The Executioners

by John Creasey

  He started the engine, drove off, dropped Kane outside the new Divisional Headquarters, and headed back to the Yard. For a few minutes he continued to think of Kane, and then he turned resolutely to the larger problem. He was pretty sure that Chayter’s drawings and that given to him by Coppell were by the same artist; if so, there were now two new lines of investigation. He reached the Yard, his mind clear on what had to be done, and sent for Frisby. This time it was longer than usual before be appeared.

  “I was on the phone, sir,” he apologised. “Nothing of consequence,”

  “Right,” said Roger. “Have we room for an odd-man-out on the Chayter-plus job?”

  “Depends how odd, sir.”

  “I’m impressed by this chap Kane, but he could rub some people up the wrong way.”

  “We could use him,” Frisby said without hesitation.

  “In what way?”

  “If we have to send a man round to see the released murderers we’ll need someone who doesn’t plonk his feet down too heavily,” said Frisby. “And it will be necessary to question them, won’t it?”

  Roger thought: He’s another Kane. He can think.

  “Yes,” he said. “What’s the matter with doing it ourselves?”

  “I’ll have a go at some if you want me to,” said Frisby, “but I would have thought I’d be better here, co-ordinating. I’ve got the final figures now. There have been fifteen released in the past six months, eleven of them in the London or Home Counties area, so there’ll be plenty to do. And you’ll have your work cut out dealing with Medlake and the top brass.”

  Roger considered thoughtfully, then said: “Try to fix a temporary transfer for Kane, say it’s because of background knowledge and special qualifications for the job. I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty, but if Division makes a fuss I’ll have a word with the Superintendent. Once Kane’s here, get him busy visiting anyone who might have had drawings like these. We’d better have some copies made. Some for Kane, some for me, some to use to trace the artist. Fix a couple of dozen while you’re about it.” He looked down at the cards he had been given by Cecil Chayter, and scowled, picturing the man’s tormented eyes when he had first seen him.

  “Very ugly business indeed, sir. Making a living hell for people.”

  “Very ugly indeed,” agreed Roger. He thrust the pictures towards Frisby, and stretched out for a telephone. Before Frisby was out of the room Roger was saying to the operator: “Get me Sir Solomon Medlake at his Regent’s Park address. If he’s not there I’ll talk to his secretary.”

  Chapter Nine

  Fanatic?

  The woman who opened the door for Roger at 19, Blenheim Terrace, Regent’s Park, that afternoon, was a middle-aged, handsome Jamaican with fine white teeth and an attractively husky voice. As she led the way towards the curving staircase, a small grandfather clock, with an exquisitely painted face and a beautifully figured cabinet, struck two. The staircase had a graceful sweep, leading from the wide, elegantly furnished hall, with its duck-egg blue walls, to a narrow landing. Two doors stood almost side by side.

  The Jamaican woman turned the handle of the nearest of them.

  “Superintendent West, Miss.”

  Roger smiled thanks and stepped inside a small room, book-lined, with a tall window behind the young woman, almost a girl, who sat at the walnut desk. She didn’t get up. Her face was in shadow, but Roger had an impression of regular features, densely dark hair, and a long, graceful neck.

  “Good afternoon.” Her voice was cool and her manner aloof. “Sir Solomon won’t keep you long.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please sit down.” There was a Regency armchair, close to the desk, and Roger took it. “May I ask your particular business, Superintendent, since you were reluctant to discuss it on the telephone?”

  “I’d rather discuss it with Sir Solomon,” Roger said.

  “I am his confidential secretary.”

  “Then I am sure he will tell you about it afterwards.”

  She narrowed her eyes, and looked away, as if annoyed. The highly polished desk was immaculate, with some white folders, two telephones, an ink-stand and a blotter; all rather old-fashioned. Roger saw nothing there worth much attention. The minutes ticked by and he began to get restive. He was on the point of asking how long he was likely to be kept waiting, when a buzzer sounded.

  “Sir Solomon will see you now.” The girl stood up, tall, slender, elegant; moving forward she opened a door which led to another room, and announced him.

  Medlake rose from a much larger desk in a much larger room. Here was the atmosphere of a library rather than a study or office. Velvet curtains of deep rose hung at the high windows. Medlake himself seemed absolutely right in the room, tall, powerful, handsome in a rather austere way, with iron-grey hair worn a little over-long, bushy yet controlled eyebrows, a clean-cut nose and chin. He had a vaguely old-world appearance which showed in the slightly waisted jacket and the narrow gold chain across his short waistcoat.

  He shook hands.

  “Do sit down, Mr. West.”

  The leather-covered armchair was big enough for a giant. Roger sank into it.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s a long time since we met,” Medlake said.

  “Nearly eleven years – I’m flattered that you should remember it.”

  “One doesn’t easily forget a police officer who investigates a crime of theft from oneself with such dispatch and efficiency,” Medlake said, adding with an amused smile: “And one whose name appears in the newspapers so regularly.”

  Roger smiled. “Not so regularly as yours, sir.”

  “But I’m sure yours appears only by force of circumstances. I seek the publicity.”

  “I realise that.”

  “Do I detect a faint note of disapproval?” asked Medlake.

  “Why no, sir. Puzzlement, perhaps.”

  “What puzzles you?”

  “That a man of your calibre and position seeks that kind of publicity, and associates himself so closely with that kind of campaign.”

  For a moment Medlake looked almost startled; then he laughed.

  “So it is disapproval. Why have you come, Mr. West?”

  “To ask you some questions about your campaign to restore capital punishment,” said Roger.

  “It is all perfectly legal, I assure you.”

  “I certainly hope it is.”

  Medlake asked sharply: “Do you imply doubt?”

  “I have known enthusiasts led too far by their beliefs, sir.”

  “Fanatics, you mean.”

  “Fanatics will serve, yes.”

  “You’re being very forthright.”

  “Would you appreciate a devious approach, sir?”

  “No,” said Medlake, slowly. “No, you’re quite right – I give you my absolute assurance that everything I do is quite legal. My own newspaper is fully committed to campaigning for the restoration of capital punishment for all forms of murder. I am fully committed out of conviction, my committee is fully committed. We run public meetings, advertise in all possible mediums, and send out a weekly newsletter to a selected list of influential individuals, all making it quite clear that we believe the law should be altered. And if I have anything to do with it, altered it will be.” Medlake paused, placed both hands on the arms of his chair, and went on in a challenging voice: “I would have thought that you, as a responsible police officer, would have accepted the need for capital punishment without question.”

  “My job is to carry out the law, any opinions I may have about it I keep to myself. May I ask you a few straight questions, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you. How many members have you on your committee?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And staff—or secretariat?”

  “Three.”

  “Presumably you also have a lot of sympathisers who subscribe to your funds?”

  “A great many, although few
er than I had hoped.”

  “Dozens, sir? Hundreds? Thousands?”

  “They can be numbered in thousands.”

  “Do they help actively, apart from contributing to the funds?”

  “Many of them help by attending meetings, helping to organise rallies, delivering leaflets – this is a nation-wide and very well-organised campaign, Mr, West.”

  “I realise that, sir. Can you give me your absolute assurance that to the best of your knowledge everything done by your committee, your staff and your sympathisers to help the campaign is legal?”

  Medlake didn’t answer at once; this man was astute as well as intelligent, and, at the moment, wary. Roger waited for what seemed a very long time, until Medlake said at last: “You must know that I do give you such assurance.”

  “Thank you, sir. Can you be sure that, as a result of your agitation, people not associated with you directly don’t break the law in trying to help you?”

  “No, I can’t. Nor can I be blamed for the actions of cranks and extremists. Mine is a perfectly normal and straightforward campaign for a legal reform which I believe to be essential. I have considerable support from members of the Government, Her Majesty’s opposition, all parties in the House of Lords, as well as influential members of society at all levels. You know that, as well as I do.”

  “Yes. Have you any reason to believe that any of your sympathisers are carrying the campaign to extremes?”

  After a long pause, Medlake asked: “What do you mean by extremes?”

  “Persecuting certain individuals,” Roger said, and he produced the drawing which Cecil Chayter had given him. “Sending these things through the post to people like Chayter, telephoning and threatening him and his relations – tormenting the very life out of released prisoners and their families.”

  He thrust the drawing in front of Medlake.

  Medlake’s jaws worked as he looked at it, and the expression in his eyes changed. Roger had a fleeting thought, that he would like to know what Waldo Kane would say about it. Slowly, Medlake handed the picture back.

  “Has Chayter received such drawings?”

  “Several of them—yes.”

  “It is quite despicable.”

  “If you know of anyone who might send them it would greatly help us, sir.”

  “If you mean, do I know who does send them – no.”

  “I mean anyone who might, sir?”

  “I know of certain extremely fanatical supporters on the fringe of my movement who might do a thing like this. But they could also come from someone quite mild-mannered and outwardly nonfanatical. And of course there is no certainty that they are being sent by anyone even remotely associated with me. It might be someone with good cause for a personal hatred of Chayter, for instance.”

  “Such as Joseph Grey, whose daughter he murdered and who has been to see you recently?” Roger demanded.

  “I see how your mind is working,” said Medlake coldly. “This man came to see me, subscribed to my campaign, and promised help. Do you really find that surprising?”

  “Men who have kept hate alive for as long as those two have, might do anything,” Roger countered. “Chayter is not the only one to receive the same kind of drawing. I believe this is part of a campaign.”

  “Not part of my campaign,” Medlake retorted sharply. “I cannot help you, Superintendent.”

  “I hope you will, sir.”

  “I tell you I cannot.”

  “It’s reasonable to think that someone associated with or influenced by your campaign is responsible—”

  “Nonsense!” Now the man was becoming angry, and the studied calm had gone; here was someone who could lose his temper quickly, who might easily change from the objective, dispassionate believer in principle to a man with a fanatical and unreasoning hatred of people – of murderers.

  “You will at least agree that it might be someone associated with or influenced by your campaign, sir?”

  “Conceivably.”

  “It would greatly help us if we could have access to your records of membership, your mailing list, and the list of your subscribers and sympathisers,” Roger said. “May we have such access?”

  “This is a private and confidential matter.”

  “It could be regarded as a matter of public interest,” Roger reasoned.

  “There are certain subscribers and supporters who made it a condition that their names are not disclosed,” said Medlake.

  “Disclosing them to the police wouldn’t be a breach of confidence, sir.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  Roger said flatly: “If I have reason to believe your campaign influenced any form of law-breaking, I could easily get a magistrate’s order for access, Sir Solomon. I hope it won’t be necessary.”

  Medlake did not answer, but pressed a button on a telephone by his hand. The communicating door opened, and the girl appeared almost on the instant. Although thin, she had a very good figure, and was striking in a way; her features seemed almost razor sharp. The dress was purple, not blue as he had thought, and made of a rough-textured material, close fitting at the narrow hips. Her skin was sallow.

  “Rachel, the police desire access to the records of all of our known sympathisers, in any sphere. They promise to treat them confidentially, provided no one on the list is proved to be involved in crime – isn’t that so, Superintendent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “See that Superintendent West or any officer he nominates has access, please,” ordered Medlake.

  “Of course,” said Rachel, She had a clear, precise way of speaking in a voice quite pleasant although rather high-pitched. “When will they be required?”

  “By tomorrow morning, please, at half past nine,” Roger said.

  “Very well.”

  “Thank you, Rachel,” Medlake said.

  The girl nodded, and withdrew, making hardly a sound. Roger saw what looked almost like a smug expression on Medlake’s face, and wondered just what was going through the man’s mind; his submission had been almost too sudden and complete. Now he looked at Roger as if to say: “Well? What more do you want?”

  “That’s a great help,” Roger said, standing up. “I’ll have two men here in the morning, and they won’t make more nuisance of themselves than they can help. Thank you, sir.”

  “I will always do anything I can to prevent law-breaking,” Medlake declared. “Goodbye.” He rounded his desk and moved towards a further door leading straight to the landing and not to his secretary’s office. But before they reached it, a sound came from the other room – a cry, like a stifled exclamation; almost simultaneously there followed a heavy thud and a scraping sound.

  “What’s that?” asked Medlake sharply.

  Roger sprang towards the other door and as he did so, it swung open. He dodged to one side a second too late, the impact sending him reeling backwards.

  A man rushed through, one arm raised – a powerful, angry man. Medlake cried out. Roger saw the man rush at him, saw Medlake throw up His arms to save his head. Flinging himself forward, Roger dived for the man’s legs, clutched, and brought him down. The thud reverberated through the room, shaking pictures, bringing books crashing. Roger began to scramble to his feet, as the man he had felled kicked out at him. He dodged one kick, but another caught him on the knee, and was sent staggering. He saw a length of iron piping on the floor, saw Medlake standing with his face buried in his hands.

  The man snatched at the iron piping as Roger reeled away.

  One blow from that weapon could be fatal – for him, for Medlake, or for the girl Rachel.

  And there was no sound from her; no sound except in this room.

  Chapter Ten

  Ex-Murderer

  As Roger straightened up he saw the assailant glare towards Medlake – who was still standing motionless, face in his hands, as if he were in pain. In that split second the stranger’s concentration was divided between Medlake, whom he had obviously come to att
ack, and Roger. Roger saw the grip on the iron piping tighten. He said harshly: “Put that down!”

  The man swung round on him.

  “Shut your bloody trap.”

  “Put that down, I tell you.”

  The man took a step towards Roger, the weapon half-raised, all his attention on Roger now, not on Medlake.

  “I am a police officer,” Roger forced himself to say. “I order you to put that weapon down, in the name of the law.”

  The man spat: “Bloody police.”

  Roger had seen him somewhere, but could not place him. He was short and solid but with a skeleton-thin face. As he spoke, his lips were tightly closed at one side, moving only at the other: a prisonformed habit. He had large pale eyes and nearly bloodless lips, and his general pallor was heightened by an almost black suit.

  “I tell you—” Roger began.

  The man did the inevitable, and leapt at him, weapon raised to smash down on his head. Roger skipped to one side. As the man twisted round, Roger groped for and found the man’s left wrist, thrust his arm upwards, and twisted. The man groaned, and his body sagged. Roger gripped his other wrist forcing him to drop the iron bar from fingers now limp and useless. He turned the man round quickly, thrust his left arm up behind him in a hammer-lock, and pushed him towards the communicating door.

  He was worried about the girl Rachel.

  She was sprawling forward, one arm across her desk, palm downwards, the other slack by her side. Her glossy black hair had come loose, veiling the side of her face in a dark mist. He saw with infinite relief that she was breathing. He pushed his prisoner further towards the door, which was wide open, reached the narrow landing, and raised his voice.

  “Anyone about?”

  There was no answer.

  “Anyone about!”

  As he shouted, he slackened, for a moment, his hold on his prisoner’s arm, and the man, quick to seize the advantage, backheeled, and caught him on the shin. The pain was agonising, and he let go. As the other darted towards the head of the stairs, footsteps sounded below, and a woman called: “What is it, please?”

  “Be careful!” Roger bellowed. “Be careful!”