It was now plain to the police that foul play was in question.
A deliberate attempt had been made to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather. The would - be murderer had acquired a box of Mason's chocolate liqueurs; separated those in which a flavour of almonds would not come amiss; drilled a small hole in each and drained it of its contents; injected, probably with a fountain - pen filler, the dose of poison; filled the cavity up from the mixture of former fillings; carefully stopped the hole, and re - wrapped it in its silver - paper covering. A meticulous business, meticulously carried out.
The covering letter and wrapper which had arrived with the box of chocolates now became of paramount importance, and the inspector who had had the foresight to rescue these from destruction had occasion to pat himself on the back. Together with the box itself and the remaining chocolates, they formed the only material dues to this cold - blooded murder.
Taking them with him, the Chief Inspector now in charge of the case called on the managing director of Mason and Sons, and without informing him of the circumstances as to how it had come into his possession, laid the letter before him and invited him to explain certain points in connection with it. How many of these (the managing director was asked) had been sent out, who knew of this one, and who could have had a chance of handling the box that was sent to Sir Eustace?
If the police had hoped to surprise Mr. Mason, the result was nothing compared with the way in which Mr. Mason surprised the police.
"Well, sir?" prompted the Chief Inspector, when it seemed as if Mr. Mason would go on examining the letter all day.
Mr. Mason adjusted his glasses to the angle for examining Chief Inspectors instead of letters. He was a small, rather fierce, elderly man who had begun life in a back street in Huddersfield, and did not intend any one to forget it.
"Where the devil did you get this?" he asked. The papers it must be remembered, had not yet got hold of the sensational aspect of Mrs. Bendix's death.
" I came," replied the Chief Inspector with dignity, "to ask you about your sending it out, sir, not tell you about my getting hold of it."
"Then you can go to the devil," replied Mr. Mason with decision. "And take Scotland Yard with you," he added, by way of a comprehensive afterthought.
"I must warn you, sir," said the Chief Inspector, somewhat taken aback but concealing the fact beneath his weightiest manner, "I must warn you that it may be a serious matter for you to refuse to answer my questions."
Mr. Mason, it appeared, was exasperated rather than intimidated by this covert threat. "Get out o' ma office," he replied in his native tongue. "Are ye druffen, man? Or do ye just think you're funny? Ye know as well as I do that that letter was never sent out from 'ere."
It was then that the Chief Inspector became surprised. "Not - not sent out by your firm at all?" he hammered. It was a possibility that had not occurred to him. "It's - forged, then?"
"Isn't that what I'm telling ye?" growled the old man, regarding him fiercely from under bushy brows. But the Chief Inspector's evident astonishment had mollified him somewhat.
"Sir," said that official, "I must ask you to be good enough to answer my questions as fully as possible. It's a case of murder I'm investigating, and" - he paused and thought cunningly - "and the murderer seems to have been making free use of your business to cloak his operations."
The cunning of the Chief Inspector prevailed. "The devil 'e 'as!" roared the old man. "Damn the blackguard. Ask any question thou wants, lad; I'll answer right enough."
Communication thus being established, the Chief Inspector proceeded to get to grips.
During the next five minutes his heart sank lower and lower. In place of the simple case he had anticipated it became rapidly plain to him that the affair was going to be very difficult indeed. Hitherto he had thought (and his superiors had agreed with him) that the case was going to prove one of sudden temptation. Somebody in the Mason firm had a grudge against Sir Eustace. Into his (or more probably, as the Chief Inspector had considered, her) hands had fallen the box and letter addressed to him. The opportunity had been obvious, the means, in the shape of nitrobenzene in use in the factory, ready to hand; the result had followed. Such a culprit would be easy enough to trace.
But now, it seemed, this pleasant theory must be abandoned, for in the first place no such letter as this had ever been sent out at all; the firm had produced no new brand of chocolates, if they had done so it was not their custom to dispense sample boxes among private individuals, the letter was a forgery. But the notepaper on the other hand (and this was the only remnant left to support the theory) was perfectly genuine, so far as the old man could tell. He could not say for certain, but was almost sure that this was a piece of old stock which had been finished up about six months ago. The heading might be forged, but he did not think so.
"Six months ago?" queried the Inspector unhappily.
"About that," said the other, and plucked a piece of paper out of a stand in front of him. "This is what we use now." The Inspector examined it. There was no doubt of the difference. The new paper was thinner and more glossy. But the heading looked exactly the same. The Inspector took a note of the firm who had printed both.
Unfortunately no sample of the old paper was available. Mr. Mason had a search made on the spot, but not a sheet was left.
"As a matter of fact," Moresby now said, "it had been noticed that the piece of paper on which the letter was written was an old one. It is distinctly yellow round the edges. I'll pass it round and you can see for yourselves. Please be careful of it." The bit of paper, once handled by a murderer, passed slowly from each would - be detective to his neighbour.
"Well, to cut a long story shorter," Moresby went on, "we had it examined by the firm of printers, Webster's, in Frith Street, and they're prepared to swear that it's their work. That means the paper was genuine, worse luck."
"You mean, of course," put in Sir Charles Wildman impressively, "that had the heading been a copy, the task of discovering the printers who executed it should have been comparatively simple?"
"That's correct, Sir Charles. Except if it had been done by somebody who owned a small press of their own; but that would have been traceable too. All we've actually got is that the murderer is someone who had access to Mason's notepaper up to six months ago; and that's pretty wide."
"Do you think it was stolen with the actual intention of putting it to the purpose for which it was used? " asked Alicia Dammers.
"It seems like it, madam. And something kept holding the murderer up."
As regards the wrapper, Mr. Mason had been unable to help at all. This consisted simply of a piece of ordinary, thin brown paper, such as could be bought anywhere, with Sir Eustace's name and address hand - printed on it in neat capitals. Apparently there was nothing to be learnt from it at all. The postmark showed that it had been despatched by the nine - thirty p.m. post from the post office in Southampton Street, Strand.
"There is a collection at 8.30 and another at 9.30," Moresby explained, "so it must have been posted between those two times. The packet was quite small enough to go into the opening for letters. The stamps make up the right value. The post office was shut by then, so it could not have been handed in over the counter. Perhaps you'd care to see it." The piece of brown paper was handed gravely round.
"Have you brought the box too, and the other chocolates?" asked Mrs. Fielder - Flemming.
"No, madam. It was one of Mason's ordinary boxes, and the chocolates have all been used for analysis."