Cardew was well out of Beckenham, his mind concentrated on the interview that lay ahead, when a peremptory blast on a horn jerked him from his automatic driving into an awareness of his immediate surroundings. What he saw in the mirror gave him a nasty shock. A police radio car was racing up behind him. It passed him at speed, cut in across his front wheels, and forced him to draw up at the kerb with a shriek of tyres on tarmac.
Two of its four occupants—a uniformed sergeant and a constable—got out and walked towards him with infuriating deliberation, as though they now had all the time in the world. The sergeant went round to the driving side and the constable made a slow, inquisitive circuit of the vehicle, as if he had never seen a car before.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Cardew, with an effort at nonchalance that sounded unconvincing even to him. It had been all very well to tell himself that he didn’t care what happened, now that he had the ZYKLON, but the roadside was hardly the place for explanations.
“This is not a racing track, sir,” the sergeant said severely. “This is a public highway. You were doing forty-two miles an hour in a restricted area. Can I see your driving licence and insurance certificate, please?”
Cardew produced the documents with a sense of relief. What was a speeding charge to him? “I’m sorry, sergeant—I was in a hurry to get back to my office. Press, you know.”
The policeman looked him up and down, noting his matted hair. the black smudge across his cheek and collar, the grimy hands. “A dirty job!” he said ambiguously.
Cardew tried to smile. “I’ve been helping a colleague with some house decorations.”
“You have, eh?” The sergeant handed back the documents. “He wouldn’t be a man by the name of Jessop, would he?”
Cardew sank back in his seat. So the speeding was incidental. Jessop’s neighbour had rung the police; these fellows had been watching out for him. He wondered just how much they knew.
“Look, officer …” he began.
“I think you’d better do your talking at the station,” said the sergeant grimly.
The constable, who had been poking about in the back of the car, suddenly said, “What’s in this tin?” He was trying to get the lid off.
“Careful!” cried Cardew. “It’s cyanide—deadly poison.”
“Cyanide, eh?” The sergeant looked even more grim.
“I can explain everything, though,” said Cardew earnestly. “There’s been a murder—you must have heard about it—at the Morning Call. That’s my paper …”
“Yes, we know all about that,” said the sergeant. “We have instructions to pick you up. Better come along.”
Cardew’s spirits sank. “Look, officer,” he said desperately, “what you don’t know is that I happened to find out who did the murder—only an hour ago. This cyanide is the stuff that was used, and I’m taking it along to Chief Inspector Haines. He’s at the office, in charge of the case. I found it at Jessop’s house. I’ n not trying to get out of anything, but for God’s sake if you’re going to take me anywhere take me to Inspector Haines. I must see him at once. It may be a matter of life or death for someone, and I mean that.”
The sergeant looked very hard at him. “You wait here,” he said after a moment. He motioned to the constable to watch Cardew, and went back to the radio car at the same unhurried pace. Five long minutes passed while he sought instructions. Then he returned to the Riley.
“All right,” he said, “you can tell your story to the inspector. We’ll come along with you.” He climbed in beside Cardew and the constable got in at the back. The radio car went ahead; a traffic policeman on a motor cycle, who had attached himself to the convoy, brought up the rear.
Fifteen minutes later they drew up outside the Morning Call office. Cardew led the way in, avoiding the commissionaire’s eye. The sergeant was close beside him; the constable carried the cyanide. They went up in the lift to the second floor and along to Haines’s office. Haines was sitting at his desk, waiting. Ogilvie was standing with his back to the window, waiting. Sergeant Miles was beside him. They all looked as though they had gathered for the final curtain.
“Well!” said Haines, getting up and advancing across the carpet. “Here we are again, eh, Mr. Cardew?” He surveyed the dirty, dishevelled figure in front of him. “A little the worse for wear, too! I thought I told you not to leave the office without permission.”
“I can explain everything …” began Cardew.
“Just a minute.” Haines went to the table on which the constable had placed the tin of ZYKLON and prised off the lid. He looked at the grey crystals almost lovingly for a moment, and then slammed the lid back.
“All right, Mr. Cardew, let’s hear what you have to say.”
“I knew the cyanide was at Jessop’s house,” Cardew burst out. “I told you it was, but you wouldn’t believe me. As you wouldn’t make a search, I had to. I found it in the garden shed.”
Haines nodded slowly. “Very pretty,” he said, “very clever. So you found it in Jessop’s shed.” With a change of tone that electrified Cardew he rapped out, “How do I know you did?”
Cardew gasped. “Now what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that you picked up the cyanide from wherever you’d hidden it and that you took it to Jessop’s house and ransacked the place to make it appear that you’d found it there.”
“It’s a damned lie!” Cardew cried. He was almost weeping with rage and frustration. “I found it in his shed.”
“Why did you ring up and tell me that some of the stuff was in Iredale’s pocket? What was the idea?”
Cardew ran his hands through his tangled hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said frantically.
It was Haines’s turn to look bewildered. “Mr. Cardew, did you or did you not ring me up a couple of hours ago and tell me that Iredale was the murderer and that he had the cyanide in his pocket?”
“Of course I didn’t,” Cardew shouted. He was near breaking point. “Iredale has nothing to do with this. I tell you Jessop’s the murderer. I didn’t ring anybody. Why the devil should I say it was Iredale when I knew damn well it was Jessop? And would I have been planting this stuff in Jessop’s house and accusing Iredale at the same time? You can’t have it both ways.”
“I answered the telephone myself,” said Haines slowly. “It was your voice.”
“It was not my voice, I tell you. Do you think I don’t know whether I spoke to you or not? It must have been someone else …” He suddenly broke off as light flooded in. “It must have been Jessop. Yes, of course it was Jessop. He can mimic anybody.”
“And why should Jessop pretend to be you, and tell me that Iredale was the murderer when he’d already told me that you were the man who took the cyanide from the office in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” said Cardew, “I just don’t know.”
“This case is going to drive us all crazy,” said Haines in disgust. He stood in momentary reflection. “Well, Mr. Cardew, you’ve given us a hell of a lot of trouble, but as far as you’re concerned this is the end. You won’t get up to any more mischief. You’re under arrest.” Turning to the sergeant who had brought Cardew he said, “You can take him away, officer.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant looked puzzled. “What exactly is the charge, sir?”
“Housebreaking,” said Haines.