‘I would naturally be a little… curious.’
‘Exactly. So no doubt you made some tests.’
Mobels was silent for a few moments, as if undecided whether or not to answer. Then he said: ‘Yes. I did.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘As I said. The sugar was different.’
‘Uhuh. Now, when you did these tests, are you quite sure that you found nothing else besides the fact that a different type of sugar was being used?’ Mobels hesitated, bridged the pause by lighting another cigarette. Gatt persisted. ‘You must answer this question.’
‘All right. I’ll tell you. We did find traces of something that we couldn’t identify.’
‘In the cans or in the sauce?’
‘Well, both. The tests were made on the finished product.’
‘So you wouldn’t know for certain where the impurity was introduced?’
‘Not for certain. But I personally thought it was the sugar in the sauce.’
‘What were the characteristics of this impurity?’
‘Well, the concentration was very slight, so it wasn’t easy to isolate. But I think it was some kind of oxide. Perhaps calcium.’
Gatt found his voice had suddenly become difficult to control. But he went on: ‘What did you do when you found this oxide that you thought was calcium?’
Mobels weighed each word. ‘I immediately sent word to dispatch that the entire block was to be held pending investigation.’
‘And what happened?’
Spigett had entered quietly through the other door and was listening intently. Gatt took no notice of him but repeated the question.
Mobels looked up uneasily. Then he said: ‘The whole lot had already been shipped. There was nothing I could do.’
Spigett said sharply: ‘What’s all this? I instructed Richards to take you round the factory; not to waste Mr Mobels’ time with questions about our own private business.’
Gatt said quietly: ‘It’s not exactly “private business” any longer, Mr Spigett. And I’ve got one question for you.’
‘Well?’
‘What are the batch numbers of the contaminated tins?’
‘I already told you at the meeting.’
‘I’ve forgotten. Tell me again, please.’
‘I don’t see what it’s got to do with either Mobels or Richards.’
‘Would you prefer to tell me privately, then? It doesn’t make any difference.’
Spigett shrugged impatiently. Then he burrowed in his breast pocket and produced a screwed up piece of paper. ‘The series begins,’ he said, ‘with J4-17: contents QN4W. The figure “17” indicates the date of canning; the QN4W shows what’s in the tin, and remains the same for the whole run — that is, up to J4-23. Satisfied?’
Gatt’s smile did not carry humour. ‘Not entirely. I won’t be until I know what happened to every single tin in that batch.’
Spigett consulted his watch ostentatiously. ‘Well, I’m afraid you won’t discover anything much about their distribution from this end. Hadn’t we better get back? Your Mr Seff will be back by now.’
‘Yes, I knew.’ Gatt wondered about the promised telephone call. ‘Do you mind if we have another cup of tea first?’
Spigett expressed no surprise at Gatt’s sudden new passion for tea-drinking. ‘Why, of course!’ he effused. ‘How inhospitable of me. I’ll order another pot.’
‘Don’t trouble,’ said Gatt. ‘This one will do.’
‘What do you think I have a canteen staff for?’ He busied himself giving unnecessary orders to the manageress, who was instantly thrown into a state of utter confusion.
When comparative peace had been restored, Gatt said: ‘Mr Spigett, how often do you eat your own products?’
‘How often? Do I eat my own products?’ He laughed. ‘How often would you eat your products if you got them for free, Mr Gatt?’
Gatt had long-since learned that he couldn’t expect Spigett to give a simple answer to any question. ‘I gather, then,’ he said, ‘that you eat them fairly often?’
‘Of course! They’re the best, aren’t they? Of course I do. I was brought up on baked beans. Sydney Spigett,’ he said proudly, ‘does not change his habits, even if he changes his suits more often these days!’ He gave Gatt a terrific nudge with his elbow. ‘That’s a good one, eh, Gatt? Here’s your tea.’ The Jovial Spigett now.
‘I wonder if it’s occurred to you,’ said Arlen very quietly, ‘that if there was ever anything wrong with those beans — and indeed we do know, don’t we, that something was wrong — you might have been poisoning yourself.’
Spigett’s smile remained. ‘Well,’ he said, drawing the word out as if it were made of rubber, ‘to tell you the truth, I don’t often eat them myself really. If we have them at home at all, they’re usually eaten—’ He broke off, the smile frozen stupidly on his face.
‘You were saying?’
Spigett put the teapot down with a thump. When he spoke again his voice was entirely different. ‘They’re usually eaten,’ he continued, into a silence only broken by the rattle of tins in the distance, ‘by my wife.’ He walked slowly across the room and seemed suddenly dazed. ‘You see,’ he explained, talking almost to himself, ‘I’m a busy man. I’m always eating out. Margaret stays home. She likes to. I bought her a new TV set not long ago. The biggest and best you can buy. When the servants are out, she opens a few cans and roughs it, like we used to. If you can call sitting in a Mayfair flat “roughing it”. She’s proud of me; proud of my achievements. And proud of my tins. She even designed the label, you know. And she really eats the stuff.’ Between that moment and the point, a few seconds later, when the phone-bell menaced them, Gatt was conscious of a new and surprising thought. ‘Funny,’ his mind spoke out, ‘this man really cares about his wife.’
Mobels picked up the phone. He listened, most of the time, just uttering an occasional ‘yes’ and writing things on a piece of paper. Then: ‘No. No one told us here. But I can tell you now that they are. Yes. And any lab samples you may have.’
He hung up. The others stared expectantly. Spigett was tapping out a message on the table-top with his signet-ring. When Mobels spoke, it was to Gatt. ‘I’m not clear,’ he said, ‘why we weren’t told before at the factory what the suspected batch-numbers were.’
‘All right,’ said Gatt, ‘I’ll tell you. But you won’t like it much. There were two reasons: first, that we knew there were no cans of that batch left — they were all sent out almost before the contents were cold; and second, I’m afraid we didn’t trust anyone beyond the few who knew already.’
Mobels’ voice was sulphuric but calm. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, ‘because it so happens that besides the samples that are still up in my laboratory, there are still some ten thousand cans of J4-22 in the store.’
Richards gaped at him stupidly. ‘But… how?’
‘Because,’ explained Mobels imperturbably, ‘they were returned by a wholesaler. Somebody didn’t like the taste.’
‘And you didn’t know?’ said Gatt incredulously.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed glibly, ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Gatt controlled himself with an effort. ‘How did your man find out just now?’ he asked, more calmly.
‘Because the numbers tie up with the tomato sauce that was manufactured for J4-22. My assistant has just checked with Dispatch.’
‘And where are the cans being held?’
‘In the main dispatch hall.’
Spigett began to stammer something. Gatt just said ‘Shut up,’ and turning to Mobels he asked how long the cans had been stacked in the dispatch hall.