by John Creasey
‘Any reason for thinking this way?’
‘Transom virtually admitted he wanted a business,’ said Roger, ‘He didn’t specify what the business was. None of the Dreem people could approach Harrington direct very easily, especially Transom. He had antagonized Harrington too much. Potter was working through Anderson to get the process for Dreem directors. It looks as if he changed his mind.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Chatworth. ‘Clear enough. Even probable. What does Potter say about his association with Anderson?’
‘That Anderson wanted to borrow money from him,’ said Roger. ‘It’s plausible. Potter does a bit of money-lending on the side. Not officially, but that’s what it amounts to. I haven’t badgered Potter too much,’ Roger added, ‘but he’s watched wherever he goes, and he doesn’t go to many places. I think we have him worried. I think he ordered Clay to put paid to the three of us at Kingston, and that when it failed he saw the red light But he’s not finished yet’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ agreed Chatworth. ‘Well, that’s all right as far as it goes, but it hardly covers the Prendergast business, nor this new wife, what do you call her? Maisie. What is her association with Potter?’
‘We haven’t found out yet,’ admitted Roger.
‘Have you any ideas?’
‘Ideas is hardly the word, sir, but there are some peculiar things. For instance, Potter was supposed to have “discovered” Harrington as a relation, whereas in fact Harrington went to see the Prendergasts himself, two years or more ago. They knew he existed, although they gave us to understand that there were no more relatives than those we knew. Then Maisie Prendergast suggested that Harrington wasn’t the real McCoy. It could be a straw in the wind, indicating that Potter is going to try to refute Harrington’s proof of identity.’
‘Is it possible?’
‘His birth certificate seemed in order,’ said Roger. ‘I’m a bit doubtful of the passport; it isn’t quite a hundred per cent. I’ve seen some excellent forgeries, and I’m going to have Eddie Day have a look at it.’ Roger paused.
‘Go on,’ urged Chatworth.
‘If we’re to assume that Potter planned the murders of the Prendergasts in order to put Maisie, through Claude, in control of Dreem,’ said Roger, ‘we have a strong enough motive or we did have until Claude and Maisie started to come to blows. Although the woman has talked a lot in her sleep, there’s nothing in the way of evidence against her. She married Claude for his money, yes. He then had two thousand a year, and that’s a comfortable income. We can guess all we like, but we’ve no evidence to support a belief that Maisie knew Claude would soon come into much more money.
So -’ he raised his hands, for emphasis. ‘Potter backs Maisie, we think. We also think that Potter finds a “new” relative. Potter contrives to poison Claude, who doesn’t die. But supposing Potter is aiming to get the Dreem money out of Claude’s control and into someone’s much more amenable, and Harrington is an obvious choice. But if Potter didn’t think Harrington would be pliable well, sir, what is he likely to do, if he’s the criminal I’ve made out?’
‘This is your story, I wouldn’t rob you of the climax for the world!’
‘Thank you, sir. As far as I can see, Potter would have a stooge impersonate Harrington. That’s what I meant by Maisie’s straw in the wind. She deliberately gave us the idea, and I imagine Potter put her up to it. It may sound fantastic, but –’
‘Not fantastic at all,’ declared Chatworth swiftly, ‘hardly commonplace, perhaps, but there is nothing commonplace about Potter. What does Lessing think about it?’
‘You’ve had a summary of what we both think, sir, as far as we can go. That Potter has his fingers in two very profitable pies - Dreem, and Harrington’s rubber process.’
‘Yes. But Potter must know that if he makes a slip, we’ll hang him,’ Chatworth objected.
‘He could be under pressures himself.’
‘You think he is being forced into this?’
‘If he could make a big killing and get out of the country to spend it, I’d think he was taking a chance. But he can’t. And I can’t imagine that he would take such chances just for what he can get out of it, knowing that all the time he’s using his money, we’re waiting to catch him out.’
‘See what you mean,’ said Chatworth. ‘So, someone might be using pressure on Potter. I’ve wondered about that myself. Glad to know we agree on the possibility.’ He smiled, broadly. ‘Keep at it, West. Don’t hesitate to do whatever you think best. We mustn’t let Potter get away.’
He wandered off into trivialities before dismissing Roger, who went back stimulated if confused. Chatworth had told him as clearly as he could that he, Roger, had carte blanche. The cry was ‘Get Potter’, the inference ‘don’t give a damn how!’
Eddie Day was sitting at his desk with a watchmaker’s glass screwed in his eye. He put down the cheque he was examining and glanced sideways at Roger, saying hopefully: ‘Is’ the Old Boy in a bad mood today?’
‘No worse than usual,’ said Roger mendaciously. ‘Are you up for an interview?’
‘Gawd help us, no. I wondered, that’s all. Sloane looked in just now. I said you’d ring him when you got back.’
‘Thanks.’ Roger glanced at his watch. It was nearly half past one, but Sloane often went late to lunch. He lifted the telephone.
‘West speaking,’ he said.
‘Glad you called, sir. I’ve got something about Clay.’ There was excitement in Sloane’s voice. ‘He’s been found, sir, with the other man. Both dead, both shot in the forehead.’ Sloane drew in an audible breath. ‘They were found in a sand pit near Yew House, sir.’
16: Bodies in a Sand Pit
With A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Roger telephoned Chatworth. That was half an hour later, and he had been working at pressure ever since the news from Sloane.
‘Both dead,’ Chatworth exploded. ‘Why in hell didn’t you make sure it couldn’t happen? My God, what do we have a police force for?’ All his amiability was gone. Roger could imagine that his face looked brick red. ‘It’s got to stop damn it, we needed those men. They were the only two we could make talk about Potter. Didn’t you realize that?’
‘Only too well, sir.’
‘Know who killed them?’
‘No, sir. We know that Potter’s been in London all morning, Harrington has been at his work, and Miss Transom on duty. We haven’t full reports on the directors of Dreem, but Lampard tells me that as far as he knows Claude Prendergast and his wife have been at Delaware all the time. Claude’s about again. Lampard’s men are stretched pretty thin, though.’
‘Ought to have sent our men there,’ growled Chatworth. ‘Every director of that company must be watched every minute. See to it.’
It was useless to talk about manpower shortage.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And see to it quick.’ Chatworth rang off.
Roger saw Eddie Day watching him, as if divining Chatworth’s mood.
‘He after your blood?’ asked Eddie, lasciviously.
‘Proper vampire, Chatworth,’ Roger replied. He telephoned Mark. ‘Mark, I’m going down to Guildford right away. Clay and the little man have been killed. Coming?’
‘Am I!’
‘Pick you up at Victoria Station,’ Roger said.
‘I don’t know that I think it’s wise to use amateurs,’ Day said, plaintively.
‘We’re too short handed, Eddie. Blame Hitler.’ Roger lifted the telephone again, and spoke to a messenger. ‘Get me some meat sandwiches, wrapped up, and take them out to my car, will you? In five minutes.’ He knew it would take ten.
He picked up his murder bag, always at the ready, told the operator to tell Lampard that he was on his way, and went out to his car. The messenger soon came hurrying with a big packet of sandwiches.
‘And I thought you’d like a bottle of beer, sir.’ He took one out of his tunic pocket.?
‘Good idea,’ Roger said. ‘Telephone
my wife, will you? Tell her I may be late tonight.’
‘I will, sir.’
He picked Mark up ten minutes later, and told him what Chatworth had said as they drove down to Guildford.
Most of the drive they were silent.
By a stile in the hedge bordering Yew House was a uniformed policeman, who recognized Roger, and saluted.
‘Is Inspector Lampard still here?’ Roger did not get out of the car.
‘Yes, sir. I believe he’s in a summerhouse at the back of the garden here. You can get to it this way. It’s quicker than going by the drive.’
They parked the car, and walked over rough grassland.
Lampard was busy in the old wooden summer house. He had utilized an old table as a desk, and had papers spread all over it. Not far away were two bodies covered with sheeting.
Lampard looked up, half-smiled a greeting, and plunged into detail immediately. The two men had been found in the first instance by a Home Guard, who had been on duty near the spot, and noticed a smell. It had now been decided that the two men had been dead for at least twelve hours. Tenby had been to the pit and had been reasonably sure of that. In case Roger wanted to see him, the doctor would be at Delaware during the evening; he was calling to see Claude.
‘Thanks,’ said Roger,
Lampard went on, accepting philosophically that the two men had been killed within hours, possibly within two or three hours, of leaving the Kingston flat after the attempt at a triple-murder.
There was nothing helpful in the men’s pockets, and no indication, yet, as to whether they had been killed in the quarry or taken there after death. The probability was that they had been killed there, since there was no sign of bruises and had they been dead when they reached the spot it was likely that they would have been thrown over the edge.
Lampard took a small envelope from the table.
‘Tenby got one of the bullets,’ he said, and rolled it on to a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s the one that killed Anderson.’ He rolled that out of another envelope. ‘I’ll have it checked, but I think they’re the same gun. I’ve had half-a-dozen men brought here, to watch the house,’ he added. ‘Mr and Mrs Transom are in, but no one else except the servants.’
‘What’s Transom’s attitude?’ Mark asked.
‘Shocked,’ said Lampard, and rubbed his chin while he’ looked at Roger. ‘We’re about two miles from Delaware,’ he added slowly. ‘That’s a bullet from a small gun. A woman could use it, couldn’t she?’
Roger was startled. ‘A woman?’
‘Good Lord,’ said Mark suddenly, making Roger look at him and away from Lampard. ‘Of course. A woman could use a light-calibre all right. Can you think of anyone, Roger, or is the mind quite blank?’
Roger had a vision of Maisie Prendergast, who was nearby at Delaware House.
The three men in the summerhouse were silent for a few moments.
Then Roger asked: ‘Has the little man been identified yet?’
‘No,’ replied Lampard.
‘Let’s call him Smith. We know that Clay and Smith ran away from Harrington’s flat to what they considered a place of safety. They were shot by someone waiting for them. The rendezvous must surely have been arranged before. The probability is that they were either coming here or going to their headquarters via the quarry.’
‘There’s one other possible house, apart from Delaware House,’ Lampard said. ‘It’s called The Gables, and lies about a mile north of Yew House.’
‘Who lives there?’
‘No one in any way connected with this affair as far as I can discover,’ said Lampard. ‘A Mr Clement Delaroy. Old, uncommunicative, unfriendly and, I believe, a brilliant economist in his youth. He’s been there for some five years, and no one knows a great deal about him. In case you’re thinking that five years is a comparatively short time, only two people have lived in this particular part of the district for more. The Prendergasts and the Transoms. Most of the others are newcomers since the bombing of London started. Delaroy is a comparatively old resident, although locals see little of him. He shops in the village or in Guildford, employs local servants, but bars his land to anyone and is constantly asking for prosecutions under the Trespass Laws.’
Mark rubbed his chin.
‘All you want to tell us now is that he wears a big grey beard and wig, and the grounds of his house have gone to rack and ruin. Then we’ll have our man of mystery, and just be able to go along and arrest him. It couldn’t work out like that, of course?’
‘He’s quite bald,’ said Lampard. ‘His garden is the loveliest thing you’re ever likely to see. Before the war he employed three full-time gardeners in his four acres. There is nothing mysterious about Delaroy. He only comes into the picture because his rear fence is less than a mile from the sand pit where we found the bodies. His is one of the gardens where the soil is very sandy, too.’
‘Sandy soil, incomparable garden?’ Mark made the words a question.
‘He brought in a lot of soil from the other side of the village,’ Lampard said. ‘Purely as a precaution I’m having the house watched, but I’m not really hopeful of any results from there. The probabilities are surely that the killer came from Yew House or Delaware House, but I want to get back to Guildford to check on these and other things.’ He picked up the rifle bullets, and stood up. ‘Will you go to see Transom?’
‘Yes,’ said Roger.
‘I had a call just before you came; Harrington and Garielle Transom are up there. You might play one off against the other.’
‘Worth trying,’ Roger agreed.
‘Still room for a passenger?’ asked Mark.
‘I’d better carry you along,’ said Roger. ‘We’ll walk up. The car’s as well here as any place.’
They cut across the grounds towards Yew House, approaching it from the side, and seeing a small car standing outside the front door. Neither of them recognized it, but as they went towards the head of the drive along a gravel path which led past one side of Yew House, they heard a voice raised in anger. Two others, both feminine, were apparently trying to soothe the speaker.
The speaker was Transom; even in a rage he could not wholly discard his pompous manner.
‘A stop by the way is indicated,’ said Mark. ‘Much could come out in a family row.’ Shrubs hid them from sight of the house although they could see the large window, and against it Transom, standing sideways towards them and facing someone hidden in the shadows of the room.
‘For the first and the last time,’ Transom said in a quivering voice, ‘I will not have you in my house! Be quiet, Clara! Garielle, I will not have another word from you on this subject. I have given my decision, and will either abide by it, or –’
‘I don’t think you quite know what you’re doing,’ Garielle said clearly. ‘Hadn’t you better think more about it?’
‘I have thought too much!’ shouted Transom. ‘Now, sir, must I call my servants to show you to the door?’
‘If he goes, father, I go too,’ said Garielle.
‘You may please yourself. It has been your habit for the past two years, and I am not impressed by where it has taken you.’ Transom made a choking noise in his throat. ‘I little thought that the day would come when my own daughter would admit that she had made a habit of spending the night with a man whom she met casually, a man who - oh, I have talked enough! Your past mistakes will be forgiven, if – ‘
Harrington broke in calmly.
‘You know, Mr Transom, I’ve heard of people like you, read about them and seen them on the screen, but I didn’t think they existed. If a young woman of twenty-five wants to go as she pleases, it’s the usual thing to allow her to. Even if you think she’s mixing with a sex-fiend, do you imagine this is the way to stop her? You’re so hidebound in your Victorianism that I can’t imagine how you live in this sordid world. But apart from moral scruples, where’s your faith in Garielle? You’re implying that she’s no better than a whore. I don’t like that innuendo a
bout my wife.’
‘How about that,’ Mark whispered.
‘Quiet,’ breathed Roger.
It was deathly quiet, after Harrington stopped, and the silence lasted until someone began to breathe heavily. Then came little clucking sounds, probably from Clara Transom.
Transom exploded: ‘Your wife! Garielle, he can’t mean that! It can’t be true. You haven’t married this mountebank! I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it!’
‘Will a marriage certificate convince you?’ asked Garielle, and a rustling of paper sounded. ‘Would you like to see it now?’ She spoke as if it was all she could do to stop herself from shouting. The tension in the room must be at breaking point.
‘Why does Transom hate Harrington?’ Mark could not keep quiet.
‘We’ll find out.’
Clara Transom exclaimed: ‘Oh, Garry, Garry. Why, why did you have to deceive us!’
‘Because if I hadn’t father would have tried to stop our wedding,’ Garielle said evenly. ‘There would have been another horrible outburst in the newspapers. Do you think I want my affairs put in the headlines because my father’s a crank on the subject of women? A dozen times a hundred times! I’ve asked him why he objected to the man I love. He’s never tried to answer it. He’s always put me off by saying that he wanted someone better for me. Better !’ Her scorn was scathing. ‘He would like to lead me to the altar with some ape with a title. Look at the specimens he’s had here to parade in front of me!’
After a short silence, Transom said: ‘No, it wasn’t that, Garielle.’ His voice was low-pitched, a most surprising thing. ‘I wished you to marry well, Garielle, but I desired your happiness above all things. I knew that you could never be happy with this fraud. He is no more William Harrington than I am; He is no relative of the Prendergasts; he has simply pretended to be in order to get the Dreem company. But what can I do now? What can I do?’
Garielle said: ‘Daddy, you must believe –’
‘It cannot be forgotten,’ Transom said.
