MR. WARLAND WAS CLEARLY doing well for himself. The block of flats he lived in was in a nice neighborhood and had all the latest gadgets. As I put my calling card in the pneumatic tube and pushed the button with Mr. Warland’s name beside it, I could see the card was automatically punched with the date and time of my visit before being sucked up to his flat.
I looked up and down the street as I waited for him to reply. The street seemed strangely deserted for a residential area this soon after offices had closed, but the only person I saw was a man in a cheap suit with expensive shoes who passed me on the steps. He let himself in with his key and I heard a gear twist. When he was inside, I glanced at the list of names. The button beside the second name had changed from brass to black, indicating the man had returned home, I realized. I glanced at Mr. Warland’s name again, but his button was black. He was in.
I was beginning to wonder if I should send up a second card when I heard the whoosh of a brass tube sliding down. I reached into the chute and pulled out the cylinder containing the latchkey. I made sure of Mr. Warland’s flat number and let myself in.
Mr. Warland’s flat was on the third floor. There was a steam lift, but I could see there was a large gap between the elevator carriage and the floor. A friend who was a tinkerer had told me that was a sign of either a poorly maintained or poorly installed lift. I decided not to take a chance and started up the steps.
After climbing three flights of stairs, I wanted to pause and catch my breath, maybe put a little powder on my nose to make myself feel a little more in control, but I didn’t have the chance. Mr. Warland was standing outside his flat, watching the lift closely, rocking back and forth on his heels. Clearly he had expected me to arrive that way. He was still dressed for work in a conservative brown suit and yellow shirt, with too much macassar oil in his hair again. Not the person I would have chosen for my secretary, but then Mr. Carrollton’s brand of bonhomie wasn’t really my cup of tea either.
I started down the hallway. The floor was carpeted, so it muffled my footsteps. When Mr. Warland didn’t turn towards me, I spoke up, “Mr. Warland?”
He snapped around and spotted me. “You sent up the card?”
“That’s right. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Warland seemed surprised, but he held the door open and gestured for me to enter his flat. “Are you with the police or—or what?”
“I’m acting privately.” That made me sound like a private detective without saying it directly.
Mr. Warland rubbed at the back of his neck, brushing away a stray hair. “Did Carrollton hire you?”
“No, I’m helping Mrs. Pomeroy. She feels that she is a suspect; I’m making certain she’s not wrongfully accused.”
“Mrs. Pomeroy? She’s the cook, right? Excellent meals. They think she’s involved?”
“It was poison, so of course it looks like she could be a suspect.”
“Poison in the food? Yes, yes, I can see how that would make it hard for her to find a job if there’s some doubt about her cooking. Please, have a seat. I’ll help if I can.”
I took the chair he offered and tried to think of what to ask. “What did you see that night?”
“I’ve already told the police, but not much. Old Ainsworth just keeled over.”
“You were watching him at the time?”
“No, I was next to Miss Carrollton, the boss’s niece. Sharma was making eyes at her, and I wanted to be ready to intervene in case he got too — bothersome.”
I realized he didn’t remember me from that night. “So you didn’t actually see him collapse.”
“No, sorry.”
“And what did you think of Mr. Ainsworth?”
“He handled all the legal stuff for Mr. Carrollton. I never saw him but when there was trouble, so I never saw him in a good mood.”
“You didn’t like him?”
Mr. Warland looked shocked, although why I couldn’t tell. “Not at all. I didn’t mean to give that impression. I just didn’t know him.”
“And Mr. Sharma? Did you know him well?”
“Well, I’ve seen him a lot lately. He was going to merge his company with Mr. Carrollton’s, but he’s been trying to back out.”
“Back out?”
“He keeps finding fault with our company. The latest is that the books don’t match what he was expecting, but I don’t know what he was expecting then.”
“And you think it’s a stall tactic?”
“Of course. Our books are perfectly fine.”
“Why do you think he’s trying to delay?”
“To get a better negotiating position, of course. He sees how good our company is, so he wants more money from us.”
“And is Mr. Carrollton interested enough to pay more?”
“He’s thinking about all his options. So Sharma delays, making him want it more when he can’t have it. Hey, do you think that’s it? Maybe he thought Ainsworth’s death would be the best delaying tactic.” He looked up at me. “You could tell the inspector that.”
And have him bite my head off for interfering. “I’m only looking into the case as it relates to Mrs. Pomeroy.”
Mr. Warland seemed irritated that I wouldn’t point suspicion at Mr. Sharma. “I see, I see. Well, I don’t know what else I can tell you about her.”
“And about Mr. Sharma?”
“No more than I’ve already said. He’s trying to delay to improve his position.”
“And you have no idea what he saw in the books to make him hesitate?”
“None whatsoever. Can you see yourself out?”
I was surprised by the abruptness of the dismissal, but Mr. Warland seemed serious. “There were two other guests who were supposed to be at the party—”
“You’ll have to ask Carrollton about them, or Delford. Now, if you don’t mind.” He went to the door and held it open.
There didn’t seem to be any choice. I stood up and left the flat.
When I got back out on the street, I glanced at my watch pin. It was too late to pay a call on Mrs. Delford. I’d have to save her for the morning. And Mrs. Albright was probably waiting to find out what I’d learned at Scotland Yard, so I took the Underground home.
~ * ~ * ~
Back home at Paddington Street, Mrs. Albright was in the front hall before I’d gotten my latchkey out of the lock. “Have you solved it?”
“Not yet. I did visit Mrs. Pomeroy and got addresses for the main suspects.”
“How is she doing?” Mrs. Albright gestured for me to follow her into her flat.
We’d only seen her that afternoon, but I said, “She seemed to be in good spirits.”
“It’s hard for her, all on her own with the rest of them ill. Here, have some homemade fish and chips. I should visit her again tomorrow.”
I took the plate she offered me. “If you do go, can you check a tonic that’s being delivered for the butler?”
“You think it’s connected? Vinegar?”
“Yes, please.” I took the bottle she held out and drowned my chips. “I don’t think it’s connected so much as I want to rule it out. I’m pretty certain it’s sugar-water with a bit of alcohol.”
“But it could be.”
Mrs. Albright looked so pleased to be a help that I couldn’t disappoint her. “Certainly. Especially if something was introduced into it. This fish is really good.”
“I’m glad you like it. My cousin runs a chippy. It’s her recipe. So who did you question today?”
So she wouldn’t be distracted. “Mr. Warland and Mr. Sharma.” I started to describe what I’d learned about the possibility of embezzlement.
“Well, that’s a much better motive than anything they have on Alma. You should go and tell that nice inspector about it in the morning.”
I was going to protest. I could just imagine how livid Inspector Hamilton would be when he found out I’d been investigating, but then Mrs. Albright brought out a cake piled high with cream and strawberries.
“I remembered you didn’t get your cake the other day. Victoria sponge, wasn’t it?”
I didn’t tell her I’d managed to get some in the end. “It looks delicious.”
As she served out the pieces, she casually asked, “So do you think this information will clear Mrs. Pomeroy?”
So it was a plan to get on my good side. “I don’t know, but I’ll let him know there are other avenues for him to explore.” Now I just had to figure out how I was going to make my meetings sound casual.