The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Arresting Knowle, however, was a very different proposition. The Jowetts had died in suspicious circumstances and Maurice Knowle benefitted from their deaths. It was a pretty desperate solution but it was hard to think of a better plan.

  If all went well, neither he nor Lieutenant Travis would be called into action but Anthony wasn’t taking chances. He glanced at his watch, seeing the luminous hands tick away the seconds, and settled down to wait.

  The distant chimes of St Matthew’s clock sounded midnight. Despite being in the heart of London, the night was quiet. Apart from the unmarked police wagon drawn up to the kerb, Gower Street was deserted, and the traffic on the Tottenham Court Road had slowed to a distant murmur.

  Stifling a yawn, Sergeant McFadden climbed down from the wagon, glanced at Inspector Tanner and decided to risk a question.

  The inspector had been in a foul mood ever since they’d left the station and all McFadden really knew was that they were going to arrest a geezer called Knowle in connection with the deaths of the Jowetts.

  ‘So who is this bloke, Knowle, sir?’

  ‘He’s Jowett’s stepson,’ replied the inspector tightly. ‘I had that case sown up. Jowett was guilty. I proved he was guilty, but apparently that’s not good enough for our lords and masters, oh no.’ He made a dismissive noise in his throat. ‘I don’t know what extra evidence Sir Douglas ruddy Lynton thinks he’s come up with, but he hasn’t seen fit to share it with me. No. I’ve got my orders, same as you, and that’s all I know.’

  ‘Will Knowle make a fight of it, d’you think?’ asked McFadden, wisely not commenting on the ways of the upper echelons of the force.

  Inspector Tanner shook his head. ‘Him? No. He’s a cripple. That’s why he couldn’t have done it.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Ours not to reason why, as they say. Our job’s to pick him up and deliver him nice and snug to the station. And then, maybe, considering it was my case, someone will see fit to tell me what the blazes is going on.’

  Anthony jerked forward as a roar of anger ripped through the night. Lights blazed from the kitchen window, followed by furious shouts.

  In the dark yard, Anthony and Travis tensed for action. That was Blatchford’s voice. More shouts, then another voice yelled, ‘Drop it, man! Drop it!’

  Three shots rang out, followed by a scream and more shouts, then with a splintering crash, the kitchen window shattered, sending a shower of glass into the yard. A bulky figure, black against the light, smashed through the window and onto the fire escape.

  Travis started forward but Anthony pulled him back. ‘Let him go!’ he hissed.

  Travis looked at him, startled, as feet pounded on the metal above their heads, but Anthony wrenched Travis back into the shadows. If they cornered Blatchford, the gang would be certain this was a set-up job. They had to let him go.

  Blatchford swung himself off the bottom stairs and dropped to the ground with a grunt. Another figure looked out of the window. It must, Anthony knew, be one of the police officers.

  ‘Stop!’ the policeman yelled, clambering out of the window after Blatchford.

  Blatchford raised his gun and fired. The policeman yelped, flattening himself against the wall. The shot missed, gouging into the wall, sending chips of brick zinging into the night.

  Blatchford fired once more, the shot going wild, then he hurtled towards the gate, pulled back the bolts, and thudded out into the alley.

  The policeman, oblivious of Anthony and Travis in the shadows, clattered down the fire escape, dropped to the ground and thudded after Blatchford through the open gate.

  Torpoint Mansions came to life in a blaze of light. Windows creaked open, heads appeared and, from all over the building, sleepy voices demanded to know what was going on.

  In the distance, a police whistle sounded, answered by more whistles from the surrounding streets and the window above.

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Anthony and, with Travis at his heels, jumped, caught hold of the platform of the fire escape, pulled himself upwards and raced up the stairs.

  He shouldered his way in through the broken glass of the kitchen window, past the bewildered Inspector Tanner.

  It was the scream that was driving him on, the scream that had come after the gunshots. Both Tanner and McFadden were obviously all right, therefore it had to be Maurice Knowle who had cried out.

  Dread of what he would find filling him with sick fear, he raced out of the kitchen, leaving Lieutenant Travis to cope with Inspector Tanner’s stream of questions.

  Maurice Knowle was lying in the sitting room, sprawled out on the rug. He was fully dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. There was an ugly brown stain across the white.

  His eyes flicked open as Anthony dropped to his knees beside him. ‘He was taking me away,’ whispered Maurice. He could only mean Blatchford. ‘I had to do what he said.’ His hand trembled and he grasped Anthony in a convulsive grip. ‘You came just in time.’

  ‘Quiet now,’ Anthony said, his voice professionally calm. He tore open the shirt where the bullet had ripped it, wincing at the sight of the wound. Crunching his handkerchief into a ball, he pressed it firmly against Maurice’s chest, trying to stem the flow of blood. Maurice whimpered with pain.

  ‘Easy does it,’ said Anthony softly. He could hear the calmness in his voice and a tiny distant part of his mind wondered how he could sound like that when he felt choked with black despair. He wanted to save Knowle, not have him murdered.

  He could hear Travis and Inspector Tanner arguing in the kitchen. He raised his head. ‘Travis!’

  The argument stopped abruptly and Travis appeared in the doorway. His eyes widened as he saw Maurice Knowle. ‘Sir?’

  ‘We need a doctor with wound dressings and an ambulance as quickly as possible. University College Hospital is nearest. Hurry!’

  Travis nodded and sped off.

  Knowle’s eyes flickered open again. ‘Colonel?’ His voice was painfully weak. Anthony had to strain to hear him. His fingers twitched in Anthony’s hand. ‘They threatened Edith.’ His voice trailed off. ‘Chocolate …’

  ‘Chocolate?’

  ‘They sent her chocolates. They were put on her bed.’ Maurice’s eyes opened wide and his grip tightened. ‘They knew where she was. They knew how to get to her. They said they would kill her if we didn’t co-operate.’

  ‘We? You and your mother, you mean?’

  Maurice gave the slightest of nods in agreement.

  ‘What did they want?’ Anthony’s voice was gentle but he had to know.

  ‘Diefenbach.’ Maurice’s face contorted. ‘Diefenbach’s a good man. Liked him a lot but Edith … They thought he’d write to me,’ said Maurice, his voice thin. ‘Contact me. I had to do what they said. Then you came. Blatchford suspected. Edith … Had to save Edith.’

  He gave a convulsive shudder. His hand, which had gripped Anthony’s, slackened and his eyes flickered shut.

  Maurice Knowle didn’t speak again. It seemed a long time before Anthony heard the ring of the ambulance bell in the street below.

  ‘How’s Maurice Knowle?’ asked Sir Charles.

  Anthony buried an enormous yawn and shook himself fully awake. It was three o’clock in the morning and the gurgling copper pipes that ran along the wall made the room soporifically warm. He had been offered the use of the consultant’s office, where he had waited to see Talbot. Talbot, he knew, had been at Scotland Yard.

  ‘Knowle will live, thank God,’ said Anthony, rubbing his face with his hands and stifling another yawn. ‘It was touch and go at one point, but he’ll live. However,’ he added, reaching for the cigarette box, ‘I think it’d be as well if, as far as the public are concerned, he stayed dead for a while.’

  Charles Talbot pulled up a chair. ‘That’s quite a big thing you’re asking, Brooke. Why’s it necessary?’

  Anthony lit his cigarette and brought Sir Charles up to date. ‘You see, Talbot, if Maurice Knowle lives, the gang will presume he’s told us everything.’

/>   ‘Miss Wharton, Knowle’s fiancée, will be safe enough, though. They can’t use her to threaten him any longer. There’d be no point.’

  ‘Yes, but it puts us at a real disadvantage. The whole point of arresting Knowle was to rescue him without telling the crooks we knew he was in danger. If Maurice Knowle is known to be alive, we’ve failed. The gang will know that we know we’re onto them, and we’ve lost the only advantage we have. Besides that,’ he added, ‘the poor beggar could do with some peace and quiet to recuperate. He’s really been through it.’

  Sir Charles nodded slowly. ‘You’re quite right. I’ll have a word with the hospital and see there’s a suitable announcement in the press.’

  ‘Good. What about the valet? Did the police catch Blatchford?’

  ‘No, more’s the pity.’

  ‘What the devil happened?’ asked Anthony curiously. ‘It all kicked off very quickly. Presumably Blatchford answered the door to Inspector Tanner and Sergeant McFadden.’

  ‘That’s where it went wrong. As soon as Tanner clapped eyes on Blatchford, he recognized him as one of their regular customers, so to speak. The recognition, I may say, was mutual. His real name isn’t Blatchford, it’s Stevenson, Johnny Stevenson. He’s a nasty piece of work, who’s been in and out of jail, with convictions for assault and robbery with violence. As soon as he saw Tanner and McFadden, he tried to slam the door on them – McFadden got his foot in the way – raced back into the flat, grabbed a revolver, shot Knowle, and made a break out of the kitchen window.’

  ‘I wish I’d known he had a criminal record,’ said Anthony ruefully. ‘I could’ve nabbed him last night without anyone being any the wiser.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Sir Charles. ‘If we were all gifted with hindsight our job would be a lot easier.’

  ‘Did he shoot Knowle because the poor beggar was in the way, or did he shoot him deliberately, as it were?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell,’ said Sir Charles, his brow crinkling. ‘To be honest, it more or less has to be the latter, doesn’t it? It’d be easy enough for a tough like Stevenson to push Knowle out of his way.’

  ‘In that case, I bet he was acting on orders,’ said Anthony. ‘Knowle told us that he’d always been friendly with Diefenbach. Knowle was forced to sack his previous valet and take on Blatchford after his mother and stepfather were killed. The gang hoped Paul Diefenbach would get in touch with him. They must be very keen nobody guesses that. I hope our friends buy the idea that the police were after Stevenson last night.’

  Sir Charles rubbed his hands through his hair. ‘I’ll see there’s a statement in the press to that effect. Why shouldn’t they believe it? They don’t know Father Quinet overheard them. Stevenson’s a known criminal and a wanted man. I’d like to have a word with our Mr Stevenson.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he could tell us much. I think his role was that of a guard dog, pure and simple.’ Anthony smacked his fist into his palm in frustration. ‘Damnit, Talbot, I want to know what any of this has got to do with Milly. She’s in danger but I don’t know what the danger is or where she is. And what the devil has Paul Diefenbach got to do with it?’

  ‘We’ll find out,’ said Sir Charles, with confidence.

  Anthony gave a cynical laugh. ‘You’ll a good liar, Talbot, but I don’t believe you’re as certain as you sound.’

  ‘Don’t forget we know the identity of one of the gang,’ said Sir Charles earnestly.

  ‘Annie Colbeck,’ said Anthony thoughtfully.

  Sir Charles nodded. ‘With any luck, we should know rather more about her soon. Stephen Mayer, of Mayer and Galbraith, has agreed to act as our cover and my advertisement for Annie Colbeck’s fellow servants will be in the papers tomorrow.’

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘That should bring results and with the entire police force on his heels, we should nab Stevenson very shortly.’

  Sir Charles’ hopes that they would have news of Johnny Stevenson soon proved justified. It didn’t, however, do them much good.

  Johnny Stevenson was pulled out of the river near Blackfriars Bridge at eight o’clock that morning with a bullet through his head. It could, in the police surgeon’s opinion, later echoed by the coroner, have been suicide.

  For the time being, Sir Charles was content to let that opinion rest. There would be time enough later to set the matter straight.

  After some debate, Anthony and Sir Charles decided against asking the bank for help. After all, argued Anthony, the bank had already been approached by Inspector Tanner in connection with the murder enquiry, and they had told him all they knew, which amounted to the fact that Diefenbach was headed for the jungles of South America.

  Another possibility also proved a blank. Paul Diefenbach’s rooms at his club, Addison’s, had been searched and proved devoid of interest.

  Apart from his clothes and a few books, mainly of travel, there was nothing of any personal interest, apart from his address book. Most of the entries were strictly business – the dentist, the doctor and work colleagues – but at the front of the book was the single name Yvonne and the address, 73, Elgin Road.

  Yvonne, Sir Charles knew, was Yvonne Broussard, Paul Diefenbach’s wife. As the couple were separated, she probably couldn’t tell them anything, but it was worth trying anyway.

  TEN

  Anthony rang the bell of 73, Elgin Road, a small but elegant town house.

  The visiting card he gave the neatly-dressed maid read Andrew Atkinson. Private Detective.

  Yvonne Broussard came into the drawing room, holding his card in her hand. ‘Monsieur Atkinson? You are a private detective?’

  Anthony gave a mental and, thankfully, soundless, whistle of appreciation. Yvonne Broussard was absolutely lovely and her voice … Wow!

  Dark, slim and attractive, she had a voice that could make even a plain woman beautiful and she didn’t need any help. What was her accent? He’d assumed she was French but that wasn’t quite right. It was an accent he knew quite well, though. Belgian? Yes, of course, that was it. That accent had become very familiar in London since the outbreak of war.

  So this was Paul Diefenbach’s wife, thought Anthony. Mind you, if a rich, young and handsome American – Anthony had seen his photograph – was going to get married, the chances are he wouldn’t pick a frump.

  He recalled his temporarily diverted wits and smiled. ‘Madame Broussard? Thank you for seeing me.’ He glanced at the open door. ‘Excuse me, Madame, but could we speak in confidence please?’

  Her eyes narrowed but she closed the door with a reassuring click. ‘Now, Monsieur, what is this about?’

  Anthony coughed. This could be delicate. ‘Pardon me for asking, Madame Broussard, but are you acquainted with a Mr Paul Diefenbach?’

  Her eyes rounded in surprise. ‘But yes, yes of course. Paul is my husband. Is he safe? There has been a problem, an accident, yes?’

  She looked at him anxiously. Despite the fact they were separated and she had resumed her maiden name, she still obviously cared for him. Lucky beggar, he thought wryly.

  He met her anxious eyes. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got any news, Madame Broussard. As far as I know, he is perfectly all right.’

  She relaxed visibly, then shrugged impatiently. ‘Why are you here? How did you find me? I no longer bear Paul’s name.’

  Granted her anxiety, it didn’t seem very tactful to state there was a bunch of murderous crooks after her husband, or that the Intelligence Service had searched Paul Diefenbach’s rooms.

  ‘I have been retained by relatives of the Jowett family to investigate the recent tragic events.’ This had seemed the best reason for asking a lot of questions. ‘There was a note of your address in Mr Jowett’s papers.’

  She nodded, her expression grave. ‘That news, it was horrifié. Paul will be very sad when he hears. He is very fond of Mr Jowett, yes?’

  ‘So I understand. Apparently your husband dined with Mr Jowett before the tragedy. I was hoping Mr Diefenbach could cast s
ome light on the sad affair. Perhaps Mr Jowett mentioned he was worried, or had an enemy, perhaps?’

  She shrugged and put her hands out, palms upward, in a very Gallic gesture. ‘Monsieur, I do not know. Who could have wanted to harm Monsieur or Madame Jowett? They were good people, you understand, kindly people.’

  She obviously, thought Anthony, hadn’t read the news about Maurice Knowle or, if she had, hadn’t made the connection with the Jowetts.

  ‘Doubtless, you will find it is a robber, a robber who was disturbed, yes?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Anthony, as if considering the idea for the first time. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t so far short of the mark. ‘Would it be possible for me to speak to Mr Diefenbach?’

  She shook her head. ‘But no, Monsieur. Have they not told you at the bank? Ah, they are too secretive, they like to make the mystery where there is none. Paul, he is not here. He has gone to America, to South America, to explore a jungle.’

  Anthony looked at her sharply. There was an edge of contempt in her voice that he couldn’t explain.

  She saw the question in his eyes. ‘Before the war, then yes, if Paul desires adventure, to voyage himself to far-off places, to live in danger, then why not? He is a rich man, and brave, too. Although now he is married, he should become établi, he still desires adventure. But now?’ She laughed cynically. ‘No, Monsieur. He should fight.’ She allowed her eyes to assess him. ‘As should you?’

  Anthony was prepared for this one. ‘I’m afraid I was turned down for service. My heart is not strong.’

  She flashed him a quick smile. ‘But in the right place, as you English say, yes?’ She grew serious again. ‘Paul will not fight.’