The Reporters’ Room that afternoon was heavy with pre-holiday lethargy and a charged thundery heat. Haycock was in a telephone box, trying to take down a long-range weather forecast on a pad that stuck to his fingers. Katharine was passing the time by helping Grant with his last thousand postcards. Rogers was studying a road map of the West Country and wishing that he could have had the coming Saturday off as well as the Sunday and Monday. An occasional flicker of facetiousness from his corner stabbed the conversational gloom, but the response was poor. Everyone had been sobered by the attempt on the Editor’s life. Murder in the office no longer seemed a good story; it was becoming too much of a habit. A threat hung over all, none the less disquieting because it was vague.
Presently Golightly came in, his jacket over his arm, his tie wrenched askew to give him air. “Phew, it’s like a Turkish bath in here,” he muttered.
Rogers looked up from his map. “How’s the drought in Hampshire, old boy?” Golightly had been out of town on a story since early morning.
“It’s nothing to the drought in Golightly, I can tell you!” The reporter flung his jacket over a peg with an irritable gesture. His day in the country hadn’t improved his temper. “What a bloody place our garage is! That old Morris wouldn’t be yours, Kate, would it?”
“It would, as a matter of fact,” said Katharine anxiously. “Don’t say it’s in the way—I parked it most carefully.”
“It’s taking up a damn lot of room,” he grumbled. “It’s been there for three days to my knowledge.”
“It needs a new battery,” said Katharine. “I’m getting one to-morrow.”
Golightly grunted. “I should hang on to the old battery and just let the car go!”
“Katharine isn’t the worst offender,” said Grant, feeling under a moral obligation to come to her support. “Cardew keeps his car there the whole time.”
“Oh, him!” said Golightly. “He’s one of the over-privileged.” He cast a jaundiced eye over the diminished heap of postcards. “I hear they’re thinking of running another competition!”
“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Katharine to Grant. “He’s just a troublemaker.”
“Quiet, children!” said Rogers.
The News Room door swung open and a boy came in with the peculiar slouch of adolescence, bearing a sheet of paper which he pinned to the notice board. Golightly strolled over with a bored air, gave it a casual glance, and then suddenly bent to read it. “I say,” he cried, “take a look at this, all of you!”
Rogers quickly joined him and the others crowded round. The notice, signed by Jackson, read: “A seven-pound tin of cyanide crystals, with a German label and the name ZYKLON in red capitals, was brought to this office in 1944. Its subsequent history cannot be traced. Anyone who has any knowledge of what happened to it is asked to report to me at once. Meanwhile, all members of the staff are warned to be on their guard when eating or drinking with their colleagues or when in proximity to basins, sinks, etc.” The notice ended hopefully, “It is requested that no mention shall be made of this matter outside the office.”
There was a moment of thunderstruck silence while the notice was digested. Then Rogers exclaimed, “Well, what do you know!”
“I like the ‘etc.’,” said Golightly. “Very prim.” Haycock turned from the board in disgust and went back to his seat. “I don’t know what this place is coming to,” he muttered. “Now we have to watch our colleagues! It’s getting as bad as a police state.”
The others were still grouped round the notice when Pringle came in, closely followed by a waitress bearing a large strawberry ice and a packet of charcoal biscuits. “What’s going on, eh?” he asked. Katharine silently made way for him and he read the notice, moving his lips like a child learning its letters. “You see!” he said, triumphantly, looking at Golightly. “What did I tell you?”
Rogers was sniffing the ice-cream. “I shouldn’t touch this, old man, if I were you. It has a distinct smell of bitter almonds.”
No one laughed. Rogers shrugged and went back to his map. “No sale? All right, be stuffy. Let’s talk of worms and graves and epitaphs.”
“Hell, it’s getting beyond a joke,” said Golightly. “They must be in a flat spin to put a notice like that up. Who brought the stuff into the office, anyway? I wasn’t here in 1944. You ought to know, Katharine—you were around.”
Katharine was pale. “I’ve no idea,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“Bill Iredale brought it” Haycock volunteered, “from a camp in Poland. I remember the story very well.”
“Where is Iredale?” asked Pringle. “I haven’t seen him about to-day. You don’t suppose …?”
“You are a rat, Pringle,” said Rogers. “Why don’t you shut up?”
“I was only thinking …”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Golightly exclaimed, and slammed his typewriter open. For a few moments there was an oppressive silence, and then, to everyone’s relief, Soames came in from the News Room. “Katharine,” he called, beckoning her, “there’s a story here that’s just up your street.” She gathered up her belongings with alacrity and followed him out.
“I wish someone would send me out on a story,” sighed Grant, mechanically turning over his postcards. “It’s a good thing we’ve got the weekend ahead—perhaps that stuff will have turned up by Tuesday and then we’ll be able to breathe again.”
“It may turn up to-night,” said Pringle darkly, “and then we’ll never breathe again.” He looked round, inviting appreciation of his humour. A copy of Whitaker’s Almanack landed with a crash on his desk, spattering him with strawberry ice-cream. “Now will you shut up?” said Golightly.
The door opened and Jessop looked in. He had just come on duty, and was anxious for news. Ever since last night, things had been going wrong—it was almost as though Providence had deserted him. In the first place, it seemed that Nicholas Ede was going to recover, so all that effort had been wasted. Then Ogilvie had rung him up at home that morning and asked him a lot of questions about the night before last. It was just as though the police knew all about the laying of the cyanide—as though someone had spied on him, and told them. And that wasn’t all—not by any means. He had had a stroke of very bad luck. He had overlooked something important, and got caught up in a dangerous lie. He had discovered his mistake last night when he had gone off duty, and there had been no way of putting it right. It wasn’t very likely that the police would find out about it, and in a day or two it would be forgotten. In the meantime, though, it was worrying.
He put his dispatch case on one of the desks and said, “Anything doing?”
“Hallo, Edgar,” said Rogers. “Seen the notice?”
“No.” Jessop went over to the board. He stiffened as his eye caught the word ZYKLON, and suddenly he felt that everyone must be staring at his back. He read the notice through twice.
“You ought to remember what happened to that stuff, Jessop,” said Haycock. “Wasn’t it taken to the Foreign Room in the end?”
Jessop fought to control his agitation. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. It had never occurred to him that anyone would remember the ZYKLON after all this time. Why, he’d even forgotten it himself, until a few days ago. Now people would begin to search their memories, as the notice invited them to do—as Haycock was already doing. Someone might recall that he had been the last person to handle it. Cardew would almost certainly remember that. In a flash, he saw that there was only one thing to do if suspicion weren’t to fall on him. He must get his blow in first. He looked across at Haycock. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I think I do remember what happened to it!”
“You do!” exclaimed Golightly.
“What?” asked Pringle.
“Don’t tell him,” said Golightly quickly. “But for Heaven’s sake go and find Jackson before we’re all bumped off.”
“I suppose I’d better,” said Jessop slowly. He was moving towards the door when Soames looked in again. “Oh, there you are, Ed! Inspector Haines is asking for you. He’s down in his office.”
“Telepathy!” said Rogers. He held out his cigarette case. “Anyone like a pinch of cyanide?”