by John Creasey
“Are you—are you sure?”
“We’ll find out when she comes home,” Roger said. “She won’t be long. If you prefer me to tell her I will.”
“No,” said Martin in a strangled voice. “I’ll tell her.”
• • •
Roger had never been more proud of his wife, or more pleased, or more affectionate towards her, than as he watched while Scoop told her very simply what he wanted: what he meant to do. They were still in the kitchen, and the kettle was on for tea, while he, Roger, put biscuits and cheese and fruit cake out for Janet and for Richard when he came in from seeing Lindy to her house, near by. Janet, tall and attractive, with her dark hair touched with grey, a fresh complexion and green- grey eyes, sat in an old saddle-back chair while Martin perched on a corner of the kitchen table.
And then he finished, saying, “I just have to go. I hate hurting you but I just have to go.”
Janet leaned forward, both hands outstretched in reassurance.
“Of course you have to,” she said. “I’ve known for a long time that you’ve been restless and unhappy. And—” she drew him towards her “—and as for hurting, darling, I’d be much more hurt if you stayed home and were miserable because you didn’t think I could take it.”
“Oh, Mum!” Martin cried. “Oh, Mum!”
Suddenly, he was on her lap, his head buried on her shoulder. Roger saw her glistening tears as she soothed him. The next moment there was the sound of a key turning in the front door, and a few seconds later Richard came along the passage, whistling until he breezed into the kitchen. Catching sight of Scoop and his mother, he exclaimed sol to voce, “Gosh!”
Then he looked across at his father. He was tall and dark, well-dressed in an up-to-the-minute Carnaby Street style, and looking exactly what he was: a highly successful young man in his chosen occupation. He was in fact one of the most promising younger men in television production and directing. A year younger than Martin, he now looked about thirteen as he shot an almost agonised questioning look at Roger.
Roger cocked a thumb.
“Come and make the tea, Fish, will you?” he said. I want to nip along to the bathroom.”
Scoop was leaning against the sink, drinking tea, when Roger went back to the kitchen. Janet had tea and a piece of cake on a small table by her side. Richard was tucking into the biscuits and cheese, and saying, “Anyone else want apple-pie and cream before I woof up the lot?”
No one did.
• • •
Later, Roger sat downstairs, reading through his reports, altering a word or two here, making changes of emphasis, seeing all the people concerned, in his mind’s eye, and yet for once putting most of his attention on his family. No matter what he said or even pretended to himself, the fact of Scoop’s going hurt. And if it hurt him, what would Janet feel? He waited until he heard doors close upstairs; she had been in to each boy to say goodnight, an old children’s days habit which asserted itself at all times of emotional crisis. He heard her clear “Goodnight, Scoop,” and then went upstairs. She was already half-undressed, very pale, and her eyes were shiny with tears.
“Hallo, darling,” he said. “You were wonderful!”
That was the moment when she burst out crying . . .
It was a long time before she stopped and got ready for bed, but it was not long, once she was in bed, before Roger heard her even breathing, and knew she was asleep.
He felt very tired but lay awake for over an hour. As the minutes passed, Scoop’s face faded from his mind and he could picture Rachel Warrender’s and Mario Rapelli’s. He wondered whether they were sleeping, and whether the divisional police were keeping Rapelli under proper surveillance.
He thought of Maisie Dunster with her bright hair and cherry-red lips; of Hamish Campbell and his chef’s hat and white smock; of Wilfred Smithson and his tape- recorder and earphones. The odd thing was that he did not give a thought to Coppell, nor even to Benjamin Artemeus and the proposals he had promised to make.
Chapter Six
DEATH
The telephone woke Roger next morning, and he groped for it, aware of the daylight, of Janet next to him, of the harshness of the bedside bell. He lifted the receiver, nearly dropped it and so made more noise, muttered “Blast it,” and then grunted, “West here.”
“This is Blackie Cole,” a man said. “Blackie. Are you awake, Handsome?”
Blackie! Swift pictures of Rapelli, Verdi, and everyone involved, flashed through Roger’s mind.
“Yes. What’s up?”
“Verdi’s dead,” announced Blackie, and stopped after the brusque statement.
In a way it was a good thing he did, for Roger needed a few moments to recover. Verdi, dead of a blow with a guitar, making murder the charge against Rapelli, with two witnesses prepared to swear he had swung that bizarre weapon. Roger struggled to a sitting position and felt a pillow being pushed into the gap between the head panel and the small of his back. Bless Janet!
“And what?” he asked Cole.
“The witness, Wilfred Smithson, died in a road accident late last night,” stated Blackie flatly. “Not a hit and run, but the driver was probably drunk.” He paused again and then added almost superfluously. “That makes the pastry-cook even more important.”
Now there seemed not the slightest doubt that there was deep significance behind the Verdi affair. There had been yesterday’s stubborn attempt to get dismissal of the charge and now this tragedy; together they were too much for a coincidence.
Roger said roughly, “We must watch Campbell like lynxes.”
“I’ve got his home covered, back and front,” Blackie assured him. “I thought you should know straight away.”
“You couldn’t be more right,” Roger approved. The bedside clock told him that it was a little after six. Janet had snuggled down again and he thought she was more asleep than awake. “Anything else?”
“No,” said Blackie, and gave a grim laugh. “Isn’t that enough?”
“What about the driver of the car?”
“He’s a man named Fogarty, and we’re holding him at North Kensington. The accident happened in Fulham at Fulham Broadway, just after eleven o’clock last night. The night man at North Ken tied Smithson in with your court affair and put word through at once. So we did a very quick job on Fogarty. Howard has all the details.”
“Thanks,” said Roger. At least that was one good thing.
He rang off, and got out of bed. Janet stirred but did not speak, perhaps her way of saying that she wanted to try to get off to sleep again. In a way he would be glad to be out of the house before she was up and there was more discussion about and with Scoop. There could be no argument: he had to start on this new stage of the investigation very quickly. After last night Janet should be all right; in a way it might even be better for her to have an hour with the boys on their own. He bathed, dressed, shaved, and was downstairs in twenty minutes, making tea and toast; he disliked starting out without anything to eat.
Half an hour after receiving the telephone call he was driving through nearly deserted streets towards North Kensington, only twenty minutes away. He passed two dust-carts, some red Post Office vans, some milk-carts and several newspaper boys on bicycles, before he pulled up outside the Victorian red-brick building. A constable standing outside the entrance regarded him at first with disapproval and then, on recognition, almost with alarm. Roger nodded and strode up the steps. The duty sergeant in the charge room on the right of the main hall, was yawning over some reports. He looked up, saw Roger, and sprang to attention.
“Mr. West!”
“Who’s in charge?” asked Roger.
“Superintendent Howard, sir. First on the right at the top of the stairs,” he added as Roger began to turn away.
Roger went up the stairs two at a time, yet Howard, a bulky man and near the end of his police service, was at the open door of the room by the time Roger appeared. He was swift-moving and fast-thinking, and as he shook ha
nds he said, “You’re after that driver we’re holding, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Roger said. “Has he talked about it?”
“He mumbles to himself when he says anything at all, says he didn’t see the man on the zebra crossing, and pretends to be half-drunk still. But we had a medical report, Handsome.” Howard paused, obviously for effect, and Roger obligingly asked, “What’s the report?”
“He didn’t have enough alcohol in his blood to make a kitten drunk,” stated Howard. “He’s stone cold sober, just acting a hangover.”
“Oh,” said Roger, “is he. Know anything about him?”
“We’ve got this,” said Howard, and led the way into the room. On a small table on one side, away from Howard’s roll-top desk, was a collection of oddments obviously taken from a man’s pockets. There was also a Record Card, with fingerprints and a general description. The man’s name was Patrick Fogarty, he was five feet ten inches, blue-eyed, fair-haired, age thirty-seven . . . there were a number of distinguishing marks. He lived by himself in a bed-sitting-room at a house in New King’s Road, Fulham, and he was employed by a large firm of caterers as a van driver. He had a small car of his own, a Morris 1000, which he had been driving at the time of the accident.
“Have you had his room searched?”
“Damn it,” protested Howard, “it’s only a case of drunken driving, even if the man he ran down was one of your witnesses.”
“How did you know that?” asked Roger.
“Blackie mentioned it when he was on the telephone,” Howard replied. “Want to see Fogarty?”
“I’d better,” Roger said.
But the man was stretched out on the bed in his cell, snoring away, as apparently he had been for some time. The policeman on cell duty said he hadn’t stopped snoring, once he had started. The description was accurate enough except that it hadn’t told how broad and thick Fogarty was, as powerful-looking a man as Roger had seen in a long time.
He went back upstairs. On a side table in Howard’s office were some oddments from Fogarty’s pockets, including some keys. Thoughtfully, Roger looked at the keys, and then said, “I’d like to take these, and you’ll need a receipt.”
Howard hesitated, then handed Roger a slip of paper. Roger signed, “Keys taken from the man Fogarty now in my possession,” thanked Howard, and drove to the Yard.
There, Information had particulars of Fogarty and was briefed to get more about his background, employment and friends. Roger went up to his own office and checked with the switchboard about the Justice of the Peace on duty. A justice or a magistrate had to sign every search warrant, and Roger needed a warrant for Fogarty’s place. As he went to see the Justices of the Peace on call, he reflected grimly that until yesterday’s encounter with Coppell he would have searched the room and worried about the warrant afterwards.
The Justice of the Peace, who lived near by, was an even-tempered man who showed no resentment at being disturbed so early in the morning, and signed the warrant on Roger’s brief statement of need.
Now, Roger was at the crossroads again. He should, he knew, take a second man with him to make the search, yet some impulse urged him to go alone. He had acted on impulse once already and still wasn’t sure of the consequences. It was surely folly to take another risk. Never- the less, perhaps because of a need to justify and prove himself, perhaps because he was still resentful at Coppell, and wanted to hand him the case on a plate, he decided to take a quick look on his own. If necessary he could return with another officer later.
It was a little after half past seven when he walked up the steps of the house in New King’s Road, only a mile from his own home. This house was in a small terrace, quite well kept, with seven names and seven bell-pushes on the side of the porch.
Fogarty lived on the third floor.
Reaching his room, Roger put one of the keys in the lock and turned it; it was the right one. He opened the door cautiously. The caution was instinctive, he had no reason to suspect that anyone else was in the room. It was dark, as if the curtains were drawn. Light from the passage shone on a bookcase with some heavy-looking, leatherbound books, and on a chair over which some women’s clothes were draped. A bra, stockings, a girdle.
Good God! thought Roger, what was the matter with him? Why had he taken it for granted that there would be no one else here? If he were caught entering a woman’s room by himself he really would be in trouble. Why hadn’t he brought a man with him? He stood still for a moment until he could make out the breathing of whoever was sleeping there, and while waiting he became aware of stale perfume or powder.
He drew back, pulling the door to but not quite closing it for fear of waking whoever was inside; he had no choice at all, had to send for a man before searching; probably should not search at all.
Sensing rather than hearing movement, he half-turned, caught sight of the dark, shiny hair of a man bent low behind him. Then he felt hands thump against his shoulders and went hurtling forward, banging his forehead against the door. It swung open, and he fell headlong into the room. His head smacked against the floor, nearly stunning him, but he was aware of hands gripping his wrists and lifting his legs up. then pushing him to one side. The next moment he was kicked savagely in the ribs, then the door slammed and the light was shut out. He was here, alone, in darkness, gasping for breath.
Gasping.
He was aware of many things: mostly, fears.
What in heaven’s name had made him come alone? He could imagine the ridicule if this story reached the newspapers! It would not only be personally damaging, it would seriously affect the Yard. Coppell. How could he have taken such a chance? A rookie would have known better!
He heard a sound; of creaking.
He was not breathing so heavily now, and when he concentrated he was aware of someone else breathing.
The woman of course; the woman whose clothes were on the chair.
Was she getting out of bed?
Why didn’t she call out? Surely she would if she was frightened.
It was almost as if she had expected—nonsense!
A light flashed above his head. He was starting to get up, one hand on the carpeted floor, but the light dazzled him and he dropped flat again, keeping his head up so that his chin wouldn’t bang against the floor. Slowly he looked up from under his eyebrows.
“ You! ” he gasped.
A woman was sitting up in bed. She wore a flimsy nightdress with a deep V which did little to conceal her large, pale bosom. She was blonde. Her lips were still bright with yesterday’s lipstick—crimson red, which he had seen at the magistrate’s court when she had given evidence.
For this was Maisie Dunster, and she was covering him with a small pistol, a pistol which, if loaded, could kill.
She sat rigidly, mouth set in a rounded “Oh”. The gun was steady in her right hand. Her left was behind her, and she was using it to support herself against the pillows. Her eyes, though heavy from sleep, were almost as rounded as her lips.
Very slowly, Roger began to get up. The humiliation itself wasn’t very important, the ache in his side wasn’t either; drawing up first one knee, then the other, he supported himself with one hand on the floor. He was perhaps six feet away from the side of the bed, the door immediately behind him.
Maisie licked her lips, then said in a husky voice, “Don’t come any nearer.”
He began to get up.
“Sit on the floor, she ordered.
If he obeyed, then he would not only be helpless but she would have the upper hand morally, as well as with the threat of the gun. There were some things one did almost instinctively, and he did one now.
He stood up.
He knew, with half of his mind, that she might shoot him, but he was driven by a compulsion which made him take the chance. He felt giddy once he was on his feet, and his knees bent. He lurched towards the bed, and Maisie thrust the pistol out farther. Lurching backwards, quite unavoidably, he struck the front edge of a chair
with the back of his knees, and dropped into it, helplessly. It was heavy and padded and although it swayed to and fro a few inches it didn’t topple backwards and he didn’t fall.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “It is you!”
He gulped.
“West,” he admitted. “Superintendent West. I have—” He broke off. He had been about to add that he had a search warrant, but in these circumstances it would sound absurd.
Maisie Dunster shifted her position, hitching the pillow up behind her, and adjusting the neck of her nightdress.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked gustily.
West hesitated. Whatever else, she showed no venom and no malice, and the simple truth should be as good an answer as any. He shifted his position to ease the ache in his back, and answered, “I came to search the room.”
“Why?”
“It’s occupied by—” He stopped abruptly, then forced a grin. “I thought it was occupied by a Mr. Patrick Fogarty.”
“Well,” she said, “he pays the rent.”
Roger was feeling much more composed, even grateful to the girl for not giving him the run around when it would have been so easy to have made him feel still more of a fool than he looked.
“And you accept his hospitality on occasions,” he remarked.
Her eyes gleamed with a hint of humour, but he didn’t expect the retort she gave.
“On those nights when I’m not one of four in a bed,” she said. “Funny you should guess about the foursome, Mr. West.”
“Very funny,” said West dryly, “if there was a foursome on that particular night.”
Maisie leant forward, still gripping the gun.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. West: nothing is going to make me say I wasn’t with Mario last night. Or the night before last, whenever it was. And if I like to spend one night with one boy friend and the next with another and then have a free-for-all, it’s nothing to do with you or the Police Force, the Bishop of Canterbury or God, for that matter. I’m myself, you understand. I do what I like with myself, and I go with anyone I like.” Then, she broke off, frowning. “What do you want at Fogarty’s, anyhow?”
