The Poisoned Chocolates Case

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 to-morrow, 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, Tuesdays 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.”

“You don’t want to sell anything?” asked the maiden suspiciously. Impregnated with all that is best in the go-ahead spirit of English business methods, she naturally looked with the deepest distrust on anybody who might possibly wish to do such an unbusinesslike thing as sell her firm something.

“Nothing,” Roger assured her with the utmost earnestness, impressed in his turn with the revolting vulgarity of such a proceeding.

On these conditions it appeared that the maiden, though by no means ready to take him to her bosom, was prepared to tolerate him for a few seconds. “Well, what do you want then?” she asked, with an air of weariness patiently, even nobly borne. From her tone it was to be gathered that very few people penetrated as far as that door unless with the discreditable intention of trying to do business with her firm. Just fancy—business!

“I’m a solicitor,” Roger told her now, without truth, “and I’m enquiring into the matter of a certain Mr. Joseph Lea Hardwick, who was employed here. I regret to say that—”

“Sorry, never heard of the gentleman,” said the maiden shortly, and intimated in her usual way that the interview had lasted quite long enough.

Once more Roger got busy with his stick. After the seventh application he was rewarded with another view of indignant young English girlhood.

“I’ve told you already—”

But Roger had had about enough of this. “And now, young woman, let me tell you something. If you refuse to answer my questions, let me warn you that you may find yourself in very serious trouble. Haven’t you ever heard of contempt of court?” There are times when some slight juggling with the truth is permissible. There are times, too, when even a shrewd blow with a bludgeon may be excused. This time was one of both.

The maiden, though far from cowed, was at last impressed. “Well, what do you want to know then?” she asked, resignedly.

“This man, Joseph Lea Hardwick—”

“I’ve told you, I’ve never heard of him.”

As the gentleman in question had enjoyed an existence of only two or three minutes, and that solely in Roger’s brain, his creator was not unprepared for this. “It is possible that he was known to you under a different name,” he said darkly.

The maiden’s interest was engaged. More, she looked positively alarmed. She spoke shrilly. “If it’s divorce, let me tell you you can’t hang anything on me. I never even knew he was married. Besides, it isn’t as if there was a cause. I mean to say—well, at least—anyhow, it’s a pack of lies. I never—”

“It isn’t divorce,” Roger hastened to stem the tide, himself scarcely less alarmed at these quite unmaidenly revelations. “It’s—it’s nothing to do with your private life at all. It’s about a man who was employed here.”