The Case of the Jumbo Sandwich by Christopher Bush

Author:Christopher Bush
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2022-03-13T00:00:00+00:00

The next morning—the Wednesday—I was early at the office. Hallows came in just before nine and I told him about Sylvia Fairfield. He gave a low whistle.

“Looks like things are hotting up. What d’you think’s in that case?”

“One of two things, or both. It could possibly be something personal or it could be money. I’d say money. That’s what Palling wants from his mother.”

“But he has money. He can’t have run through four thousand pounds?”

“Money’s a thing you can always do with more of,” I said. “But think back. Maybe you’re not as conversant with things as I’ve been, but you do remember, if what happened at the Harringdon’s anything to go by, that Palling’s taken on a partner. Hitherto he’s been strictly a lone wolf. If that means anything, it means he’s planning a real killing. A sort of once and for all.”

“Yes,” he said. “A suitcase full of money. You think Mrs. Fairfield would let us have a look at it? It’d be easy.”

“The way I see it, it’s not vital,” I said. “What happens to be in that case doesn’t matter; it’s what’s done with it. And you and I know it’s going to be handed over to Palling and that’s our chance to collar him. We’ll never get a better.”

For once I was right. We left it that way and he went off to Cannon Street. And then Norris turned up. I cursed the daylights out of him for not being home in bed, but he said he’d had a few aspirins and a hot toddy the previous night and he thought he had the cold well beaten. It didn’t look like it to me.

I settled down to some work of mine. At coffee time Bertha brought in some more mail and with it was a parcel. It was a stout, rectangular cardboard box about a foot by six inches. It had a West End postmark.

I looked up at Bertha and there must have been something curious on my face. She gave a tentative smile.

“You don’t think it could be a bomb?”

I laughed. “Looks more like a bottle to me. We can soon see.”

It was a bottle—a bottle of Irish whiskey. Written in ink on the label was, “Many, many thanks.” The writing conveyed nothing to me. And then I had an idea. I thought I knew who’d sent it. Isabel Herne.

I don’t care a lot for whiskey. Beer’s my favourite drink. At home I take a strong whiskey when I’m mentally tired. With me it acts as a tonic, and I take it with soda. Irish whiskey I never take. I don’t like the peaty flavour.

I was putting the bottle in a drawer when an idea came. I took it instead to Norris.

“A present just arrived,” I told him. “I think it’s from Isabel Herne. You take it. I’ve no use for it.”

He looked at it. He gave an appreciative nod.

“Sure you don’t want it?”

“Dead sure,” I told him, and left it at that.

I went out to lunch as usual.

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