Inspector West At Home iw-3

by John Creasey

  He expected some sign of Malone’s gang, but there was none. Perhaps Malone was still brooding over the indignity. Roger was lucky in picking up a stray taxi and sat back in the corner, he concluded that Malone was more use to him free than he would be in jail.

  The complications were increasing fast, yet there was a single common factor to which he clung with eagerness and which rather troubled him; there was a hint of desperation in it. He was no longer possessed by doubts about the reason for the Masher’s arrival at the ‘Saucy Sue’. Malone had heard of Mark’s visit and his gang had been summoned. There was nothing unusual about a racecourse gang haunting the East End. There was nothing surprising in Malone’s activities except that he obviously did work for Pickerell.

  Roger considered that meek and faded little man.

  Pickerell had arranged the payments to the Mid-Union Bank. Lois Randall was probably a pawn, important now because he had discovered her part in the affair. Pickerell himself almost certainly knew the reason for the attempt to frame Roger.

  Lois had been all right until four months ago. Her trouble had started about the same time as Roger’s. He was still without a clue, but it was rapidly becoming clear that it was the result of something he had done or discovered the previous December. The fact that Pickerell employed Malone proved that it was a criminal conspiracy of some conse- quence. The fact that Malone had twice revealed himself suggested that the time for surreptitious action was past. It might mean that the culprits were getting worried — they were acting too hastily and openly, so increasing the risks.

  Thanks only to Pep Morgan, the attempt to frame Roger had been no more than half successful; enough had broken open to convince even Abbott and Chatworth that their suspicions were groundless.

  Pickerell’s swift volte face and the use to which he was prepared to put Lois’s evidence proved that; if Lois came again under Pickerell’s direct control she would probably be prepared to swear Roger’s reputation away. She was quite frightened enough to do so, but he regarded her fear as incidental, something to be dealt with when the main problem was solved.

  Still pondering over the connecting links as Roger sat back in the taxi — he had directed the driver to Pep Morgan’s office in the Strand — he mused aloud.

  “So Pickerell and Malone are working together and Joe Leech knew something which he could have betrayed. Pickerell works or worked for the Society, and Mrs Cartier either knows something of his other activities or suspects them and decided to warn me. Which implies that she must have known of the effort to frame me.”

  He stopped speaking aloud when he thought of the elegant gentleman who might be Mr Cartier. For the first time for some hours he wished that all he had to do was telephone the Yard and start inquiries into the Carter manage. By now, Abbott and Cornish would probably be investigating the activities of the family, and of the Society, but Roger would get only what information Cornish could safely pass on.

  The taxi pulled up outside Pep’s office.

  CHAPTER 14

  Tiny Martinson the Trail

  ROGER PAID the driver off and, walking to the lift, thought that the other taxi-driver might be telephoning Bell Street at any time. It would be wise to send one of Pep’s men to the house, to take possession and receive messages.

  The door of the general office was open.

  Inside, a long-faced girl with lank, mousy hair was sitting in front of a typewriter on a tidy desk and looking up at one of Morgan’s operatives. He was a tall, lanky man whose trilby was pushed to the back of his head and who, Roger knew, considered himself a brilliant detective. His name was Sam; the girl’s was Maude. Both of them looked at Roger, the man with a grin which irritated him, and Maude ex- pressionlessly.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” she said; “if you’d been any later you’d have found the office shut up. We can’t stay open all night.”

  “S’right,” said Sam.

  “Can’t you ?” asked Roger. “Pep’s in hospital with a bullet in his thigh. What are you going to do? Go home and forget about it ?”

  “That’s not true,” Sam exclaimed.

  “Really?” asked Maude, narrowing her red-rimmed eyes.

  “If Pep’s caught a packet that’s different, Handsome,” Sam said.

  Roger said : “He has. He was working for me.”

  “We know,” said Maude.

  Roger knew that all the staff had a remarkable loyalty to the twinkling little man and was relieved that he would have no further trouble in getting them to do what he wanted. Morgan employed four regular operatives and had others who would do what he required of them — legmen who specialised in more humdrum affairs. These outside agents would be brought in to carry on with the routine work of divorce cases, and the salaried operatives would be switched over to the more urgent matter.

  He made arrangements quickly.

  One of the operatives, called by telephone, left for the Bell Street house before Roger left the office. Roger had given him a key to the back door. Two were to be sent to the Legge Hotel. Sam was to accompany Roger. Roger would have given a lot to have had a sergeant and a plainclothes man with him, but despite Sam’s mannerisms and irritating self-conceit, he was useful. There were others who would also probably help.

  From the Strand office, Roger telephoned the Yard. He asked for and this time was able to speak to Chatworth. He thought that the AC sounded less hostile than on the previous night but he gave no news of importance although he did say that Pickerell had not gone to his Lambeth flat. When the police had arrived there, they had found signs of hurried departure.

  “Are you sure that he was the man who arranged for those bank credits?” Chatworth demanded.

  “Yes, sir,” said Roger. “But until he’s found I won’t be able to prove it.”

  “What about the girl he employed?” Chatworth asked.

  “What girl?”

  “Didn’t you see one there?”

  “There was a receptionist, yes.”

  “Oh,” said Chatworth. “West, what were you doing at that Society office ?”

  “Making inquiries, sir, on my own behalf.”

  “Don’t ignore the circumstances,” Chatworth warned him.

  “I’m not likely to, sir,” said Roger coldly. “Good night.” He replaced the receiver and looked into Sam’s narrowed eyes.

  “Comes to something when your own boss don’t trust you,” said Sam, with unexpected understanding; “they must be crazy, Handsome! Well, where are we going?”

  “I’ve another call to make,” Roger said. “You have a look in the London Street Directory for Bonnock House, will you? Cornish might not be able to tell me where it is offhand.” He dialled the Yard again and spoke to Cornish, who did not know where the house was but promised to find out and to call Morgan’s office. Meanwhile Maude, a cigarette drooping from her lips and a smear of ash on her soiled woollen jumper, leaned back and jerked the telephone directory from the shelf.

  “ ‘S’matter with looking at that ?” she demanded.

  Roger stared, then smiled.

  “Never overlook the obvious — you’re right, Maude!” He turned the pages over, came to the ‘CAR’ columns and ran his forefinger down the ‘Cartiers’. There were several in the book and he found three entries immediately beneath each other.

  Cartier, Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge . . . 021 Cartier, Mrs Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge . . . 29 Cartier, Mrs Sylvester, 11, Bonnock House, Hampstead . . . 54012

  Maude was contemplating Roger as he closed the book.

  “Got what you want?”

  “Yes, thanks. It’s all right, Sam,” he said as the latter looked up from the Street Directory. “What’s the time?” He glanced at a large clock on the wall and saw that it was a quarter to seven. He frowned.

  “Ready?” Sam demanded.

  “It isn’t quite time to go.” Roger tapped against the desk thoughtfully. “We’d better get some food, Sam, we might be working late.”<
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  “Want anything more from me?” asked Maude.

  “Not tonight, thanks.”

  “Watch your step, Handsome,” said Maude; more ash fell from her cigarette.

  As he walked down the stairs with Sam — the lift had stopped operating at half-past six — Roger found himself oddly affected by the attitude of the girl and the lanky fellow beside him. He had expected to find them gloating over the discomfiture of a Yard man; instead, their sympathy, cloaked by an air of indifference but nevertheless sincere, was heartening.

  “Sam, you haven’t a gun, have you?” Roger asked suddenly.

  “I been thinking about one,” Sam told him, earnestly. “I got one at home, Handsome; I didn’t think I’d need it, but if Pep’s been holed maybe I ought to get it.”

  “I think you should,” said Roger. “Where do you live?”

  “Fulham Road,” said Sam. “Not far. I can have some supper with my missus and tell her I’ll be late, as well as pick up the rod. Does that suit you ?”

  Roger considered, then said : “Yes, that’ll do fine. I’ll be at the entrance of Bonnock House in Hampstead, at eight- fifteen. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Okey-doke,” said Sam, “I’ll take a car — no limit to expenses, I hope ?”

  Roger walked towards Fleet Street.

  There was a small restaurant near the Cheshire Cheese where he could get a good meal, and where he might find one or two crime reporters of the London dailies. They would probably be helpful. He did not doubt that they had heard of his suspension and, when he entered the smoke- filled ground floor room he saw two men look up at him with evident surprise.

  One pushed his chair back and approached him, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.

  “Why, hallo, West! What’ll you have ?” He was a middle- aged man, nearly bald and rather shabby. He was one of the best crime reporters on the Street and was reputed to have more enemies in the East End than anyone outside the police force.

  “Hallo, Charlie,” Roger said. “I won’t have anything except some food. Is there anything good on tonight?”

  “Might be in time for some roast beef,” said Charlie Wray and turned to stare coldly at a younger man. He had close- cropped black hair which rose in a quiff above his forehead, a broken nose and a wide mouth with a most engaging grin. He walked with a pronounced limp. “That’s if Tamperly hasn’t had it all.”

  “Share and share alike,” said Tamperly, swallowing the last of a mouthful. “I was coming to see you, Handsome.

  I thought—”

  “I have seen him,” said Wray, pointedly. “This is by ap- poinment. And don’t be familiar.”

  “I don’t mind whether the Echo or the Cry gets a scoop,” Roger said. “I’m too worried to take sides in a newspaper scrap. I do want some help.”

  “Say the word,” Wray said.

  “All the organisation of the Cry will support you,” promised Tamperly. “As a matter of fat, Handsome, we’re running an article on you — we’ve whitewashed you thoroughly. Had to use the story,” he added, half apologetically. “It’s all over the place.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Why waste time?” Wray demanded. They reached an empty table, Wray fetched his coffee to it and Tamperly brought the remains of a plate of roast beef and vegetables. A buxom woman came up with a bowl of soup for Roger, greeted him with a cheerful smile and told him there was a steak pudding, if he’d like it.

  “You told me—” Tamperly began, indignandy.

  “They’re kept for the popular customers,” Wray grinned.

  Roger said : “I know you two would like to cut each other’s throats, but could you bury the axe for half an hour? Take fifty-fifty on anything that is thrown up from this job?”

  “Yes,” said Wray.

  “He’ll try to get sixty, but I’ll play ball,” said Tamperly, with his engaging grin. “What’s gone wrong, Handsome? I thought you were Chatworth’s white-headed boy.”

  “I’m being framed. What I’m interested in now are two things — do either of you know anything about a man named Masher Malone with a gang in the East End?”

  “I certainly do!” exclaimed Wray. “He was questioned today about Joe Leech’s murder.”

  “Lessing was at Joe’s. I wondered if it was the same job,” Tamperly said.

  “Did you know anything about Malone before today?” Roger asked.

  Both men had heard of Malone but they had not regarded him as out of the ordinary. In their opinion, he would have his fling but one day would go too far and be put inside. Afterwards, he might gather the remnants of his gang together again but in all likelihood someone else would have taken over from him and he would fade into the background, considering himself betrayed. A big shot in his own imagination he would look back to the great days of the London gangs.

  “See if you can find out more about him, will you?” Roger asked. “Next there’s a man named Pickerell.” He gave them Pickerell’s address and the fact that he had worked for the Society of European Relief. Tamperly’s grin widened and he said :

  “You wouldn’t want us to probe into the affairs of the Society, would you ? How like you, Handsome! You don’t ask for the tiling you want most!”

  “I haven’t got to it yet, because I don’t know what it is,” Roger said, “and in any case I don’t think the Society is connected with it. I think it’s Pickerell only. He’s a paid official. If you want to help me, concentrate on Malone and Pickerell.”

  “Nothing else?” asked Wray.

  “Not now,” said Roger.

  He broke off, looking across at the door, which had opened to admit an all-too-familiar figure. It was Tiny Martin, lantern-jawed and thin-lipped. Roger’s heart leapt and he looked about him quickly, subconsciously thinking of getting away and fearful lest Martin had instructions to detain him. Martin, however, simply looked about the room and went to a corner table, where he called for scrambled egg and beer.

  “What a stomach! But he’s on your tail,” Wray said. “Nasty feeling, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know a worse,” admitted Roger. “I want to shake him off.”

  Wray and Tamperly exchanged glances.

  Five minutes later — it was exactly a quarter to eight — Roger left the room hurriedly. Before he reached the door he saw Martin get to his feet. He slammed the door behind him and hurried along a narrow passage towards the street.

  Upstairs, Tamperly and Wray went for the door at the same time as Martin. Tamperly knocked against the man and apologised profusely. Martin snapped at him angrily and was halfway out when Wray, already outside, swung round with a muttered imprecation and cannoned into the sergeant, who staggered back into Tamperly.

  Wray’s expression was one of bewildered sorrow.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I’ve forgotten my hat. Are you all right, Tiny?”

  “You’ll be sorry for this!” Martin growled. He recovered his breath and hurried past them, but the two reporters grinned at each other.

  Roger was already in a bus heading for the West End, where taxis would probably be easier to come by. He looked out of the window and made certain that Martin had not been allowed to follow him. Wray and Tamperly would back him up in spite of their rivalry. He smiled and sat back until he reached Haymarket. He preferred to make the journey by taxi, for he might want to leave Bonnock House in a hurry and he had no idea how far it was from the nearest station.

  He found a taxi, then kept it waiting while he telephoned his home. Morgan’s man answered him. There had been three telephone calls, two from Scotland Yard and one from a lady who had asked for Mrs West and said she was her cousin. The taxi-driver named Dixon had not called.

  Roger frowned when he returned to the taxi, surprised that Dixon had been out for so long. It was possible that the cabby had called when the Bell Street house had been empty. Roger sat back and smoked on the way to Hampstead.

  It was already dusk when the cabby found Bonnock House. One or two
uncurtained windows in the big block of flats looked very bright in the gloom. He saw Sam by the drive but did not speak to him. Sam patted his pocket. One flat on the top floor of the mansions was lit up, a beacon of light which could be seen for miles. The house was a massive edifice of concrete and looked ugly and forbidding in the half-light. There was a drive-in and ample space for a taxi to park but Roger sent his man to the end of the narrow street — which was on the edge of the common — then went on foot to the house.

  Number 11 was on the first floor.

  The flats were obviously in the luxury class. The corridor was carpeted, the lighting was concealed, the decorations were in keeping with the general atmosphere. All the doors were painted black, the walls were of cream mottled paper which showed up clearly in the lighting immediately above it.

  He rang the bell at Number 11. The door was opened by a tiny maid, neat, faded-looking and reminding him, for some reason of Mr Pickerell.

  “Is Mrs Cartier in?” Roger asked. “My name is West.”

  “Yes, sir. She is expecting you.” The maid stepped aside and, as Roger entered, closed the door. It might have been accidental but it seemed to Roger to close with a decided snap. He glanced sharply at the maid, but she was walking sedately towards one of the black doors at the far end of the entrance hall. She tapped on it and entered. That door, also, closed with a snap.

  “I’m being a fool!” Roger muttered.

  He meant that he was being foolish to let himself think that there was anything even remotely sinister about the closing of the doors and the manner of the maid, but was he a fool for being here? Was Sam a sufficient cover? It was nearly half past eight, and Janet was not to call the Yard until ten o’clock.

  An hour and a half suddenly appeared a very long time.

  The maid came out.

  “Mrs Cartier will see you now, sir.”

  ‘Mrs Cartier’, reflected Roger. A well-trained maid would have said ‘Madam’.

  But his fears and forebodings soon faded.

  Mrs Cartier rose from an easy chair in a room which set off her tall figure, perfectly gowned in black and gold. The room was pale blue, the luxurious chairs upholstered in maroon-coloured mohair, the furniture Louis-Quinze, and the carpet thick and muffling his footsteps. Roger took the extended hand, resisting an absurd temptation to bow over it, then looked into the smiling face of the woman.