That day passed quietly at the office—more quietly than any since Hind’s murder. Though sporadic police inquiries were continuing, the tide of detection appeared to be ebbing. There were rumours, not altogether discouraged by Haines in his talks with the Press, that the Yard didn’t expect to solve the case on present evidence. The fact that Haines and Ogilvie spent almost the whole day in discussions with various high officials, including the Assistant Commissioner, rather bore out this view. Long discussions, the Fleet Street crime reporters agreed, were almost always a bad sign.
Nicholas Ede spent a busy day, for the Board of Directors had insisted on meeting to discuss the lamentable happenings in the office. Jackson had his hands full too, attending to numerous delegated duties, including the arrangement of office representation at Hind’s funeral. Otherwise, the tempo of activity was slow. A party of schoolgirls, touring the building in the charge of “Sarge” Vickers, marked the beginning of the summer holiday doldrums. A lunch-time meeting of the trade union chapel could muster only seven people, four of them Communists. Soames was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his reporters occupied. Jessop, being off duty until four o’clock, lazed in the Embankment Gardens after his excellent lunch. Cardew was finding his new job even less bearable than he had expected, and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he could no longer postpone action to resolve his personal problem.
Even the conscientious Miss Timmins was affected by the imminence of the holiday week-end. As soon as six o’clock struck, she put the cover on her typewriter and prepared to leave. It was early for her, but she was seizing the opportunity provided by the Editor’s dinner engagement to visit her sister. She felt in need of a nice quiet talk with someone who had nothing whatever to do with the office, and Ethel was just the person. The past few days had been gruelling for Miss Timmins. She had had to share the burden of the Editor’s anxieties. She had had to make an extra effort to smooth his path, and to put up with his unaccustomed irritability. Inspector Haines had been exacting. The hot weather was very trying, too. She would go to Wembley, she decided, on the top of a bus. There would be a cool breeze—just what she needed.
She dabbed powder on her moist face and listened for the sounds that would tell her the Editor had returned to his room. He was somewhere around the office, and she couldn’t leave without making sure that there was nothing else he wanted. Presently she heard his outer door open. She waited a moment or two—she didn’t want to give the impression that she was in a hurry to rush away—and then she went in.
To her surprise, it wasn’t the Editor after all—the outer door was just closing on Lionel Cardew. Miss Timmins looked slightly annoyed. People weren’t supposed to use that door, but the privileged Cardew had got into the habit of popping in and out that way and there was nothing she could do about it since Mr. Ede didn’t mind.
At that moment Ede returned. He saw that his secretary was made up for the road. “Good-night, Miss Timmins,” he said, with a cheerful smile of dismissal.
“Good-night, Mr. Ede. I hope the speech goes well.” She returned to her own room and put on her hat. She was just feeling for her keys when Soames came in, a great sheaf of papers in his hand and the usual harassed look in his eye.
“It’s no good, Mr. Soames,” she said firmly. “He’s just going to have a shower and after that he’s going straight out to dinner. You’ll have to see Mr. Jackson or else wait until to-morrow.”
“I wouldn’t keep him more than a couple of minutes,” Soames pleaded. From Ede he could expect quick decisions; Jackson, with only delegated authority, might be inclined to leave things over.
“Sorry,” said Miss Timmins in a tone of finality. “The station’s closed down.”
Soames muttered something about the “monstrous regiment of women” and went off grumbling to look for Jackson.
Almost at once, Iredale stuck his head in. This time Miss Timmins was less abrupt. “Well, and what do you want?”
Iredale gave her a leisurely smile. “Hallo, sweetheart. Is this your half day off?”
“Sauce!” said Miss Timmins. “If you want to see Mr. Ede, I’ll put you down for six o’clock tomorrow. He’s just going out.”
“Okay,” said Iredale. “It was only about my future—nothing at all of importance!” He grinned and vanished.
A flicker of a smile crossed Miss Timmins’ tired face. She’d better go now, before anyone else tried to gatecrash. She gave a last methodical glance round the office. Suddenly there was the sound of a heavy bump from the Editor’s room. What on earth could the man be doing? She went quickly to the communicating door and opened it a fraction. “Are you all right, Mr. Ede?” she called. She listened, and heard ugly, choking noises. She went in and stopped with a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. On the floor, across the threshold of the shower-room, lay the convulsed and naked body of Nicholas Ede. In the air there was a peculiar odour, unmistakable after all the talk there had been about it. She turned and rushed frantically into the corridor. “Mr. Jackson!” she shrieked. “Oh, Mr. Jackson!”
The Assistant Editor was out in the corridor in a twinkling. “What on earth’s the matter, Miss Timmins?”
“Oh, Mr. Jackson—it’s Mr. Ede. I think—I think …” Miss Timmins crumpled up.