by John Creasey
Jeremiah leaned forward to pour out.
“Coffee or tea … Coffee, very well … Superintendent, I have done everything I could to keep a watching eye on these victims of persecution. I know that all of them were very troubled. I once went so far as to invite them here to meet and discuss the nature of their problems, but it was not very successful. They come from so many strata of society, which are completely different in outlook and attitude. But all of them without exception believe that Sir Solomon Medlake is responsible for this persecution.”
“Why should they?” Roger asked quickly.
“Medlake is always to the fore in the campaign—”
“Do they think this, or do you?” Roger demanded.
“At no time do I put names or thoughts into their heads,” said Jeremiah patiently. “Sometimes the man who torments them mentions Medlake’s campaign. In some cases the victims have followed their persecutors and two at least have been seen to enter Medlake’s campaign offices, and come away with campaign leaflets. On two occasions my own associates followed these men and saw them go to the offices which led through to Pilkington Street. I have little or no doubt that Medlake is responsible at least for the climate of opinion which strengthens such vicious behaviour.” Jeremiah leaned back against a chair, and went on with great precision: “And Medlake is a fanatic, Superintendent. I believe that he is so convinced that murderers should be hanged, that if the law will not hang them, then he might seriously consider taking it upon himself to do so. If you are to find these missing men, it might well be through Medlake.”
Roger said sharply: “Mr. Taylor, do you know of any place where Sir Solomon or any other individual might have taken them?” When Jeremiah didn’t answer, he persisted urgently: “Do you know any place where they might be?”
“No,” said Jeremiah Taylor, regretfully. “Nowhere except the Pilkington Street campaign office or the Blenheim Terrace house. I’ve never known Medlake work from anywhere else. If I had, believe me I would tell you.” He led them out, and as they shook hands, the big, shiny Rolls-Royce drew up outside.
“What do you make of Jeremiah?” Roger asked Kane.
“In his benign way, as tough as steel and as ruthless as Medlake,” Kane answered, as they drove back to the Yard. “I wonder if there’s any reason for Taylor to hate Medlake?”
“As apart from what Medlake stands for?”
“Yes—some personal motive.”
“We’d better check,” Roger said.
“Didn’t you take to Jeremiah Taylor, sir?”
“I agree with your summing up of him,” said Roger. “There is ruthlessness there. I don’t think he would stop at anything to get what he wanted.”
“Even—” Kane broke off.
“Even hanging a man to make sure all hanging stops,” Roger said, “I know it’s far-fetched, but we can’t take a chance of missing a possible clue. I’ll put a couple of men on to this angle. I wonder if anything came in during the morning.”
As he stepped into his office, the sonorous chime of Big Ben boomed through the partly open window; it was half past-eleven. He went straight to his desk, and saw the first message: Please ring Mrs. West. Urgent. Immediately alarm stabbed him: Janet would never make out a thing was urgent if it wasn’t. He lifted a telephone, and said: “Get my wife,” and glanced through the other messages, which formed a gloomy pattern: No no, no, no, no. He saw a large folded sheet and opened it to an analysis of all the reports which had come in. He read fascinated:
Reports from General Public
21,507
Reports from Police
1,207
Corroborated Reports
529
Reports corroborated by at least one other
82
There was also a breakdown showing cities, counties and districts, all in Frisby’s meticulous handwriting. Out of it all came only one positive factor: each of the missing men had been seen inside the area marked off after the visit to the campaign headquarters and Pilkington Street, and none had been seen since.
His telephone bell rang.
“Your wife, sir.”
“Jan,” Roger said, trying not to sound anxious. “What’s so urgent?”
“Darling, I hate to disturb you but there was no other way,” Janet said. “The Harbins are going down to Cornwall this afternoon, they’ve a spare seat in the car, and as the boys are away and I know you’re terribly busy on this case, I wondered if—”
“You go!” Roger interrupted, tremendously relieved. “I shall probably be living at the Yard until this affair’s over, and I know you don’t like being on your own.”
“You’re sure you won’t mind?”
“Of course I won’t.”
“That’s wonderful!” Janet said. “I’ll order some steaks, the milkman and the baker are easy, if there should be anything I’ve forgotten Mrs. Abbott will—”
“Stop fussing me,” Roger interrupted again. “Have a wonderful time.”
“I’ll be back on Tuesday,” Janet promised. “Try to get Wednesday off, then we can talk and talk.”
Roger was smiling when he rang off.
He looked up as Frisby came in, his mind back on the immediate problem in an instant.
“Didn’t we once have a dossier on Jeremiah Taylor?” he asked.
“It’s on my desk,” Frisby told him. “He ought to be sanctified, if the dossier’s got him right. Absolutely irreproachable.”
“We’ll have an up-to-date report made, and watch him until this show’s over,” Roger said. “Who can we detail for that job?”
“Tennyson’s free.”
“Give him a sergeant or a D.O. and tell him we want to know all Taylor’s movements. Anything in about Medlake or Rachel del Monde?”
“No,” said Frisby. “But there’s a man from the Daily Globe waiting to see you. He says it isn’t for a story, he’s got some information.”
“Which he’ll exchange for a scoop,” Roger said dryly. “All right, let him come in for five minutes. Any word of any kind from the Chayters?”
“Paul Chayter’s booked in at the Bell Boy Hotel, off the Strand – round the corner from his office,” answered Frisby. “And Julie Chayter’s gone to stay with her sister in Finchley.”
“Leaving Cecil on his own?” Roger remarked. “Have a double watch kept on the house, and also on Cecil Chayter.”
“Mr. West,” said Frisby protestingly, “we’re stretching our men pretty thin.”
“They’ll be stretched thinner before we’re through,” Roger said shortly. “We’ve got to cordon off that Baker Street area and make sure the men aren’t there. It may be hard to believe, but if they can hang one man they can hang them all.”
“If it’s going to be ceremonial, they’ve got to make another gallows,” Frisby said. “That’s—”
“And they’d need wood for it. Find out where the wood for the gallows in the cellar was bought. They’d need a good carpenter, too … Find out if anyone capable of building the gallows worked for Medlake or any of his associates. If you have to, go out and do the job yourself.”
“Wouldn’t I like the chance!” Frisby departed, leaving Roger uncertain whether he was serious or not. Almost immediately he tapped at the door again. “Mr. Horniman of the Daily Globe, sir.”
Horniman was seen to be a youthful, freckled man with American style horn-rimmed spectacles. He carried a flat brief-case under his arm, put it on the corner of Roger’s desk, and shook hands. Roger sensed a man who was very sure of himself.
“No story, remember,” Roger warned.
“After this, you’ll owe us one,” declared Horniman. He unzipped the brief-case and took out several sheets of stiff drawing paper.
The drawings! Roger thought, then saw that although these were sketches, they were not identical to those sent to the released men. Horniman handed them across to him, and said: “Recognise the artist?”
Roger echoed: “The artist.” He studied the pictu
res more closely and gradually excitement replaced his initial disappointment. “I’m no expert, but I think I do.”
“Call in your experts,” Horniman challenged. “They’ll confirm that these are by the same hand that drew the pictures you’re so interested in. I know who the artist is and where to find him.”
Chapter Nineteen
Artist
“Who is the artist?” Roger demanded.
“Lancelot Spiers.”
“Where can we find him?”
“In a studio-garret at Number 87, Cheyne Walk South, Chelsea.”
“Do you know if he’s still there?”
“He was half an hour ago. I’ve come straight from him.”
“Did you tell him you were coming here?” Roger pressed the button for Frisby.
“No. And I didn’t tell him why I’d been to see him, either.”
“Why had you?”
Before Horniman had time to answer, the door opened and Frisby appeared.
“If Kane’s in the other room, tell him to go and wait for me at the car,” ordered Roger. “If you can’t find him, anyone who’s familiar with the case will do.”
“Right.” Frisby ducked out.
“You were saying,” Roger said to Horniman.
“I was about to say I went to find out if Lancelot Spiers was still engaged to Rachel del Monde,” Horniman announced. “He is. He’s a not very successful abstract artist who tries to earn a living from black-and-white illustrations. He once did a strip for us. You don’t know how lucky you are. I’m one of the few people familiar with his black-and-white stuff. I’d like to make one thing clear.”
“Go on.”
“Lance Spiers is out of the top drawer as a man. He would never draw those vicious cartoons unless he was bewitched.”
“By Rachel del Monde?”
“She is a witch,” Horniman said with the broadest and most natural of smiles. “And a bitch to boot.”
“So you don’t like her?”
“You either fall under her spell, or you hate the sight of her.”
“I know what you mean,” Roger said. “May I keep these drawings?”
“Provided I get them back,” said Horniman. “This visit is confidential, you understand.”
“Completely off the record,” Roger assured him, “We’ve been looking everywhere for an artist friend of Miss del Monde.” He stood up. “I’m going to see Spiers right away. Shall I call you if I get anything like a story?”
“No,” said Horniman. “Just forget I came. I’ve always wanted to see Superintendent Handsome West!”
“One of these days we’ll have a drink together,” Roger said. He saw Horniman out at one door, and crossed immediately to Frisby’s room by the other.
“Located Kane?”
“He’ll be at the car by now,” Frisby said. “I’ve sent Tennyson on the track of timber merchants and the carpenters.”
At least no one was losing any time, Roger thought as he went down in the big, cage-like lift. In a curious way, everyone at the Yard was on his toes in the hunt for men they had once hunted for a very different purpose. He reached the courtyard, Kane was waiting by the car. He presented Roger with a neatly folded copy of the Evening News. Opening it, he saw that the front page was filled with the story of the fire and the hanged man.
LONDON’S KU KLUX KLAN
screeched the headline, and the story began:
A terrible mission of vengeance, comparable only with the dread Ku Klux Klan of the southern states of America, began in London last night, when Michael Leep, convicted of murder and reprieved, was hanged by unknown men.
The hanging had all the formality of a judicial execution but in fact it was a lynching in the most hideous tradition of the frontier days of the Far West, and the Ku Klux Klan.
Worse – at least nine more men are possible victims of this vengeance of the Executioner who has taken it upon himself to defy the laws of the Country. The police of the nation, headed by New Scotland Yard’s Superintendent West, are making an intensive search for the missing men – and for the Executioner. Last night’s shocking crime took place in …
They were driving along the Embankment towards the Houses of Parliament when Kane asked: “Which way, sir?”
“Chelsea.”
“Not far, then.”
“We’re after the man who drew those pictures.”
Kane’s eyes lit up. “Got the devil, have we?”
“With a bit of luck.”
Kane glanced behind him.
“We on our own, sir?”
“Yes,” Roger said.
“We wouldn’t have been much good on our own last night,” remarked Kane. “Not expecting trouble, then?”
Roger glanced at him almost lugubriously, lifted the radio-telephone, and when Information answered, he said: “Have two cars close in on 87, Cheyne Walk South, in ten minutes, will you?”
“Good as done, sir.”
Roger rang off. Kane manoeuvred past two buses and an enormous tank carrier let loose in London for some inexplicable reason, then sped along the Embankment towards Chelsea, There was a steady flow of traffic, and the river was so high that some of the craft on it showed above the new flood barricades. As they passed Albert Bridge, Kane turned right; obviously he knew the district.
Number 87 was at the far end of a long narrow street with cobbles and big flagstones on either side. Most of the houses were old, some of them bright with pastel-coloured paint, many with gay window-boxes; this was Chelsea at its most attractive. As they slowed down, a long building came in sight with pale blue lettering on grey walls: The Studio. Picture Framing. Woodwork of all kinds.
Roger’s heart missed a beat.
“Anything the matter?” asked Kane.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Roger answered. “We’ll wait for those cars and have the place surrounded.
“Why—?” began Kane, and then broke off. “Woodwork!”
“That’s it.”
“Gallows makers.”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“I know one thing, sir,” Kane said with feeling. “This job gets under my skin. Never known one like it. For all we know we might find half a dozen men hanging in there.”
“Your imagination’s too morbid,” Roger complained.
But he knew exactly what Kane meant.
The sun was shining with gentle innocence on the windows of the studio as two police cars appeared at the far end of the Walk. Roger got out, gave instructions, and waited for men and cars to position themselves. One car and two officers would be outside the front entrance in Cheyne Walk; the other car, with another two detectives, would be stationed outside the back entrance near a mews.
“About ready, I’d say,” Kane was eager to move in.
“We’ll give them another couple of minutes.”
“No one’s watching.”
“As far as we can see,” Roger said. He had seldom felt time hang so much as it did before he said: “Come on.”
He pushed open the gate and stepped along a flagged path between two banks of well-kept flowers, reached the pastel-tinted front door, and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again and triad the door; it was unlocked, and he pushed it open,
“Anyone home?” he called.
The silence seemed absolute.
He pushed the door wider open and was confronted by a flight of narrow stairs with blank walls on either side. He went up, ahead of Kane, who seemed very edgy. The small landing at the top led to a door. It was an ordinary door, peculiar inasmuch as the complete surface was a mass of colour, of all shades and intensity, as if the paint had been applied with a kind of savagery the painter could not vent on any other subject.
“Artist at work,” Kane muttered.
Roger pushed it open cautiously – then snatched his hand away, the shock was so great, even though with, part of his mind he had half expected it.
The studio was a criss-cross of beams.
Beneath him, on its side, was a wooden chair which he had obviously kicked aside.
In a corner, papers were smouldering in a metal wastepaper basket.
“My God!” breathed Kane.
The man was dead. Roger knew that long before the ambulance came to take him away. And the man was Lancelot Spiers, friend of the Globe Art Editor. His fingerprints were on the chair, on the rope with which he had hanged himself, on the note he had left pinned to the piece of hardboard he had used instead of canvas. Roger opened this, and read:
You will find my father at The Hospital, Chertsey, Surrey. Please tell him before the newspapers reach him. He is a very old man.
Kane, searching the studio, called: “Superintendent.”
A very old man.
“Yes.”
“Look at this.”
‘This’ was the metal wastepaper basket, the contents a mass of charred, unrecognisable ash, recently burned. On a bench, where the artist had apparently made his frames and his cabinets, was a tiny working model of a gallows, complete with rope and noose.
“Get Fingerprints here, see if anyone else used these tools,” ordered Roger. “Find out if there’s a shed or workshop near by large enough for making full-size gallows.” He was going through a desk, finding old letters, sketches, drawings. In the middle drawer he found a photograph of Rachel del Monde.
“Isn’t it time we pulled her in?” Kane asked. The enormity of the case seemed to have overawed him.
“I’ll go and see her,” Roger decided. “And I want to see Horniman first.” He turned to the stairs. “You handle things here. I’ll drive to the Yard myself.” He limped down the stairs, disregarding the stiffness in his leg, seeing that swinging body in his mind’s eye. It had been suicide, of course, but what had driven him to it? He reached the car and called the Yard. “I want Horniman of the Daily Globe in my office in half an hour … And I want to be sure Miss del Monde doesn’t leave the Blenheim Terrace house until I see her.” He rang off, turned into the street leading to the Embankment to find himself in a mass of heavy trucks; this was going to be a bad drive, but at least he could think. He could make notes too when stopped at the lights.
