The Saint Valentine's Day Murders by Ruth Dudley Edwards Page A

PD by some technician ill-wisher, but ultimately admitted it was unlikely. It’s a prankster from one of our team all right. Horace is being loyal to his lot and dropping dark hints about Tiny, but I don’t think these events were Tiny-like. He’s always been more boisterous than nasty. It could have been any of us who had come prepared and didn’t mind sacrificing several hours of sleep. As far as I can gather, everything necessary could have been done during the hours of darkness except for meddling with the tea-urn.
    I suppose there’ll have to be an investigation. Personnel won’t take kindly to footing the bill for a total cock-up. What’s worrying me is whether, as Horace would say, this is a one-off, or whether it’s going to go on. One way or another, I’m not looking forward much to next week. But unless some joker pushes me out of a window I’ll be waiting for you at Heathrow at 7:00 on Friday our time. And I promise not to spend all weekend talking about PD.
    Much love,
    Robert

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    10
    « ^ »
    29 November
    Shipton lay immobile throughout Horace’s lengthy and confused account of the Twillerton débâcle . When the witterings had ceased, he shifted himself slightly and said flatly: ‘Call in Security.’
    Horace’s mouth opened in protest.
    ‘No, Horace. It’s no good. You know perfectly well we can’t keep this quiet. In fact I’m not at all sure we shouldn’t call in the police. The glueing of the doors must constitute criminal damage.’
    This was the longest speech Amiss had ever heard him make. He admired its crispness and tactical sense. The mention of the police worked magically on Horace: his opposition to an internal investigation collapsed instantly.
    ‘And, Robert, while Horace is telephoning Security I’d like you to draw up a time-table of the incidents. Oh, and provide them with a staff list and mark the names of those who were at Twillerton.’
    Amiss nodded obediently and led Horace back to his office. He hoped this business would be sorted out quickly. Horace was looking ghastly and all the PD staff seemed subdued and jumpy.
    He had just finished his notes when Shipton rang through to announce the arrival of the investigators. ‘You and Horace can brief them, Robert. I’ve got a lot to do. They’re using Room 510.’
    Amiss collected Horace and went along to 510. His first reaction was one of disappointment. Whatever he had expected, it hadn’t been the shifty-looking little Smithers or the large and benign Cook. As a team they bore a disconcerting likeness to Peter Lorre and Sidney Greenstreet, though it rapidly became apparent that for once Lorre was in command.
    Lorre studied Amiss’s papers and passed them over to Greenstreet without comment. Horace, sitting at the head of the leather and teak conference table, quivered with impatience as Greenstreet slowly read through the material, his lips moving in synchronization with his eyes. When he eventually looked up, Horace broke into impassioned speech. ‘It must have been those young technicians. Our people are all mature and they’d all been looking forward to the weekend.’
    Lorre was having none of it. ‘We’re not interested in opinions at this stage, Mr Underhill. All we want from you are facts. We intend to interview everyone who was at Twillerton last weekend and take statements.’
    Poor chap, thought Amiss compassionately. He must be a frustrated policeman, banished for ever from Arcadia by the misfortune of being only five feet four.
    ‘Yes, yes. Of course. But you will keep me closely in touch with your investigation, won’t you? You’ll need advice on how to handle my people. I don’t want them upset.’
    Lorre raised his hand in a silencing gesture. ‘You must understand, Mr Underhill, that our findings have to be kept confidential until we are in a position to make a report. At this moment in time I regret to say that everyone – do I make myself clear? – everyone – in PD is under suspicion