The Best of British Crime omnibus by Andrew Garve, David Williams, Francis Durbridge Page A

her, so I slipped along to her room to see if she was there. She was, but she evidently wasn’t in a condition to come to the door. All the reply I got was a slurred ‘Lemme alone, can’t you?’ I called through the door and told her there’d been an accident, but even that didn’t register. Finally I gave it up and returned to the throng in the corridor.
    The man from the Radio Centre was still clutching his package and looking as though he didn’t know what to do about it. I stopped to talk to him, thinking that perhaps he could clear up the mystery of the Mullett broadcast. He turned out not to be a Russian, except by adoption – he was actually, judging by his slight cockney accent, a Londoner.
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ he said, in a quick, rather ingratiating voice, ‘I can tell you about Mr Mullett. You see, he came along about seven to rehearse his talk, but his Russian was so bad that we didn’t dare let him go on the air ’live.’ He was meant to, but Mr Kolarov wouldn’t risk it. It was a good thing he didn’t, too, because we had to make three recordings before we got a passable one.’ He gave an agitated glance in the direction of the crowd. ‘It’s a terrible thing about Mr Mullett, isn’t it?’
    I agreed that it was.
    He tapped the package. ‘I brought this record for him – his talk, you know. Mr Kilarov thought he’d like it, so I was sent after him. I’m really the assistant announcer. I suppose the only thing is to take it back when the police’ll let me.’ He shot another quick glance to his right and left and licked his lips.
    I thanked him for his information and passed on. Jeff was back in the corridor, busily trying to piece things together, but he hadn’t been able to find out much. Apparently none of the delegates had seen or heard anything that threw any light on the murder. Perdita, Bolting, Thomas and Schofield had been in their rooms all the evening. Cressey who had turned up in the middle of all the confusion, had been taking a solitary walk round the Kremlin walls. Of Tranter there was still no sign, and nobody seemed to have any idea where he was.
    In about fifteen minutes higher authority began to arrive, and thereafter kept on arriving in a steady stream. First came a bunch of obvious plain-clothes men whom I took to be the equivalent of our C.I.D. I’d have given a lot to watch them at work, but they disappeared into Mullett’s room with cameras and little attaché-cases and an Iron Curtain closed down behind them. Meanwhile, high officials were arriving in droves, all very grave and anxious – the president of VOKS and Mirnova to soothe and shepherd the delegation, and several chaps from the Soviet Foreign Office, and the head of the Sovinformburo, and others whom none of us knew and who were probably ‘big-shot’ security officers from the M.V.D. After a while a stocky little man with a bald head and shrewd grey eyes and an air of authority started to sort us out and ask questions. He did it in the smoothest way, and seemed most anxious not to offend. The questioning took a long time, but as far as I could see nothing of any value emerged. What he mainly wanted to know, of course, was whether anyone had seen anyone go into or out of Mullet’s room at the material time, but no one had. Nikolai repeated his story, but couldn’t add to it. The floor manageress mentioned Mrs Clarke, and was discreetly taken aside. Jeff was asked if Mullett’s door had been ajar when he’d taken the drink to Tanya and when he’d returned from her room, and he said he couldn’t be sure but he didn’t think so. The man from the Radio Centre explained his business on the fourth floor and left his package with the police. A lot of Russians were questioned, a shade more brusquely, but to no effect, and that was about all. The hotel residents were asked to return to