by John Creasey
The assailant had reached the top of the stairs. Roger thrust himself against the balustrade, the pain in his leg still acute. He shot a glance downward, seeing the Jamaican woman who had opened the door to him at the foot, her face was set in alarm, eyes huge, lips parted; but she didn’t back away. There was one chance of stopping the man, by grabbing him through the iron banisters. Roger thrust his arm through as the other raced down the stairs, and caught him a light blow at the side of the head, surely not heavy enough to stop him.
It must have caught the man at a moment of imbalance, for he swayed towards the wall, banged against it, and fell, legs crumpling beneath him, arms waving. The woman backed hastily away. The man thumped to the foot of the stairs, and lay still. Roger rounded the top and hobbled down, saying: “Telephone 999 at once, will you? – say someone’s broken into the house.”
“Surely, sir.” The woman looked scared, but turned away immediately. Roger, breathing very heavily, reached the man, did not touch him, but stared at the pale face. Going down on one knee, he felt the limbs gingerly, but found no sign of a fracture. With the man lying at full length against the wall, leaving room to pass, Roger turned towards the door at the far end of the passage, through which the woman had disappeared. This opened, and a massive Jamaican came through; the woman’s voice sounding at the same moment, “Yes, that right … 19, Blenheim Terrace, Regent’s Park.”
The big man asked in a soft voice: “Who are you, sir?”
“I’m a police officer,” Roger answered. “Make sure this man doesn’t get up, and when the police arrive, send them up to me in Sir Solomon’s study, will you?”
“Very well, sir.”
The woman, more quick-witted, came hurrying,
“Is Sir Solomon hurt, sir?”
“I don’t think so. Miss Rachel fainted.”
“May I come up to see her?”
“Yes, of course,” Roger said.
Rachel hadn’t moved, as far as he could judge. The woman uttered a sharp exclamation, and hurried forward. Roger passed through the communicating door into the big library.
Medlake had moved to his desk, and was leaning against it. One hand was still at his forehead. The part of his face which was visible looked that of a sick man, but there had been nothing to indicate sickness when he had talked to Roger. Was this heart trouble, brought on by shock? There was no blue pallor to the skin, but that wasn’t a conclusive indication. Roger walked towards him.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Medlake’s lips moved stiffly.
“Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, thank—you. Is—” he broke off.
“I don’t think your secretary is badly hurt,”
Medlake’s head went up sharply.
“Hurt?”
“Not badly, sir.”
“Rachel?” Medlake caught his breath, then turned towards the open door. Beyond, the Jamaican woman was leaning over the girl, concern giving added vitality to her face. Rachel’s eyelids were beginning to flutter.
“Rachel!” Medlake strode towards the desk.
The woman said: “She’ll be all right, sir.”
Medlake barked: “She’d better be. My God, she’d better be!” He swung round on Roger, eyes flashing, colour pouring back in his cheeks. “Now you see the evil consequences of—”
Heavy footsteps on the hall and stair made him break off, and he turned towards the landing as Roger said: “These are my men, sir.”
“They’re a bit late, aren’t they?”
Roger said sharply: “Did you warn us that you expected an attack?”
“No, I—”
“Or ask us for protection?”
“No, but I should have thought—”
“I think you should be grateful that help arrived so quickly,” Roger said acidly, “And that the man who came to attack you is caught.”
“You caught him?”
“Yes.”
Medlake moistened his lips, “That’s—that’s something. Caroline, take Miss Rachel to the Blue Room, and if you think there is any need, send for the doctor. Don’t take any risks, you understand.”
“Perfectly, sir.”
Two men, one a plainclothes detective-sergeant whom Roger knew slightly, appeared at the door. They were from the patrol car which had been nearest the scene. The sergeant glanced about him with a ‘take-it-all-in-quickly’ expression.
“Hallo, Davis,” Roger said. “Glad you didn’t lose any time.”
“What shall I do first, sir?”
“Send the prisoner to the Yard – I want to talk to him there. Make sure he can be moved first – I don’t think any bones are broken.”
“Right, sir.”
“And check his identity,” Roger ordered. “I’ve seen him before somewhere.”
Detective-Sergeant Davis murmured with discreet humility: “Joe Mason, sir.”
Roger frowned.
“Joe Mason? Should I know—” Suddenly, he recollected. “Mason! The wife killer.”
“That’s the chap, sir.”
“So my house has been broken into and my secretary brutally assaulted by a man guilty of murder and released after a nominal term of imprisonment,” Medlake said. “What do you think of that state of affairs, Superintendent?”
“I’d like to know what motive the man had for coming here,” Roger said non-committally. “Sergeant, I want two men outside for a while. I want to find out if Mason was alone when he arrived, and how he arrived – on foot, by car, or by taxi – and how long he was in the street before he entered this house. Do a routine check on the premises, but I don’t think there will be much to worry about, once I’ve talked to Miss Rachel.” He turned to Medlake. “What is your secretary’s surname, sir?”
“del Monde. Rachel del Monde.”
“Thank you. When I’ve talked to her I should know exactly what happened once Mason got in. I need to know how he got in as soon as possible.”
“The servants say they don’t know, sir.”
“I’ll see if that lock was forced,” Roger said. “Excuse me a moment, sir.” Before Medlake could speak. Roger went out of the secretary’s office, ahead of Sergeant Davis; once outside, he lowered his voice. “I want a police surgeon to examine Miss del Monde – make it routine, and quick.”
“Right,” Daws said.
Roger hurried down the stairs, seeing two policemen with Mason, one on either side. The street door was wide open. Police cars stood waiting beside a gathering crowd. Roger examined the front door, but saw nothing to suggest that the lock had been forced, nothing to indicate fresh fingerprints on the outside of the door. He studied the brass knob of the Yale lock, but saw no signs of prints on it. He breathed on the brass, clouding it over, but there were still no prints he could distinguish.
“Officer!” One of the uniformed men came hurrying – a young, pink-faced individual whose uniform looked brand new.
“Yes, sir?”
“I don’t want this door handle or the lock touched until Fingerprints have had a go at them.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
Roger nodded, and went back upstairs. The sergeant was putting the telephone on its cradle in Rachel del Monde’s room, and saying to Medlake in a most conciliatory maimer:
“Just routine, sir – anyone who has been the victim of common assault should be examined by a police surgeon as quickly as possible after the injury in case of complications. The doctor will be here very soon, sir.”
Medlake said: “It seems to me an unnecessary precaution.”
“In this investigation, sir, every possible precaution must be taken,” Roger said coldly. He sensed that Medlake was keeping his temper with considerable effort, and it would take very little to make him lose it. A man in a bad temper was more likely to speak freely, even thoughtlessly, than one who was fully composed.
Medlake looked at him with obvious dislike.
“I hope it will not be necessary for you to disrupt the routine of my office inde
finitely.”
“Not a moment longer than is necessary,” Roger promised. “I shall send a man over from the Yard who will want to know if any front door key has been lost lately, whether any of your staff might have admitted this man—”
“Are you suggesting that someone in my service connived at this?” Medlake demanded angrily.
“No, sir, simply making it obvious that we must be sure none did,” Roger retorted urbanely, “Have you been threatened at all, sir?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“A threat of violence is hardly a matter one would forget, Superintendent.”
“An attack of this kind isn’t exactly what one would expect from a man like Mason,” Roger pointed out.
“Don’t be absurd!”
“What’s absurd about that?”
“This is a convicted murderer known to have no regard at all for human life—”
“Sir Solomon,” Roger interrupted. “Joseph Mason was sentenced to death fifteen years ago for wife murder. The then Home Secretary commuted the death penalty because of evidence that his wife was a vicious woman guilty of frequent acts of cruelty towards him, who flaunted her lovers in front of him, and provoked him in every possible way. He—”
“And these things justify murder?”
“No, sir. They explain the fact that Mason wasn’t hanged for his crime, and was released after serving twelve years of a life sentence – hardly nominal. He was a man with a criminal record, but until the attack on his wife, never known to commit violence.”
“Perhaps you consider his crime in this house to be non-violent,” Medlake said sarcastically.
Roger paused for a moment, partly to appraise Medlake, whose attitude had almost childish overtones; he was not behaving as one would expect a man of his background and reputation to behave. It was almost as if something were missing in his mind; his manner, even his way of speaking, especially since the attack, were rather like those of a precocious arrogant youth.
“No, sir,” Roger said, formally. “But it could be an arguable point that he was so brutalised in prison that his mentality has changed completely.”
From the door behind him, Rachel del Monde spoke in a quiet, yet bitter voice: “So now we have a policeman who is both an advocate for convicted murderers and for prison reform. Don’t you think you might be well advised to ask for Superintendent West to be assigned to another case, Sir Solomon, so that a less prejudiced officer may be put in charge of this investigation?”
Chapter Eleven
Search Warrant
As the girl spoke, Roger watched Medlake’s face, and what he saw both puzzled and surprised him. At first, the man was startled; then, an expression it was hard to fathom appeared; next came one of unmistakable satisfaction. He glanced at Roger with a look almost of triumph, then smiled broadly at the girl.
“That’s a very good idea, Rachel,” he approved warmly.
Roger turned his head.
“I’m glad you’re better. Miss del Monde,” he said flatly. “Have you seen the doctor?”
“I don’t need a doctor.” There was imperiousness in her manner, and especially in the flash of her fine eyes.
“Simply a precautionary measure, my dear,” Medlake soothed. “But you must take things very easily. Why don’t you wait in the Blue Room until the doctor arrives?”
“I shall not allow a doctor to examine me,” Rachel del Monde declared, coming further into the room. “How long have you had such advanced views on prison reform?” she challenged Roger. “Does your heart bleed for the criminal more than it does for his victim?”
“You’ve deliberately distorted what I said,” Roger rejoined levelly. “If you’ve any complaint about my handling of the case, don’t lose any time reporting it, Sir Solomon. I don’t like this investigation any more than you do, but while I’m in charge I’ll do it the way I think best.”
“Most commendable,” Rachel said dryly.
Roger said: “I’d like your permission to search your house, sir, at once.” His voice was now very sharp and he moved to a position from which he could observe them both. Each was shocked by this request, but Rachel showed it only momentarily. Medlake’s mouth opened, then anger began to flash in his eyes again.
“You may do nothing of the kind.”
“I’m afraid I shall have to, sir.”
“There can be no valid reason.”
“There is a very valid reason indeed. We don’t know how long Mason was on the premises. We do know he might have been here for half an hour – time enough to hide any object anywhere in the house.”
“What on earth would he hide?” demanded Medlake.
The girl was watching Roger, not Medlake. She gave the impression that she was trying to guess what his words implied.
“An explosive, for one thing,” Roger said.
“Oh, nonsense!”
“Sir Solomon, this man attacked you and your secretary. There is strong indication that he might have attempted murder. His violence was not in character, and we may find he has changed in other ways also. I cannot take the risk. The house must be searched.”
“And if I refuse to permit it?”
“In the circumstances I would have no difficulty in obtaining a search-warrant.”
Although Roger had come to see Medlake with a completely open mind, the man’s obvious hostility angered him; it was interesting, too, to note that he appeared to take his cue from the girl. How much influence did she really have over her employer? Who was she, in private life?
Medlake was looking at her, almost appealingly: “What shall I say?” he seemed to be asking.
“Before you or anyone can search my desk, I would need to see a search-warrant,” she said coldly.
“Exactly!” exclaimed Medlake. “If you insist, then apply for a search-warrant, Superintendent. I am quite sure there is no need for a search, but—” he waved his hands, as if to disavow all responsibility for what would happen if one were made.
So he was influenced by the girl. And she was calling his, Roger’s, bluff – finding out whether he would get a warrant or not. He would have been less interested in that had she not been in such deadly earnest. Anyone deeply involved in such a campaign as this was likely to be intense, of course, but such single-mindedness created a certain chill – there was an almost unhuman quality about both man and girl; Medlake seemed almost as if he were operated by remote control.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Davis called clearly: “Dr. Fortescue is here, sir. Is Miss del Monde free?”
Would the girl really refuse to be examined? Roger saw Medlake looking at her again with that curious kind, of appeal.
“I suppose we had better get this nonsense over,” Rachel said stiffly. “But I would like another woman present.”
“Of course, of course,” said Medlake. “I’ll send for Caroline.”
Outside in the street, standing by his car, Roger spoke to Dr. Fortescue, an ageing, mild-mannered man who knew more about the sordid side of a police surgeon’s work than any general practitioner in London.
“How badly had she been struck?” Roger asked.
“Hardly at all,” said Fortescue.
“Any bruise on the head?”
“A scratch or two, nothing more.”
“Did you see the weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Could the scratches have been caused by it?”
“Possibly.”
“Any general observations?” Roger wanted to know.
“She has a lot of hair, and that might have saved her from the full force of a blow. There certainly aren’t any bruises. I’ve taken a few strands,” Fortescue went on with a quirk of a smile. “It might be possible to see if any were bruised or fractured.”
“Any dandruff?” asked Roger.
“Clean as a whistle,” answered Fortescue. “But a most pronounced perfume from some kind of setting lotion or lacquer spray. If it has been sprayed recently s
ome might have adhered to the iron bar – I’d have that tested pretty soon if I were you.”
“It’ll be the first thing I do,” Roger promised. “Did she tell you what happened?”
“Hardly that. The briefest monosyllabic answers compatible with civility only. Bit of a bitch, I’d say, but—”
“But what?”
“That Jamaican woman is obviously devoted to her.”
“And she wouldn’t be devoted to a bitch?”
“You don’t need anything underlined, do you?” Fortescue gave a laugh, and walked along to his car. Roger glanced up at the firstfloor window – that of Sir Solomon Medlake’s study – and saw Medlake looking down. Was the girl with him? Roger wasn’t sure, but he fancied he could see her dark hair, just behind Medlake’s shoulder.
The crowd was dispersing. Only those with a job to do remained. A Fingerprints man from the Division was already at work on the door.
“Anything?” asked Roger.
“No, sir. Wiped clean.”
“Sure?”
“Must have been, sir. Prints usually stay on this stuff for hours.”
“Thanks,” said Roger. He went upstairs briskly, and saw Caroline coming down the flight of stairs leading to the bedrooms. Her manner and her smile were calm and composed; there was something pleasing about her, a kind of aura of simple goodness. That was what Dr. Fortescue had noticed, of course. Roger also knew that such an appearance could be wickedly misleading; it could cover the heart and mind of the most evil person alive.
He tapped at Rachel’s door.
She didn’t answer.
He hardly knew why that made him react so swiftly; probably the girl’s manner had already made him extremely sensitive about her. He turned the handle and pushed the door, half-prepared to find it locked. It was. He heard a faint rustle, and the sound of paper being tom across and across. He stepped swiftly to the other door, but this was locked also. He went back to the office door, put his shoulder to it, and exerted as much pressure as he could; it was heavy and solid, and did not budge. A battering ram was needed to force it.
Roger spun round, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and hurried down the stairs into the room on the right, immediately beneath Rachel del Monde’s office. Heavily curtained French windows were in the far corner. He reached these and thrust them open. Voices sounded close by – Caroline’s voice and that of the large Jamaican. Roger twisted round as he entered a paved yard, and looked upwards. A drain-pipe offered good hold up to the windowledge of the room above. Slowly, tortuously, metal cutting into his wounded leg, he hauled himself up until his head was above the level of the window.
