The Longest Pleasure Page 4

  “And type E?”

  “Is so rare that I think it must be spread very thinly everywhere rather than being in great numbers in just a few spots. So its rarity factor is unlikely to help your search.”

  “I understand—and I’m rather frightened.”

  “Aren’t we all?” said Convamore. “Now for the second word you must understand. It is anaerobic.”

  “Meaning without air?” asked Masters.

  “Without oxygen, actually. Botulism spores are totally anaerobic. They will not tolerate any oxygen. So, before they can thrive and produce their exotoxins, they need a can or jar of food from which all air has been dispelled. That is why they are not normally dangerous in body cells—we have oxygen in all areas of the body.”

  “They are kept quiescent if there is air about,” said Masters. “But what kills them totally? Heat?”

  “Just so. Food manufacturers sterilise all canned and bottled foods at a high heat for a long time. That is why botulism is so very rare.”

  “What you’ve said doesn’t make sense,” growled Green. “If the spores in those tins of meat had been killed off by heat, how could they come to life again?”

  “Spores must have got into the tins after the heating process.”

  “They couldn’t. The tins are sealed before heating.”

  “Perhaps a small hole . . .” suggested Wigglesworth.

  “No,” said Green emphatically, “because if there was a small hole to let the spores in, it would let the air in, too. And the little swine won’t reproduce if there’s air about.”

  “And that,” said Convamore, “is the problem you have to solve, Mr Green.

  “Thanks.”

  Anderson roused himself. “Any more questions, George?”

  “Yes, sir, I want to return to the incidence of type E. Is it common, for instance, in South America where the bully-beef came from?”

  “I know we are all liable to presume that the South American countries are more infested with nasties than we are,” said Convamore, “but in this case we should be wrong to do so. Type E is not found in southern latitudes.”

  “Northern hemisphere only?”

  “Virtually. And although it is common, for instance, in northern Canada and Alaska, it is comparatively rare here. It may be common, for all I know, in Siberia, too, but that’s as much as I can tell you.”

  Anderson looked across at Convamore. “Is that it, Professor?”

  “Just one last point, Edwin. Just in case our friends haven’t realised it yet, I think I should emphasise that the botulinum exotoxin is one of the most powerful—if not the most powerful—of known poisons. It is hard to say what is the lethal dose for a man, but it is generally accepted as being a ten millionth of a gramme. And a gramme is a mighty small amount. It is also generally accepted as being twenty-five times as deadly as the tetanus toxin. So the watchword, should you come up against the enemy in the flesh, as it were, is ‘handle with care’, gentlemen.”

  Chapter Three

  “I feel,” said Green as he and Masters stepped into the open air and the morning twilight, “as if that meeting was nothing but a bad dream from which I haven’t yet wakened up.”

  “It’s the time of day,” replied Masters. “Gone four o’clock. No sleep and ears bashed with scientific facts.”

  “Not that,” said Green. “I could have taken that and just been bored with it. It’s what might happen, George, if you don’t stop it.”

  “We,” corrected Masters.

  “I said you and I meant you.” Green sounded weary. “I honestly haven’t a clue as to how to start. If it’s left to me we’ll not make a move.”

  “You’re tired. Come on, step out, and you can have a few hours’ kip at the cottage. Get undressed and climb in beside Doris and you’ll be snoring away in no time. We won’t have breakfast till nine o’clock.”

  “Won’t you want to be out on the job early?”

  “The answer to that is yes. But quite honestly, like you, I don’t know where to begin. Furthermore, I shall not be in a position to decide what I want to do until I’m fresh and can think straight.”

  “You can always think straight—tired or otherwise.”

  “In normal cases, perhaps. But not with a problem as complex as this. You see, Bill, I can’t forget that most pertinent point you made?”

  “Which one?” asked Green, as though he had spent the entire night making pertinent points.

  “When you said that botulism could not enter a tin through a hole without letting air in at the same time, thereby not allowing the anaerobic spores to grow.”

  Greenshrugged. His brain was obviously too tired for comment.

  Masters continued. “That’s illogical. To solve the illogical, one has to be bright and fresh. Then there’s the big problem not one of us mentioned.”

  “What?” asked Green.

  “If a man put the botulism into those tins, where did he get the botulism from?”

  “Cripes!” said Green, waking up a little. “He’d have to . . . what’s the word? . . . culture it?”

  “Precisely,” said Masters taking the front door key from his pocket. “And that’s enough for tonight. We’ll carry on after breakfast.”

  *

  “Where on earth are you going to start, darling?”

  “Now, love,” said Green, accepting the plate of bacon and eggs from Wanda, “don’t start him off. I said much the same thing to your old man as we left the Yard this morning. Before we got as far as your front door he’d explained to me—and I was bushed at the time so you can tell how straight he must have been talking for me to take it in—he’d explained that we are looking for a chemist of pretty good standing . . .”

  “Why?”

  “Because only a clever geezer in that line could culture the stuff in the first place.”

  “That’s good thinking.”

  “I said so, didn’t I? And the clever scientist has to be a clever technician.”

  “Has he?”

  “He’s got to be more than that. He’s got to be a magician. One who can wave a wand and send dollops of botulism bugs into a can of meat without puncturing the skin.”

  “Good heavens! That’s impossible,” said his wife.

  “Right,” said Green, savaging an egg. ‘Bloody impossible and we’ve got to sort it.” He filled his mouth and turned to Wanda. “So I’m opting out, love, and leaving it to His Nibs.”

  “That would be a great pity,” replied Wanda seriously, “because millions of people will be relying on you to save their lives or at least to remove the threat of death. They won’t know it’s you, of course. Just that a few men, whom they trust implicitly, are working away on their behalf. I know I’m relying on you, and George, and Sergeant Reed and Sergeant Berger. And so is Michael—although he doesn’t know it.”

  Green had stopped eating and was staring at her.

  “That’s how you really look at it, isn’t it, love?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Green shook his head. “I’m out of my depth with this one. Oh, I know I can’t back out. But I really do feel helpless.”

  Wanda smiled. “Just like Doris and me, Bill, but we have faith in you. Please try your hardest—as I know you will—to see that too many people don’t die.”

  Green turned to the silent Masters. “Is that the sort of approach she usually makes? Because if so, she must get her own way all the time.”

  Masters nodded. “She’s very wise, Bill.”

  Green picked up his cup. “I wonder if she’s been wise enough to brew enough coffee to refill this for me?”

  *

  Detective Sergeants Reed and Berger listened to the briefing given them by Masters in his office and—to his dismay—adopted almost the same attitude as that previously taken by Green. They viewed the investigation as something beyond their capabilities. They were, Masters guessed, frightened by the word botulism and its attendant danger to life. The technical side of the enqui
ry—or thoughts of it—also bemused them. Normally tolerant of obtuseness or the odd mental blockage in his assistants, Master was not prepared to accept a defeatist attitude at the outset of a case of this importance. To their great surprise—because they had never before been subjected to such treatment—he roasted them verbally. They sat, red-faced and amazed while he spelled out to them—forcefully—that a detective’s training, and indeed his whole life in the force, were, in essence, only a preparation for the big and difficult case. Catching a murderer who had killed once and was unlikely to repeat his crime was important, but nowhere near as important as protecting the whole populace from a pathological fiend who appeared intent on widespread slaughter without thought or reason. They—Reed and Berger—would, therefore, stop enumerating the difficulties, and get down to work, physically and mentally, as if their own lives, and not just their future careers, depended on it.

  The two sergeants left the office without a word. Green, who had sat quietly through the scene, said: “You were a bit tart there, George.”

  “I meant to be.”

  “Why? They’ve always earned their keep?”

  “Because I’m as scared as hell myself, Bill, and we cannot approach this job thinking we’re bound to fail before we begin. I’m scared and you’ve expressed doubts. That attitude must not percolate down to Reed and Berger, nor must it become entrenched in the team.”

  “I see your point,” said Green, “but you’ve as good as told them it’s a nearly impossible job we’ve taken on.”

  “If I’ve done that—without spurring them on to greater efforts than ever before—then I’ve made a mistake. But to show them we mean business, let’s get moving.”

  “Doing what?”

  “The forensic laboratory. Moller said his messengers were collecting the tins last night. I want to see them.”

  Green got to his feet.

  “Seeking inspiration from a bully can?”

  “Something of the sort. But before you got down for breakfast this morning, I spent a couple of minutes nosing about in Wanda’s pantry.”

  “And?”

  “She had a tin of ham there—an oval shaped one, and a tin of bully and a tin of luncheon meat.”

  “Ah! Go on.”

  “Let’s see the cans in the laboratory before I say anything else.”

  *

  “For God’s sake,” warned Moller, “don’t touch them. They’re widely separated, as you can see, to prevent cross-contamination. The perspex cheese-dish covers are just added protection.”

  “You’ve taken samples from all three.”

  Moller nodded. “I’ve got three different bods testing the food scrapings. As we think we know what we’re looking for, we can go straight to the positive tests, and so confirmation shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Positive tests, sir?” asked Berger.

  “Those that say it is a certain substance, rather than those that say it isn’t something else.”

  “The tins themselves,” growled Green. “Have you inspected them?”

  “Superficially only so far—for any obvious holes or damage. Really detailed inspection must wait until we’re satisfied about the contents. After that we can cleanse them for safe handling.”

  “That means, in my language, that there’s nothing to be seen at first glance.”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “It’s got you worried, doc,” accused Green.

  “Frankly, yes. Though I said the initial examination was only superficial, it was done extremely thoroughly—in so far as it was possible.”

  “And there was no hint of a pin-hole.”

  “None. On any can.”

  Green turned to Masters. “You had some thoughts about the tins when you looked in your pantry.”

  “Oh, yes?” enquired Moller. “What were they, Mr Masters?”

  Masters leaned against the bench on which he had placed the wide-based brief case he had been carrying and paused for a moment before replying. The others watched him curiously.

  “Judging by my wife’s store of tinned foods,” he began, “at least seventy per cent of all canned foods need a tin-opener to get at the contents.”

  “A low estimate I’d have said,” agreed Moller.

  “Another ten per cent are of the type that I will call tear-away tops—Wanda had sardines and a couple of tins of pâté in containers of this sort.”

  “With you,” grunted Green.

  “The remaining twenty per cent of all tins are opened with keys supplied by the manufacturer, and all tear out a quarter inch band of metal which is pre-scored in order both to make it an easier operation and to keep the amount of metal that is to be torn away within bounds.” He turned to face the bench. “All three of these specimens come within this last category.”

  “So what, Chief?” asked Berger. “The type is common enough.”

  “Three out of three from only twenty per cent of the tins on offer?”

  “You’re right, Masters,” said Moller. “By heaven, you’re right. You’ve got to be.”

  “What the hell are we talking about?” demanded Green.

  Masters turned to the bench, opened his briefcase and took out a twelve-ounce tin of corned beef. “Have you a scalpel I could borrow, doctor?”

  “Sure.” Moller went across to a side bench and returned with the little metal-handled instrument. “That’s a new blade, so have a care.”

  “Thank you.” Masters turned the tin on the bench to find the join in the wrap-round label. Carefully, his long slim fingers in complete control of the razor-sharp implement, he eased the seam apart. Then equally carefully, he lifted the paper from the two blobs of brittle, yellow glue and then laid the label aside. “We shall want that later,” he murmured.

  As he put the scalpel out of harm’s way at the back of the bench he said: “Now, gentlemen, the three contaminated tins all have this flap to take the key. But I’m not going to remove my key which, as you can see, is still soldered to the top of the can. It is important that my tin should appear not to have been tampered with, so . . . out of sight, out of mind . . .” With his thumb nail he eased the key flap upwards. “I’m taking care not to bend this so as to make a crease. There’s enough natural tension in it just to curve it upwards . . . there, see? Beneath this flap is a less-well finished area. A bit of solder not smoothed out. But the score marks continue up to the seam in the tin.”

  “Take the solder off,” said Moller, “and you expose the score marks which are, by their very nature, a weak part in the plate.”

  “Right,” said Masters. “Weak enough to take the needle of a syringe.”

  “Not quite,” said Green, joining in. “If I was going to do it, I’d make a mark with a pinpoint. An indentation which went half way through . . .”

  “Good thinking,” said Moller. “Then you’d be less likely to break the point off a fine needle.”

  Masters continued. “But . . . and it’s a big but . . . as soon as the tin is punctured, air will rush in. And we mustn’t have any air.”

  Berger said: “Not necessarily, Chief.”

  “No?” asked Moller.

  “No, doctor. I mean . . . well, what about self-sealing petrol tanks, like on fighter aircraft?”

  “Go on,” said Masters, “don’t stop now.”

  “Well, Chief, that’s done by lining the tanks with rubber. A bullet can go into the tank but the petrol doesn’t leak out because the rubber springs back over the hole.”

  Green nodded. “They brought them in during the Battle of Britain.”

  Berger continued: “These days, Chief, you can buy tubes of rubber compound from any do-it-yourself shop.”

  “Rubber solution?”

  “Not the old fashioned stuff. It’s a bulkier product altogether—for putting round the backs of washbasins and the bases of lavatory pans and so on. It dries very quickly, but remains pliable the whole time.” Berger turned to Reed. “You know the stuff. When it first came out th
ey used to stick a blob of it on the card that went with the tube so that you could see what you were buying.” He turned back to Masters. “It’s watertight and airtight, Chief. If you were to inject through a blob of that before it was dry . . . well, no air would get in and it would seal the hole when you pulled out the needle. When it was dry, all you’d have to do would be to rub the blob off, being careful to leave the little plug in the hole.”

  “Thank you,” said Masters.

  “Well done, lad,” said Green approvingly.

  “I can see no reason why it shouldn’t work,” said Moller, and then added, “sometimes.” He looked at Masters. “I think there would only be a small success rate, but that in no way detracts from Sergeant Berger’s idea.”

  “It strengthens it in some ways,” said Masters.

  “Oh, how, Chief?” asked Reed.

  “Use your loaf,” counselled Green. “The madman responsible for this caper set out to do the job properly.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “He wouldn’t think three contaminated cans were enough. He’d buy a hundred and try them all. So far, thank God, he’s failed on all but three . . .”

  “How . . . how do you know he bought a hundred?”

  “Feel for the bedpost, lad. I don’t know. It could have been a thousand, for anything I know. All I’m saying is he’d have bought a damn sight more than three cans.”

  “The DCI is right,” said Masters. “Our man must have had failures. And Dr Moller thinks—as I do myself—that he would have more failures than successes. And that’s a relief, otherwise we might now be faced with dozens of outbreaks of botulism.”

  “We still could be. Chief. There’s no way of telling that all his successes have been placed, or bought, or if bought, used.”

  “That’s right, lad,” said Green, “cheer us up.”

  “But I could be right, couldn’t I?”

  “You could. You probably are,” said Masters. He turned to Moller. “Can I ask you not only to examine these cans for pin holes under the key flaps, but to test a few similar tins yourself in the way Berger described?”

  “You bet your life I will. I feel a bit of a clot for not recognising straight off that all these cans are operated by the same mechanism. And if there are holes where you suggest . . .” he gestured towards the three tins under their plastic covers, ‘. . . just look at where they’ll be. Somewhere along those spirals of twisted metal, all jagged edges and, by their very nature, ideally suited to disguise any minute hole along the tear lines.”