by John Creasey
“I dislike your threatening manner, sir !”
“No threats,” Roger said, “just a little jogging of your memory. Last night you begged a lift in my cab, and —”
“I was at home all last night,” interrupted the man, giving sufficient emphasis to the ‘all’ to make it clear that he was confident of his alibi. “Lois, has this person been threatening you ?”
The girl said, hesitantly : “He seems to think he knows me.”
“Do you know him ?”
“No.”
“You will both know me in future,” Roger said. He looked them up and down, then turned and left the office. The door, which was fitted with a vacuum-type doorstop, closed behind him with a gentle hiss.
He was no longer smiling. He had bungled a golden opportunity, and allowed himself to be carried away by a bright idea, in a way which would have disgraced a raw sergeant. He should have made a tentative inquiry and then engineered an opportunity for the bank cashier to see the girl; now, he had warned them of their danger, had virtually invited them to get away.
He had made another mistake, too; he should have brought Morgan up with him, the little man should now be waiting outside the door, ready to slip inside and listen-in to the conversation in the inner office. He reached the head of the stairs, then stopped — for Morgan was smiling at him from halfway up the stairs !
“You were away so long, that I thought —”
“Hush !” warned Roger, beckoning. Morgan drew level. “Try to get inside the office, the first on the right, and hear what’s being said next door, Pep. They won’t hear you go in if you’re careful.”
Morgan hurried past him.
Easier in his mind, Roger went to the first landing and stood by the bannisters, lighting a cigarette. He was really angry with himself; had it been Mark, he could have forgiven it. He had been wrong to come here, Mark should have handled this part of the inquiry. He admitted ruefully that from the moment when the idea of the Welbeck Street association had first entered his head he had been carried away by it and, on finding that he had scored a hit, had let himself be dazzled by the success of the visit.
He heard someone coming up the stairs.
He thought at once of Mrs Sylvester Cartier and looking round hastily, saw a door, marked ‘Inquiries’, of another suite; he slipped inside. Keeping the door open an inch or two he looked out, but as the newcomer drew nearer he felt sure that he had been wrong. Mrs Cartier would walk with a brisk step and her heels would tap sharply on the bare wooden boards. This walker came slowly.
It was a man, whose careworn face was lined with the marks of great suffering. His sad eyes and the dejected droop of his shoulders startled Roger. He watched the man walking wearily towards the next flight of stairs and then realised that the newcomer would almost certainly discover Pep.
An exclamation behind him told him that he had been seen and he stepped swiftly out of the office, closing the door. He hurried after the haggard man.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes ?” The man’s European accent was strong.
“I thought I would save you wasting a journey,” Roger said. “There is no one in upstairs — I have just been trying to get in myself.”
Sad, disappointed eyes regarded him, making him ashamed of the lie.
“T’ank you, sir, t’ank you so mooch.” The man ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “I vill vait, I t’ink. I ‘ave come for an app — appointment.” He looked along the bare passage and, at the far end, Roger saw some benches. “I weel sit down, please.”
“Oh, by all means!” said Roger. “I’ll wait with you.”
The benches were at the far end of the passage. Roger thought he heard a mutter of conversation but could not be sure. The old fellow shuffled along beside him, weary and broken. Roger offered him a cigarette but he refused it.
He received no encouragement when he tried to start a conversation. After a quarter of an hour he began to wonder whether anything had happened to Pep. He grew alarmed and excused himself and moved towards the doors. One opened, and Pep came out on tip-toe. He hurried along the passage but faltered when he saw Roger, who shook his head. Pep took his meaning and hurried down the stairs.
“Well, that’s surprising!” exclaimed Roger. “No one answered when I knocked.”
“It ees — your turn,” the old man said, in a tone of infinite patience.
“I’m in no hurry,” said Roger. “You go first.”
“You — you weel not mind?” The man was startled, but when Roger reassured him he walked more briskly towards the end of the passage and disappeared into the office. Once he had gone, Roger hurried in Morgan’s wake. The private detective was standing on the pavement, near the taxi, and the cabby was speaking bitterly to him of the lack of consideration displayed by some people. He stood to attention when Roger arrived and asked sarcastically :
“Any more waiting, sir?”
“No,” said Roger, briefly. “Back to Bell Street.” He looked at Morgan.
“Bell Street’s all right for me,” said Morgan. When they were sitting together in the cab he shot a sideways glance at Roger, full of meaning. “Handsome, have we found something !” he breathed.
Roger said tensely : “What ?”
“That was the girl who paid in the cash, and you’ve scared the wits out of her,” said Morgan. “The old man did most of the talking, but I couldn’t hear all of it. He tried to pacify her at first but didn’t have much luck. But —” Morgan’s little eyes were rounded with concern — “he put the fear of death into her then, Handsome !”
“Well, well!” said Roger, softly.
“When she kept saying that she couldn’t do any more he told her she knew what he could do to her if she didn’t behave herself and ordered her to go back to her work. I came out then, I didn’t think she’d be long after me.”
“Pep, we ought to have waited, I can’t do anything right. We’ll have to follow her.”
Morgan grinned. “I’ve got her address ! Her handbag was on her desk, so I had a look inside it. I think I’ve got his private address, too — she called him Pickerell; you couldn’t mistake a name like that, could you? I found a ‘Pickerell’ in an address book on her desk and made a note of it. Her name is Randall.”
Sitting back at ease and copying the addresses in his notebook, Roger said :
“You’re teaching me my job, Pep !”
“Who’s surprised?” asked Morgan, heavily. “Handsome, what have we struck? I didn’t catch a glimpse of the girl but I don’t mind telling you I felt sorry for her.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Well, as we know who paid the money in — it lets you out,” said Morgan, “but they know you know and that makes it awkward, Handsome. Then, why did that vision you talked about tell you to go there? I know she didn’t actually tell you, but she went pretty near it, didn’t she?”
“She did,” admitted Roger, frowning. “And — Pep, we’re crazy!” He leaned forward and rapped on the glass partition, opening it as the cabby automatically applied his brakes. “Get back to Welbeck Street!” Roger snapped, startling the man so much that he was unable to find a comment.
“She’s our evidence,” Roger said to Morgan. “She’s close to breaking-point; Pickerell knows it. I wouldn’t like to be responsible for what will happen to her if we leave her with him for long.”
“Oh my God !” gasped Morgan.
“He knows that if I bring Yard men along and question her persistently enough the place will be closed down, the whole racket might be broken open,” Roger said. “He’ll see that she’s the weak link, and —” he broke off, not needing to explain further, and sat on the edge of the seat, tight- lipped.
They reached Welbeck Street sooner than he expected; he pulled up with a jerk outside the house where the Society had offices. He looked round with an expression which said: “Does that satisfy you?” but Roger was already getting out. He ran up the steps and disappeare
d up the stairs. As he neared the top landing he heard voices, including that of the girl. Breathing hard, he turned the corner and saw the old fellow who had gone in ahead of him. There was a brighter expression on the careworn face, and he smiled at Roger, not widely but with some gaiety.
The door was closing.
Roger opened it and made so much noise that the girl, who could hardly have sat down after seeing the old man off, came round the partition.
Her face dropped. He could see the signs of strain in her eyes and knew that Morgan had been right, that she was afraid. Yet something in Roger’s expression seemed to affect her and she did not cry out.
Roger spoke quietly :
“Don’t take risks, Miss Randall. Get out while the going’s good.”
She gulped. “I — I don’t understand you.”
Roger said : “You do, you’re as frightened as you can be. I heard the conversation and —”
“Did you?” asked the man named Pickerell. He was at the partition, his face still looked gentle and his eyes were half hidden by his glasses, but nothing hid the automatic in his right hand. “You are very impetuous, Mr West, aren’t you ? I think it’s time that we reached an understanding. Go into my office, Lois. Mr West, don’t do anything foolish, I am quite capable of shooting you. Just follow Miss Randall.”
CHAPTER 10
The Mistake of Mr Pickerell
DISOBEYING a desperate man with a gun was not Roger’s idea of common sense. He obeyed without looking behind him, hoping that Pep had followed close enough to have overheard.
“Stand over by the window,” ordered Pickerell.
“I hope you realise that you’re asking for trouble,” Roger said.
“Am I ? Perhaps not the first, I know how far I can go.” The thought seemed to amuse him. “And you are no longer a policeman with authority, Mr West; I have heard of your discomfiture.”
“Oh,” said Roger, softly : “You learned very quickly, didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t do to lose time,” said Pickerell. “We won’t waste any now, either. Let me sum up the situation. You think that by exerting enough pressure you can persuade Miss Randall to clear you of the suspicion of paying money into your account at the Mid-Union Bank. You think that by so doing you can regain your position at Scotland Yard and use the forces of law to attack me. Think again, Mr West!”
Roger did not speak. The girl stood by the desk, her troubled eyes narrow and looking at Roger intently. She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the corner, making the diamonds in the engagement ring scintillate.
“Think again,” repeated Pickerell. “Miss Randall was the actual messenger, but someone gave her the money. She might be persuaded to say that it was you. In fact I think I can rely on her to do that. Can’t I, Lois?”
The girl said nothing.
“Can’t I?” insisted Pickerell, sternly. “After all, my dear, you have so much at stake. Nothing will happen to you, although West obviously thinks that you are in danger. You would be, if you could go free and say what you liked, but I. know you will obey instructions now as you have in the past. Won’t you?” His voice grew silky.
“I —” began the girl, and then turned away, exclaiming: “Oh, God. Yes, I will.”
Pickerell smiled : “You see, Mr West? If you tell your friends what you have discovered, or pretend to do any such thing, when Lois is questioned she will tell them exactly what they want to know. I hardly know how you have succeeded in staying free for so long — but if you want to retain that freedom, be discreet about this visit. Do you understand?”
Roger leaned back against the wall, not speaking.
“I see that you do,” said Pickerell. “There is another question and I insist on an answer. If you refuse one I shall arrange for Miss Randall to tell her story whatever you do. How did you come to find this address ?”
“You were traced here.”
“Yes, yes, but how?”
“Your habit of slipping messages into coat pockets betrayed you. The taxi-driver was traced, and all the offices here and in the adjoining buildings were searched. Your voice is unmistakable.”
“Now don’t lie to me,” said Pickerell. “You didn’t hear my voice until after you had identified Lois.”
“I talked to all girls on the premises who might have been mistaken for my wife,” Roger said, plausibly. “Pickerell, there is a powerful organisation at the Yard and you won’t get away with this. Your gun won’t help you.”
“Perhaps not,” said Pickerell. “But you’re not a fool, West. You won’t take the risk of Lois committing perjury. Are you sure that is the way you discovered this office ?”
“Yes,” lied Roger, shortly.
The man seemed relieved.
“Now be sensible and go away. I suggest a long holiday in the country. I think I can assure you that when I have finished my job you will have nothing to worry about. The truth can be told afterwards, and you will be back at your desk without a stain on your character !”
Roger said : “You’ve made one mistake.”
“Bluff will not—”
“It’s nothing to do with bluff,” said Roger. “You’ve assumed that only I heard your conversation with Miss Randall. Someone else did, too. My word might not be sufficient but the testimony of two people will. When Miss Randall realises that her evidence will be rebutted she’ll see that the only way out is to tell the truth.”
The man seemed to stiffen.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Roger raised his voice.
“Pep, are you there? Be careful, this man’s armed.”
“I’ve rung the Yard, Handsome,” came Pep’s voice. “They won’t be long.”
The girl gasped. Pickerell backed to his desk and, keeping the gun trained on Roger, the girl and the door, who were all in line with one another he pulled open a drawer and took out some papers. He felt inside the drawer as if to make sure that it was empty, then stuffed the papers into his pocket.
Then he took out a box of matches.
Roger guessed what he intended to do, but the threat of the gun kept him still. Clumsily with one hand, Pickerell broke two matches before one ignited. He held it to the corner of a paper on the desk. It flared up. He set light to other papers. Smoke and flames rose up and began to spread.
“Don’t do it!” Roger cried.
“Stay where you are!” ordered Pickerell. He moved towards a door leading to the passage as the flames took a fiercer hold. A ring of them ran along the cable of the telephone and a draught from the open window sent two pieces of burning paper sliding along the desk where they caught others; the desk and its contents were soon ablaze, and the smoke was beginning to make Roger cough. The girl turned towards the window but Pickerell ignored her. Step by step, he reached the passage door, took a key from his pocket, inserted and turned it.
“Pep!” Roger exclaimed, moving forward, “he’s —”
Pickerell stretched out a leg and kicked a chair, standing near the wall. He pulled the door open and stepped swiftly into the passage. Morgan’s voice was raised and Pickerell fired. The gun had no silencer and the shot echoed loudly, followed by a sharp exclamation from Morgan. Roger leapt over the chair and reached the passage in time to see Pep leaning against the wall, holding one foot off the ground, and Pickerell disappearing down the stairs. He ran past Pep and might have caught the man up when the ‘Inquiries’ door opened and Lois Randall appeared. She got in his way, blocking his path by accident or design. He pushed past her and sped on, calling :
“Put that fire out!”
He could not see Pickerell when he reached the street. The stocky cabby was lounging against his taxi, staring towards the Piccadilly end of the street.
“Some people!” he was saying. “Swore at me just because I said —”
“Did he get a cab?”
“Yers. “Arf way up the road.”
“You didn’t hear where he was going?”
“Nar what do you
think I am?” demanded the cabby, with a vast, triumphant grin. “A human walkie-talkie?”
“One day you’ll learn when to be funny,” Roger said savagely. “Telephone Scotland Yard from the nearest call- box, ask for Inspector Cornish and tell him that West — have you got that, West?”
“Yes.”
“West says that he should send men to this address at once,” Roger said. He turned and hurried upstairs, wondering whether he was too late to stop the fire from spreading. He had been forced to attempt too many things at once. There was no sign of the girl, but Pep Morgan was disappearing into the end office, from which smoke was billowing in great choking gusts. Roger hurried after him, to find him wincing as he dragged himself towards the desk, the top of which was all ablaze. He picked up a heavy ledger with one hand, and began to beat at the desk.
“All right, Pep,” said Roger, “I’ll get a fire extinguisher.”
He was surprised to see no one else on that floor; he called out for help. Someone had smelt the fire and was on the landing below; he hurried up. He was a middle-aged man, followed by two girls and an old lady; all of them sized up the situation quickly and began to help. A cloakroom was handy for water, and within five minutes the evil smelling foam from the extinguisher covered the desk while the two girls were going round the office, beating out little fires started by the burning paper which had blown off.
Pep was sitting on a chair against the wall with his right leg stuck out in front of him. Roger turned to help him but Pep shook his head and pointed to the other door. Roger went into the room where Lois had been working. He ran through the papers on her desk, picking up an address book and a telephone index. He pushed them under his coat, and made sure there was nothing else of interest. He opened a small account book and saw that the pages were headed with copperplate handwriting, admirably executed in black drawing ink. The entries were not all the same, some being in a neat hand which he imagined to be the girl’s, but others, in drawing ink, had exactly the same characteristics as the letter from ‘K’.
“So I don’t need to look much further for him,” he muttered.
