"Break-out?" Hardanger frowned. "Break-in, you mean."
"Sorry, break-out." While Hardanger sat there in the semi-darkness in the back of the car looking at me with an expression I didn't much care for, I told him the theory I'd expounded to the General in the early hours of that morning, about how two men had been smuggled into number one lab in crates, one disguised as the criminal 'X', the other as Baxter, both leaving at the normal time and handing in their security tags, while the real 'X' stayed there till eleven o'clock, first killing Baxter with the botulinus toxin, then Clandon with the cyanide butterscotch before breaking out, complete with viruses, through the wire fence.
"Very very interesting," Hardanger said at the end. Professional interest and pique were in voice and face. He said, "My God, and you spoke of Easton Derry playing it too close to the cuff. I suppose you got a kick out of leading me up the garden path, damn you."
"I didn't lead you," I said. "You went by yourself. We were on parallel paths, anyway." I tried to think how, but I couldn't. "The break-through came from you, not me. It was you who had the suspicions about the completeness of MacDonald's dossier."
The car radio crackled suddenly. The owner of the Vanden Plas, a doctor making a call, had gone to the local police station after we had left him and added the interesting fact that his tank had been almost empty. Hardanger curtly ordered sergeant and driver to keep their eyes open for the nearest garage, then turned to me. "Well, go on." He was only half-mollified by my last remark and I didn't blame him any for his annoyance.
"There's not much. Gregori not only found out about Hartnell's entanglements with Tuffnell, the money-lender, but he also made the discovery that Hartnell, as mess secretary, was embezzling mess funds. Don't ask me how. After that—"
"I can tell you," Hardanger broke in. "Too damn late as usual," he added disgustedly. "MacDonald was mess-president in Mordon and finding out the financial trouble Hartnell was in would have made him suspicious. As president, of course, he would have access to the books — and he checked."
"Of course, of course." I was as disgusted as Hardanger. " knew he was president. Just too damn obvious, I suppose. Good, old Cavell. Anyway, after that Hartnell was at his mercy — and knowing from Hartnell's dossier that Hartnell was bound to come under the microscope, he confused things still further by dumping the hammer and pliers used in the breakout in Hartnell's place, smearing some red loam on his moped for good measure. If not Gregori, one of his assistants. Red herring number one. Red herring number two-posing as a mysterious Uncle George he made payments into Chessingham's account weeks in advance of the crime. He knew, of course, that bank accounts would be one of the first subjects of police scrutiny."
"Red herrings," Hardanger said in bitter complaint. "Always those accursed red herrings. Why?"
"To buy time. I'm coming to that."
"And then the two killings in Mordon and the theft of the viruses just as you suggested?" the General said.
"No." I shook my head. "I was wrong on that."
The General looked at me, his face not saying very much but saying a great deal all the same, and I continued, "My idea was that one of the number one lab scientists killed both Dr. Baxter and Clandon. Every single thing pointed unmistakably to that. I was wrong. I had to be wrong. We've checked and re-checked and every single scientist and technician in that lab had an unbreakable alibi for the night of the murder— unbreakable because they were true. Two men were smuggled in all right — maybe even three. I don't know. We do know Gregori must have quite an organisation working for him. Three is possible. Say three. Only one of those men left at the usual knocking-off time — the one disguised as Baxter. The other two remained, but 'X' didn't — he also took off at the normal time and arrived home to establish a nice cosy alibi for himself. 'X', of course, was almost certainly Gregori — MacDonald was a sleeping partner in this business. Gregori may or may not have taken the viruses with him — probably not, in case he was caught in one of the occasional spot-checks. Anyway, he certainly left behind him one botulinus ampoule — and one cyanide coated butterscotch. You will remember that none of us has been happy at the idea of Clandon meekly accepting the butterscotch from a potential suspect in the middle of the night."
"But the botulinus, the cyanide. Why?" the General demanded. "They were completely unnecessary."
"Not the way Gregori saw it. He ordered them to tap Baxter on the head and break open the virus ampoule as they left. Once outside the lab one of them probably acted as decoy while Clandon, who had been watching the corridor from the house, came haring across gun in hand. While he pointed his gun at one of the men the other appeared from behind and took his gun off him. They then forced the cyanide butterscotch into his mouth. God alone knows what Clandon thought it was: he was dead before he could find out."
"The fiends," the General murmured. "The ruthless fiends."
"All done to give the impression that the killer was known to both Baxter and Clandon. And it certainly worked. The third major red herring and it put us completely on the wrong track. Buying time, always buying time. Gregori has a genius for deception. He fooled me, too, about the first phone call that was made to London at ten o'clock last night. He made it himself. Red herring number heaven knows what."
"Gregori phoned?" Hardanger looked at me, hard. "He had an alibi for the time the call was made. You checked personally. Typing a book, or something."
"You can't beat Cavell when it comes to hind-sight," I said sourly. "The sound of a man typing undoubtedly came from his room. He'd pre-recorded it on tape and switched on the recorder before he left via his ground-floor window. There was a peculiar smell in his room and a pile of white ashes in the fireplace when I visited him in his rooms in the early hours of this morning. The remains of the tape."
"But why all the red herring—" Hardanger began, when the voice of the sergeant in the front seat cut in.
"Here's a garage now."
"Pull in," Hardanger ordered. "Make inquiries."
We pulled off the highway, the driver switching on his police siren. A noise to waken the dead but it didn't waken up the filling-station attendant on duty. The sergeant up front didn't hesitate. He was outside and into the brightly lit office within five seconds of our skidding to a halt. He came out almost immediately afterwards and disappeared round the back of the filling-station, and that was enough for me. I piled out of the back seat, Hardanger at my heels.
We found the attendant in a garage at the back of the station. He had been expertly bound and gagged by someone who had not stopped to consider the price of Scotch tape. The same someone, for good measure, had also cracked him over the back of the head with something heavy, but: the attendant had recovered from that — more accurately he had regained consciousness — by the time we got to him.He was a burly middle-aged character, and what was probably a normally red face anyway was crimson from rage and his struggles to free himself.
We cut the tape round wrists and ankles, pulled it none too gently off his face and helped him to a sitting position.He had some highly homicidal observations to make and even in our desperate urgency we had to allow him that, but after a few seconds Hardanger cut in sharply.
"Right. That'll be enough. The man who did this is a murderer on the run and we're police officers. Every second you sit and curse increases his chances of escaping. Tell us about it, quick and sharp."