by John Creasey
“Cheers.” Roger sipped.
“Nasty show tonight, I’m told.”
“Bloody, sir. Leep’s dead.”
“Broken neck.” Coppell’s tone was such that it did not really sound superfluous or repetitive. “And nine more of them are still missing.”
Roger exclaimed: “Nine? We started out with seven.”
“Three more have been reported missing from homes in the provinces,” said Coppell. His eyes were so heavy with lack of sleep that they looked almost black. “There could be others but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Roger asked. He felt as if some fresh calamity was impending.
“We think we’ve got all released murderers closely watched now,” Coppell said.
All likely victims—
Roger tossed his drink down. “So we’re looking for nine.” “And we’ve no idea where they are,” Coppell said, and his eyes suddenly became alert. “Unless you have.”
“Not yet,” Roger said.
“How many do you think were in that cellar?”
“I can’t even begin to guess,” said Roger. “Several men had left the basement by that tunnel leading to Pilkington Street, but how many I can’t be sure.”
“Sure there was no woman?”
“There were no signs of a woman, and I wouldn’t expect any. Not at that ceremony. It was enough to turn a man’s stomach, let alone a woman’s.” He was aware of the intense gaze from those dark eyes, and went on: “But I’m forgetting, you think they should be hanged, don’t you?”
Coppell said: “Legal hanging’s one thing. This is cold-blooded lynching.”
“Cold-blooded,” Roger echoed. “You couldn’t be more right.”
“West,” said Coppell. “I don’t need telling how this is likely to affect you. Cutting down a dead man in those circumstances would upset anyone. But whether I’m as squeamish as I should be or not, doesn’t affect the point that I’m scared about this affair.”
Scared, Roger echoed; he had never expected this man to make such an admission.
“So am I,” he said grimly. “So we should be. There are nine missing – and each of them might be hanged in this form of private vengeance.” He gave an involuntary shudder. “Sure everyone who might be involved is under surveillance?”
“Everyone we know of.”
“Cecil Chayter?”
“Yes. And I’ve arranged for an hourly report on each one we’re watching.”
“Good,” Roger said. Here was Coppell doing part of his, Roger’s, job, which raised a half-smile. “Where do we go from here?”
“We get those nine missing men back.”
Roger didn’t speak.
Coppell said slowly, “I want a straight answer to a straight question.”
“Ah,” thought Roger, expecting the explanation of Coppell’s change of mood to one of sweet reason and understanding.
“What question?”
“If you think Medlake or his secretary are behind tins, would you be prepared to stick your neck out and prefer a charge against each? That way we could hold them, and search their homes and offices thoroughly. Don’t give me a snap answer,” Coppell warned, holding up a hand. “Think it over for a few minutes.”
“That’s certainly some question.” Roger didn’t add: “And it’s almost an incredible one from you to me.” He wished he were not so tired, and that his head didn’t ache so much.
One thing was transparently obvious: Coppell wanted him to stick his neck out. So Coppell wanted both Medlake and Rachel del Monde under lock and key.
Chapter Sixteen
Sensation
As Roger considered, while trying to understand why Coppell should be so anxious to arrest Medlake and his secretary, there was a tap at the door, and a messenger carrying a laden tray came in. There were two fillet steaks, chipped potatoes, fried onions and cabbage, beer, cheese, butter and a pot of coffee. Roger watched the man put the things on the table; his hands were covered with knotted blue veins.
Leep’s hands had been veined, too, drooping by his sides.
“Start eating,” Coppell said.
Well, why shouldn’t he? He had seen plenty of corpses before. Roger picked up his knife and fork. The steak looked good, and the knife slipped through it as if through butter.
“I’ve two reasons for wanting them on a charge,” Coppell confirmed.
“One, if the criminals are nothing to do with Medlake, they’ll feel we’re on the wrong track,” Roger hazarded.
“Yes. Conventional tactics,” agreed Coppell. “West, this is one hell of a case,”
“In a moment you’re going to quote the Home Secretary, and say that the solving of these crimes could affect the laws of the country.”
Coppell asked sharply: “Who told you the Home Secretary had been talking to me?”
“I guessed,” Roger said dryly.
Coppell gave a short laugh.
“I really believe you did. And he’s right, too. We’ve never had a crime like this before. Nine men who are in danger of being lynched because the law refused to hang them. One thing’s practically certain—” Coppell paused.
“What is?”
“Whoever is behind it is non compos mentis.”
“I wonder,” Roger mused. “I wonder if he’s mad—or if he’s relying on us, and later The Courts, assuming him to be crazy.” After a pause to eat, Roger went on: “It could conceivably be a very sane and cunning move – to cause a public outcry demanding that such a cold-blooded mass killer be executed, unless he’s insane – and that in our law there must be a hanging clause of some kind. This would be a kind of test case. A lot of people, including M.P.s who are going to decide this issue, might be swayed by it.”
Coppell said: “Doesn’t take much to sway some of them. You apparently think the man could be as sane as you and me.”
“And cleverer,” Roger argued.
“That wouldn’t be so hard. Well, what do you say about arresting Medlake and the girl?”
“I don’t like sticking my neck out for the sake of it, but I’d do it if I thought it would help to find those missing men.” Roger felt much more himself, thanks to the whisky, the food, and Coppell’s forthright attitude; something had loosened the Commander up, he had stopped behaving like a VIP policeman weighed down by a heavy load of responsibility. “May I ask a question?”
“Go on.”
“What do you want most? To please the Home Office, or to get the nine men back?”
Coppell’s lips twisted in a wry smile.
“And that’s some question, too.” After a pause, he went on: “I’d settle for getting the men.”
“Give me forty-eight hours to try before I make a charge against Medlake.”
“Can you find one?”
“Certainly. Conspiracy to obstruct the police in the performance of their duty.”
“Right,” Coppell said. “Did you tell Medlake you’d raided his office?”
“No,” answered Roger. “I didn’t think to—I should have.” When Coppell made no comment, he went on: “Just as well, perhaps. It will shake him when he finds out, and if he protests too much the finding of Leep will quieten him.”
“And if he doesn’t protest enough, you’ll wonder if it’s out of a sense of guilt,” said Coppell. “What will you do in the next forty-eight hours?”
“Give the newspapers the story of the fire and the hanging. Step up the door-to-door questioning. Search the area around Pilkington Street with a fine-tooth comb, using every man one can get from all the Divisions. Personally interview those released murderers who aren’t missing.”
“Why that?” Coppell demanded.
“These men who have disappeared must have had an inducement, something to lure them away from their homes,” Roger said. “Medlake and his secretary didn’t merely whistle to make them come running. How many men can I use on the job?”
“Everyone who can be spared from ordinary duty,” Coppell answered. “The
y can do as much overtime as they like, and no one will argue. All I want are results—quickly.”
Roger left him soon afterwards, and turned into the room where Kane was working on the Reports Summary. Another, larger-scale map was on the wall, showing the district around Baker Street Station. Every street, almost every house and shop, was marked. Kane and two other men were planning a door-to-door call next day.
“Speed is essential,” Roger said. “You can use all the men you need.”
“What chance is there of catching them before they’re hanged?” asked Kane glumly. He looked tired as well as gloomy.
“They won’t do this again,” Roger argued.
But they were words for the sake of words.
He went along to his own office, and found files of reports on his desk, including the dossier of all the missing men. On top was that of Michael Leep, the hanged man. Hanged. Even though he could picture the body, the face, those veined hands, Roger found it hard to believe it had really taken place. Glancing through the papers – photographs, fingerprints, Leep’s background, the background of his victim – he suddenly noticed something which made him read more closely.
Leep was convicted of the murder of Mr. Rudolph King, a Professor of Law, at his home in Glassiter Street, Mayfair, W.1…. Professor King was a widower, who left one daughter, Rachel …
Rachel.
Roger was still pondering when he went upstairs to tire dormitory, stripped down to pants and vest, and got into bed. He could sleep for three hours, anyhow; and his leg was much easier, it should soon be back to normal.
On the morning of the next day, Saturday, the newspapers carried the fantastic story of the hanging of Michael Leep.
Every newspaper except The Times had a picture of a gallows and a man hanging from it. All, without exception, carried a photograph of Medlake, several one of Rachel del Monde, three had a picture of Roger.
London, stretching itself lazily on a morning when most workers stayed at home, to garden or to play, was suddenly tense. A shadow had fallen across the bright May sunlight; the shadow of many murderers at large and one himself murdered—
Every newspaper’s leading article pontificated on the crimes.
Every person involved, with the exception of the nine missing men, saw one or the other of the newspapers.
Lady Janet Medlake, middle-aged, matronly, kindly, and more than a little puzzled by her husband’s intense single-mindedness, read the Globe as she sat up in bed drinking her morning tea. Her husband came in from the adjoining bathroom, wearing a short-length dressing-gown. She noted anew his well-shaped, powerful legs, his handsome almost leonine head and face.
“Solly dear,” Lady Janet said, “have you seen the newspaper this morning?”
“No, and I don’t wish to,”
“I really think you should, dear,” his wife said. “Do come and have a look.”
He crossed to the single bed next to his, frowning, setting out only to humour her. Suddenly he saw the headlines. Taking the newspaper from his wife, he read the whole story. Then he put it down and looked into his wife’s grey eyes and pleasant face.
“You were quite right,” he said. “Janet, you know I don’t like you talking to newspapermen. I certainly don’t want you to talk to them now.”
“I know, dear, I say such irrelevant things.”
“They would try to make you say too much today. Just limit what you do say to one thing, will you?”
“Of course, dear, if you wish it.”
“Tell them you are quite sure that I would never take part in any form of law-breaking, such as this lynching.”
“That will be easy, because I know you wouldn’t.” As Medlake moved towards his dressing-room, she went on: “Will Rachel be in this morning, do you know?”
“Yes, she will.”
“If you’re sensible you’ll make sure the newspapers can’t talk to her,” said Lady Janet. “She could be very misleading, couldn’t she? I know you are involved in this for a principle, and I admire you for it, but sometimes I think Rachel feels too strongly.”
“You may be right,” grunted Medlake.
He went downstairs soon afterwards, as the French clock which Roger West had so admired struck nine. He opened the office door, and Rachel looked up at him from the front pages of three newspapers. There was a glitter in her eyes.
“Good morning,” she said, making an effort to sound normal.
Medlake went in, closed the door, stepped to her desk and looked down at her intently.
“Rachel.”
“Yes, Sir Solomon?”
“Our campaign headquarters were used for this hanging.”
“Yes, I realise that.”
“Did you have anything to do with it?”
She looked at him with curious fixity. “No, I did not.”
“How did the men get in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you give anyone a key?”
“The suggestion is ridiculous.”
“I want to know whether you allowed any of our supporters to use the rooms,” Medlake insisted.
“No, I didn’t. But several of our friends have keys, in case they get there before the staff arrives. There must be a dozen keys in existence.” She spoke as if that was that, and they could leave the subject. “I’m glad someone has the courage of their convictions.”
Medlake said harshly: “You approve of this.”
“Of course I don’t,” said Rachel, and she added sharply: “Do you?” When Medlake didn’t answer, she went on: “I expect the police will be here at any moment. They took all the names and addresses they wanted yesterday, but—” She broke off, as the internal telephone bell rang, and lifted it. “This is Miss del Monde … yes, Rachel … Ask him to wait one minute.” She put the receiver down and looked up at Medlake, half-smiling; there was something about her manner this morning as if she knew much that was hidden from him. “Superintendent West is downstairs, asking for you. Will you see him?”
“Yes,” Medlake answered. “At once.”
Five minutes later, he sat back in his chair and said to Roger: “Mr. West, I assure you that the man who used the campaign offices and the Pilkington Street shop did so without my knowledge. I seldom go there. I work from here. The passages, the gallows, everything came as a terrible shock to me. I am inexorably opposed to anyone taking the law into his own hands.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” said Roger formally. “You realise that the other nine men might be in danger, don’t you?”
“I do indeed.”
“Do you think this will further, or injure, your campaign?”
“Injure it,” Medlake answered without hesitation. “It will do more to create a wave of sympathy for these evil men than anything I can imagine, and there will be a flood of absurd emotionalism. Don’t make any mistake, this will do inestimable harm to my cause.”
Roger could almost imagine Kane, sitting next to him, thinking: “Well, that’s one good thing.”
“I have no idea who is responsible,” Rachel said to Roger.
“And you don’t know everyone who might have had keys?”
“No.”
“Did you often go to the campaign headquarters?”
“Frequently—several times, most days.”
“Did you ever go to the basement?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“I said no, Superintendent.”
“I’m not satisfied with your answer,” Roger said, sharply. “Is Rachel del Monde your real name?”
Until that moment she had been very sure of herself, and her eyes had almost mocked him. Now they sparked with a mixture of anger and alarm.
“Is it?” Roger insisted.
“It was my mother’s name,” she said at last. “I have adopted it by deed poll after my father’s death.”
“What was your name before you changed it?”
She hesitated, obviously distressed.
&n
bsp; “Miss del Monde, we haven’t much time,” Roger said. “If you would prefer to come along to Scotland Yard and answer questions there, that’s quite all right with me.”
“My name was King,” she said harshly.
“Was your father Rudolph King?”
“Yes!” she cried. “He was Rudolph King, he was one of the finest men alive, he had an intellect which would dwarf yours, dwarf most men’s. And he was murdered in cold blood, murdered for the paltry sum he had in his pocket. I was seventeen – and I can still remember the awful moment when I was told. And what did the law do?” Her lips were taut and quivering, her whole body shook. “They sent his murderer to prison and let him loose after fifteen years. Fifteen years – and if ever a man ought to have been hanged, it was he.”
Roger said softly: “The murderer’s name was Michael Leep, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was!” she cried. “And Leep was hanged last night. I’m glad he was hanged, all murderers should be! But I know nothing about it. I tell you, I know absolutely nothing. I’ll devote my life to having the law changed, but I won’t kill, I hate killing, I hate it.”
Quite suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes.
As suddenly, Medlake, who had been standing by the side of the desk, moved across to her and put an arm round her shoulders, bent over her, pressing his face against her hair, murmuring words of solace, as if he had quite forgotten that the two detectives were in the room.
“Another case of marital infidelity?” Roger suggested to Kane.
Kane, at the wheel of the car, gave a small smile.
“You’re right on the ball, sir! Yes, he’s in love with her all right, although I wouldn’t like to say if she cares much for him. The murder of her father and the release of his killer has given her a pathological hatred of men and society. I wouldn’t take any chances with Rachel.”
“We won’t let her move a step without being watched,” Roger said. “Now get the latest reports from the Yard. Then we’ll go and see the Chayters.”
Chapter Seventeen
Closing In
Cecil Chayter put the Daily Globe down, and said: “It’s impossible. Impossible.”
