“Very well.” Underhill consulted his diary. “I’ll fix up an appointment with the Director for three o’clock.”
“You haven’t forgotten that tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“In view of the background to this case,” said Underhill drily, “I think that even Saturday golf will have to take second place.”
The Coroner’s Officer at Putney who was in charge of the Putney Mortuary was an ex-policeman. His service, only recently concluded, had been with the Roehampton sub-station of the Putney Division. This meant that he still felt some loyalty to his previous superior, Inspector Blanchard. Accordingly, as soon as Dr. Summerson had left the mortuary building it seemed natural for him to telephone the Inspector and bring him up to date. It was Blanchard who had posted a man in West Mead Close. He was aware that the ground he was treading on was sown with mines.
He said, “I don’t suppose Summerson said anything to you?”
“He didn’t say anything, sir. You wouldn’t expect it with a cold fish like that. But he took away a lot of bits and pieces, including a glass jar with a sort of implement in it. And I heard him telephoning Aldermaston to expect him. I couldn’t help thinking, what’s the hurry?”
“The less you think about it the better, my son,” said Blanchard. But after he had rung off he did some thinking himself.
If death had
not
been from natural causes, if poison had been involved – and the likelihood of this seemed to be growing – then there were two possibilities. Death might, of course, have been the result of an accident. Was there not some history of a previous accident? On the other hand it might have been caused deliberately. In either case, ought not the house to be searched as soon as possible? As against this sensible course of action stood the objection that he would not get a search warrant in time to be of any use to him. But there might be a way round that.
One thing which influenced his thinking was the fact that in that district dustbins were emptied on Monday mornings.
Dr. Summerson looked with envy at the gleaming array of apparatus on the bench. He remembered the primitive quartz spectrographs of his own early years. These had been followed by the first gas chromatographs, which had been considered the most useful weapon in the investigative armoury, and now even these were yielding place to the ion-ray chromatograph which could, used with patience and a modicum of luck, isolate the smallest constituents in any sample.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone but you,” growled Dr. Gadney, who still looked like the formidable rugby player he had once been.
“Very kind of you to say so,” said Summerson, who had known him long enough not to be alarmed by him.
“But if I’m going to lose a night’s sleep, you’re going to sit up with me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,” said Summerson.
“I hope you won’t think I’m butting in,” said Inspector Blanchard.
He was a good-looking man, still on the right side of thirty, assets which he had found useful before when dealing with female witnesses.
“When I heard about your husband’s death I took the liberty, as you’ll have seen, of posting one of my men at the end of the lane.”
“It was very thoughtful of you,” said Dorothy.
“And you must forgive me for calling on you at this unchristian hour—” It was still short of nine o’clock.
“That’s quite all right,” said Dorothy. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ll tell you. It occurred to me that it was possible – just possible – that your husband’s death might have been the result of an accident.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy faintly. Her mind was still running on what Anna had overheard and had poured out to her the night before.
“And that being so, I thought it would be sensible to have a quick look round to see if any bottles or tins had been left lying about. I could only do so, you understand, if you agreed—”
“Well, yes. I suppose there’d be no objection to that—”
“Right,” said Blanchard. “Leave it to us.” He signalled to the Detective Sergeant who had been standing in the doorway. Two other men were visible behind him.
The quick look round seemed to involve a lot of opening of cupboard doors, upstairs as well as downstairs, and the clanging of dustbin lids. Anna had come in from the kitchen and was saying, “You ought to stop them. They’ve got no right—” when Dr. Moy-Williams arrived.
He said, “What on earth are those men doing ferreting round your dustbins?” And to Inspector Blanchard, who came in from the kitchen at this moment, “What the devil do you think you’re doing? Have you got a search warrant?”
“No, but I’ve got Mrs Katanga’s permission—”
She said faintly, “When he talked about a quick look round I’d no idea—”
“Of course you hadn’t. The whole thing’s a try-on. Get out of here at once and take your men with you.”
Blanchard looked at Dorothy, who said, “Yes. Please go.”
“You understand that, I hope,” said the doctor. “Any consent which was given has been revoked. And don’t think that’s an end of the matter. I’m going to have a word with the Assistant Commissioner – I happen to know him personally – and we’ll see what
he
has got to say about it.”
“Right,” said the Director of Public Prosecutions. He was a grey badger of a man, worn old and dry by the responsibilities of his post. “Oh, before I start, I’m not sure if you know Chief Superintendent Baron, doctor.”
Dr. Summerson indicated, with a smile, that he did know the head of the Special Branch.
“In view of the decision of the Divisional Court that Mullen is to be considered a consular agent, I felt that the matter came within the remit of his Branch.”
Baron signified his agreement, unenthusiastically.
“We can regard the doctor who originally examined Katanga with some sympathy—”
“Well-meaning, but old-fashioned,” said Summerson. “In the circumstances it was natural that he gave the certificate which he did.”
“Ye-e-s,” said the Director. “And but for the requirements of the Cremation Act Katanga would, by now, have been a handful of ashes. However, in this instance it worked to our advantage. Public opinion, and the press, have been diverted by the immediate announcement that death was from natural causes. As long as that verdict is unquestioned, it gives us a breathing-space.”
“But not a very long one,” said Baron. “The shop-lifting charge comes up at Bow Street on Monday and as things stand now, it’s almost bound to be dismissed. Once that happens, Mullen will be out of the country within twenty-four hours.”
“Or less,” said Underhill.
“I think we could give ourselves a little more time than that,” said the Director. “Lashmar will have to be instructed to apply for a short adjournment so as to consider the position brought about by Katanga’s death. If necessary the Attorney General could make the application in person. I had a word with the Home Secretary just before you came in. He fully appreciates the difficulty of the position.”
Baron looked even less happy. Now it only needed the Prime Minister to step in, which he was quite capable of doing.
“Then let us see where we stand. First we have Dr. Thorn’s account of the events of Thursday morning. And now the report – which they emphasise is only a preliminary report – from Aldermaston. Could we have your views on that, doctor?”
“It establishes,” said Summerson slowly, “with reasonable certainty, the presence of paraquat in the mixture in the jar and on the bougie. Also what may be chlordane.”
“Both of which are found in the weedkiller which is marketed as Paradol.”
“Yes. But before they can speak with certainty there are a number of elimination tests to be made. However, they are working hard and should be in a position to let us have a further report quite soon.”
“Which means?”
“The elimination tests are delicate. They can’t be rushed. A week at the earliest. Probably more.”
The Director thought about this. A legal time-limit
and
a medical time-limit. It was not a happy position for a man who liked to proceed with deliberation and had to be reasonably certain before he moved.
Finally he said, “On the assumption that we can get at least a week’s adjournment of the shop-lifting case, we will reconvene this meeting on Wednesday. One other thing meanwhile. We shall have to call off the local police. I’ve had the Assistant Commissioner on the telephone. It seems they pushed in, without a warrant, and searched the house. If you’re going to handle the case, you’ll need rather more experienced help than that.”
“I shall need all the help I can get,” said Baron. “Special Branch isn’t equipped to carry out criminal investigations.”
“Right. I thought about giving it to C.1. But there’s maybe a better alternative. West End Central have been looking after the original case. They know the background and the people involved.”
“Ancrum and Brailey. Yes. Both very experienced. I’d be happy to work with them.”
“Their first and most important job will be to find out if Mullen had access to weedkiller. It’s not the sort of thing he’d find lying about in his office. If he wanted it he must have bought it somewhere.”
“I’ll get them going on it,” said Baron.
At the Homestead Dr. Moy-Williams had his moment of triumph. He said, “I thought the A.C. would scare off those cowboys. You won’t have any more trouble with
them.
I promise you.”
Afterwards, when he had Anna alone, he said, “I know you get weekends off, but I think, on this occasion, it would be helpful if you stayed in the house. Particularly tonight and early tomorrow. Those are the bad times for delayed shock.”
“With Mrs. Katanga I have already spoken. She insists that I go home Sunday. She says that the Professor will be worrying.”
“Couldn’t you give him a ring? He’d understand the position.”
“No doubt he would understand. But we have no telephone.”
“Isn’t there someone who could pass a message?”
“There is a young man from the local newspaper. It is, I think, the
Highside Times.
He is called Fred. He has been helpful to us.”
“I’ll give the paper a ring and see what can be done. And please remember. If you worry, Mrs. Katanga will worry. So keep quite calm.”
“I try to be calm,” said Anna.
She was scared and worried, and as dangerous as compacted cordite.
Professor Macheli was rarely upset, and more by the minor rubs than by the major crises of life. But on this occasion he felt that he had reason to be disgruntled.
On the previous afternoon, as he and his wife were beginning to wonder what had happened to Anna, Fred Tamplin had appeared. He had explained that some sort of storm had blown up in the Katanga household and that Anna was staying to help cope with it, but hoped to be with them on Sunday. He had brought some good news, too. The
Highside Times
was pleased with the summary of the Professor’s article and much approved of the photographs he intended to use. He had brought an advance of a hundred pounds and knowing that the Professor might have difficulty with a cheque he had brought it in cash.
The Professor had at once despatched his wife to the shops. Her instructions were to purchase the material for a stupendous Sunday lunch. Since he knew that Anna was fond of chops, chops should be bought in quantities and a creamy confection to follow.
Never had a celebration fallen more flat.
Anna, arriving on Sunday morning, had shown no interest in the food, or in the windfall which had paid for it. From the moment of her arrival she had hardly opened her mouth, sitting glumly through lunch, condemning it to a series of miserable silences. She had turned aside, with a terseness that was almost brutal, any questions as to what had happened to keep her in Putney. As soon as the meal was over she had scuttled upstairs to her own room.
“If she was a few years younger,” said Mrs. Macheli, a tougher person than her husband, “I should have given that young miss a good spanking.”
The Professor was not so sure. He knew Anna well enough to be certain that something had happened to upset her badly. In all the years that she had been with them she had never carried on in that way before. Sometimes when people behaved like that it was better to leave them alone. But he was shrewd enough to realise that such conduct could also be a cry for help.
By teatime he could stand it no longer. He tip-toed upstairs and listened outside Anna’s door. What he could hear increased his discomfort. The door was unlocked. He opened it and looked in. Anna was huddled on her bed, crying in a desperate, gulping way. He did not speak. He walked across, sat down beside her and put one arm round her shoulders. She did not repulse him and they sat like that for some minutes whilst her sobbing died down.
Then he said, “If you want to – but only if you want to – tell me what has happened to upset you.”
Anna said, and the relief in her voice was clear, “Yes. I will tell you everything.”
At a few minutes before midnight Mrs. Macheli rolled over in bed and said to her husband, “Why are you not sleeping?”
“Because I am thinking.”
“Thinking about what that girl told you?”
“Yes.”
“It worries you?”
“It not only worries me, it presents me with a very difficult problem.”
“Difficult problems are better solved after a night’s sleep,” said his wife, and set him a good example by rolling over and going to sleep herself. But the Professor lay awake for a long time, looking at the reflection on the ceiling from the street lamps in the road outside.
Once she had made up her mind to talk, Anna had kept nothing back. She had not only told him of the clouds of suspicion that were gathering round the death of Katanga. She had gone back further than that and had told him about the hold which the South Africans had obtained over her and of the visits she had been forced to pay to Fischer Yule’s office every Saturday morning to report.
“I sometimes thought,” she said, “that I would rather go to prison than obey their orders. Then I thought that you, too, would be punished. I had to do as they said.”