The Smog by John Creasey Page A

Palfrey’s eyes.
    â€œThank you very much indeed,” said Palfrey. “The smell of the carbon monoxide was coming from the village, then.”
    â€œFrom between the front of the Manor and the village,” interjected Storr, drily.
    â€œLook here, I’m not being bloody-minded for the sake of it,” put in Philip. “And I can see how one recollection does spark off another, but the smell that Marion noticed might not have been carbon monoxide—”
    â€œCarbon monoxide has no smell,” Harrison remarked. It was the first time he had spoken. “Hydrocarbons and oxides of nitrogen combine to make the smell.”
    â€œWell I’m damned!” Philip exclaimed. “You’re right. Damn it, Dr. Palfrey, you ought to know something as elementary as that!”
    For a moment, Costain thought that the youth might have angered Palfrey, and Storr looked concerned, while Marion actually began to say: “Hush, Philip.”
    All Palfrey did was to smile and say: “I should indeed. But the object of this exercise is to find out what all of you know, Mr. Montefiore. I’ve been in this job for a long time,” he went on, almost self-deprecatingly, “and I’m always fascinated by how much the human memory retains without realising it. And it often needs only the slightest jog to bring a recollection. Here we have a fairly detailed story of what happened one winter morning which most of you had virtually forgotten.”
    â€œIt was Friday, February 3rd,” announced Costain suddenly.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYes—” Marion was eager to confirm it. “It was the day before Philip was due back from hospital. I went to London that afternoon and we drove back next day.”
    â€œI didn’t think you’d make it, the roads were so bad,” Philip said in a natural, almost eager way. “I remember you telling me about Joe Taylor.”
    â€œDid you know him?” asked Palfrey.
    â€œI had some trouble with my electrically driven chair,” Philip said, “and he came and helped me put it right.”
    â€œWhy did you remember the date?” Palfrey asked Costain.
    â€œIt was the day my milking machine broke down and I was afraid I’d be without it for the weekend. I remember now—” Costain paused and everyone watched him intently. “I was surprised there was so much smell in the village when I got back—that would be about eleven o’clock in the morning. But it was quite clear at the cottage.”
    â€œAre you sure?” Palfrey asked sharply.
    â€œAbsolutely sure. I went sniffing round my place because I use Calor gas and if there’s a leak, it could be dangerous.”
    â€œSo what we have established is that the mist had a yellow tinge that morning over the village,” said Professor Storr very quietly. “That there were two sources of a stench, like the exhaust fumes of a car or motorcycle, and one was between the entrance to the Manor and the south end of the village. There is an obvious place where it could have come from.”
    Everyone now stared at him.
    â€œWhere?” asked Palfrey.
    â€œGeoffrey Drummond’s house,” said the Professor deliberately. “Drummond never trusts—” he broke off, then added smoothly: “Drummond never trusted the electricity supply here. We are fed off a small transformer which does let us down from time to time. So he had a small petrol-fired generator, and made his own supplies. I’ve passed the back of his house occasionally and noticed the exhaust fumes.”
    â€œHave you searched there?” Philip asked, his voice sharp again.
    â€œNo,” Palfrey answered, “but everywhere will be searched. Which leads me to a very relevant question, Professor. Are you planning to stay here or will you move for the time being at least?”
    â€œI hope to stay,” Storr answered, with