by John Creasey
Roger knew it was hopeless, but had to try to help.
Janet, in the garage doorway, was shouting: “Roger – Roger – Roger!”
The engines were roaring, the air stank with exhaust fumes, there must be at least forty motorcyclists still astride their machines. One was leaning inside the Mini, obviously trying to pull Richard away from the wheel. Two others raced and roared towards Roger, who would collide with one whichever way he dodged.
As suddenly as the roar of motorcycle engines, came the wail of a police siren, and a police car swung into the street from King’s Road, while another appeared at the other end, but neither blocked the path of the machines. Taken by surprise, the cyclists swerved and instantly some began to ride off towards the corners. Roger, free from danger, ran to the man half in and half out of the Mini, and simply bent down, grabbed his ankles and yanked him right out. He came without resistance, banging his chin on the door frame. Roger caught a glimpse of Richard hacking at a man’s face with his elbow until the face disappeared.
The sirens wailed, hideously.
Motorcycle horns began to honk, and engines roared still louder. More police cars turned into the street but could not block it, and a motorcycle roared off into the night. Roger, deafened, leaned against the car. Richard climbed out on the other side and came round, carrying one of the ‘tennis balls’ in his hand. It was in fact rather larger, and the way he carried it suggested it was heavy.
“Thanks, Dad,” he said. “That was hot while it lasted. But how’s this for a due? These things seem to be made of cement.”
Chapter Thirteen
Breathing Space?
As Richard spoke and Roger took the ‘tennis ball’ Janet came hurrying, her anxiety written in her eyes and on her face. The last of the motorcycles had gone but the roar of some engines was still audible. At least one police car was giving chase, while word was going out on walkie-talkies to stop motorcyclists in the vicinity. Beyond Janet, Roger could see at least three motorcyclists on the ground, with police officers bending over them. There was no way of being sure how many there had been here or how many had escaped.
He took Janet’s hands and gripped.
“We’re both all right,” he said. “Thanks to some miracle.”
“Aren’t you hurt at all?” she almost screamed.
“I might have a bruise or two,” confessed Richard, casually, “but nothing broken. I doubt if Lady Fellowes will want to go in this shattered wagon now,” he added, grimacing. “I think I’ve only one side window whole.”
“I’ll send her back in a police car,” Roger said, slipping an arm round Janet’s waist. “I’m all right, really, darling – but I’m not going to be home much tonight.”
“Try to stay for a meal,” pleaded Janet.
By then they were near the house, where Lady Fellowes was bending over a man who had an ugly gash in his cheek; she was stemming the flow of blood with her handkerchief. Police first-aid men came up, two ambulances were on the way, a kind of order was made out of the chaos. More injured motorcyclists and two passers-by were taken to hospital with the one injured policeman, five motorcycles – all Hokkis – were collected, and lifted by ropes and loaded into a police van. Newspapermen seemed to have scented the trouble and were already in force – and Roger saw Tweed, the plump man of the Globe; his girl photographer was not with him.
By then, Lady Fellowes was on her way back to her apartment in a police car with an escort car, a chief inspector was trying to cope with the Press, a garage had sent for Richard’s Mini and towed it off. Through all of this excitement Roger sat at the kitchen table and ate a casserole with a flavour which only Janet seemed able to give to cooking, which smelt as good as it tasted, while Richard was on the telephone, trying to arrange to borrow a car; Richard never hired if he could borrow; yet, contrariwise, he was generous to a fault.
“My!” Roger exclaimed. “That was good, darling, but I couldn’t eat any more even if I had nothing to do.”
“Whereas you’ve too much,” Janet said. She gave a hard little laugh. “It’s quite obvious, but don’t worry about me. If it really lasts for night after night I’ll go off for a few days.”
“Sure you’re all right?” Roger insisted.
“Yes.” Janet sounded positive, almost as if she had forgotten the days when she had been goaded almost to screaming point because Roger had been kept out night after night. “How long do you think this will last?”
Roger said: “I’d hate to guess.”
“It was awful tonight. Like a pitched battle.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know these motorcyclists were organised like this?”
“I was beginning to think there was a gang, but had no idea of its strength. I knew of four probable members; now I know there are nearer forty. I suppose there could be four hundred.”
“So it’s really only the beginning,” Janet said.
“Probably,” Roger agreed, with forced lightness. “On the other hand this flared up very quickly and could die down as fast.” He stood up from the table and went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders and pressing gently. “If you’d really like to go away—”
“Oh, not yet,” Janet said, impatiently, looking up at him so that he could see her face upside down. “Darling, please, please don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t,” promised Roger, and bent down and kissed her forehead.
“Oi-oi-oi!” called Richard bursting into the kitchen. “How about some of that casserole, Mum, I’m famished! Got a car!” he added, with delight in his voice. “Old Jerry Walker’s away for a month, and was going to leave his on the streets, it’s not the latest thing in automobiles but it has four wheels and an engine.” He washed his hands at the sink, and went on: “Hey, isn’t it time we had a letter from Scoop?”
‘Scoop’, his only brother, older by a year, had emigrated to Australia, and was not the most regular correspondent. Dwelling on him was Richard’s way of taking his mother’s attention at least partly from what had happened tonight. Ten minutes later, as Roger left the house, Richard actually managed to make her laugh. Roger smiled – and heard a familiar voice as a man said: “What’s so funny, Handsome?”
It was young Tweed, of the Globe.
“I’ll tell you what isn’t funny,” Roger said, roughly. “Being called anything but Superintendent by a young cub like you.”
Tweed looked taken aback. A man at the rear of a crowd of newspapermen said clearly: “It was time someone tore a strip off that fat lump.” Another man called: “What happened, Mr. West? Is it true you were attacked in the City this afternoon?” Yet another called: “What’s going on, Superintendent?” And a fourth: “Don’t give us the old brush-off, Handsome. This street looked like a battlefield an hour or two ago.”
“And this fat lump has photographs to prove it.” Tweed raised his voice, so that it was almost shrill; but the way he picked up ‘fat lump’ and tossed it back did his reputation more good than harm.
Another man called: “Is it true Lady Fellowes was here this evening?”
“I’ve got a photograph of her, too,” called Tweed.
Roger, watching the eager faces of men whom one might have expected to be too blasé to be affected by any sensation, took a quick decision: it might bring Coppell’s wrath down on his head, but anything might do that. He would make a statement of a kind. He was aware of his men, watching, and a crowd of neighbours; and of Janet and Richard, drawn somehow from the back of the house. And there was a rumble of voices, as at a cocktail party.
He raised a hand, and the rumbling stopped instantly. “You know I can’t tell you much,” he said, “but after tonight’s attacks here I will tell you what little I can. Yes, Lady Fellowes was here. There is strong evidence that her husband was being blackmailed, absolutely none that the blackmail had any political significance. There have been a number of other cases of blackmail and attempted blackmail and it is beginning to look as if the blackmail
is widespread. It is possible that these motorcyclists are used to terrify the victims either into paying up or – in some cases – keeping quiet about something they know.
“This afternoon’s attack on me, in the City, was undoubtedly directed at me personally. If to prevent me from using knowledge acquired in the investigation, I don’t yet know what that knowledge is. Tonight’s attack might have been intended for me or Lady Fellowes. You know that her son was attacked at midday by two motorcyclists, presumably because he was believed to know more than anyone else about the blackmail of his father. His wife and his mother have both assured me that they know absolutely nothing.” He paused, and repeated in a clear voice: “I regard this as a matter of extreme importance. Both his wife, Helen Fellowes, and his mother, Lady Fellowes, have assured me that they know absolutely nothing – that Hubert Fellowes did not confide in them. If you quote me on that, make sure it’s verbatim, please.”
Several of the newspapermen were scribbling. He waited for them to finish before going on: “One last thing: Professor Clayton, who was brutally attacked at his Hampstead home by two motorcyclists, was also being blackmailed, and his assailants were believed to be riding Japanese-made Hokki machines like those used in Bell Street tonight.” He paused again, raised both hands and said: “That’s the lot!” and strode forward. They cleared a path for him and there at the end of the path was Jones, his car behind him.
“Thanks,” Roger said, and climbed in.
Questions were called, but he distinguished none and no one was particularly insistent. A uniformed policeman cleared away a crowd, neighbours and passers-by, and as the car drove off there was a ragged cheer. Roger sat back and closed his eyes, and, without opening them, asked: “Who sent the cars, Jones?”
“I think it was Sergeant Venables,” Jones answered.
“Ah,” breathed Roger. “What brought you back?”
“I picked up Information’s call for all cars in the vicinity to rush to Bell Street, so I knew you were in trouble. Very glad it wasn’t worse, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“And we’ve caught five – enough of the baskets to make some of them talk, surely.”
“We’ll see,” Roger said.
He was at the new building within fifteen minutes; the move to Victoria Street and Broadway had been an advantage to him, saving at least fifteen minutes’ driving. He went in without being noticed and up to the fourth floor, carrying three of the cement spheres, and turned into Venables’s office and found the sergeant leaning back in his chair, a sandwich in one hand, the telephone in the other.
“Sorry, Mum,” he was saying, “but I don’t think I’ll make it. Don’t wait up.” He caught sight of Roger and was suddenly a surge of motion, gasped: “Goodbye!” banged the receiver down and missed the platform, gulped down his mouthful of sandwich and gave a despairing look at the wastepaper basket.
“Now take it easy,” Roger urged, squatting on the corner of his desk. “What made you send out an alarm call for Bell Street?”
Venables gave a final gulp, and stood up – and banged his head on a picture just behind him.
“I—er—I—er—I heard Lady Fellowes had gone to your place, sir, and I checked with Division and they said there were a lot of motorcycles about. I didn’t want to trouble you so I—er—what I did was all right, wasn’t it?” he burst out.
“Perfectly. What did Division actually say?”
“Well, they said a Hokki Motor Cycle Club seemed to be meeting on the Embankment near you. I thought it wouldn’t do any harm if we had a concentration of cars. Are you all right, sir?”
“Thanks to you. I’m alive, thanks to you,” Roger said. “So is my son. So is Lady Fellowes.”
Venables gave a broad, happy smile – and then began to cough, apparently on a crumb in his throat. Roger gripped his shoulder tightly and then went into his own office. He sat very still for a long time; reaction was catching up with him. It was some minutes before he pulled a file towards him, opened it, and saw a brief report headed Battle of Bell Street. There were times when Venables, for all his ungainliness and his nervousness, could act with the speed of light.
The report read:
An attack appears to have been made by a colony of motorcyclists, estimated at between forty and fifty, on Chief Superintendent Roger West and also apparently on Lady Diana Fellowes in Bell Street, Chelsea, at approximately 6.45 this evening.
Five of the motorcyclists were injured in a conflict with police and with Mr. West and his son Richard. All five are in the St. Stephen’s Hospital. Three of the motorcyclists were arrested in Bell Street and charged with committing a breach of the peace, and seven motorcyclists have since been held, pending charges. As these seven were not caught in Bell Street there is not yet sufficient evidence of their involvement.
None of the men detained has yet made any statement. All are members of a club known as the London Central Hokki Motor Cycle Braves, one of many Hokki clubs in the country. All those arrested, according to medical reports, are ‘on’ drugs, probably heroin.
The motorcycles used were in all cases Japanese Hokki machines, Mark III of medium weight and 500 c.c. engines. The owners (or mechanics used by them) bore out the cylinders to 660 c.c. and add larger carburettors and jets, for extra power. All use rear-wheel drag slicks (i.e. have smooth rear tyres, which screech on the road, and straight exhaust pipes, which cause more noise). All the machines examined have fibre glass fenders and petrol tanks for lessening weight and so increasing speed and acceleration.
Each of the motorcyclists carried a net bag which contained a number of cement balls, about the size of a tennis ball, as aggressive weapons. Many of these were thrown.
A list of names, registration numbers and addresses was attached to this report.
Roger read this through again, and listened for coughing, heard none, and rang for Venables, who came in promptly. He had wiped away all traces of crumbs and tears, his colour was normal, and he took extreme care not to bang against the door or desk.
“You rang, sir.”
“Yes,” Roger said, and motioned to an upright chair with a padded back. “Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir.” Venables sat with care, easing his trousers about his knees. There was something boyish about him, and appealing. Roger had first come to know him when he had been assigned to a gold bullion case. Venables had proved to be a dedicated policeman, with two defects. First: his clumsiness and, at that time particularly, his lack of self confidence. Second: he was nauseated by the odour of decaying flesh, and for a policeman who might be involved in a murder investigation at any time, this was a serious draw back. To help overcome it, he had spent some weeks in the pathological laboratory with one of the leading Home Office pathologists, who had afterwards telephoned Roger.
“He’ll always be squeamish but he won’t flop out again. He’s beaten the worst of the problem.”
“Venables,” Roger said quietly, “I was absolutely serious in your office. I owe you my life – they would have killed me. I don’t think Richard would have survived, either.”
“I can only say I’m very, very glad,” Venables replied. “It was the word from Chelsea Division about a club meeting which really alerted me. May I ask a question, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why do you think these people want you dead? “
“I might have come across some information they don’t want me to pass on,” Roger said, as he had told the newspapermen. “If I have I don’t yet know what it is. Have you any idea?”
“No,” answered Venables. “But I’ve been through all the notes you gave me and made a note of all the information you’ve mentioned in passing. If I put it all in a detailed report, will you go through it and correct anything that’s wrong and put in anything I’ve omitted? That way,” Venables went on earnestly, “we may find out the motive for the attacks on you. Until we do, you’ll be in very grave danger. You ought to have a bodyguard wherever you go. You
do realise that, don’t you, sir?” he finished, and his tone and his expression were alike pleading; he was like a great bloodhound, asking for a reward for following a scent.
Chapter Fourteen
Grave Danger?
Roger looked into Venables’s big, rather doe-like eyes, and said gruffly: “It’s damned hard to believe.” But in fact it was almost certainly true. It was next door to inconceivable that a campaign should suddenly be launched against a senior officer of the Yard, but Venables believed it; and so did he.
Other facts passed through his mind.
He had been back from Southern Africa for two days; only two days. For most of the first he had sat twiddling his thumbs in this office. So in twenty-four hours the blackmailers had gone into action like a well-trained army corps. At first it had seemed improbable that they should have two members close enough to attack Hubert Fellowes; it had seemed just as unlikely that two could be stationed close enough to attack him in the quiet street leading to Old Jewry.
“Estimated at between forty and fifty,” he observed.
“All the reports say that, sir.”
“All on Hokki motorcycles?”
“And all wearing heavy goggles large enough to disguise all the face except the mouth and chin,” Venables put in.
“Clothes?”
“Brown plastic imitation leather jackets with the collars turned up.”
“Hiding the mouth and chin,” Roger remarked.
“In many cases, yes, sir. And a kind of jeans.”
