‘Stripe me pink!’ exclaimed Sydney Spigett. ‘How did that thing get up there?’
‘Director’s orders,’ said Gatt.
‘Was it there before lunch?’
‘No; they must have just finished installing it.’
‘Well, thank God for that! For a moment it had me worried. What’s it for, anyway? Has someone forecast a heat-wave?’
‘It’s for blowing tobacco smoke round and round the room, instead of leaving it where it is.’
Spigett’s face only showed intense interest. ‘Is that good? Is it scientific?’
Gatt said: ‘No; it isn’t good, and it isn’t in the least scientific. Everybody has an idiosyncrasy; this is Sir Robert’s little bit of fun.’
Spigett had found the control on the wall by means of which you could speed up the fan or slow it down. He played with it for a while, until he had it fairly whizzing round. ‘It’s good, this fan,’ said Spigett, ‘I like it. Everybody should have one.’ He turned the switch back to normal again.
‘You won’t think so after a while,’ said Gatt. ‘When we’ve been at it a few days—’
‘A few days? You don’t mean to say that this is going to go on for days, do you?’
‘I’m afraid so. This fact-finding is a long process.’
‘I should bloody well think it is! So what’s wrong with the fan?’
‘It squeaks.’
Spigett listened intently for a few moments, then smiled triumphantly. ‘So it does!’ he exclaimed. Then the smile disappeared again, as if it had never been there. What of it?’
The effect of Spigett’s fleeting change of expression, thought Gatt, was disconcerting. It suggested, perhaps, that his bonhomie was a veneer, concealing a very different type of person underneath. Something to note and watch out for. Gatt wandered over to his place at the table and sat down. He said: ‘Just a source of maddening irritation, Spigett. Like many other things — including the little mannerisms of our opposite numbers — it will get on everyone’s nerves. You’ll begin to hate this room, with everything and everyone in it. Because when people begin to get jumpy, it is the little things that are thrown up in relief.’ And, he thought to himself, when people’s nerves get on edge, the truth will begin to emerge. The others were starting to drift into the room now. It amused Gatt to see them react to the newly installed fan. Seff looked up at it cynically, as if it represented something ridiculous. He stood for a moment, his feet together, leaning on his heels so that his slim, wiry frame was arched slightly backwards. Then he seemed to give a tiny, inward laugh, shrugging his shoulders almost imperceptibly as he did so, and walked to his place. Alec Manson came next, followed by Sir Robert. Manson saw the fan, and turned round as if he were about to say something to the Director. Then he thought better of it — perhaps remembering that he had been the only one who had laughed so conspicuously at the Director’s feeble joke.
Frank Gresham said: ‘Ah, Simmel, I see you’ve done your stuff with the doings. Just like old times — we used to have one like that at the club in Delhi. It was hot there though!’ He spotted Gatt and went over to him. ‘I don’t think I’ll go to the Springles’ party tonight, Arlen. I’m a bit past that sort of thing.’
Gatt looked relaxed when he smiled. ‘It’s somewhat below my age-group, too,’ he conceded, ‘but I’ve got to go. Jack made me promise over lunch.’
Seff spoke from across the table. ‘For God’s sake, do come, Arlen. I’m no good at that sort of thing, and if you don’t show up I’ll have no one to talk to.’ That danger note crept into his voice. ‘And nor will Angela.’
Gresham said: ‘Well, I’ve got out of it pretty neatly. I’m sending young Simmel along with that nice secretary. It’s Dick’s job to look after Heatherfield, so they’ll have my car.’
Heatherfield, who had just entered, heard this remark. ‘I hope I don’t cramp their style!’ he said. ‘Three in a car is sometimes a crowd.’
Frank replied with a twinkle. ‘They can always drop you home first!’ Dick shuffled noisily with papers, pretended not to hear. The remark embarrassed him, and he didn’t know why.
Mr Rupert, as before, was the last to arrive. He took one look at the fan and said ‘Great Heavens!’ — then sat down in front of his machine.
‘Right!’ said Hargreaves. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ Gresham muttered a few more words to Gatt, then walked round behind the Director and resumed his seat.
‘I now have before me,’ said the Director, ‘some dates and details concerning various batches and consignments of the tinned food. From this — with Mr Spigett’s help — we will, I hope, be able to work out where the contaminated cans have been sent.’ He paused and looked round the table. ‘The dates I have been furnished with do, I am afraid, confirm some of our worst fears. It seems that the particular batch concerned was canned in the summer of 1957. Therefore we are up against a serious cumulative effect; for the beans in question have been on the market for nearly eighteen months.’
‘God!’ said Seff under his breath. Then: ‘How many tins in the batch?’
Spigett answered this himself. ‘About two hundred thousand,’ he said.
No one spoke for a moment. The Director cleared his throat. ‘Of course, we do not know for certain that the entire batch is contaminated.’
‘Have we any reason,’ said Gatt, ‘for supposing it is not?’
‘The only way I can answer your question,’ answered Hargreaves, ‘is to say that we must assume that it is until we find out to the contrary. But I can say that it is hard to visualise how an accident could have occurred that would render such a large number of cans radioactive to a dangerous level.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Gatt thoughtfully, ‘if some of them are and some are not, how will the public know the difference between them?’
‘Golly!’ said Kate, as the car whooshed up to the front door, ‘what a set-up!’
Before them lay a large concrete bungalow, with enormous frameless windows emitting bright columns of light on to the gravel drive, and beyond it to the small well-laid-out garden that flanked the by-pass. A hi-fi record player was giving forth some cool piano-playing (Oscar Peterson, Simmel noted with approval), and there was a general babble of cocktail conversation. Simmel switched off the ignition and climbed out, opened the door for Heatherfield. The Seffs’ car pulled up immediately behind them. Gatt was driving, and Simmel knew why. If Jack had too much to drink during the evening it would seem less pointed for Gatt to drive them home if the car key was in his possession.