"No. 6, she could have been in the neighbourhood of Southampton Street. She tried to establish an alibi, but bungled it badly; it's full of holes. She's supposed to have been in a theatre, but she didn't even get there till well past nine. No. 7, I saw an Onyx fountain - pen on her bureau. No. 8, I saw a bottle of Harfield's Fountain - Pen Ink in one of the pigeon - holes of the bureau.
"No. 9, I shouldn't have said she had a creative mind; I shouldn't have said that she had a mind at all; but apparently we must give her the benefit of any doubt there is. No. 10, judging from her face, I should say she was very neat with her fingers. No. 11, if she is a person of methodical habits she must feel it an incriminating point, for she certainly disguises it very well. No. 12, this I think might be amended, to 'must have the poisoner's complete lack of imagination.' That's the lot."
"I see," said Miss Dammers. "There are gaps."
"There are," Mr. Bradley agreed blandly. "To tell the truth, I know this woman must have done it because really, you know, she must. But I can't believe it,"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Fielder - Flemming, putting a neat sentence into one word.
"By the way, Sheringham," remarked Mr. Bradley, "you know the bad lady."
"I do, do I?" said Roger, apparently coming out of a trance. "I thought I might. Look here, if I write a name down on a piece of paper, do you mind telling me if I'm right or wrong?"
"Not in the least," replied the equable Mr. Bradley. "As a matter of fact I was going to suggest something like that myself. I think as President you ought to know who I mean, in case there is anything in it."
Roger folded his piece of paper in two and tossed it down the table. "That's the person, I suppose."
"You're quite right," said Mr. Bradley.
"And you base most of your case on her reasons for interesting herself in criminology?"
"You might put it like that," conceded Mr. Bradley.
In spite of himself Roger blushed faintly. He had the best of reasons for knowing why Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer professed such an interest in criminology. Not to put too fine a point on it, the reasons had been almost forced on him.
"Then you're absolutely wrong, Bradley," he said without hesitation. "Absolutely."
"You know definitely?"
Roger suppressed an involuntary shudder. "Quite definitely."
"You know, I never believed she did it," said the philosophical Mr. Bradley.
THE POISONED CHOCOLATES CASE
CHAPTER XII
ROGER was very busy.
Flitting in taxis hither and thither, utterly regardless of what the clocks had to tell him, he was trying to get his case completed before the evening. His activities might have seemed to that artless criminologist, Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer, not only baffling but pointless.
On the previous afternoon, for instance, he had taken his first taxi to the Holborn Public Library and there consulted a work of reference of the most uninspiring description. After that he had driven to the offices of Messrs. Weall and Wilson, the well - known firm which exists to protect the trade interests of individuals and supply subscribers with highly confidential information regarding the stability of any business in which it is intended to invest money.
Roger, glibly representing himself as a potential investor of large sums, had entered his name as a subscriber, filled up a number of the special enquiry forms which are headed Strictly Confidential, and not consented to go away until Messrs. Weall and Wilson had promised, in consideration of certain extra moneys, to have the required information in his hands within twenty - seven hours.
He had then bought a newspaper and gone to Scotland Yard. There he sought out Moresby. "Moresby," he said without preamble, "I want you to do something important for me. Can you find me a taximan who took up a fare in Piccadilly Circus or its neighbourhood at about ten minutes past nine on the night before the Bendix murder, and deposited same at or near the Strand end of Southampton Street? And/or another taxi who took up a fare in the Strand near Southampton Street at about a quarter - past nine, and deposited same in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus? The second is the more likely of the two; I'm not quite sure about the first. Or one taxi might have been used for the double journey, but I doubt that very much. Do you think you can do this for me?"
"We may not get any results, after all this time," said Moresby doubtfully. "It's really important, is it?"
"Quite important."
"Well, I'll try of course, seeing it's you, Mr. Sheringham, and I know I can take your word for it that it is important. But I wouldn't for any one else."
"That's fine," said Roger with much heartiness. "Make it pretty urgent, will you? And you might give me a ring at the Albany at about tea - time tomorrow, if you think you've got hold of my man." "What's the idea, then, Mr. Sheringham?"
"I'm trying to break down a rather interesting alibi," said Roger.
He went back to his rooms to dine. After the meal his head was buzzing far too busily for him to be able to do anything else but take it for a walk. Restlessly he wandered out of the Albany and turned down Piccadilly. He ambled round the Circus, thinking hard, and paused for a moment out of habit to inspect with unseeing eyes the photographs of the new revue hanging outside the Pavilion. The next thing he realised was that he must have turned down the Haymarket and swung round in a wide circle into Jermyn Street, for he was standing outside the Imperial Theatre in that fascinating thoroughfare, idly watching the last of the audience crowding in.
Glancing at the advertisements of The Creaking Skull, he saw that the terrible thing began at half - past eight. Glancing at his watch, he saw that the time was twenty - nine minutes past that hour.
There was an evening to be got through somehow.
He went inside.
The night passed somehow, too.
Early the next morning (or early, that is, for Roger; say half - past ten), in a bleak spot somewhere beyond the bounds of civilisation, in short in Acton, Roger found himself parleying with a young woman in the offices of the Anglo - Eastern Perfumery Company. The young woman was entrenched behind a partition just inside the main entrance, her only means of communication with the outer world being through a small window fitted with frosted glass. This window she would open (if summoned long and loudly enough) to address a few curt replies to importunate callers, and this window she would close with a bang by way of a hint that the interview, in her opinion, should now be closed.
"Good morning," said Roger blandly, when his third rap had summoned this maiden from the depths of her fastness. "I've called to - - - "
"Travellers, Tuesday and Friday mornings, ten to eleven," said the maiden surprisingly, and closed the window with one of her best bangs. That'll teach him to try and do business with a respectable English firm on a Thursday morning, good gracious me, said the bang.
Roger stared blankly at the closed window. Then it dawned on him that a mistake had been made. He rapped again. And again. At the fourth rap the window flew open as if something had exploded behind it. "I've told you already," snapped the maiden, righteously indignant, "that we only see - - "
"I'm not a traveller," said Roger hastily. "At least," he added with meticulousness, thinking of the dreary deserts he had explored before finding this inhospitable oasis, "at least, not a commercial one."