Inspector Holly contemplated some, not all, of the history of George Ransom, and gnawed his fountain pen in perplexity. He was endeavouring to give up his habit of making pencil notes, and had substituted a pen for his pencil. Forgetfully he champed on its end. Suddenly the pen split, filled his mouth with ink, and pricked his lip with a spar of vulcanite.
He cursed aloud with surprise, and thereby covered his desk with a fine spray of ink, an involuntary specimen of spatterwork. He spent some five minutes in the washroom cleaning out his mouth and swearing; and then had to go into conference with the Superintendent with his mind not made up.
“I’ve got a certain way,” he said, “and I’ve made up a theory, now, of how the crime may have been committed. But before I go on to that, I’d better summarize the results of my inquiries about another man who travelled home with Councillor Grayling. He was a Home Guard, a corporal named George Ransom. Captain Williams said he ‘proved’ at once when the name of the man who travelled up with Grayling was asked for. I suppose that means he stepped out of the ranks or something. He made no difficulty, anyway, about coming to see me.
“He’s corporal in charge of gas protection; and that’s something striking right away. But he gave me that information himself.”
“You’d have found it out, anyhow; and he must have known you would,” said the Superintendent.
“Yes, sir; that is so. However, for what it’s worth, he seemed to regard the matter of no importance. He also said Grayling was an unpopular officer. Both Major Ramsay and Captain Williams of the Home Guard confirm that, and Williams added that Grayling had made a formal complaint against Ransom for insubordination and insolence, but that he, Williams, had decided to take no action about it, because of Grayling’s disagreeable character. I asked him if the two men were generally on bad terms, and he hedged. But I think they were, and I’ll look into it further.
“I found that Ransom could do with money, too. He was part-owner of a shoemaking or repairing business in the City called “Peter’s A.l Shoe Service,” which the City police tell me was completely destroyed in the blitz. They say it belonged half to him and half to the previous owner, Peters, who’s in the army now. Mrs. Peters, who used to be behind the counter—it was a very small place, I gather—complained to the police that they had still got no proper compensation, and Ransom was having to work like a common journeyman, when by rights a new shop should have been set going long ago for both of them. She gives Ransom a very good character, by the way.”
“Well, there’s something there,” said the Superintendent “Method: Ransom is an anti-gas expert. He would know how to use mustard gas, anyway. Could he have had access to it?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll enquire from Captain Williams.”
“Do so. To go on—Motive: he disliked Grayling. He needed money. Have you got anything more? What sort of man is Ransom? How did he behave when you saw him?”
“He’s rather a shifty fellow,” said the Inspector. “A bit shabby-looking, and, without being furtive exactly, the sort of man who likes to avoid attention. I would have said he had a police record, but nothing has been traced yet. I’ve put an enquiry through to Scotland Yard; there’s nothing against him since he’s been here. He was out of work pretty often before the war, but so were many other people.
“He’s very fly. I thought it would be a good idea to get his fingerprints on the quiet, but there was nothing doing. I offered him my cigarette case: thank you, he didn’t smoke. I pushed him a piece of shiny paper and asked him to write a few words down, offering him my pen. He preferred his own pen, thank you. And as he wrote, he kept the paper still not with his fingers but by resting his closed fist on it; and when he had done he didn’t pick up the paper with his fingers but flipped it across to me with his nail. Obviously, he knew what I was up to, but he didn’t give a sign. In the end I asked him outright if he objected to having his prints taken and he said yes, unless I proposed making a charge against him, which put me up against it for the moment.”
“I see.” The Superintendent thought for a minute but produced no comment; then he said: “You told me you had a theory about the administration of the gas. Let’s hear it: I’ll be glad of anything that makes sense.”
“I’m not certain of it, by any means, sir,” said the Inspector, “and at first sight it seems fantastic. But the more I consider it the less fantastic it seems.
“It turns on the fact that mustard gas isn’t a gas at all, but a liquid. It’s used in a fine spray. In reasonably warm weather it will vaporize fairly quickly. But this weather has been bitterly cold for a long time, so it would stay liquid.
“It can be handled safely by anybody who knows the ropes. Any respirator, civilian or service, is a complete protection against the fumes, and rubber gloves will guard against an accidental splash. Most people have got both of these things. It’s also not very difficult to make, and there are fair stocks kept anyway for demonstration purposes. I think it’s quite possible that either Ransom or Evetts could obtain enough to kill Grayling, whom anyone could see was not a specially beefy specimen.
“Now I suppose this. The murderer acquires some liquid poison gas. This has got to be applied to his victim’s mouth and nose. If it is in a sufficiently strong concentration death will follow in a few hours; but symptoms will not appear for an hour or so. In fact, the books say that momentarily there will be signs of euphoria—that is, he’ll feel better. How can it be applied to his mouth and nose? Clearly by his handkerchief. He had a cold, as anyone could see: he had had one some time, as a matter of fact.”
“Did the murderer come up to him and say: ‘Councillor, lend me your handkerchief; I want to put some cold mixture on it?’ I don’t believe that,” said the Superintendent.
“No,” said Holly. “I conjecture that he switched handkerchiefs. I think he carried a prepared handkerchief and in the crowd slipped it in Grayling’s pocket. The Vicar said the platform was packed, and there was a rush into the carriage too. You and I know pickpockets have done far, far more difficult things than that.”
“It’s just possible,” said the Superintendent, troubled. “I suppose Grayling sits in the carriage and sooner or later blows his nose, or coughs into his handkerchief, and then takes a straight snort of poison gas each time. But he’d notice it, wouldn’t he? Doesn’t it smell, or make you sneeze?”
“No it scarcely smells at all. And it’s not a sneezing gas. It is a vesicant, which means it brings up blisters. But it doesn’t do that at once.”
“But it’s brown. He’d see the colour on his handkerchief, even in that light.”
“Not necessarily. It’s only brown when impure. The purer, the more colourless. A good brew, or distillation, or whatever it is, wouldn’t be noticeable except in daylight or under a strong lamp.”
“But when he used it, it would begin to vaporize in the warm carriage, and would gas everybody else.”
“If you remember, sir,” said the Inspector, “the Vicar had a bad throat and a sore face; and Charlie Evetts had the symptoms of minor gas poisoning. They sat next to him. As he would only hold the strong concentration to his face for a few seconds, the vapour wouldn’t travel far.”
“It’s very ingenious,” said the Superintendent, wavering. “But a little far-fetched. And, come to think of it, there’s a bad snag. How did the murderer manage to go about with a hanky full of poison gas in his pocket, waiting for a chance. A pocket is warm. It would vaporize and he’d merely gas himself.”
“I suggest he might carry it in a tin. A flat case, like you used to get fifty cigarettes in. Many people have these about the house still. He could pour a certain amount of mustard gas in liquid form on a handkerchief, using rubber gloves and keeping his mask on. Then he folds the handkerchief and puts it in the tin, closes the tin tightly and seals it by running adhesive tape round the edges to make it airtight. He opens all the windows to clear out any gas there may be.
“Then he puts the tin in his overcoat pocket and goes to the station. He has gloves on still, of course. He waits until he spots Grayling, then he peels off the tape with one hand, keeping his hand inside his pocket, and loosens the lid of the tin. The minute he can press against Grayling— and there seem to have been plenty of opportunities, even for those who weren’t sitting near him—he plants the handkerchief on him.”