The Extortioners

by John Creasey

  Thanks for giving me the go-ahead.”

  “Anything else?” asked Roger, and went on before the other could reply: “When was Professor Clayton found?”

  “Just after midnight, sir, by Mrs. Clayton.” Roger found his teeth clenching. “She was worried because he was so late, checked with some authorities at the British Museum where he was supposed to have been and learned that he’d never been there, and went down to the garage – more to look for him than anything else.”

  “How is she taking things?”

  “I haven’t seen her myself but Taffy Davies says she was rational and calm after she’d called her doctor and us. Her doctor was out, and a police surgeon with an ambulance reached her first, sir. There was an emergency operation, and she’s still at the hospital.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said.

  “What’s your special interest, sir?” asked Lovell.

  “Keep this right under your hat,” ordered Roger. “He came to the Yard because he was being blackmailed. He’d been ordered by the blackmailer not to consult the police.”

  Lovell exclaimed: “Good God! You think he was attacked because he’d been seen to come here?”

  “It’s obviously possible,” Roger replied. “Keep me in close touch. When will Superintendent Cash be in?”

  “He’s on sick leave, sir. I’m in charge today.”

  “Then keep me in touch personally,” Roger ordered and rang off.

  He did not move immediately, but sat motionless. Thoughts flashed through his mind with undisciplined speed, he had to get them in order, had to sort out the significant from the trivia, had to make up his mind what next to do. He was perhaps five minutes, sitting there, before he lifted the inter-office telephone and dialled Information. He wished Miller were still on duty but he would have gone an hour – two hours – ago.

  “Information – Detective Inspector Hamilton,” a man said in a faintly Scottish accent.

  “Superintendent West here,” Roger said. “I want you to get a good description of a youth aged about nineteen or twenty, named Kevin Spray – S-P-R-A-Y – who lives at 29, Mandeville Street, Bloomsbury. When you have it I want the description and a photograph if practical sent to all London and nearby divisions. If the Press make inquiries refer them to me. All clear?”

  “Perfectly, sir. Shall I report back to you?”

  “Yes,” Roger replied. “And, Inspector – I want to know whether he runs a motorcycle, and whether he is big or small.”

  “Right, sir.” Roger rang off.

  He would not have said this to anyone yet, but if Clayton had given him a true picture of his son’s mood the previous night, then Kevin Spray might have attacked him, out of the frustrated anger and shame of years; might also have been the blackmailer. Had only one motorcyclist been observed that possibility would have seemed more apparent. Until he knew for certain where the youth had been last night it would be impossible to cross him off the list of suspects for either crime.

  But the other possibility, the one which Lovell had voiced, was much the more likely: a cold-blooded attack by blackmailers who wanted money, and hoped to frighten Clayton from going to the police.

  Was that more likely?

  Wasn’t it in fact far-fetched?

  If Kevin had wanted to punish him, wouldn’t the rational thing have been simply to tell his wife, using talk of twenty thousand pounds as a blind? Once again the fact of two motorcyclists hampered this line of thought.

  He felt the uneasiness which so often preceded a big case; a sense, or premonition, that he was in deeper waters than he knew. And in such a mood, he wanted – he needed – action. Whom should he go to see?

  He knew already who it would be: Ida Spray, mother of Kevin and mistress of Clayton. He was on his feet, about to open the communicating door to the sergeant’s office and to tell Venables he was going out, when he thought: Coppell! He swung round, picked up the inter-office telephone and dialled the Commander. Usually his secretary would answer, but this morning it was Coppell himself.

  “Commander, C.I.D.”

  “West here, sir,” Roger said. “I have to go out for an hour or two – do you want to see me before I go?”

  “I’ve to go and see the Assistant Commissioner about that piece in the Globe,” Coppell answered in a growl; obviously he assumed that Roger had seen the article. “Don’t be back later than noon.” His voice faded as if he were about to put the receiver down, then grew louder again: “Handsome!”

  “I’m still here,” Roger said.

  “Where you’re going has to do with the suicides, I take it. I want you to concentrate on those.”

  “I’ll be more sure when I get back,” Roger answered, and rang off before Coppell could reply. Two minutes later he was on his way down the street.

  Chapter Seven

  Mandeville Street

  Roger driving and alone, turned his black Rover 3½ litre into Mandeville Street, and drove along slowly. The terraced houses, in their new paint, had an attraction for him different from any other part of London. They looked solid, yet were pleasing to the eyes. They were joined together, and yet each was distinctive; the two steps leading to each painted front door were the same yet years of usage had worn them all differently.

  Cars were parked at meters on either side of the street.

  He espied a vacant piece and took it driving with the unthinking expertise of long practice. He was a dozen houses away from number 29 – not bad at all. He walked briskly towards the house, seeing the board fastened to the wall with an announcement in gilt lettering on black paint. Excelsior: The Magazine which always rises higher. Cheap or clever? he wondered, and stepped on freshly whitened steps into a small entrance hall. Immediately opposite the front door was another sign, saying: First and Second Floor – Editorial. Third Floor – Mrs. Ida Spray. He went upstairs and found the closed door to the top floor apartment and rang the bell, the push of which was on the right.

  So far, he had seen no one. He heard nothing.

  He rang again, as a young man came out of another door, marked: Deputy Editor. He caught a glimpse of a long haired, longbearded young man, who took a few steps forward and then turned – virtually pirouetted – on his right heel and went back whence he had come.

  The door in front of Roger opened and a woman stood there.

  She was short; hardly reaching to his chin. She had pleasant features, and yet was obviously suffering from strain at that moment. He could not fail to notice her full but tightly confined bosom, or her tiny hands and wrists, for these were raised in front of her as if to fend someone off; or, he reminded himself, in welcome for someone she expected.

  She had no welcome for him.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, and it was almost a gasp. “I thought it was—” She faltered, and then went on weakly: “Someone else.”

  “Did you think it was your son?” asked Roger.

  She drew in a deep breath, and there was alarm, perhaps fear, in her large grey eyes. She did not speak for a moment, but then managed to ask:

  “Who—who are you?”

  “The police officer whom Professor Clayton came to see last night,” Roger answered.

  She said in a funny little voice: “So he did come. And – you know about me.” She closed her eyes, but only momentarily, stood aside for him to pass, and let him lead the way up the worn wooden steps, slippery with polish. He waited on the tiny landing and she led him into a room which overlooked narrow, walled gardens, all well-kept, and the backs of houses opposite.

  “My name is West,” Roger told her. “Superintendent West.”

  She still had her hands in front of her bosom; now he was sure that what she was doing was fending off something which she did not want to face. The anguish in her eyes reminded him vividly of Clayton last night, and she was breathing heavily.

  Suddenly, words burst out of her: “Do you know how Oliver is?”

  “Yes,” Roger answered, gently. “Very gravely ill, but with
a chance.”

  “Oh God,” she gasped. “Oh God. He—he’s not dead, then?”

  “I telephoned the hospital only half an hour ago.”

  “Oh God,” she repeated. “I—I daren’t.”

  “If you telephone and ask for the secretary, telling him I told you to call, he’ll speak to you at any time and give you an up-to-the-minute report,” Roger assured her.

  “You—you arranged that?”

  “You were bound to be greatly distressed.”

  “Distressed,” she echoed. “Oh, dear God.” She backed to a highseated chair and dropped into it, tiny feet dangling inches off the ground. There was new intensity in her gaze and he had little doubt of the cause. “Did he—did he tell you that my son was – had run away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you found Kevin? I mean—”

  “I know who Kevin is,” Roger interrupted. “But I’m afraid he’s not been found; we’ve only just started to look for him. Mrs. Spray, do you think his emotions would be so intense that he might seek revenge on his father?”

  “I can’t believe he would,” muttered Ida Spray. “I simply can’t believe he would attempt to kill or blackmail his father.”

  Roger spoke next with soft-voiced deliberation. In one way his question was cruel; in another it was kind, making her talk about her inmost fears, and making her face the worst. “You haven’t answered my question. Do you think he was so emotionally distressed that he might seek revenge?”

  “He wouldn’t do it!” she cried.

  “He was in a furious rage, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but—but he’s not violent. He hates violence!”

  “Angry, bitter and terribly hurt,” Roger insisted.

  “Oh, God,” she repeated. “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Spray,” Roger said, “has your son a motorcycle?” She didn’t answer, but her silence was answer enough.

  He waited for a few moments, and then went on in the quiet but persistent voice he had used throughout this interview: “Is it a Hokki?”

  She bowed her head, and whispered: “Yes.”

  “Where does he keep it?”

  “In—in a garage in Kent Street.”

  “Did he go off on it, yesterday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he a member of a motorcycling club or group?”

  She whispered: “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me the names of some of them – preferably starting with the leader,” he asked.

  “It’s—it’s a university club,” she said. “He’s studying political economy, and gets involved in—in demonstrations. Kevin is—is the leader. I …” She was speaking slowly, with long pauses between each word, and her breathing came with difficulty. “I only know one—one of the others. His name is Freddie Higginbottom. He came here to a meal once, and I know he and Kevin are—are close friends.”

  She knew from that Stop Press, of course, that the police were looking for two motorcyclists; and there was no doubt at all what she feared; what, in fact, she believed. That in his rage her son and his friend had waylaid Clayton, and attacked and nearly killed him. She could say it was impossible, that her son would never have done such a thing, hating violence: but it was her dread that he had.

  Roger asked: “How long has your son known who his father was?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t he tell you before last night?”

  “No,” she said, helplessly. “No, I’d no idea he knew.”

  “Could he have known before?”

  “I suppose so. What difference does it make?”

  “A great deal,” Roger assured her, feeling the need to help and ease this woman’s fear, yet at the same time he did not want to give her false hope; nor let her think that his sympathies were too much with her. “If he’s known for some time he would hardly rush off in a fit of rage last night, would he? If he committed the crime you fear he did, it would surely be out of shock as well as anger. Isn’t that reasonable?”

  A gleam of what might have been hope shone in her eyes. “Yes, I suppose – I suppose it would. But I don’t know whether he’d known for some time. He was so angry last night I thought he must have found out just before. I—I went to Australia earlier this year, with – when Professor Clayton was there. I noticed a change in Kevin soon after I got back. He found out we were in Australia together, and I suppose it set him thinking. But I don’t know for certain – I simply don’t know.”

  “Do you know where Freddie Higginbottom lives?”

  “No,” she answered. “I’ve no idea. It’s not far away, I’m sure of that – Kevin would sometimes telephone him and he would be downstairs in less than ten minutes.”

  To know that Higginbottom lived within ten minutes’ motorcycle ride of this house wasn’t exactly a good indication, but the information might help, at some stage. Roger did not press her further, but stood up, and said firmly: “You will let me know at once if Kevin comes back or telephones, or if anything at all strange or unusual happens, won’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “You really must,” Roger insisted. “You won’t help by hiding him and he won’t help by hiding. But you know that as well as I do.” He held out his hand, unexpectedly: “For my part I’ll let you know if we get any news, Mrs. Spray. And don’t hesitate to call the secretary at the Hampstead Cottage Hospital.”

  With quivering lips, she replied: “I won’t.”

  “I’ll let myself out,” said Roger.

  He went down the wooden stairs, more aware of the creaks and squeaks which came from them. When he opened the door from the apartment he saw three men in the editorial section, including the bearded, long-haired one he had seen before. There was no doubt that their interest was in him; little, that he had been recognised. None of them spoke, and he went down and out into the street. A motorcyclist with a crash helmet passed, motor roaring; the youth’s face was so hidden by goggles that it wasn’t even possible to be sure it was a youth; it could have been a girl, or a man of mature age. He walked with his customary briskness towards his car, and as he reached it a young man and a girl with a camera stepped out of a doorway.

  “Mr. West!” the man called.

  The girl raised and snapped the camera.

  “Mr. West, may I ask what case has brought you to Mandeville Street?” The man had a flat voice and for a comparative youngster, very veined cheeks and bloodshot eyes. “I’m from the Globe. Name of Tweed.”

  “The Globe should know that when I’ve a statement to make I’ll make it to all the Press,” Roger said, amiably enough. He got into his car, and the girl bent down and took pictures of him through the window. He manoeuvred the car out of the parking place, drove a hundred yards or so, and then lifted the radio-telephone from its hook on the dashboard. Information answered almost at once.

  “Three things,” Roger said. “Have Division watch 29 Mandeville Street, Bloomsbury, in case young Spray turns up there. Get any information you can on a Freddie Higginbottom, a student at London University. And have a patrol car pull up two people – a man who calls himself Tweed and says he’s from the Globe, and a young woman with a camera – in Mandeville Street at this moment, and check who they are. I’m going back to the Yard. Let me know the result en route.”

  “Right, sir.”

  He drove into Holborn and then slowly along part of Oxford Street, as congested as he had ever known it; a swarming mass of people on either side of the road, already peering at the shops. It was a little after eleven, he need not go back to the Yard yet unless he wanted to. The radio telephone buzzed as he passed the end of New Bond Street, and he thought: That’s quick work, as he lifted the receiver. But it wasn’t Information: it was his Detective Sergeant Venables.

  “What is it?” Roger demanded, and his thoughts changed swiftly to Sir Douglas Fellowes and the autopsy.

  “The autopsy report’s ready, sir. We haven’t any copies yet but I’ve been able to establish one thi
ng, which I thought you would like to know at once.”

  “What is it?” demanded Roger, and wondered: cancer or no cancer?

  “He was a very healthy man, sir. No vestige of cancer. No non-malignant growths, either. Nothing to indicate why he should think he was grievously ill, sir. I did wonder—” Venables, a man of remarkable ability not yet always properly controlled, broke off, obviously uncertain whether he should have kept what he had wondered to himself.

  “Well, let’s have it,” Roger said.

  “Well, sir, the report hasn’t even gone to the Home Office yet, I managed to get this information from the pathologist’s secretary. And that means the family doesn’t know yet. I—er—I thought perhaps …”

  Roger let him flounder, guessing what was in his mind, sure that he would be well rewarded for his awkwardness and embarrassment if Roger declared it a good idea.

  “Well, what I mean is, would it be a good thing for you to convey the news to Lady Fellowes?” Venables managed to say at last. “She would be taken completely unawares. Bit of a dirty trick, but …” His voice faded, and Roger could imagine him sitting at his desk, looking thoroughly miserable.

  “Might be a very good idea,” Roger conceded. Venables’s voice brightened.

  “You think so, sir?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll go and see her,” Roger decided. “If the Commander wants me, tell him where I’ve gone.”

  “Like a shot!” crowed Venables. “By the way, sir – there’s not a word about young Spray’s friend Higginbottom at the University or at his rooms. Not a word.”

  He rang off and Roger replaced the receiver, and without conscious thought, changed his route. Sir Douglas Fellowes had lived in a block of luxury flats in Berkeley Square, and from here Roger need only make a detour of five minutes or so. If he were lucky, he might be able to talk to the new widow and get back to the Yard by midday, as Coppell had ordered. He had a traffic-free run but then had to drive twice round Berkeley Square before calling a constable and telling him to look after the car.

  “And what is the best way to Rexham Towers?” he asked. “It’s that block over there, sir,” replied the constable, pointing across the Square. “The garden gates are open, I’d walk across that way if I were you.”