Foyle got up and turned off the radio. “What with black-outs and dim-outs and
“Of course there’s no time for murder,” returned Lambert. “With scores of men dying at sea every day to say nothing of Europe, Asia and Africa why should we care who murdered this John Ingelow?”
“Force of habit,” suggested Basil. “A sort of hobby to keep up our morale.”
“Morale, what crimes are committed in thy name!” added Lambert.
Foyle greeted Basil sourly. “Your bright idea about the knife handle is a dud. Look at this analysis. It might mean anything!”
Basil glanced at Lambert’s report. “Chlorate of sodium . . . chlorate of potassium . . . minute quantities . . .” He turned to Lambert. “What does that suggest to you?”
“Well, chlorate of sodium and potassium are ingredients of human perspiration.”
“Sure, sweat is always salt, like tears!” agreed Foyle. “Loss of body salt through sweat is what causes heat prostration. But you said this stuff tasted sweet!”
“If you will take the trouble to read the whole report carefully you will see that I also identified glucose on the knife handle,” returned Lambert with dignity. “Of course glucose is sugar, and the explanation is childishly simple; the knife handle was grasped by a perspiring hand that had just been touching sugar in some form. Once or twice I caught a faint odor about the knife—sort of like baked apple—whatever that came from, there wasn’t enough to identify it as a chemical compound.”
“What earthly good does that do us?” asked Foyle. “Anybody might handle sugar. Probably it was apple jelly and that’s why you got an apple odor.”
“Not exactly apple,” mused Lambert. “More generalized . . . sort of fruity like—like—a fruit salad!”
Basil looked at Foyle. “Have you got any more background material?”
“Lots, but nothing of value,” retorted Foyle. “Just about what you’d expect. Wanda Morley is a stage name. Her real name was Wilhelmina Minton. She was born in Rochester in 1900 which makes her just forty-two. She attended public school and ran away to join a theatrical company at the age of fifteen. Her father was foreman in some factory there—glue, I think. He reported her disappearance to the police at the time, but they couldn’t find her. She seems to have had a pretty tough time the next twelve years doing all sorts of odd jobs more or less connected with the stage. She appeared in burlesque in Chicago and as an extra in Hollywood. She also sang with a jive band. At twenty-eight she had her first small part on Broadway in a Milhau production of a Noel Coward comedy. The show was a flop, but her performance was praised. In three years she was a star, and she has been with Milhau ever since. Maybe there was some sort of affair between her and Milhau at first, and that’s why he pushed her up the ladder. I wouldn’t know,” the Inspector added austerely. Basil had a theory that Foyle had developed his almost Puritanically strict moral sense as a reaction to his life-long association with crime.
“What about the others?”
“Rodney Tait is another type. Tait is his real name. He was born in Boston, went to a small private school and then to Harvard. Took all sorts of drama courses there and appeared in amateur shows given by some club or other. I forget the cockeyed name of it. When he was graduated he became an instructor in French literature there for a year, but he got fed up with academic life and chucked it for the stage. I gather there was consternation in the family. They all say they have absolutely no prejudice against the stage or stage people but—etc. All his pals say he’s a nice guy, but the older actors, who saw him in stock and on tour before he reached New York in
“And Leonard Martin?”
