Having reached this stage in his narrative Moresby paused, for effect,
breath and refreshment. So far, in spite of the eager interest with
which the story had been followed, no fact had been brought out of
which his listeners were unaware. It was the police investigations
that they wanted to hear, for not only had no details of these been
published but not so much as a hint had been given even as to the
theory that was officially held.
Perhaps Moresby had gathered something of this sentiment, for after a
moment’s rest he resumed with a slight smile. “Well, ladies and
gentlemen, I shan’t keep you much longer with these preliminaries, but
it’s just as well to run through everything while we’re on it, if we
want to get a view of the case as a whole.
“As you know, then, Mr. Bendix himself did not die. Luckily for
himself he had eaten only two of the chocolates, as against his wife’s
seven, but still more luckily he had fallen into the hands of a clever
doctor. By the time her doctor saw Mrs. Bendix it was too late for him
to do anything; but the smaller amount of poison that Mr. Bendix had
swallowed meant that its progress was not so rapid, and the doctor had
time to save him.
“Not that the doctor knew then what the poison was. He treated him
chiefly for prussic acid poisoning, thinking from the symptoms and the
smell that Mr. Bendix must have taken oil of bitter almonds, but he
wasn’t sure and threw in one or two other things as well. Anyhow, it
turned out in the end that he couldn’t have had a fatal dose, and he
was conscious again by about eight o’clock that night. They’d put him
into one of the club bedrooms, and by the next day he was
convalescent.”
At first, Moresby went on to explain, it was thought at Scotland Yard
that Mrs. Bendix’s death and her husband’s narrow escape were due to a
terrible accident. The police had of course taken the matter in hand
as soon as the woman’s death was reported to them and the fact of
poison established. In due course a District Detective Inspector
arrived at the Rainbow Club, and as soon as the doctor would permit
after Bendix’s recovery of consciousness held an interview with the
still very sick man.
The fact of his wife’s death was kept from him in his doubtful
condition and he was questioned solely upon his own experience, for it
was already clear that the two cases were bound up together and light
on one would equally clarify the other. The Inspector told Bendix
bluntly that he had been poisoned and pressed him as to how the stuff
could have been taken: could he account for it in any way?
It was not long before the chocolates came into Bendix’s mind. He
mentioned their burning taste, and he mentioned having already spoken
to Sir Eustace about them as the possible cause of his illness.
This the inspector already knew.
He had spent the time before Bendix came round in interviewing such
people as had come into contact with him since his return to the club
that afternoon. He had heard the porter’s story and he had taken steps
to trace the taxi-man; he had spoken with the members who had gathered
round Bendix in the lounge, and Sir Eustace had reported to him the
remark of Bendix about the chocolates.
The inspector had not attached very much importance to this at the
moment, but simply as a matter of routine had questioned Sir Eustace
closely as to the whole episode and, again as a matter of routine, had
afterwards rummaged through the waste-paper basket and extricated the
wrapper and the covering-letter. Still as a matter of routine, and
still not particularly impressed, he now proceeded to question Bendix
on the same topic, and then at last began to realise its significance
as he heard how the two had shared the chocolates after lunch and how,
even before Bendix had left home, the wife had eaten more than the
husband.
The doctor now intervened, and the inspector had to leave the
sick-room. His first action was to telephone to his colleague at the
Bendix home and tell him to take possession without delay of the box
of chocolates which was probably still in the drawing-room; at the
same time he asked for a rough idea of the number of chocolates that
were missing. The other told him, nine or ten. The inspector, who on
Bendix’s information had only accounted for six or seven, rang off and
telephoned what he had learnt to Scotland Yard.
Interest was now centred on the chocolates. They were taken to
Scotland Yard that evening, and sent off at once to be analysed.
“Well, the doctor hadn’t been far wrong,” said Moresby. “The poison in
those chocolates wasn’t oil of bitter almonds as a matter of fact, it
was nitrobenzene; but I understand that isn’t so very different. If
any of you ladies or gentlemen have a knowledge of chemicals, you’ll
know more about the stuff than I do, but I believe it’s used
occasionally in the cheaper sorts of confectionery (less than it used
to be, though) to give an almond-flavour as a substitute for oil of
bitter almonds, which I needn’t tell you is a powerful poison too. But
the most usual way of employing nitrobenzene commercially is in the
manufacture of aniline dyes.”
When the analyst’s preliminary report came through Scotland Yard’s
initial theory of accidental death was strengthened. Here definitely
was a poison used in the manufacture of chocolates and other sweets. A
terrible mistake must have been made. The firm had been employing the
stuff as a cheap substitute for genuine liqueurs and too much of it
had been used. The fact that the only liqueurs named on the silver
wrappings were Maraschino, Kümmel and Kirsch, all of which carry a
greater or lesser flavour of almonds, supported this conception.
But before the firm was approached by the police for an explanation,
other facts had come to light. It was found that only the top layer of
chocolates contained any poison. Those in the lower layer were
completely free from anything harmful. Moreover in the lower layer the
fillings inside the chocolate cases corresponded with the description
on the wrappings, whereas in the top layer, besides the poison, each
sweet contained a blend of the three liqueurs mentioned and not, for
instance, plain Maraschino and poison. It was further remarked that no
Maraschino, Kirsch or Kümmel was to be found in the two lower layers.
The interesting fact also emerged, in the analyst’s detailed report,
that each chocolate in the top layer contained, in addition to its
blend of the three liqueurs, exactly six minims of nitrobenzene, no
more and no less. The cases were a fair size and there was plenty of
room for quite a considerable quantity of the liqueur-blend besides
this fixed quantity of poison. This was significant. Still more so was
the further fact that in the bottom of each of the noxious chocolates
there were distinct traces of a hole having been drilled in the case
and subsequently plugged up with a piece of melted chocolate.
It was now plain to the police that foul play was in question.
A deliberate attempt had been made to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather.
The would-be murderer had acquired a box of Mason’s chocolate
liqueurs; separated those in which a flavour of almonds would not come
amiss; drilled a small hole in each and drained it of its contents;
injected, probably with a fountain-pen filler, the dose of poison;
filled the cavity up from the mixture of former fillings; carefully
stopped the hole, and re-wrapped it in its silver-paper covering. A
meticulous business, meticulously carried out.
The covering letter and wrapper which had arrived with the box of
chocolates now became of paramount importance, and the inspector who
had had the foresight to rescue these from destruction had occasion to
pat himself on the back. Together with the box itself and the
remaining chocolates, they formed the only material clues to this
cold-blooded murder.
Taking them with him, the Chief Inspector now in charge of the case
called on the managing director of Mason & Sons, and without informing
him of the circumstances as to how it had come into his possession,
laid the letter before him and invited him to explain certain points
in connection with it. How many of these (the managing director was
asked) had been sent out, who knew of this one, and who could have had
a chance of handling the box that was sent to Sir Eustace?
If the police had hoped to surprise Mr. Mason, the result was nothing
compared with the way in which Mr. Mason surprised the police.
“Well, sir?” prompted the Chief Inspector, when it seemed as if Mr.
Mason would go on examining the letter all day.
Mr. Mason adjusted his glasses to the angle for examining Chief
Inspectors instead of letters. He was a small, rather fierce, elderly
man who had begun life in a back street in Huddersfield, and did not
intend any one to forget it.
“Where the devil did you get this?” he asked. The papers, it must be
remembered, had not yet got hold of the sensational aspect of Mrs.
Bendix’s death.
“I came,” replied the Chief Inspector with dignity, “to ask you about
your sending it out, sir, not tell you about my getting hold of it.”
“Then you can go to the devil,” replied Mr. Mason with decision. “And
take Scotland Yard with you,” he added, by way of a comprehensive
afterthought.
“I must warn you, sir,” said the Chief Inspector, somewhat taken aback
but concealing the fact beneath his weightiest manner, “I must warn
you that it may be a serious matter for you to refuse to answer my
questions.”
Mr. Mason, it appeared, was exasperated rather than intimidated by
this covert threat. “Get out o’ ma office,” he replied in his native
tongue. “Are ye druffen, man? Or do ye just think you’re funny? Ye
know as well as I do that that letter was never sent out from ’ere.”
It was then that the Chief Inspector became surprised. “Not—not sent
out by your firm at all?” he yammered. It was a possibility that had
not occurred to him. “It’s—forged, then?”
“Isn’t that what I’m telling ye?” growled the old man, regarding him
fiercely from under bushy brows. But the Chief Inspector’s evident
astonishment had mollified him somewhat.
“Sir,” said that official, “I must ask you to be good enough to answer
my questions as fully as possible. It’s a case of murder I’m
investigating, and—” he paused and thought cunningly “—and the
murderer seems to have been making free use of your business to cloak
his operations.”
The cunning of the Chief Inspector prevailed. “The devil ’e ’as!”
roared the old man. “Damn the blackguard. Ask any questions thou
wants, lad; I’ll answer right enough.”
Communication thus being established, the Chief Inspector proceeded to
get to grips.
During the next five minutes his heart sank lower and lower. In place
of the simple case he had anticipated it became rapidly plain to him
that the affair was going to be very difficult indeed. Hitherto he had
thought (and his superiors had agreed with him) that the case was
going to prove one of sudden temptation. Somebody in the Mason firm
had a grudge against Sir Eustace. Into his (or more probably, as the
Chief Inspector had considered, her) hands had fallen the box and
letter addressed to him. The opportunity had been obvious, the means,
in the shape of nitrobenzene in use in the factory, ready to hand; the
result had followed. Such a culprit would be easy enough to trace.
But now, it seemed, this pleasant theory must be abandoned, for in the
first place no such letter as this had ever been sent out at all; the
firm had produced no new brand of chocolates, if they had done so it
was not their custom to dispense sample boxes among private
individuals, the letter was a forgery. But the notepaper on the other
hand (and this was the only remnant left to support the theory) was
perfectly genuine, so far as the old man could tell. He could not say
for certain, but was almost sure that this was a piece of old stock
which had been finished up about six months ago. The heading might be
forged, but he did not think so.
“Six months ago?” queried the Inspector unhappily.
“About that,” said the other, and plucked a piece of paper out of a
stand in front of him. “This is what we use now.” The Inspector
examined it. There was no doubt of the difference. The new paper was
thinner and more glossy. But the heading looked exactly the same. The
Inspector took a note of the firm who had printed both.
Unfortunately no sample of the old paper was available. Mr. Mason had
a search made on the spot, but not a sheet was left.
“As a matter of fact,” Moresby now said, “it had been noticed that the
piece of paper on which the letter was written was an old one. It is
distinctly yellow round the edges. I’ll pass it round and you can see
for yourselves. Please be careful of it.” The bit of paper, once
handled by a murderer, passed slowly from each would-be detective to
his neighbour.
“Well, to cut a long story shorter,” Moresby went on, “we had it
examined by the firm of printers, Webster’s, in Frith Street, and
they’re prepared to swear that it’s their work. That means the paper
was genuine, worse luck.”
“You mean, of course,” put in Sir Charles Wildman impressively, “that
had the heading been a copy, the task of discovering the printers who
executed it should have been comparatively simple?”
“That’s correct, Sir Charles. Except if it had been done by somebody
who owned a small press of their own; but that would have been
traceable too. All we’ve actually got is that the murderer is someone
who had access to Mason’s notepaper up to six months ago; and that’s
pretty wide.”
“Do you think it was stolen with the actual intention of putting it to
the purpose for which it was used?” asked Alicia Dammers.
“It seems like it, madam. And something kept holding the murderer up.”
As regards the wrapper, Mr. Mason had been unable to help at all. This
consisted simply of a piece of ordinary, thin brown paper, such as
could be bought anywhere, with Sir Eustace’s name and address
hand-printed on it in neat capitals. Apparently there was nothing to
be learnt from it at all. The post-mark showed that it had been
despatched by the nine-thirty p. m. post from the post office in
Southampton Street, Strand.
“There is a collection at 8.30 and another at 9.30,” Moresby
explained, “so it must have been posted between those two times. The
packet was quite small enough to go into the opening for letters. The
stamps make up the right value. The post office was shut by then, so
it could not have been handed in over the counter. Perhaps you’d care
to see it.” The piece of brown paper was handed gravely round.
“Have you brought the box too, and the other chocolates?” asked Mrs.
Fielder-Flemming.
“No, madam. It was one of Mason’s ordinary boxes, and the chocolates
have all been used for analysis.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Fielder-Flemming was plainly disappointed. “I thought there
might be finger-prints on it,” she explained.
“We have already looked for those,” replied Moresby without a flicker.
There was a pause while the wrapper passed from hand to hand.
“Naturally, we’ve made inquiries as to any one seen posting a packet
in Southampton Street between half-past eight and half-past nine,”
Moresby continued, “but without result. We’ve also carefully
interrogated Sir Eustace Pennefather to discover whether he could
throw any light on the question why any one should wish to take his
life, or who. Sir Eustace can’t give us the faintest idea. Of course
we followed up the usual line of inquiry as to who would benefit by
his death, but without any helpful results. Most of his possessions go
to his wife, who has a divorce suit pending against him; and she’s out
of the country. We’ve checked her movements and she’s out of the
question. Besides,” added Moresby unprofessionally, “she’s a very nice
lady.
“And as to facts, all we know is that the murderer probably had some
connection with Mason & Sons up to six months ago, and was almost
certainly in Southampton Street at some time between eight-thirty and
nine-thirty on that particular evening. I’m very much afraid we’re up
against a brick wall.” Moresby did not add that so were the amateur
criminologists in front of him too, but he very distinctly implied it.
There was a silence.
“Is that all?” asked Roger.
“That’s all, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby agreed.
There was another silence.
“Surely the police have a theory?” Mr. Morton Harrogate Bradley threw
out in a detached manner.
Moresby hesitated perceptibly.
“Come along, Moresby,” Roger encouraged him. “It’s quite a simple
theory. I know it.”
“Well,” said Moresby, thus stimulated, “we’re inclined to believe that
the crime was the work of a lunatic, or semi-lunatic, possibly quite
unknown personally to Sir Eustace. You see . . .” Moresby looked a
trifle embarrassed. “You see,” he went on bravely, “Sir Eustace’s life
was a bit, well, we might say hectic, if you’ll excuse the word. We
think at the Yard that some religious or social maniac took it on
himself to rid the world of him, so to speak. Some of his escapades
had caused a bit of talk, as you may know.
“Or it might just be a plain homicidal lunatic, who likes killing
people at a distance.
“There’s the Horwood case, you see. Some lunatic sent poisoned
chocolates to the Commissioner of Police himself. That caused a lot of
attention. We think this case may be an echo of it. A case that
creates a good deal of notice is quite often followed by another on
exactly the same lines, as I needn’t remind you.
“Well, that’s our theory. And if it’s the right one, we’ve got about
as much chance of laying our hands on the murderer as—as—” Chief
Inspector Moresby cast about for something really scathing.
“As we have,” suggested Roger.