give me a hint of what he died of, sir?’ he asked.
‘No, I can’t. There are no visible signs of violence, if that’s what you’re getting at. The man just died. You’ll probably find that he was suffering from fatty degeneration of the heart, or something. The best thing you can do is to get him along to the mortuary, and turn him over to the police surgeon.’
Oldland waited until the ambulance arrived, and then left the building. Both the crowd and the internal intricacies of motor cars had temporarily lost interest for him. He went outside and regained his waiting car. Seeing his chauffeur’s inquiring but very respectful glance, he shook his head. ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back another time, perhaps.’
He drove homewards, frowning over the sudden death of Mr Nahum Pershore. Professionally the incident was without significance for him. No doubt the post-mortem would reveal some morbid condition which would account for it. But it was an infernal nuisance, just the same. He would have to attend the inquest, and that would mean a loss of valuable time. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped!
His thoughts turned from Mr Pershore to the behaviour of the car. She certainly did run wonderfully smoothly. It would be a shame to get rid of her. If she were repainted and touched up here and there, she could be made to last another year at least. Yes, that was what he would do.
So the incident of Mr Pershore’s death was not without its economic consequences. It reduced by one the ranks of the Potential Buyers. By two, possibly, since Mr Nahum Pershore might have intended to buy a car. But, upon the activities of the show itself, it had no effect whatever. Mr Pershore’s body having been decently removed from Stand 1001, the salesman resumed his interrupted explanation. ‘This, which is known as the pressure valve, is contained in a housing on the right side of the pump. Its function is …’
His voice droned on, inaudible, except to the intent group facing him, above the subdued roar with which the voices of the crowd filled the building. And up and down the alleys between the stands flowed the human stream, now pursuing a slow and steady course, now eddying about some exhibit of special interest. The incident of Mr Pershore’s collapse had been witnessed by perhaps a couple of dozen people, none of whom knew that it had been fatal. So trivial a matter was scarcely a subject for comment. It may be that two acquaintances met by chance at one of the refreshment bars. ‘Hallo, Jimmy, what’s yours?’ ‘Mine’s a double whisky and a splash. Seen that new contraption of the Comet people’s yet?’ ‘Yes, I’ve just been having a look at it. Terrible crush on their stand. An old boy fainted just as I got there.’ ‘I don’t wonder. Felt like fainting myself when I was there this morning. Well, here’s luck!’ And the subject of Mr Pershore would be forgotten.
That evening, soon after ten, when the last of the public had been shepherded from the hall, and the exhausted staffs were clearing up for the night, the sales manager of the Solent Motor Car Company was fussing about his stand. He was not in the best of tempers. Solent and Comet cars were in much the same class, and an intense rivalry had always existed between them.
As it happened, the Solent people had made very few alterations to their models for this particular year, with the result that there was nothing startlingly novel exhibited on their stand. Since novelty is what attracts a very large percentage of visitors to the show, this had resulted in comparatively few inquiries. And yet the Solent stand, number 1276, was very favourably placed to attract notice. It was close to the entrance, almost the first thing to catch the visitor’s eyes as he entered the building.
The sales manager had a definite sense of grievance against his directors. If they hadn’t been such a sleepy lot of fatheads, they would have seen to it that the works got out something new, and not left it to the Comet people to steal a march on them like this. How the devil could a fellow be expected to sell cars to people if he had nothing out-of-the-way to show them?
He happened to glance through the window of a resplendent Solent saloon, and something lying on the floor at the back caught his eye. He opened the door, and picked up a mushroom-shaped piece of steel. ‘What the devil’s this?’ he exclaimed, frowning at the unfamiliar object.
One of his assistants, standing near by, answered him. ‘It looks like one of the exhibits from the Comet stand,’ he said.
‘What? One of those people’s ridiculous gadgets? How do you know that?’
The assistant, realising that he had given himself away, looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, I just took a stroll round their stand in my lunch hour,’ he replied sheepishly.
‘Oh, you did, did you? And I suppose you’ve been recommending people who come here to look at our stuff to follow your example. And how did this damn thing get on our stand? Perhaps you brought it back with you as a souvenir?’
The assistant attempted the mild answer which turneth away wrath. ‘I didn’t do that. But I’ll take it back to the Comet stand, if you like.’
‘Take it back? Let them come and fetch it if they want to. I’d have you know that employees of our firm aren’t paid to run errands for the Comet people. And see that you’re here sharp at nine tomorrow morning. I want some alterations made on this stand before the show opens.’ And, without vouchsafing a good-night, the sales manager departed.
His assistant watched him leave the hall. Then, since he had a friend in the Comet firm, he picked up the pressure valve, for such it was, and carried it to stand 1001. There he encountered the demonstrator who had been holding forth when Mr Pershore collapsed. ‘Hallo, George, this is a bit of your property, isn’t it?’ he said.
George Sulgrave recognised the pressure valve at once. ‘Where did you get that from, Henry?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘My Great White Chief found it inside one of the cars on our stand. Somebody must have picked it up, and then, finding it a bit heavy to carry about, put it down in the most convenient place.’
Sulgrave glanced round the stand. There was certainly a gap in the row of gadgets which bordered it. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. ‘Some of these blokes would pinch the cars from under our very noses, if they thought they could get away with them. Thanks very much, Harry. We shall have to have these things chained to the floor, or something like that. How’s business on your stand?’
‘Simply can’t compete with the orders we’re getting,’ Harry lied readily. Loyalty to one’s firm is a greater virtue than truthfulness to one’s friend, as Sulgrave would have been the first to agree. ‘We’ve sold all our output for next year already.’
‘Same here,’ replied Sulgrave, no more truthfully than Harry. ‘You must come down and look us up when this confounded show is over. Irene will be glad to see you.’
‘Thanks very much. I’d like to run down one evening. Good-night, George.’
‘Good-night, Harry. Much obliged to you for your trouble.’
The attendants on the various stands completed their labours and went home. An almost uncanny hush settled upon the vast and now dimly lighted expanse of Olympia. Wrapped in a similar hush, and an even dimmer light, the body of Mr Nahum Pershore lay on a slab in the mortuary, rigid and motionless.
Mr Nahum Pershore had purchased all that messuage and tenement known as Firlands, Weybridge, some five years before his death. He had got it cheap, since, as the agent
