by John Creasey
The sharpshooter could see them in the light, although the hedge threw shadows where it overhung the roadway. But there was no further shooting, no sign of the rifleman. The first people Mark saw were Hauteby, Widdison, and Transom, gathered by the drive gates.
‘Are you all struck dumb?’ Mark rasped at them. ‘Did you see him?’
Hauteby said: ‘We saw no one. And we want a word with you.’
‘One man’s dead or close to it, and the killer’s within a hundred yards of here,’ Mark said. ‘Still want to stop and chat?’
12: Three, Plus Claude
They did their best, or claimed to. Their torches carved little arcs of light about the darkness, but they found no man with a rifle, although there were footprints in the damp earth on the side of the road which would be useful for the police. Mark was in two minds about what to do now; Morgan certainly would not want to reveal himself. He had done his share, and would want to fade into the background. The three Dreem directors were unknown quantities.
Mark thought with a start: ‘Where’s Potter?’
Transom spoke in his portentous way.
‘Mr Lessing, it is time you explained something of your presence here.’
‘Not yet. If you’ll leave your doors wide open you must expect what you get. Where’s Gabriel Potter?’
Hauteby said: ‘Isn’t he here?’
Mark forced back a retort. He wished he could see faces instead of pale blurs, that he could examine the motor-cyclist, go to see Potter, and telephone the police. He would have to do the latter himself, or at least be there when Lampard arrived; there would be too many questions. He decided to attend to the motor-cyclist first.
‘Is any one of you a doctor?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Widdison answered. He had a croaking voice, and to look at was an ogre of a man. The darkness was kind to him.
‘Will you get to the house and telephone the police,’ said Mark. ‘And try to persuade Potter to wait for them to arrive.’ He turned on his heel, wondering whether one of them would follow. None did. He was alone when he reached the motor-cyclist, whose legs were held down by his machine. He could not have moved, in any case. Torchlight revealed a small hole in his forehead; it had bled very little.
The face was unfamiliar.
Out of the gloom came Morgan’s voice: ‘Want me any more, Mr Leasing?’
‘You get off, thanks,’ said Mark. ‘But have a glance at this chap first.’ He waited while Morgan obeyed. Morgan hadn’t seen the dead man before; it was an ordinary-looking face with no special characteristics. The dark scarf which he had worn over his mouth and chin was now about his neck.
‘Poor devil,’ said Morgan. ‘Okay, I’ll beat it. Sure there’s nothing else?’
‘No need for us both to get in a jam,’ Mark said. ‘What shoes are you wearing?’
‘Don’t worry about me, they won’t trace my shoes from prints,’ said Morgan. ‘Shall I tell Mr West?’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Mark.
It was cold, bleak, and lonely when Morgan had gone, and Mark was surprised that none of the men from Yew House had thought it necessary to join him. They were probably in a huddle, discussing how best to answer the inevitable awkward questions. Any one of the three, as well as Potter, might have fired the shot which had killed the motor-cyclist, but he had seen no rifle. Transom might have brought one from the house, of course, but was Transom a dead shot? And was Potter?
Mark rubbed his hands to get them warm. There were strange noises in the surrounding undergrowth, and occasional distant rumbles as if heavy transport was moving on the main road, farther to the south. The searchlights swept their unplanned course about the sky, but there was no sound of aircraft.
Mark said suddenly: ‘What’s happening to me?’
He had put out his torch, but used it again to show him the position in which the dead man was lying. Then he doused it and slid a hand into the dead man’s inside breast pocket. He found a wallet, and two letters. Using the torch again, he glanced at the writing on the envelopes: they were both addressed to:
David Anderson, Esq.,
c/o Harringtons Ltd.,
Dean Park Road, Kingston-on-Thames,
Surrey.
Mark repeated the address two or three times, then drew a deep breath. He opened the letters, finding that they were both from the same woman, ordinary letters filled with ordinary items of gossip. Both ended: ‘Your affectionate sister, Cora’. He replaced them in their envelopes, clumsily because he was wearing gloves, and then looked through the wallet. There was an identity card with a photograph affixed; it declared that David Anderson was an employee in the Development Department of Harringtons Ltd., that he had permission to move to any part of the factory and had access to it at anytime, day and night. Mark looked at the photograph just long enough to make sure that it was that of the dead man.
Mark finished looking through Anderson’s pockets, finding nothing of further interest, then stood up and lit a cigarette.
Harrington’s employee; was it asking too much to believe that Anderson’s presence here had nothing to do with his employer? No, thought Mark, there were limits to coincidence. He felt an urgent desire to see Harrington before the police did. That was not going to be easy, for they would not lose much time once they had identified Anderson.
Mark frowned.
The only evidence of identity was in the letters and the pass. If the police did not find them, it might take them several hours, perhaps days, to identify Anderson. There was no reason at all why the wallet and envelopes should not have slipped out of his pocket.
Mark took them again, carried them to the other side of the road and dropped them in a ditch. They would be found in a thorough search, but none was possible before daylight.
He felt better. It was certainly as well that Roger had not come, but this was really why Roger had not; he would have had to take official action.
Mark did not know how long he had waited, but it was three o’clock before the police arrived. Lampard was not with them. Mark was pleased about that, for Lampard’s coldness was, to him, no more than a cover for suspicion of interfering amateurs. The Inspector who had arrived, Wade by name, was a much more genial type, asking quite casual questions.
The police took charge of the body.
‘How many people know about this?’ Wade asked.
‘Four more, to my knowledge,’ said Mark. ‘Who telephoned you?’
‘Mr Transom.’ Wade uttered the name as if it were one which carried weight. ‘Is that your car along there?’ The lights of his own machine shone on the Lagonda.
‘Yes.’ For the first time Mark allowed himself to dwell on his difficulties, and he did not like the look of them. How was he to explain his presence, and the fact that the car was left away from the house? His mind worked overtime, as he walked with Wade back to Yew House.
The door was open, and a servant in a dressing-gown was waiting in the hall. Transom and his friends were in the study; would the Inspector kindly go up? Wade did not discourage Mark from going with him.
The study was the kind of room to be expected there. It had an air of wealth, even of luxury. On a small table in front of the fire, which burned brightly, was a decanter and three glasses. Transom, Widdison, and Hauteby were drinking; Potter, sitting further from the fire than any of the others, was abstemious.
Transom stood up, and the others made a pretence at it.
‘Don’t get up, gentlemen, please,’ said Wade.
Potter made a sign, inviting Mark to join him. Mark did so. Potter placed his hands on the smooth arm of his chair. Wade was talking to Transom, asking trifling little questions which Mark found irritating, but he was able to take the slip of paper which Potter had covered with his hand.
Had Wade seen that manoeuvre?
Mark was startled when Transom said: ‘Mr Lessing has been invaluable, Inspector. I hardly know what we would have done without him. It was a happy chance that he called.
What about a drink?’ He leaned forward for the whisky.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Wade.
‘Thanks,’ said Mark.
He stood closer to the fire, eyeing Potter. The man gave an almost imperceptible nod. Potter must have a strong reason for making it easy for him.
Questions and answers. Transom, Widdison, and Hauteby had met to discuss a difficult legal point with Potter. Lessing had called to see Transom, no reason was given and had stayed at Transom’s invitation. They had been discussing the death of McFallen, a sad, sad, business. With regard to this second death Transom really did not know what to say; he was completely at a loss to understand it. He had shown Potter downstairs, and . . .
From there, his story was clear and accurate. He talked of Morgan, but not by name. Mark disclaimed any knowledge of the man, or that he could give an effective description. Wade seemed satisfied, just a little too satisfied; Mark imagined he was acting as a stop-gap for Lampard, and knew it. He could almost imagine Lampard instructing the Inspector to arouse no suspicions, to deal very gently with the Dreem directors.
‘So it appears that Mr Potter was to have been the victim,’ said Wade. ‘Have you any idea who it could have been, Mr Potter?’
‘I am as puzzled as Mr Transom,’ Potter replied.’ But ‘he gave a shrug of his narrow shoulders ‘I am not without my enemies. You may be aware of that.’
Wade was shocked. No, he was not aware of that. He hoped that he was not making a nuisance of himself, but he would get Mr Transom to write out a brief statement, which all of them could sign. The identity of the murdered man would be proved as soon as possible, and the police would pass on all relevant information. Mr Transom would understand that the circumstances made it impossible not to leave men in the grounds. The rifle, for instance, might have been thrown away, and it was valuable evidence. More; the killer might come back for something. He was barely plausible, but no more.
Transom voiced no objection, and was anxious to do all he could to assist the police. It was a fine show of geniality and hearty good-fellowship, not spoiled by Transom’s pomposity. Then Transom hoped that Potter and Mark would stay the night, as it had grown so late.
Mark was astonished when Potter accepted the invitation.
He refused it, and Wade said he could go. He shook hands all round, and left the house, the note which Potter had given him burning a hole in his pocket. He did not try to read it, even when he reached his car. He drove towards Guildford, slowing down when he saw the little group of policemen about Anderson’s body. They were working just as they had worked near Abie Fenton’s.
Mark drove faster after that, but had not reached Guildford before he knew that he was being followed; and he was not sure whether to fear that Wade had sent a man after him, or whether Potter had contrived it.
He only knew that he had to evade pursuit.
The driver of the pursuing car was following Mark’s headlights, using only sidelights himself. The two little orbs of faint white showed in the driving mirror. It was difficult to estimate how far the car was behind; Mark imagined it to be some fifty or sixty feet. He increased his speed, but the other car kept up. He slowed down, and the other driver did, also.
‘That rules out chance,’ Mark said. ‘If they’d been planning to crash me it would have been over by now. I wish I could catch a glimpse of them.’ He toyed with the idea of stopping and asking the other motorist for assistance he did not need. The idea grew attractive when he was on the other side of Cobham. He pulled up abruptly, stepping into the road with his arms outstretched as the other driver applied his brakes.
The vague face of a man showed against the window, and the bright light of Mark’s torch revealed Chief Inspector Lampard.
‘Well I’m damned!’ exclaimed Mark. ‘Are you going up to town at this time of night?’
Lampard blinked against the light, and asked Mark to move tile beam. He was affable enough. He was going to London, but could he help Mr Leasing? He had been grateful for the headlamps, his own were faulty.
Mark beamed. ‘Too bad. D’you know, I had an idea someone was following me, and stopped to inquire. That’s all. Not much use me offering you a lift, is it, although we’d save petrol.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Lampard. ‘Unless you would like to park your car and come with me, Mr Lessing. We could exchange views then.’
‘There’s nothing I’d like better, but I must get home and get some sleep. In spite of my overdose yesterday, my eyes will hardly keep open.’
He raised a hand, returned to the Lagonda, and started slowly, then making a fair speed. Once he switched on his dashboard lights to check the petrol. Thanks to Roger’s two gallons he was still a quarter full; he could afford a little game with Lampard.
He played it, driving straight to Chelsea, and garaging his car noisily. Lampard passed the end of the road, and then, Mark hoped, went on about other business.
Indoors Mark opened Potter’s note; it was a curt request for him, Mark, to go and see him next day. He put it aside. He wished he had not to go out again, and then had an idea. He checked Harrington’s number, and then called it three times, with the same result, and moved away from the telephone thoughtfully. On the spur of the moment he telephoned Harrington’s Ltd., expecting no reply.
A man’s voice said: ‘This is Harrington’s.’
‘Hallo,’ said Mark. ‘Is er is Mr Harrington there?’
‘Yes, he is,’ said the operator. ‘But he can’t come to the telephone, he’s working on a break-down, and will be until morning. Can I take a message?’
‘I’ll call again,’ said Mark.
With Harrington at his factory there was less likelihood of danger to him, and Mark gave up the idea of going to Kingston. He set the alarm for nine o’clock, after deciding that it would be pointless to telephone Roger at that hour. Lampard would report the new murder to the Yard, anyhow.
Mark was not awakened by the alarm, but by the telephone. His eyes were heavy, but he saw that it was half-past seven. He stretched out his hand for the instrument.
‘Hallo,’ he said without enthusiasm.
‘Good morning,’ said Gabriel Potter.
‘You didn’t mean seven in the morning, did you?’
‘No. I wanted to make sure you did not come. It is no longer convenient.’
Potter rang off without another word, and Mark stared at the telephone, replaced the receiver, shrugged his shoulders, and got out of bed. He shaved and dressed slowly and then rang up Roger, to be told that the number was engaged. He did not know that it was engaged in trying to call him. He replaced the receiver and it rang sharply almost before it was in position.
‘Mr Lessing.’ It was Pep Morgan, with a hint of excitement in his voice. ‘Take a tip, go and see Harrington quickly.’
Morgan rang off.
Half-an-hour later Mark rang the bell at Harrington’s flat. There was a fine drizzle of rain, and on the mat in front of the door some mud stains and what looked like oil; Harrington had returned, unless someone else had visited the flat. After a pause, Harrington opened the door, with a towel in his hand.
‘Morning,’ said Mark. ‘I’m glad to find you up with the lark. Can you spare me a few minutes?’
‘Why?’ Harrington was brusque. ‘I’m just going to bed. I’ve been up all night.’
‘That’s odd, so have I,’ said Mark. ‘I think you’ll be glad that you’ve spared me the time.’ He edged into the small, barely furnished box of a hall, while Harrington grunted and pushed open the door of the lounge-cum-dining room with his knee.
‘I’ll be in soon,’ he promised.
Mark looked round, the room which Roger had thought would interest him and his eyes widened when he saw the Livy, Lawrence, and Gibbons cheek by jowl in the bookshelves by the fireplace. His lips formed a soundless whistle when he caught sight of the three masks.
He was examining one when Harrington entered, and he said with real excitement: ‘Harrington, that�
�s a piece by le Fleur, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ said Harrington. ‘And this is a piece by Harrington. What do you want?’ He was aggressive, but not so angry as he had been with Roger.
Mark looked away from the mask.
‘To play ball with you,’ he said. ‘I’m not a policeman. Hasn’t that fact registered?’
‘You’re tarred with their brush,’ said Harrington. ‘You are all a lot of prying busybodies. If I had more time I’d gun for you, but I haven’t. If you’ve come to tell me you’re not a policeman, good morning.’
‘There’s a little more,’ Mark murmured. ‘Roger West told me what happened last evening, and who was here with you hold it!’ he exclaimed as Harrington began to scowl, and to open his mouth. ‘I’m not interested in your private affairs. Nor is West. You might pay some attention to us. You’re moving towards as tight a corner as you’ve ever known. Bellowing about like an angry bull won’t make the police think more kindly of you. I suppose you realize what you are doing,’ he added. He proffered his case.
Harrington brushed it aside.
‘If the police are still taking heed of what that raddled old buzzard said, God help them. Apart from that, I’m not aware that anything has been said or done which affects me. I had the misfortune to be born a cousin to Claude Prendergast.’
‘Misfortune is nearer the mark than you know,’ said Mark. ‘Someone killed the other Prendergasts, and had a shot at Claude. If Claude dies, you inherit.’
‘Do you want me to buy Claude a life-belt,’ demanded Harrington. ‘Well, do you?’
Mark smiled. ‘Not quite that, he isn’t likely to die just yet, he’s being too closely watched. But there are deeper waters. You haven’t given anyone else any credit yet, you know. Last night another director of Dreem was killed, and last night also a man attempted to do bodily harm to one Gabriel Potter. Now I dislike Potter as much as anyone could, but I don’t think the right way to stop his dirty game is to bump him off. It’s careless, it’s messy, and even though he’d committed a dozen murders, which isn’t by any means certain, murdering him earns the gallows.’
