“Did Ogden plant the book?”
“No. Master Claude did that.”
“Claude?”
“Yes, when he called for Garnette’s books, three weeks ago, after the party.”
“On purpose?”
“No. Accidentally.”
“How do you know?”
“The books Garnette leant Ogden were in brown paper wrappers. There were five of them. Ogden’s maid said so and when we saw them in Garnette’s flat there were five that were so covered. Six, counting the Curiosities. But Claude told Fox he knew he returned six books to Garnette. He took them in an attaché case, and they just fitted it. What happened, I believe, was something like this. For some time Ogden had thought of murdering Cara Quayne. He may even have pondered over the sodium cyanide recipe, but I think that came later. He knew she was leaving her fortune to Sacred Flame Limited and he was the biggest shareholder. He may have meant to destroy the book and then have thought of a brighter idea, that of planting it in Garnette’s flat. When de Ravigne drew everybody’s attention to the book at the party, I believe Ogden made up his mind to risk this last plan. As soon as they had gone he covered the Curiosities in brown paper. Next morning when the maid cleaned up the mess she noticed it had gone. It hadn’t gone. It was disguised as one of Garnette’s bits of hot literature. When Claude called for the books he took the ones with brown paper wrappers: the Curiosities among them. I suppose when Ogden found what had happened he waited for developments, but there were none. The six books had been shoved back behind the others and neither Garnette nor Claude had noticed anything. This was a phenomenal stroke of luck for Ogden. No doubt if it hadn’t happened he would have planted the book himself, but Claude had saved him the trouble. He must have waited his chance to find the book and wipe off any prints. He was emphatic about drawing de Ravigne’s attention to the Curiosities, but the others, questioned independently, said that de Ravigne himself found the book. If he had already laid his plans this chance discovery by de Ravigne must have disconcerted our Samuel, as it brought the book into unwelcome prominence. He may have thought then of the pretty ruse of incriminating Garnette and pulling in his share of the bequest. But I rather fancy that chance finding by de Ravigne put the whole idea into his head. Otherwise the book would not have been on show. Yes. I think the cyanide scheme was born on the night of the party. It sounds risky, but how nearly it succeeded! There was Elsie, the maid, to swear the book had gone the morning after the party. There were the others to say Garnette and de Ravigne had both handled it the night before. Ogden made a great show of defending de Ravigne, but, of course, if I’d gone for de Ravigne it would have suited his book almost as well as if I’d gone for Garnette. Ogden played his cards very neatly. He owned up to the book with just the right amount of honest reluctance. He gave a perfectly true account of the business arrangement with de Ravigne and Garnette. He had to bring that out, of course, in order to collect when the Will was proved. He made a great point of the legality of their contract. He’s a fly bird, is our Samuel.”
“I’m sure you’re right about all this,” said Nigel diffidently, “but it seems very much in the air. Without Pringle’s evidence could you ever bring the thing home to him? Isn’t it altogether too speculative?”
“It’s nailed down with one or two tin-tacks. Ogden and Garnette were the only two who could have concocted the sodium cyanide at what house-agents call the Home Fireside.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They are the only two who have open fires. The others, if you wash out Miss Jenkin’s gas-ring, all live in electrically heated, or central-heated, service-flats. The cooking of sodium cyanide is not the sort of thing one would do away from the Home Fireside, and anyway they have, none of them, been out of residence for the last six months. Then Elsie told me that two days after the party the servants all went on their holiday and Mr. Ogden, who was so kind, ‘did’ for himself. A dazzling chance for him to do for Cara Quayne at the same time. When Elsie returned from the night-life of Marine Parade, Margate, she no doubt found everything in perfect order. A little less washing-soda in the wooden box over the sink, perhaps, one new Fyrexo patent heatproof crock. Mr. Ogden had unfortunately dropped the old one and it was just too bad, but he had got her another. He didn’t say anything about it, but bright little Elsie spotted the difference. While she was away he had made his sodium cyanide.”
“Yes, but you don’t know—”
“Here’s another tin-tack.”
Alleyn went to his overcoat and took out a thin object wrapped in paper.
“I brought it to show you. I stole it from Ogden’s flat.”
He unwrapped the paper. A very short and extremely black iron poker was disclosed.
“Here’s where he got his iron filings. I noticed the corrugations on the tip. He had made it nice and black again, but pokers don’t wear away in minute ridges. Elsie agreed with me. It wasn’t like what it was before she went away, that it wasn’t.”
“And what, may I ask, was the meaning of the cable to Australia?”
“Do you remember another very intelligent remark you made on Sunday evening?”
“I made any number of intelligent remarks.”
“Possibly. This was to the effect that Ogden’s Americanese was too good to be true. It seemed to me no more exaggerated than the sounds that fill the English air in August, but after a bit I began to think you were right. I was sure of it when, under stress, he came out with a solecism. He said ‘Good-oh.’ Now ‘Good-oh’ is purest dyed-in-the-wool Australian. It is the Australian comment on every conceivable remark. If you say to an Australian: ‘I’m afraid your trousers are on fire,’ he replies ‘Good-oh.’ Mr. Ogden, on a different occasion, ejaculated ‘Too right!’ Another bit of undiluted Sydney. And yet when I asked him if he had been to Australia he denied the soft impeachment. So we’ve asked headquarters, Sydney, if it knows anything about a tall man with an American accent and skewbald eyes. It may be productive. One never knows. But the longest and sharpest tack is Madame la Comtesse de Barsac.
“From the fastness of her nursing home she has come out strong with a telegram that must have cost her a pretty sum. It is this sort of thing. ‘Madame la Contesse de Barsac has just learned of the death of Mademoiselle Cara Quayne. She believes that she has evidence of the utmost importance and urges that the officials in charge of the case apprehend one Samuel Ogden. Mademoiselle Quayne’s letter of December tenth follows and will explain more fully the reasons that commend this action.’ ”
“ ’Struth,” said Nigel, “that puts the diamanté clasp on it.”
“I rather fancy it does.”
“I suppose it’s the letter Cara Quayne wrote after she got back to the flat on Sunday afternoon.”
“That’s it. With the help of the bits we got from the blotting-paper I think we can make a pretty shrewd guess at what’s in it. Cara may describe her visit to the temple, her encounter with Ogden and her fears for the consequences. She had gone so far with the heroin habit that she cannot face the prospect of being done out of it. She implores her old friend to help her, perhaps asks if Madame de Barsac could put her on to an agent for the stinking stuff. I hope she’ll say he threatened her, specifically. If she does—”