‘I can’t just at the moment. You’ll have to take my word for it that it is exceedingly important for me to get at the truth.’
‘All right. This is about the long and the short of it.
‘In the old days we used to be meticulous here. Not only did we taste every single batch that went out, but we carried out exhaustive tests to ensure the absolute purity of each product. You know, everything from the overall pH to growing moulds on the food in high-humidity cubicles and checking the chemical content of the tomato sauce. Even regulating its viscosity. Well, we still do. Only it’s a complete farce; because whatever we find and recommend the tins go out on the market just the same. The beans can be overcooked or undercooked, the sauce can be sour, the cans may be imperfectly sealed. But nobody cares. I think we are only kept here to keep up appearances — to impress Public Health inspectors who are used to the meticulous habits of the reputable companies. And having told you that, I suppose I’d better start looking for another job.’ This was said without the smile that should have gone with it.
‘On the contrary, Mr Mobels. For I can assure you that Mr Spigett’s only chance of avoiding being closed down altogether is to restore the vigilance that should be kept to protect the public. You would, in fact, be doing your employer a service if you were to be completely frank. So how about it?’
‘What are you driving at?’
Gatt rested his elbows on the table and looked at him penetratingly. ‘There are already three question-marks in my mind; two of them have arisen since I came here this morning; the other cropped up last night. Let’s deal with the new ones first.
‘Mr Richards told me that the numbers stamped on the lids of the cans denote the date and contents. Well, in view of what you have said about the working of the factory under Spigett, would you say that these can be relied upon?’
‘As far as I know, yes. Inasmuch as anything here can be relied upon.’
Gatt raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s pretty important, Mr Mobels.’
‘So is everything else, when you are dealing with products for human consumption. But that’s my answer.’
‘Well, if the numbers are okay, I take it that the cans are identifiable even if they are issued under new labels in foreign countries?’
‘That is so.’
‘Right. That’s the first point. Now for the second: what went wrong with the tomato sauce about a year ago?’
Richards said sharply: ‘I didn’t say anything went wrong. I said I noticed a difference in the smell.’
Mobels silenced him. ‘Nothing went wrong. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Then why did it smell different?’
‘Because a different type of sugar was used. Beet instead of cane.’
‘For how long did you use a different sugar?’
‘Not long.’
‘Long enough for one batch?’
‘For one run, you mean? I don’t know. I would have to look it up.’
‘How many cans in one “run”, as you call it?’
Mobels shrugged. ‘Could be anything. Depends on the orders.’
‘Could you find out how many cans were in that particular run — the one when you used beet sugar?’
Mobels picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. He scarcely looked at the dial at all; his eyes were on Gatt. ‘I don’t know why you’re so interested, but that’s something I can find out straight away. I still keep records, you know — even if no one else ever looks at them.’ He spoke into the instrument and gave some instructions. ‘They’ll call me back on it,’ he said when he had replaced the receiver.
Gatt said: ‘It is hard for me to believe that the smell would be different, merely because the sugar was refined from beet instead of cane.’
‘I agree that on the face of it one wouldn’t think so. But, on the other hand, a slight chemical difference would result in a slightly different chemical reaction with the other constituents in the sauce. What was your third point?’
‘Oh yes. Well, I had a phone call last night from Mr Seff — my colleague — which led me to check on your supplies of sheet metal. So would you mind telling me this: where does Spigett get the steel with which to manufacture the cans?’
‘Has a contract with Keith and Rogers.’
‘A lot of people have contracts with Keith and Rogers. And they told me this morning the quantities they delivered during the period in question. But does your company get it all from them?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so.’ Gatt stubbed out his cigarette angrily. ‘Mr Mobels, how is it that Mr Spigett sells more tins than he had metal for? Is he a magician or something?’
Mobels said calmly: ‘You’ll have to ask him that question yourself. I don’t buy the metal.’
‘Ever heard of Newlands Steel?’
A flat ‘No’. Gatt believed him: he was inclined to think, in any case, that the ‘contaminated metal’ theory was a false lead. The probability that Spigett was, in fact, getting cheap metal from somewhere was beside the point, in his opinion.
He focused his eyes on a dreadful reproduction of a pseudo-Dutch painting that hung on the wall behind Mobels. ‘Somewhere along that production line,’ said Gatt, only just speaking aloud, ‘something happened which we don’t know about. It could have been anywhere — the solder in the seams of the cans, impurities in the blanching oven — even some sort of dust that got into the empty tins on their way along the conveyer.’ A thought struck him. ‘Mr Richards, didn’t you say that the beans are passed over a system of electro-magnets?’
Richards still seemed rather bored with it all. ‘That is so, yes.’
Mobels said: ‘What about it?’
‘Just trying to narrow down the possibilities.’
‘I get you,’ said Mobels. ‘Of course, not all the oxides of metals are necessarily attracted by magnets. So if you’re thinking about an impurity of that sort, it could have gone clean through.’
‘Which means,’ added Gatt, ‘that we can’t exclude the possibility of the impurity existing in the beans themselves.’
Mobels looked directly across the table at Richards. ‘And of course in any case the magnets only work when they are switched on.’ An accusation here.
Richards didn’t like this game of cat-and-mouse. ‘We stopped the line,’ he said shortly.
‘I see,’ said Gatt, wondering if there was any limit to their negligence, ‘but how long had the process been going on without the magnets working?’
Richards’ throat had tightened up slightly. ‘I don’t know for certain. The coils of the magnets had burned out.’
‘Isn’t there an ammeter, or something, to show when the thing is working?’ Richards agreed reluctantly that there was. ‘Well, whose job is it to watch the ammeter?’
‘Mine.’
‘And were you watching it?’
‘No,’ he said. Then blurted out: ‘I was too busy showing visitors round the factory.’
Gatt laughed shortly. ‘You win that set!’
Mobels said. ‘I still think you’re on the wrong tack.’ He had not laughed.
‘Possibly,’ rejoined Gatt, ‘but, as any detective will tell you, you must examine every possibility before the true facts can emerge. Still, I think you may be right; after all, the beans are washed, aren’t they, as well as being passed over the magnets. I’m more interested in the tomato sauce. Let’s get back to that.’
‘I’ve told you all I know. I can’t say anything more until they phone down with the information you asked for.’
‘You can tell me this: would it not be usual for you to investigate any abnormal situation that might arise — such as a change in flavour or smell — unless, of course, it was intentional?’