by John Creasey
“What does that mean?”
Slowly, Roger said: “I think it means that I would like to come off the Chayter case, sir.”
“Why on earth do you say that? Your last report said you were finding it more interesting than you’d expected. Think you’re going to fall down on it?”
“Inevitably, if I’m kept in the dark about some aspects of it,” Roger said coldly.
Coppell opened his mouth to answer, but didn’t speak. Roger began to feel a little ridiculous; standing on one’s dignity wasn’t exactly behaving like an adult. But there was more to his attitude than that; there was the difficulty of doing this job properly if he was to be left uninformed about any part of it. Coppell kept silent, and Roger saw another angle; the possibility that the Commander was deliberately trying him out. If that were so, there might be some case for disaffection; between Commander C.I.D. and one of his senior detectives there should be absolute trust.
At last, Coppell spoke, quite mildly.
“So you think I should have told you about the Medlake/Leep situation?”
“If you wanted me to get on top of the job quickly, yes, sir.”
“What difference would it have made?”
“I would have started looking for a connection between Medlake and Chayter weeks ago,” said Roger. “I suppose I should have thought of it, but it’s one thing to make sure that Chayter won’t kill a second time because he’s a psychopathic killer, another to check whether Medlake or anyone else could possibly be trying to use him as a tool in an anti-Abolitionist campaign. The approach is quite different,” he added defensively. “I would have had a man on Medlake two weeks ago if I’d known about this. Then we would have known earlier that Joseph Grey, father of the girl whom Chayter killed, has also been visiting Medlake. And—” he broke off.
“Go on,” Coppell said gruffly. “Don’t pull any punches.”
Roger drew a deep breath.
“We don’t know what’s going on in Chayter’s mind, do we? There’s a possibility that he’s a sensitive individual whose nerves are near breaking point because of what’s happened. If in fact Medlake has been getting at him, and if he is just about at his wits’ end, he might do something crazy – such as kill himself.”
“Any reason to believe this?”
“Some reason to believe he’s in a highly emotional condition, yes.”
“What reason?”
“The observation of one of our men,” answered Roger. “The fact that yesterday he was seen to be badly worked up, and to keep taking something out of his pocket, glaring at it, and putting it back again.”
“A drawing?” Coppell exclaimed.
“I’m not sure, but if he had the same kind of drawing as this, it might easily have induced the mood he was in.”
It was only a guess, of course, but Roger felt sure it was a reasonable one. Coppell could join issue, ask for evidence that he was talking sense, and accuse him of guessing wildly, but if he did so, then it would lead to a sharp conflict between them, the kind which could lead to bad blood and a strained relationship; nothing could be more harmful to an investigating officer. Roger had a sense of impending crisis.
Coppell pursed his lips, let out a long breath which fluttered slightly against his full lips, then gave a wintry smile.
“I dare say you’re right. I’ve been going into Medlake’s activities ever since I took over, and wondering if he’s crazy. If he is, I thought you might get a lead to him from Chayter. It would have been better if I’d come clean.” There was no ‘sorry’, and the concession was grudging, but from a man like Coppell, any concession at all was a great tribute to his determination to be fair-minded.
Roger saw a chance to meet the other half-way. “I ought to have jumped to the possibility that you were nervous of Medlake, anyhow. I wasn’t seeing the wood for the trees. No harm done, I hope?”
Coppell’s smile broadened.
“Not yet. How soon can you find out if Chayter’s having trouble with this anonymous cartoonist?”
“A matter of an hour or two, if we ask him direct,” said Roger.
“Think you should?”
“Offhand, I can’t see any reason why not, but I’d like to ponder,” Roger said. “I want to go out to the Division, anyhow—I have to see a Detective Officer Kane, who sent in yesterday’s report about Chayter’s apparent agitation. Will you leave it to me?”
“Yes,” said Coppell. “And don’t forget to report every time there’s anything special up.”
That was a handsome concession indeed.
“I won’t,” promised Roger.
Detective Officer Waldo Kane was a tall, thin individual, with the kind of face that, merging easily into a crowd, could never afterwards be recalled. The perfect face, one might say, for a member of the police force. He was talking to Roger in the barely furnished, ward-like waiting-room at Divisional Headquarters. He had a gentle voice, with a hint of Scottish burr in it.
“… I should think it was a photograph, sir.”
“Did you actually see it?”
“Not close up, you understand, but it was a card or a piece of paper. It didn’t fold or screw up, so if it was paper it was fairly stiff.”
“And when Chayter looked at it, exactly what did he do?”
Kane said simply: “Acted as if he’d taken a look at hell, sir.”
“That’s a bit fanciful, isn’t it?”
“It was my conclusion,” said Kane simply.
“Feel sorry for this man Chayter?”
“The way I’d feel sorry for anyone in a state of highly nervous tension.”
“You’re sure Chayter is in such a state?”
After a brief pause, Kane said: “Have you seen him yourself, sir?”
“Not yet.”
“I wish you would,” said Kane.
It would have been easy to take this remark as a piece of colourful rhetoric, but Roger’s acceptance of it was serious. He wondered nearly as much about this man as he did about Chayter, and after a moment he asked: “Like to come with me when I see him?”
Kane’s eyes lit up.
“I would indeed!”
“Half an hour ago he was still at his brother’s place, 21, Link Street,” Roger said. “We should find him there.”
Ten minutes later he was driving his black Rover slowly past the Chayters’ house, recognising a rather plump woman standing in a doorway opposite as one of the Yard’s women C.I.D. officers; she appeared to be canvassing the householders for a brand of detergent, and carried some cellophane packets of soap powder in a plastic suitcase daubed with advertising signs. So Chayter was still at home. Roger parked several doors away, and the two men walked back together, Kane matching Roger’s stride step by step; he gave an impression that everything he did came easily to him.
Roger rang the bell of Number 21. There was the sound of approaching footsteps almost at once, and the door was opened by Cecil Chayter.
He did not recognise Roger at first, but Roger was instantly aware of the tension in his face and in his whole body. It was so self-evident that anyone with any sensitivity at all must have been alive to it.
Kane had been right about that.
Then, before Roger spoke, recognition dawned in Cecil’s eyes.
Chapter Eight
Torment
Chayter did not speak, but backed unsteadily into the hall, his lips parted; he moistened them with the tip of his tongue. His prison pallor now had an overlay of outdoor tan, which gave him an almost jaundiced look. Apart from that, and the expression in his eyes, the most noticeable thing about him was his youthfulness. It seemed not twenty years but twenty weeks since Roger himself had placed a hand, on this man’s shoulder, and charged him.
Quietly, he said: “Hallo, Mr. Chayter.”
Chayter said in a whisper: “Sergeant West.”
Roger didn’t correct him.
“Can you spare me a few minutes?”
“I—yes. Yes. Come in.” Chay
ter shot a furtive glance over his shoulder, and Roger saw the woman at the end of a passage alongside the stairs. She was dark-haired, and attractive. “Julie, I—I won’t be long.”
She moved forward, protectively.
“Who is it?”
“You needn’t worry,” Chayter said, almost pleading.
She took no notice but drew closer, and Roger saw the beauty of her eyes.
“Who are these men?” she asked.
It was easy to smile at her pleasantly.
“I’m Superintendent West, of the Metropolitan Police, and this is Detective Officer Kane. Are you Mrs. Paul Chayter?”
“Yes. Why—”
“Julie, don’t let them involve you, please.”
“There’s no need to be worried,” Roger said, exerting himself to make a good impression. “We’re making some inquiries, and we think you might be able to help us, Mr. Chayter – and possibly at the same time help yourself. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to stand on the doorstep, though.”
Suddenly, Julie Chayter’s manner changed. She ushered them into the sitting-room, hovering uncertainly. Obviously she longed to stay but could not bring herself to ask permission.
Roger decided that she should.
“Mr. Chayter, have you received any malicious drawings since you’ve been back in London?” He knew the answer almost before the question was out, and felt a swift satisfaction; Kane must be feeling pleased with himself, too. “This kind of thing,” he added, and drew the Leep card out of his pocket,
“Cecil!” exclaimed Julie.
Chayter passed a hand across his forehead, gave a muttered “Yes,” then backed away. Julie moved quickly to support him. No one could doubt the genuineness of her concern.
“So you have,” Roger said quietly.
“Yes,” answered Chayter at last. “Yes—three, altogether.” He took one new-looking, two rather worn cards from his breast pocket, and handed them to Roger.
Kane drew closer.
“How did you know?” Julie Chayter asked.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” countered Roger.
“I wanted—” she began, but stopped short.
“I—I didn’t think you would be interested,” muttered Chayter.
“We’re very interested indeed,” Roger said, still looking at the three drawings. They were all the same size, a little larger than postcards. The drawings were very nearly the same, but each was an original in black and white, drawn with the skill and feeling of a practised cartoonist. “May I have these, please?”
“If you need them.”
“Superintendent,” Julie Chayter interrupted, “please don’t make any mystery out of this. Surely you can see that my brother-in-law is very worried.”
“Mrs. Chayter, at least one and possibly several other people have had this kind of card in the past few weeks,” Roger said. “Seven men have recently been released from prison after finishing long, commuted sentences, and someone who appears to harbour some fanatical grudge against them is sending out these cards. We want to find out who it is, so that we can stop it. It’s as simple as that.” He gave the man a chance to recover his poise, then went on: “Have you any idea who is sending them?”
“None at all,” answered Chayter. His eyes were dazed. “Others are getting them? It isn’t just aimed at me?”
“If you doubt it—” Roger held out the card Coppell had given him. “We need to know when you received these, and whether you’ve had any telephone calls. Now—”
“I’ve had two telephone calls,” Julie Chayter interrupted quietly. “And my husband had one, only last night.”
“And I’ve had two,” said Chayter, in a much stronger voice. “I can tell you exactly when the cards came …”
“I’ll tell you one thing, sir,” Detective Officer Kane said to Roger.
“What’s that?”
“The woman’s in love with Chayter.”
“Bit impetuous in your judgement, aren’t you?”
“She was more than a bit impetuous in her manner,” retorted Kane.
“You could be reading too much into it.”
“You don’t really think so, sir, do you?” Kane looked almost pained.
Roger said flatly: “Reading my thoughts now, Kane?”
They were driving back towards the Divisional Headquarters, slow because of a funeral procession a hundred yards ahead, forcing motorists to a frustrated crawl. The sun struck hot through the windscreen, and the windows were down.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Kane said, as flatly.
“I asked you a question.”
“I spoke out of turn, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Justify what you said, and you don’t have to be sorry.”
An eager note sounded in Kane’s voice.
“You’re the only one who can justify what I said about you, sir!”
“Meaning only I knew whether I think you’re reading too much in the relationship between Chayter and his brother’s wife.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a short pause.
“On the whole I would agree with you,” Roger said judiciously. “I don’t think I would go so far as to put it in a report though.”
Kane hesitated, then smiled.
“That was deliberate, sir – I hoped you would read the report personally,”
“What?”
“I thought you would probably see what I was driving at,” Kane went on. “I’m usually very careful, I’ve been slapped down so often for guessing.”
“So I should think.” They were passing through a shopping area now, and the traffic was moving faster. Roger slid into a parking space, put on the brakes, switched off the engine, and turned to look straight into Kane’s questing eyes. “The best thing to do with an intelligent guess is to keep it to yourself until you can justify or at least rationalise it. What made you think I would take a more tolerant view of guessing than the next man?”
After a long pause, and with great deliberation, Kane said: “Your success and your reputation, sir. I knew you must be a man of much greater perception than most senior officers. Everything I’ve heard about you indicated that.” When Roger gave him no help, but waited in a kind of dour silence, Kane went on almost desperately: “Some people are born with a sixth sense, sir. Others acquire it.”
“Oh,” said Roger, and asked dryly: “And how did I get mine?”
“You’re a natural, I’d say!”
Roger could not repress a laugh and Kane gave an enormous grin of relief.
“Yours is acquired, I take it,” Roger said dryly.
“Yes, sir!”
“From where?”
“I studied applied psychology at London University, sir.” A junior detective with a university background was a comparative rarity, and Roger found himself studying the rather boyish face and pale complexion with greater respect, as well as with some liking. It must have taken a considerable nerve for the man to talk so frankly.
“What else did you study?”
“Psychiatry, sir.”
“What?”
“I went from university to Guy’s Hospital,” said Kane. “I was halfway through a study of neuroses and emotional disorders when I gave the whole thing up and joined the Force. I’ve always been interested in crime, and I formed some theories which I thought could only be tried out in crime investigation and detection. I know that long experience can often enable a man to know whether another man’s lying, but it goes deeper than that, sir. I think a lot of time could be saved if we could form a sound opinion of the emotional state of a suspect or witness. We could start on questions the right way, using the most effective tone of voice. I’ve listened to hundreds of interrogations, and except for the odd occasion, our men always use the same technique. There’s an old boy in the Division, Cathcart, near retiring age. Now he’s good. He plays on people as if they were a piano. Does a marvellous job, and where is he? Detective-Sergeant at fifty-five!” Kane’s eyes glowed with an e
nthusiasm not far short of fervour. “I once heard you, Mr. West. Do you remember that Elephant and Castle stabbing, three years ago? I was in uniform then. There were a dozen yobs, any one of whom could have knifed the fellow, and half a dozen girls were in support. You were wonderful to watch and hear!”
Roger laughed again, but checked it quickly.
“All right, Kane, I don’t need the butter. I can see what you’re driving at, and there may be something in it, but use it to get evidence, not as evidence. Evidence is a clear, sharp, easily definable thing, and don’t forget it.” He paused, giving Kane just sufficient time to absorb the encouragement in his words and tone, then went on briskly: “Now! You think Mrs. Paul Chayter has fallen for her brother-in-law. Where does it get us if she has?”
“If we help him, she’ll be on our side,” Kane answered promptly: “And if Chayter gets difficult over anything, we may get help from the woman if she’s sure of our goodwill. See how it works, sir?”
“We’ll see if it works. What’s your view on capital punishment?”
Most young men would have given a quick reply, or at least shown an immediate reaction. Kane frowned, as if distracted by the change of subject. He was probably trying to make sure his answer would please his superiors, thought Roger; if he were, he would be noncommittal.
He said: “I’m absolutely against it, sir.”
“Why?”
“Emotionally because I don’t like taking human life. Intellectually, because I think any society which needs capital punishment as a deterrent is confessing to failure.” After a pause, he went on: “Not that my personal convictions would stop me working with everything I’ve got to catch a murderer, whatever was going to happen to him. Mind if I ask a question, sir?”
“You haven’t shown much inhibition so far,” Roger said dryly.
“This case, sir – is it really about Abolition?”
He couldn’t have made a more intelligent guess, thought Roger, and he answered soberly: “We think that it might be.”
Almost nervously, Kane asked: “No chance of me being assigned to it under you, sir, is there? I’d give my right hand for the chance.”
“You keep your right hand,” Roger said. “I’ll think about it.”
