley remarked. ‘Mr Pershore’s assailant contrived to get next to him in the crowd round Stand 1001. Mr Pershore may or may not have noticed his presence. He picked up the pressure valve, and with it delivered a short sharp blow, similar to the blow I struck Oldland with my fist. Mr Pershore fell instantly, and his assailant made off, hiding the pressure valve under his coat.’
‘And disposed of it on the first opportunity,’ Oldland continued. ‘He was making for the exit, and came to the Solent stand. You know what people do at the Motor Show. They walk on to a stand, look round, and get into one of the cars. They pretend that their object is to find out if the seats are comfortable, but it isn’t. They merely want a rest. The attendants on the stand are used to this sort of thing, and they don’t take much notice. This fellow went and sat in one of the Solent cars, dumped his blunt weapon there, and then walked out. Easy as shelling peas.’
‘Well, I’m immensely obliged for the explanation,’ said Hanslet. ‘That’s another bit of the jig-saw put in its place. Now, how does it help us to find the criminal? Sulgrave appears to be cut out, since he was actually demonstrating at the time. Hardisen and Bryant remain as possibles. It sounds just the sort of trick that Hardisen might have played. I’m quite sure that in the mood he was then he would thoroughly have enjoyed punching Pershore in the stomach. But, on the whole, I’m inclined to plump for Bryant, in spite of the fact that his motive is obscure.’
‘What motives have you for suspecting Mr Bryant?’ Dr Priestley asked.
‘Several. In the first place there is Mrs Bryant. She was doing her best to cut out Miss Rissington. Her idea was to curry favour with Pershore, in the hope of inducing him to alter his will to her husband’s advantage. And I haven’t a doubt that she was the woman in the garden at Firlands on Saturday evening.
‘I told you what Bryant said to me yesterday evening. Since then, I’ve been making inquiries. It’s quite true that he has a small Comet saloon car, which he keeps in a mews not far from his flat. And it is quite true that on Saturday night he was dining with a client in Harrow. He did not leave his friend’s house until close upon eleven o’clock. On the other hand, Mrs Bryant was seen to take the car from the mews shortly before eight. I haven’t yet found anybody who saw her return.
‘Now Weybridge is only eighteen miles from London. She could have reached Firlands comfortably in three-quarters of an hour. And there’s another point. When I questioned Mrs Markle about the telephone call for Pershore that evening, she suggested that the voice might have been Mrs Bryant’s.
‘If it was Mrs Bryant, what was her game? I’ve got a theory which will explain that. She heard by chance that Miss Rissington would be out that evening, and she saw the opportunity of having a private interview with Pershore. I think that she entered the garden by the door on to the lane, having sent Pershore a message to expect her.
‘What passed between them, I have no idea. Nor am I sure whether her husband knew of her exploit or not. But I have to bear in mind the possibility that this was the occasion on which the poisoned olives were introduced into the cupboard. As I have explained, it is possible to reach the study from the garden without passing through any other part of the house.’
Hanslet paused, and glanced inquiringly at Dr Priestley. But the latter merely nodded impatiently. ‘You have other grounds of suspicion against the Bryants, I gather?’ he asked.
‘Certainly, Professor,’ Hanslet replied. ‘I’ll set them out in order for you. First of all, when he was at Firlands on Sunday, he declared that he smelt an escape of gas, which nobody else was able to detect. His idea was to create a false impression. If he knew that his uncle was about to die, and that the post-mortem would reveal the presence of carbon monoxide, his evidence would suggest the source of the poison. There would be no need to search further, and the faked inhalant would escape discovery. A further point in connection with this is the fact that, immediately I told him that there was a case of poisoning in the house, he asked if it was due to gas.
‘Then, when I questioned him yesterday evening, his answers were perfectly calm and collected until I suggested that he had gone up to Pershore’s dressing-room to wash his hands. He was on the defensive at once. In fact, he got very near the blustering stage. And his denial that he had been in the bedroom was quite unnecessarily forcible. Curiously enough, when I tackled him about being down in the study, he was quite calm. I came to the conclusion that while he knew something about the inhalant, he had had no hand in the olives. That’s why I think that Mrs Bryant had already put them in the cupboard on the previous evening.
‘There’s just one more point. You remember that the faked inhalant contained zinc filings. This morning I called on Bryant at his office, to see if I could get anything more out of him. I got nothing definite. But one thing I did notice. The outside sill of the window of his room is covered with sheet zinc. A narrow strip of this has recently been cut off. When I drew Bryant’s attention to this, he grew very confused, but he declared that he had no knowledge how it happened, and that he had never noticed it before.’
Again the superintendent paused, hoping for some comment from Dr Priestley. But it was Oldland who spoke. ‘You seem to have got a pretty good
case against the Bryants,’ he said. ‘But there are two things one would like to know. First of all the motive, of which you say you have an inkling. And then, assuming Bryant to have been the wielder of the pressure valve, how did he know that his uncle intended to visit the Motor Show?’
‘I’d rather not talk about the motive until I have further information,’ Hanslet replied. ‘Miss Rissington, in her conversation with me, suggested the answer to the second point. She said that her uncle might have made an appointment to meet Bryant at the Motor Show, in order to discuss something of a confidential nature. I’ve been wondering if it had anything to do with Mrs Bryant’s visit to Firlands on Saturday evening, and its sequel.’
‘Sounds a bit thin to me,’ said Oldland doubtfully. ‘Hullo! that sounds like the return of Harold’s mysterious visitor.’
There was certainly a sound of voices in the hall. Merefield went out, to find Mr Hardisen in conversation with the parlourmaid. ‘Will you come in here?’ he said. ‘Mr Hanslet is here now.’
The new arrival followed Harold into the study. Hanslet rose to greet him. ‘Good-evening, Mr Hardisen,’ he said. ‘You want to see me, I understand. Let me introduce you to my friends. Dr Priestley, Doctor Oldland, Mr Merefield.’
‘Evening, gentlemen,’ replied Hardisen. ‘Nice and snug here. Better than the Yard. Dug yourself in, eh, superintendent? Been chasing you all the evening. Off and on. Got something to show you. Answer to my cable. Thought you’d like to see it.’
He thrust a piece of paper into the superintendent’s hand. It was a cable from the Argentine, addressed to Hardisen at his London hotel, and ran as follows: ‘Micah Pershore died fourth instant Capes Bryant and Capes solicitors informed by cable.’
Hanslet read it aloud. ‘What do you make of this, Mr Hardisen?’ he asked.
Hardisen made a gesture suggestive of the tying of a noose round his neck. Then he grinned maliciously. ‘Good enough to hang Philip,’ he replied.
