by John Creasey
‘It’s up to you,’ said Roger. ‘I’d be glad if you stayed, but I can’t make you.’
Harrington thrust his hands deeper in his pockets.
Then a sergeant called for a word with Lampard.
Harrington said: ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
The door closed on him. Roger put a hand at Janet’s waist, and said lightly: ‘Have I got competition?’
‘I like him,’ Janet said. ‘He’s sore, and he’s got an awful load on his mind. Perhaps he’s irritable after coming here and seeing what it would be like to be rich. What do you think of him?’
‘Tough, resourceful, secretive, and possibly with a chip on his shoulder. Apart from the inheritance and don’t take any notice when he says he doesn’t want Dreem’s fortune if he’s brooded over a raw deal from the family, he could have killed for that. No, it’s not likely, but it’s on the cards. The more I think about the case,’ Roger went on slowly, ‘the worse it gets. That Fenton killing was absolutely cold-blooded, and we’ve at least one murder to solve. It increases the possibility that the Prendergasts were murdered, too. And Potter, damn it, Potter wouldn’t be so obvious as to bring Fenton here and then plan the murder, so that I had a nice little witness, stone dead and uninformative.’
‘I don’t like you when you talk like that,’ said Janet. ‘It makes you sound as callous as Lampard. Roger, do you think Claude was poisoned?’
‘Of course he was,’ Roger said.
‘I don’t mean that,’ said Janet, ‘what I mean is well, was he poisoned before he went to see Mark, because he was going to see Mark? Or would he have been killed in any case?’
‘Good question,’ Roger said.
‘I wish Mark would come,’ Janet said, restlessly, and then raised one hand. ‘My goodness, I’d forgotten! You know that little man Morgan -’
‘Pep Morgan?’
‘Yes. Isn’t he a private detective?’
‘There are other names for him.’
‘He called this evening, and left some notes for Mark,’ Janet’ said. ‘They’re in my bag. He said that’ Mark was expecting them.’ She picked her bag up, and drew out an envelope. ‘Do you think we ought to open this?’
‘No,’ said Roger. He took the envelope, and ripped it open. As he read he raised one eyebrow. ‘It’s a list of the people who have been in and out of Gabriel Potter’s office, and of Gabriel’s movements. Three people Pep couldn’t identify called, as well as our Maisie, Sir Andrew McFallen and a Gregory Hauteby. Nothing startling. It’s a pity.’
‘What’s a pity?’
‘That Mark’s not at the Yard. He’s got the right attitude towards routine investigating. Like you, I wish –’
The door opened, and Lampard put his head round it.
‘We’ve found your pal Lessing,’ he announced, and withdrew without another word.
‘Is he hurt?’ cried Janet.
Roger hurried after Lampard, seeing Harrington come out of a cloakroom, rubbing the backs of his hands. The door leading to the domestic quarters was blocked open, and there were movements in the passage beyond of men, and a stretcher.
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Janet. Her hand was tight on Roger’s arm.
Mark was on the stretcher, and his face was colourless. There were scratches on his cheeks, an ugly bruise on the side of his face. But even from where they were standing they could see that he was breathing.
Lampard appeared by Roger’s side.
‘Found him in a ditch,’ he said briefly. ‘He doesn’t seem too bad. Shall we take over a room here?’ It was the first time Lampard had shown any indecision.
‘With Claude hors de combat, Harrington’s the host,’ said Roger. ‘Unless Maisie appears and we could tell her that Claude gave the permission.’ He turned to Harrington.
‘It’s all right with me, if that means anything.’
The manservant, Petrie, was near the stretcher, with two elderly women. They hurried upstairs to prepare a room. Janet and the nurse from Claude’s room spent ten minutes with Mark, and passed the same verdict as Lampard.
‘I’ll sit with him,’ Janet volunteered.
‘I’ll wait here until he’s had a chance to come round,’ Lampard said. ‘Shall we take another look at the study?’
They went into the room from which Abie Fenton had run to his death. It was still in an untidy state, for although the police had searched the room, and photographs were already on the way to Guildford for developing, no one at the house might be expected to know where the papers littering the floor and desk had come from. It was a job for Claude or Maisie or one of the Prendergast employees.
‘We’d better pile the stuff together on the desk,’ Roger said.
‘Yes.’ But Lampard showed no inclination to begin. ‘Prints were all over the room,’ he went on. ‘I wonder if Fenton’s are among them? What was Fenton’s reputation?’
Roger was prompt. ‘A nice little man, for a burglar. He usually worked under orders, he wasn’t an original mind. He didn’t deserve what he got. By morning we’ll have something from the Yard about his recent contacts.’ He offered cigarettes, but Lampard refused. ‘I haven’t told you yet,’ he went on, ‘but I’ve been given a fortnight in which to concentrate on the Prendergast business. We’re not alone in thinking them murders.’
Lampard made a remark about coroners under his breath.
‘There isn’t a lot of doubt now, surely. I’m glad you’re handling it, Inspector. Now about Mr Lessing.’ He was cold and brisk: ‘He was found on the side of a road about three miles due west of Delaware, although he started off in an easterly direction. It wasn’t too far for him to walk in the time, but there’s no reason for thinking he would walk in the direction he did.’ Lampard went on with the precision and facial expression of a machine-gun. ‘In his hair and on his clothes is a silvery sand found about here and towards the north-east, but not in the west. The soil changes, getting chalky where he was found. The blow on the head broke the skin, and some of the sand was in the wound.’
‘Nice work,’ Roger said. ‘So he wasn’t attacked where he was found?’
‘And he wasn’t in a condition to walk from any district where the sand is found, to the spot we discovered him,’ Lampard went on. ‘He was taken by a car,’
‘Our man seems to run a fleet of them,’ Roger commented.
Lampard tightened his lips. ‘What is your view of tonight’s events so far?’
Roger leaned against a chair.
‘Too many ‘ifs’ and too many ‘mights’, and if I had to put events in order of importance I’d say that the burglary is Number I. Abie worked under direction. Presumably he knew the car which ran him down was waiting, that was why he made a bee-line for it instead of cutting across through the undergrowth, where he had much more chance of dodging us. You know what I mean, there’s a copse –’
‘I know,’ said Lampard.
‘If Abie thought an escape car was waiting for him, his employer bumped him off without having a chance of learning whether he had found anything in the study.’
‘Ah,’ said Lampard, and his lips curved a little.
‘The employer would hardly have been ready to kill so quickly if he’d had any serious expectancy of getting anything useful from the study. Fenton had nothing from the house in his pockets, had he?’
‘No, nothing at all. I’m glad you’ve reasoned that way, Inspector. I had, too, but wondered if I was cock-eyed.’ He actually smiled, his eyes gleaming for the first time since Roger had known him; Roger’s earlier resentment of his manner faded. ‘Two peculiar situations, then. One, that Mr Lessing was removed from one pact of the district to another. The second that Fenton was killed by someone who had sent him to burgle Delaware but was not interested in what he found.’
Roger said slowly: ‘Taking the second one first, Fenton’s employer either sent him on the burglary simply because he wanted this chance of killing him, which doesn’t seem likely, or he sent him to Delaware kn
owing that nothing was going to be found of interest, but wanting it known that he had been here.’
‘We’re agreeing almost too much,’ Lampard said dryly.
‘Something happened to make it necessary to kill Fenton,’ Roger said. ‘The obvious inference is that I was seen to arrive, and the employer was afraid that I might get a line on him through Fenton. Reasonable?’
‘It is to me.’
‘So now back to the first peculiar situation,’ Roger said, with satisfaction. ‘Someone was very anxious to make sure that Mark wasn’t known to have gone in the direction of the silver sand vicinity. Good idea, but bad execution. Is there silver sand in a wide area?’
‘Wide, but not thickly populated,’ said Lampard. ‘I’ll have it searched by tomorrow midday. Why was Lessing here?’ he added off handedly.
Roger chuckled. ‘And why am I here? Because...’
He spent fifteen minutes giving Lampard a resume of the situation. A sergeant looked in for the Guildford Inspector, with the report that Mr Lessing was still unconscious, and the nurse thought it might last for several hours yet.
Lampard nodded dismissal, and then said to Roger: ‘Well, you’ve got your hands full. I’ll get along but count on me to do all I can. I’ll keep in touch. Close touch. You’ll let me know if anything big develops, won’t you?’
‘I certainly will,’ promised Roger.
He waited until he had heard the front door close on the Guildford man, then took Morgan’s notes from his pocket, and read them again.
“Dear Mr Lessing,
Glad to report that I’ve got that little job started. Three unknowns called on our friend P. this afternoon, as well as Mrs Prendergast.
Sir Andrew McFallen.
Mr Gregory Hauteby.
P. left around five o’clock, and my man lost him at Kingston. More tomorrow. Don’t forget to mind your step.
P.E.P.M.”
Roger was still reading it when the door opened and Janet came in.
‘How are the invalids?’ Roger asked.
She didn’t answer at once, and he studied her. His heart missed a beat, for she looked so lovely in her anxiety, with a kind of troubled calm. She had just combed her glossy, wavy dark hair, and dabbed powder on her face.
‘Mark’s all right Dr Tenby gave him a sedative. I’ve looked in to see Claude Prendergast. He looks terrible, but the nurse says he’s no worse, and he’s not in danger. To look at him you’d think he was at death’s door.’ She saw the letter. ‘Does that help at all?’
‘Read it.’ He watched as she did so, and saw her frown.
‘Kingston’s in this direction from London, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Potter headed in this direction. However, that isn’t the only thing. You wouldn’t know, would you?’
‘Know what?’
‘About Sir Andrew McFallen and Gregory Hauteby,’ murmured Roger. ‘They are directors of Dreem, and now perhaps clients of Potter. Now tell me, why should two of the directors start contacting Potter, when as far as we know, they’ve never done business with him before?’
‘You don’t know everything.’
‘A minute ago, I wanted to kiss you. No, I don’t know everything, but I haven’t brooded over this affair for several months and kept my mind closed all the time. Until now, McFallen and Hauteby have had no outward connection with Potter. We can check, of course, it won’t take long. That leaves Widdison and Transom.’
‘If you go on being obscure, I’ll find someone else to kiss me.’
‘Such as Harrington?’
‘Dark romantic soul,’ said Janet. ‘I can imagine him being a real lady-killer. Who are Widdison and Transom?’
‘The remaining directors of Prendergast, Blight & Company, more usually known as Dreem.’
‘You’ve had an idea,’ Janet said.
‘I’ve been telling myself that the co-directors of Dreem could not reasonably be interested in the deaths of the Prendergast family, because once all four were non est - I mean dead –’
‘I know my Latin,’ said Janet coldly.
‘Once the Prendergasts were no longer able to take their position on the board of the company,’ continued Roger, with dignity, ‘their shares, which cover a majority, had to be put on the open market. Old Sep’s will was most explicit. Shares on the open market, the really open market, can be snapped up by anyone. There would be stern competition for Dreem shares, which not only pay a dividend of 20% or so, but also would be in great demand by the other tobacco companies, who resent the independence of Dreem. Now Potter makes a big difference. He is not a stockbroker, but he may have clients who are, and other clients who would like to buy Dreem shares.’
‘I think I follow you,’ said Janet. ‘You want to find out if Potter’s buying Dreem for someone else.’
‘Yes, If a combine call it the AI Tobacco Company bought up the Prendergasts’ shares, Messrs Hauteby, McFallen, Widdison, and Transom would be left out on a limb. They couldn’t resist a take-over bid from AI, and their strength wouldn’t be enough to fight for good terms. I’ll have to find out why they visited Potter, and what business théy’ve been doing with him. I suppose there’s been no internal trouble inside Dreem?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Janet. After a pause, she stirred a ledger with the toe of her shoe. ‘This room’s a helluva mess, darling. Shouldn’t we do something about it? We might find something worth seeing, too.’ She kept stirring the ledger but looked wide-eyed at Roger, her most innocent expression. ‘Potter couldn’t be trying to buy all the Dreem shares, could he? From 1, 2, 3, and 4, as well as the Prendergasts? After all; up to a point he has control of the Prendergast shares now, hasn’t he? Through Claude, or Maisie. Or he thought he had, until Claude got obstreperous.’
‘Obstreperous,’ corrected Roger absently. ‘Come and be kissed, that is an idea.’
A noise came from downstairs, some disturbance followed by a high-pitched voice alternating with Harrington’s deeper one. The latter was so low in fact that it must be taken for granted that, Harrington was talking. A door slammed, and the voices were cut off. Roger and Janet moved together towards the door.
It opened before they reached it, and old Petrie entered.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Petrie said, ‘I thought you should know that Mrs Prendergast is downstairs.’
‘Thank you, yes,’ said Roger. He went past the servant at once.
He knew that Maisie might have come because the news had reached her, but it seemed unlikely that she could have got to Delaware so quickly. He hurried down the stairs with Janet on his heels, and opened the door of the lounge. Maisie’s strident voice was raised.
‘Bloody impostor!’ Maisie shrieked. ‘You lying skunk, you’re no more William Ellsworth ‘Arrington than I am! I’ll have the law on you; I’ll see you get what you’ve asked for. Get out, get out of my house.’
9: Maine Goes Wild
Harrington was standing with both hands in his pockets, his back to the fire. He was staring at Maisie, who had thrown open an opulent grey mink coat, and was shaking one fist at him from a distance of about five feet. A small hat with a veil which dangled to her nose was too far forward on her head, and her thick legs were set apart.
Harrington said contemptuously: ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Drunk, am I?’ squealed Maisie. She took a step forward. Roger studied her flushed face, her parted lips, and did not imagine the whisky fumes. Her clenched hand was trembling, but she remained at a safe distance from Harrington. Her poise suggested that she was prepared to jump out of danger. ‘You insulting tyke, get out of my house! Insult a lady, would you, call me drunk? What have you done to my husband? Where is he? That’s what I want to know - where’s my husband? Drunk?’ She screeched the word at the top of her voice. ‘I’ll give you drunk, you fake. You murdering double-crossing fake.’
Roger stood by the open door, with Janet peering over his shoulder on tip-toe, and Petrie only a foot behind her.
Har
rington did not appear to notice them; Maisie certainly did not as she drew a fresh breath.
‘I’ll have the law on you, I’ll see you get hung for your murdering murders! I’ll see you strung up before I’ve finished. I know what you’ve done and where’s my husband? If you’ve done anything to him –’
Harrington looked across to the open door. Maisie ignored the gesture and burst into another wild diatribe. Roger went forward, and Janet made herself close the door on the outside. Petrie looked frail and troubled. Without a word, he went towards the domestic quarters. Janet opened the door an inch; there were limits to her self-restraint.
Roger was interrupting Maisie Prendergast’s frenzied outpourings.
‘Good evening, Mrs Prendergast. I am Chief Inspector West . .’
Maisie’s voice was cut as if by a knife, and she turned abruptly. Her foot caught against a mat, and she stumbled. Her hat fell further over her forehead, and she brushed it back with a jerky gesture. Roger was puzzled. Maisie had big, unexpectedly fine eyes, and they were neither bleary nor bloodshot. The rest of her was roaring drunk, but her eyes were stone cold sober.
‘You!’ she sneered, ‘you call yourself a policeman and you let this swine stay in the same house! Clear him out, I won’t have him here! Calls himself my Claude’s cousin, baloney, if I’m not careful he’ll do him in like he did the rest.’ Her aspirates were wildly uncertain, over-emphasized. She flung a quivering hand towards Harrington, but continued to glare at Roger.
‘She’s quite drunk,’ Harrington said coldly.
‘Why, you –’
‘We’d better quieten down,’ Roger said. ‘You’ll disturb the invalids, Mrs Prendergast. Your Husband has been taken ill.’
Her ugly mouth widened.
‘I knew it, I knew it! Claude, where’s my Claude? I’m going to see him. Stand out of my way, copper.’ She advanced a couple of paces, but stopped when Roger stood steady.
‘Dr Tenby has refused permission for anyone to see him,’ he said. ‘The doctor will be here again soon and you can ask him for permission then. Meanwhile, you have just made a serious accusation against Mr Harrington.’ He was as cold and precise as Lampard.
