Nicholas Ede spent most of the afternoon driving into Surrey to break the news of the tragedy to Mrs. Hind. He could have sent a deputy, but he was a naturally considerate man with a strong sense of responsibility for his staff, and he felt it his duty to go. After it was over he was glad that he had done so, but the painful interview left him feeling limp. Back at the office there was no respite. The absent Proprietor had to be informed by cable of what had happened. The rest of the Directors had to be prevented at all costs from rushing up to the office and adding to the confusion. Several appointments had to be cancelled and new ones somehow squeezed in. It was the most rushed and wretched afternoon that Ede could remember.
The inspector had taken Ede very much at his word and was using Miss Timmins constantly. He had mobilised strong forces for the investigation, a fact that was reflected in the increasing dislocation throughout the office. The Process Department had been turned upside down under Ogilvie’s supervision, and it seemed doubtful whether any news pictures would catch the first edition. The people who had figured on the conference list that Ede had given to Haines were receiving special attention, and as they were all key men the effect on work was calamitous. Attendance at the afternoon conference was so thin that Jackson—who had taken over editorial control for the time being—was obliged to abandon it altogether and finish planning the paper in private conclave with the Night Editor. There had been so such upheaval in the office since the day the bomb exploded.
Just after five o’clock a message came through from Haines asking if the Editor could make it convenient to call upon him. Ede went quickly downstairs, trying hard to control his irritation. On the way, he dropped into the News Room to see how Soames was getting along as Hind’s replacement. He found a reporter sitting at the News Desk, and Soames in a corner deep in conversation with a stranger who had all the marks of a plain-clothes detective. In the Reporters’ Room two similar conversations were going on. Work had virtually ceased. Ede went on his way fuming.
Haines greeted him with an apologetic air. “I’m sorry to have to trouble you again quite so soon,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter about troubling me, Inspector, but you’re certainly playing hell with the office. Your men are as thick as locusts. I told you I was anxious to co-operate, but is this invasion really necessary?”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Haines. “You see, sir, the way things are turning out we really have no alternative but to treat every employee of the paper as a suspect. We’re having to interview everyone.”
Ede looked startled. “The whole staff? But, good gracious, there are more than two hundred of them!”
“So the Secretary of the company has informed me,” said Haines ruefully. “What makes it more difficult is that some are on holiday, some are sick—and then, of course, there are others who used to be employed here and aren’t any longer. And it’s all got to be done in a hurry.”
“What exactly are you trying to find out?”
“Primarily, which people have an alibi for that half hour when the olives were taken into the dining-room, and which haven’t. It’s a complicated job, as you can imagine, checking stories against each other. That’s why I’ve got so many men at work.”
Ede still seemed staggered by the magnitude of the effort. “You mean that there’s no shorter way than this mass onslaught?”
“Not that I can think of. You see, Mr. Ede, there are no material clues at all. I haven’t had the detailed report from the Yard yet, but I have to assume that that room won’t tell us anything.”
“Still, where’s this going to get you? When you’ve found out where everyone was, you’ll still have an enormous number of suspects on your hands.”
“I know, sir,” said Haines patiently, “but it’ll be a beginning. This office is like a cul-de-sac—we’re beginning a drive through it towards the dead end, with the whole staff in front of us. As people can prove their innocence, we let them go past us. The alibi is only one test—we shall hope to use others. At last, if we’re very lucky, everyone will have passed through except just one man or woman—and he or she will be the murderer. It’s tedious for us and exasperating for you, but it’s the only possible method. By the way, you’ll be interested to know we’ve checked up on the cyanide. Mr. Iredale was quite right about that.”
“Oh?” Ede sensed more trouble.
“Yes. I’ve just sent a sample of the stuff to be analysed. There’s enough of it in the Process Department to poison the whole of Fleet Street.”
“Surely it’s not just lying about?”
“Well, not quite. It’s stored in a separate room, and it’s supposed to be kept under lock and key when it’s not in use. I’ve satisfied myself, though, that almost anyone in the office could have found an opportunity to help himself to a handful if he’d wanted to.”
“That’s bad.” Ede frowned. The safe keeping of cyanide could hardly be considered an editorial matter, but he wished he’d known about it. “Well, we must see that the precautions are tightened up from now on, Inspector, though it’s rather like shutting the stable door. Was this what you wanted to see me about?”
“Well, no, sir, not exactly. I really wanted your personal assistance. As I mentioned just now, we’ve got to apply other tests to our mass of suspects in addition to the one of opportunity. Motive is obviously going to be of the greatest importance—whoever put that poison in the olives did it for a pretty substantial reason. I want you to tell me whether you know of anyone in the office who disliked Mr. Hind—or any other member of the luncheon party—sufficiently to wish him out of the way.”
Ede was silent for a moment. He had feared all along that this onus would be put on him. “You place me in an extremely difficult position, Inspector,” he said presently.
“A man has been killed, sir.”
“I know, I know. But I’m not sure how far that justifies me in telling you things that throw suspicion on members of my staff—things that may have no bearing on the case at all. You’re really asking me to gossip.”
“That’s it, sir. I know it goes against the grain, but if you don’t, others will—and without your sense of responsibility. I’d sooner have it from the fountain head.”
Ede still hesitated. “A motive doesn’t necessarily imply guilt. I shouldn’t like to think you were going to rush off and arrest the first man who has had trouble with Hind.”
“You’ll have to trust my discretion, sir. We don’t do things like that, you know. An arrest is a very serious matter. Apart from anything else, I have my own reputation to think of.”
“All right, Inspector,” said Ede reluctantly. “I don’t like it, but I’ll tell you. There has been something on my mind since Hind’s death, though I don’t suppose for a moment it’s of any significance. Hind came to me yesterday evening and reported one of his men for a rather serious offence. Arthur Pringle, our Crime Reporter. I dare say you’ve met him on cases.”
“Pringle? The name’s familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever run across him. We don’t see quite as much of crime reporters, you know, as some of them like to pretend. What’s he been up to?”
“Faking his expense accounts, according to Hind. Of course, as I expect you know, reporters’ expense sheets often have as little foundation in fact as some of their stories. They reckon to make a bit on the side, particularly on out-of-town jobs; it’s a well-understood Fleet Street convention. I don’t much like the practice myself, but within reasonable limits it has to be accepted. If a reporter spends fifteen shillings in a pub standing drinks while he’s on a story, and charges twenty-five shillings for ‘hospitality’ or whatever the current euphemism happens to be, there’s nothing anyone can do about it, after all. But Pringle appears to have overstepped the bounds. Hind discovered that he’s been charging large sums—amounting in all to some hundreds a year—for stories that he hasn’t covered at all. The fact is, I’m afraid, that he’s been given too much latitude, and he’s abused it. It seems that Hind had warned Pringle once before, and this time he felt he couldn’t let it pass. He came to me and said that in his view Pringle was nothing but a crook and should be dispensed with.”
“I see,” said Haines gravely. “You were certainly right to tell me of this. Did Pringle know that he was going to be reported?”
“Yes. Hind told him yesterday afternoon.”
“Do you suppose that he knew to-day that Hind had already mentioned the matter to you, or might he have supposed that it was still in abeyance?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea.”
“Have you seen Pringle about it yourself?”
“Not yet. I was proposing to wait until I had a moment to go over his expense sheets and see just what the offence amounted to. Goodness knows when I shall have an opportunity now.” Ede looked very perturbed. “There’s a tradition on the Morning Call that we don’t sack anyone unless we’re left with no alternative, but if Pringle has really gone as far as Hind said, I’m afraid I’ll have to get rid of him. Professionally speaking, he’ll be no great loss. However, that’s of no interest to you. You asked me point blank whether I knew of anyone with a possible motive. Reluctantly, I’ve told you.”
“And I’m obliged to you,” said Haines. “I shall have to talk to Pringle, of course. I should like to see those expense sheets myself, if I may.”
“Very well,” said Ede wearily, “I’ll send them down to you. Mind you, Inspector, I don’t for a moment think that Pringle had anything to do with this business. He’s not a very prepossessing individual, but I can’t believe he’d kill Hind out of revenge, or even to keep him quiet. It’s too melodramatic altogether—even for a crime reporter.”
“I dare say, sir. Well, now, is there anything else you can tell me about Hind’s relations with his colleagues while we’re on the subject?” Haines looked at the Editor with a quizzical expression. “Is there by any chance a lady in the case, for instance?”
“Where Hind was concerned,” said Ede with an expression of distaste, “I imagine there was always some lady in the case, but the private affairs of the staff are none of my business.”
“I appreciate your feelings, sir. At the same time, if Hind was abnormally mixed up with women, that obviously has a bearing on the investigation. Was he a philanderer? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“That’s what I’m trying not to tell you, Inspector.”
“Quite so, sir. Do you happen to know which lady was the latest object of his attentions—or would you prefer me to inquire elsewhere about that?”
“Oh, if you’re going to be told I may as well tell you. He’s been going around with one of his reporters—a girl named Sheila Brooks. She hasn’t been here long and I don’t know a great deal about her. A mere child, I believe—I’m sure she can’t have had anything to do with this business.”
“She may be able to give us some useful information, all the same,” said Haines, making a note. “Now is there anything else you can tell me about possible motives?”
“Nothing,” said Ede shortly.
“I understand that Mr. Iredale had some trouble with Mr. Munro.”
A look of exasperation crossed Ede’s face. “Iredale had a row with Munro in the course of his duty, Inspector. He also had a row with me over the same matter. He would no more have murdered Munro because of it than he would have murdered me. That was an incident, not a motive.”
“I see, sir. Well, we’ll leave it at that for the moment. Oh, there’s one other thing. What about Mr. Cardew’s relations with Mr. Hind?”
Ede stared. “They were quite normal as far as I know. Why do you ask that?”
“It must have occurred to you, sir, that Mr. Cardew occupies a unique position in this case.”
“Because he happened to be present when Hind ate the olive?”
“Did he just happen to be present? We don’t know that. As things stand at the moment, he appears to be the one man who could have planned to kill Hind and carried out the murder without any risk that the wrong person would be killed.”
“I’ve never heard such damned nonsense,” cried Ede, shaken at last out of his natural politeness. “If Cardew had had anything to do with it, do you suppose he’d have allowed himself to become so conspicuous? I’m quite sure it was pure chance that took him up with Hind. You’re on the wrong track altogether. Good God, man, if you go on like this you’ll poison the whole atmosphere in the office.”
“At least I shan’t have poisoned a colleague,” said Haines grimly. “I wish, sir, you could see this case from my point of view. Of course you don’t like all this prying and suspicion, and neither do I, for that matter, but it’s unavoidable.”
“There’s such a thing as moderation,” said Ede.
“If you mean by that that some people can be automatically ruled out because they’re nice people, I’m afraid not, sir—not by me. You said just now that I was on the wrong track, but the fact is that I’m not on any track at all. I’ve no evidence—none. I’ve a couple of hundred suspects, but they’re just faces to me, and they all start equal. What I do know is that one of them is a murderer—as clever and ruthless and dangerous a murderer as I’ve ever come across. He’s on my mind a great deal, Mr. Ede. He’s probably sitting somewhere out there now, behaving as innocently as you or I, with all his tracks covered and nothing to worry about. He’s probably watching me, laughing up his sleeve and thinking as you do that I’m causing a great disturbance and not getting anywhere. He’s got everything in his favour. In all my experience I’ve never known a tougher problem. That’s why I can’t afford to be squeamish. If it’s humanly possible I’m going to drive him to the end of that cul-de-sac before he does any more harm, and the only way to do it is to go on probing without any regard whatever for people’s feelings. You see, sir, if Hind wasn’t the intended victim, the murderer is more than likely to try again. As far as we know he still has cyanide in his possession. Very soon there may be one survivor less! That’s the thought that haunts me.”