But before the firm was approached by the police for an explanation, other facts had come to light. It was found that only the top layer of chocolates contained any poison. Those in the lower layer were completely free from anything harmful. Moreover in the lower layer the fillings inside the chocolate cases corresponded with the description on the wrappings, whereas in the top layer, besides the poison, each sweet contained a blend of the three liqueurs mentioned and not, for instance, plain Maraschino and poison. It was further remarked that no Maraschino, Kirsch or Kümmel was to be found in the two lower layers.
The interesting fact also emerged, in the analyst’s detailed report, that each chocolate in the top layer contained, in addition to its blend of the three liqueurs, exactly six minims of nitrobenzene, no more and no less. The cases were a fair size and there was plenty of room for quite a considerable quantity of the liqueur-blend besides this fixed quantity of poison. This was significant. Still more so was the further fact that in the bottom of each of the noxious chocolates there were distinct traces of a hole having been drilled in the case and subsequently plugged up with a piece of melted chocolate.
It was now plain to the police that foul play was in question.
A deliberate attempt had been made to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather. The would-be murderer had acquired a box of Mason’s chocolate liqueurs; separated those in which a flavour of almonds would not come amiss; drilled a small hole in each and drained it of its contents; injected, probably with a fountain-pen filler, the dose of poison; filled the cavity up from the mixture of former fillings; carefully stopped the hole, and re-wrapped it in its silver-paper covering. A meticulous business, meticulously carried out.
The covering letter and wrapper which had arrived with the box of chocolates now became of paramount importance, and the inspector who had had the foresight to rescue these from destruction had occasion to pat himself on the back. Together with the box itself and the remaining chocolates, they formed the only material clues to this cold-blooded murder.
Taking them with him, the Chief Inspector now in charge of the case called on the managing director of Mason & Sons, and without informing him of the circumstances as to how it had come into his possession, laid the letter before him and invited him to explain certain points in connection with it. How many of these (the managing director was asked) had been sent out, who knew of this one, and who could have had a chance of handling the box that was sent to Sir Eustace?
If the police had hoped to surprise Mr. Mason, the result was nothing compared with the way in which Mr. Mason surprised the police.
“Well, sir?” prompted the Chief Inspector, when it seemed as if Mr. Mason would go on examining the letter all day.
Mr. Mason adjusted his glasses to the angle for examining Chief Inspectors instead of letters. He was a small, rather fierce, elderly man who had begun life in a back street in Huddersfield, and did not intend anyone to forget it.
“Where the devil did you get this?” he asked. The papers, it must be remembered, had not yet got hold of the sensational aspect of Mrs. Bendix’s death.
“I came,” replied the Chief Inspector with dignity, “to ask you about your sending it out, sir, not tell you about my getting hold of it.”
“Then you can go to the devil,” replied Mr. Mason with decision. “And take Scotland Yard with you,” he added, by way of a comprehensive afterthought.
“I must warn you, sir,” said the Chief Inspector, somewhat taken aback but concealing the fact beneath his weightiest manner, “I must warn you that it may be a serious matter for you to refuse to answer my questions.”
Mr. Mason, it appeared, was exasperated rather than intimidated by this covert threat. “Get out o’ ma office,” he replied in his native tongue. “Are ye druffen, man? Or do ye just think you’re funny? Ye know as well as I do that that letter was never sent out from ’ere.”
It was then that the Chief Inspector became surprised. “Not—not sent out by your firm at all?” he yammered. It was a possibility that had not occurred to him. “It’s—forged, then?”
“Isn’t that what I’m telling ye?” growled the old man, regarding him fiercely from under bushy brows. But the Chief Inspector’s evident astonishment had mollified him somewhat.
“Sir,” said that official, “I must ask you to be good enough to answer my questions as fully as possible. It’s a case of murder I’m investigating, and—” he paused and thought cunningly “—and the murderer seems to have been making free use of your business to cloak his operations.”
The cunning of the Chief Inspector prevailed. “The devil ’e ’as!” roared the old man. “Damn the blackguard. Ask any questions thou wants, lad; I’ll answer right enough.”
Communication thus being established, the Chief Inspector proceeded to get to grips.
During the next five minutes his heart sank lower and lower. In place of the simple case he had anticipated it became rapidly plain to him that the affair was going to be very difficult indeed. Hitherto he had thought (and his superiors had agreed with him) that the case was going to prove one of sudden temptation. Somebody in the Mason firm had a grudge against Sir Eustace. Into his (or more probably, as the Chief Inspector had considered, her) hands had fallen the box and letter addressed to
