by John Creasey
‘I’ll turn it up a bit,’ said Roger.
The news was of murders and taxes and production needs. As the announcer went on, Roger said abruptly: ‘Has Janet told you?’
‘Eh? Told me what?’
‘I’m not sure that I can trust you,’ said Roger. ‘I wouldn’t put it behind the pair of you to get into a huddle. About my frequent night calls.’
‘She did mention something about it,’ admitted Mark, as if trying to recall what Janet had said. ‘She thinks you’re overdoing it, and between you and me, you don’t look as fresh as a daisy.’
‘I’m busier than I want to be,’ Roger admitted. ‘But it can’t be helped, and it’s hush-hush. Try to reassure her, will you? I don’t like to think that she’s worried.’
‘For what it’s worth, I’ll try,’ said Mark. ‘If she starts taking any serious notice of me, that will be the day. I suppose I can’t be your Watson? Humble servant, earnest disciple, and all that kind of thing. I mean, if I can be of any help, just say the word.’
‘Not this time, Mark. Sorry.’
‘Oh, I don’t expect to do more than pick up a few crumbs from the master’s table,’ said Mark humbly. ‘If the situation should alter, though, pass on the word and I’ll come frisking up.’
Janet did not come in until after seven o’clock, and then went to make omelettes for supper. Between Mark and Roger there remained a companionable silence, one which had often existed between them.
Mark did some more unpacking before going to bed, and dropped off quickly. He had no idea what time it was when something woke him up.
It was the high-pitched burr-burr of a telephone. There was an extension, and a bell, in the Wests’ bedroom, adjoining this room. It seemed to ring interminably, and Mark would not have been surprised to learn that Janet was refusing to answer and Roger too sound asleep to be awakened.
Instead, there was a break in the ringing, but it soon started again. Then Roger’s voice sounded: ‘Hallo, what’s that?’ He was gruff. ‘Oh, damn the thing. All right, sweet.’ The bell stopped ringing. After a brief wait, the ting! of the instrument being replaced reached Mark’s ears, and was followed by Janet’s protesting: ‘Roger, not again.’
Roger said something, persuasively. Soon there was a creaking noise. Then something fell with an ominous clatter, enough to have awakened Mark had he been asleep; it sounded like the alarm clock falling. There was a confused murmur of voices, and Roger said something which sounded like: ‘You’ll wake Mark.’ Mark grinned to himself, climbed out of bed, and groped for his clothes.
There was a chill in the night air, but by the time he had on slacks, a pullover, and rubber-soled shoes, he felt much warmer. He had left his cigarettes, matches, and small change in his coat pocket, and slipped the coat on as the other door opened. Roger’s footsteps passed his door.
Mark went to the door, and opened it a few inches. There was Janet, in a dressing gown. She whispered: ‘Are you awake?’
‘I’ll follow him.’ Then a thought struck him. ‘But will he go by car?’
‘He doesn’t usually,’ said Janet.
The front door opened and closed, and all was quiet except for Mark’s footsteps down the stairs. He opened the front door and stepped to the porch. It was colder here than in his bedroom, and he shivered as he walked along the drive. He could not hear Roger’s footsteps then, and assumed that Roger also had rubber-soled shoes.
To the right, towards King’s Road, there was a faint glow of a torch, presumably Roger’s. Mark hurried along, but began to wonder whether he was making a fool of himself. A police car might be waiting at the end of the road. Sergeant ‘Old Bill’ Sloan had deliberately misled Janet.
Roger turned right again, into King’s Road.
When Mark reached the corner there was no torch shining, but he was just able to discern Roger’s figure, twenty yards or more ahead of him. The light was better; dawn was breaking. That put the time at about four-thirty.
Two lorries rumbled past him, and three others came towards him, but Roger did not stop and was not picked up. He was striding along without glancing behind, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was being followed. When he passed over the railway bridge into Chelsea, he crossed the road and took a side street towards the Thames. Two or three people were about, and some cyclists came along.
Roger reached the Embankment.
By then the light was so good that Mark slackened his pace, for a glance would reveal him, and he did not think that Roger would be appreciative of his presence.
Roger walked along the Embankment, close to the parapet. The Thames was at high tide, and some heavily-laden barges were moving down river. To the left the stark shape of the Albert Bridge, its skeleton-like suspension spans showing clearly against the sky, was approached by occasional vehicles. Mark kept to the other side of the road.
Then at first innocently enough, two men came from a turning farther along, and crossed the road. They walked quickly, with long strides, and they were both tall. Their features were indistinct, but one walked with a limp, going down on his left side with every other step. It did not appreciably slow him down. Both of them reached the Embankment a few yards behind Roger, who did not look round.
Mark quickened his pace.
He did not do so because he thought that there would be need for him; he took advantage of the cover offered by the strangers. In spite of the quickening of his pace, however, Mark was twenty yards behind Roger and on the other side of the road, when the two men broke into a run.
They were going to attack Roger.
‘Look out!’ Mark bellowed.
Roger swung round into a blow from the man with the limp, who was carrying a weapon; Mark saw his arm rise. Roger seemed to avoid the full force of it, but the second man leapt to the attack.
Mark was rushing along, as a car came along the road.
The driver blew urgently upon his horn. Mark hesitated, glanced about, and saw the oncoming car swerving outwards towards the crown of the road. If he ran on he would run into it. He dodged back. The brakes squealed, and the car driver leaned forward. ‘Feel like suicide, mate?’
Mark gasped: ‘Sorry!’ and darted round the back.
He could hardly believe his eyes.
Roger was being lifted towards the parapet, one man carrying his legs, the other his shoulders. His body was limp. Mark shouted again, and the driver said: ‘Strewth.’ Still fifteen yards behind the assailants, Mark saw them swing Roger over the parapet and into the river.
‘My God!’ muttered Mark. ‘He’ll drown!’ He half-turned and signalled towards the men who were running along the Embankment, hoping that the motorist would give chase. He heard the snarl of the self-starter as he reached the point where Roger had been thrown in. He tore his coat off, and dropped it to the pavement, climbed the parapet, and dived in.
He could see Roger, a few yards away from him, floating on his face, sinking. He struck out, desperately, reached Roger, turned him on his back and kept him afloat. He did not like the pallor of Roger’s face or his slack lips, with dirty Thames water seeping out at the corners.
Someone shouted from the parapet. A rope fell close to him. Suddenly help appeared to come from three or four places at once. Men moved in all directions, and a small police launch chugged-chugged towards the spot. Two men leaned over, caught hold of Roger, and hauled him aboard.
An elderly river policeman said: ‘Blimey, that’s Handsome West.’
Other willing hands were clutching at Mark, and helping him over the parapet and back to the Embankment. He would have preferred to go with Roger, but there was nothing he could do about it. The chill of the soaking started his teeth chattering, and some well-intentioned idiot thought that he needed artificial respiration, when all he needed was to get warm.
He was taken acr
oss the road to a ground floor flat, a hot bath, and a change of clothes. Within the hour he was almost himself.
He left the flat at a little after six o’clock. A telephone inquiry to Scotland Yard got him nowhere, and he went along to the nearest jetty. There an old man dressed in bulky rags, and with a week-old stubble on a nutcracker jaw, told him that the river ‘narks’ had brought someone out of the river. And: ‘Whyn’t they let ‘im drahn, that’s wot I want t’know,’ he droned. ‘Whyn’t they let ‘im drahn? Poor swab, wanted t’do ‘isself in, didn’t ‘e? Whyn’t they let ‘im drahn?’
The motorist who had nearly run Mark down appeared, a portly man who was still excited. He had seen them take ‘him’ – meaning Mark – to the flat, and hurried along to see how the ‘victim’ was. He had not seen any more than the old man, who stood mumbling to himself. What an amazing business it was, declared the garrulous one. And how he wished he had thought to follow the two men who had thrown the ‘victim’ into the river.
‘I certainly wish you had,’ Mark said.
‘Thrown ‘im?’ gasped the derelict. He stared from one to the other, then hunched his shoulders and assumed an expression of woebegone despair. ‘Yer couldn’t spare a bob, mister, could yer? Give me a n’appetite, that ‘as.’
Mark looked at him thoughtfully, and jingled coins in his pocket. Before he took any out, he asked pertinent questions. Apparently the old man had slept on a seat on the Embankment. He had been awakened by shouting, and by men rushing past him.
Mark said sharply: ‘Did you see them clearly?’
‘Nark it, Guv’ner. Me eyes weren’t ‘ardly open. No one brings me a cuppa tea ter see I’m awake on the dot, see.’
‘Would you recognise either of them again?’ insisted Mark.
The motorist was eager, now. The old man’s rheumy, cunning eyes, small and very blue, were close to Mark’s face.
‘I couldn’t swear I would, Guv’ner, but I might. They ‘adn’t got none of wot the cops call distingershing marks, but one o’ them had a bad leg, I know that, ‘e limped.’
‘At least he’s telling the truth about that,’ Mark thought.
Aloud, he said: ‘If you saw that much, you must have seen their faces.’
‘Just faces, thassall,’ said the derelict. ‘I might recognise them again, but I couldn’t be sure. I don’t ‘old wiv false pertences, Guv’ner. Besides, the dicks is planning an identerfication parade, ain’t they? That on yer mind?’
‘It could be,’ agreed Mark. ‘Where can I find you again?’
‘I dunno that you can,’ the derelict said. ‘Ere today, gone tomorrow, that’s me. It ain’t my fault. This ain’t a bad pitch and I’d stay as long as the perishin’ narks would let me. Two nights, if I’m lucky, an’ tonight’s the second.’
Mark took out a handful of silver coins.
‘Be here at twelve o’clock tomorrow morning, and I’ll double this.’ He dropped three half-crowns, a two-shilling piece, and a sixpence into a grimy palm, heard a gratified thanks, and turned on his heel. The man might keep the appointment out of avarice, but fear of the police would probably persuade him to be satisfied with what he had made.
The motorist hurried in Mark’s wake, protesting peevishly that he had decided to try to help him get the other man out of the river; he hadn’t known that so many people would be at hand. He was sorry that he had not followed the assailants. Was there anything he could do to make amends?
‘You can run me home,’ he said pleasantly.
‘That’ll be a pleasure, that’s quite all right,’ the fat one assured him. He had a reddish face and needed a shave, but his blue eyes were wide open and earnest. ‘Is it far?’
‘About a mile and a half.’
‘Oh, that’s no trouble.’
Mark sat with him, and listened to his apologies. He could kick himself for letting the men get away, he had not even noticed which turning they had taken, and the worst of it was that he could have caught up with them easily.
Mark was more concerned for Roger than with the escape of his assailants, and at the back of his mind there was reluctance to tell Janet what had happened; at least he could assure her that Roger had not been badly hurt. But she would realise the assailants had knocked Roger out and tossed him into the river to drown.
‘It’s the next turning, thanks,’ he said to the driver. ‘Drop me here, and I’ll walk the rest.’
Now the moment for seeing Janet was on him. He turned the corner, and saw an ambulance outside Roger’s house.
Interview
The engine of the ambulance started as Mark walked towards it. It moved off. Outside the gate stood a policeman, stolid and stalwart. His white summer-issue gloves made him a clear outline against his tunic. Most of the men in this Division, as well as the Yard, knew ‘Handsome’s’ friend, Mr Lessing. Many made cracks about the amateur, but most held him in some respect.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Morning,’ said Mark. ‘Nice to know you’re here.’ He went up to the front door, hand outstretched for the bell before he remembered that he had a key. He pushed the Yale into the lock, turned it, and went inside.
Women’s voices sounded from the kitchen. Mark went towards it as the door opened and a middle-aged nurse appeared. She stopped short, and gasped. Janet appeared by her side.
‘Thank heavens you’re all right!’ She sounded genuinely relieved. ‘This is Mr Lessing, nurse,’ she went on briskly. ‘He is staying with us.’
The nurse turned big, bright grey eyes towards Mark. Her face was gaunt and lined, her lips compressed. She nodded curtly, and passed on. Mark took Janet’s arm. ‘How is he?’
‘If he’d gone out on his own, I wouldn’t have been surprised at this,’ said Janet, ‘but I thought you were going to look after him. How on earth did you let it happen?’
Mark squeezed her arm. ‘I’m not so quick as I thought I was. Things moved too fast. How is he?’
‘Not too bad, I suppose. He’s still unconscious, and the doctor says it’s concussion. He has some nasty bruises on the side of his head, and – oh, he’ll be all right. But this proves I was right. He wouldn’t have let it happen if he hadn’t been so tired.’
‘If we look on the bright side—’
‘Have you been hit over the head too?’ asked Janet tartly.
‘There is a bright side,’ insisted Mark. ‘You’ve got him away from the office, and ought to be able to work your will on the doctor to get him declared unfit. There isn’t the slightest reason why you shouldn’t go off with him to somewhere in the country. He won’t be fit enough to argue for a few days, and when he’s away he’ll be less inclined to want to come back.’
He saw the dawning of understanding in Janet’s eyes.
‘While he’s away the Yard will have to look after things, and by the time Roger’s back on duty it may all be over.’
Janet backed into the bright kitchen, and leaned against the edge of the table, eyeing him speculatively. ‘I know just the place. I’ll telephone Paula now.’
‘Does Paula get up in time to hear the seven o’clock news, too?’ asked Mark mildly.
‘Seven? Great Scott, I didn’t realise it was so early,’ said Janet, and she eyed him with a new interest. ‘What have you been up to?’ she demanded suspiciously. ‘Where did you get that suit? It doesn’t even fit you, and that’s a patch on the knee, isn’t it?’
‘Wait until you see the seat,’ said Mark. He told her what had happened. ‘If there could be a cup of tea—’
‘Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.’
At breakfast Janet was full of her friend Paula and a country cottage. He left her to work in his room, unpacking the case of china and putting the precious pieces in the cabinets which had been brought from his flat. The task unfinished, near lunchtime, he hear
d the front door bell ring. A glance out of his window told him that it was the doctor.
Earlier in the morning Roger had recovered consciousness, but did not remember what had happened, and nurse had refused more than a brief visit by Janet. The doctor’s voice now rumbled loudly in the next room, suggesting that he was not set against conversation. After a while he went downstairs. Mark followed, standing behind him while he told Janet that Roger needed complete rest for at least several days.
Janet said, meekly, that the rest was so difficult in Bell Street. There were noises from the neighbours, wireless sets were always blaring, the Yard wouldn’t leave him alone.
The doctor, a chunky-faced man whom Mark did not know, prescribed a change of air as soon as practicable; provided care was exercised, he said, there was no reason why Roger should not be moved the following day.
When the doctor had gone, Janet said joyfully: ‘That’s settled, and Paula would love to have us. Chatsworth can’t argue, can he?’
Mark went by bus to Victoria, where Chatsworth had his flat. On the way, he glanced behind him several times, half-afraid of being followed. He saw nothing to make him suspicious, yet the idea persisted. When he reached the block of flats in St James’ Square he sauntered along for some minutes. Then he went into the main entrance, but did not go farther at once.
Two men passed the entrance, going towards the park.
He recognised neither, but noticed them with particular care before going by the empty porter’s cubicle to the second floor. He had visited the AC before, and knew the flats well.
The servant who had answered him on the previous evening was a black-dressed robot, an ex-policeman with one hand. Obviously Mark was expected; he was asked to wait in a small and charming lounge. Chatsworth was a bachelor, but there was nothing in the flat to suggest the absence of a woman’s touch.
‘If you will please come with me, sir,’ said the servant a few minutes later. ‘Sir Guy is free now.’
Chatsworth was a big man. There were many who said that he looked more like a prosperous country doctor than a policeman who had gone to the Yard fresh from the War Office. To his staff he was something of an enigma, and he often stirred uneasiness in Roger West’s mind, although in Mark’s opinion Roger was overawed by his chief less than many at the Yard. It was Chatsworth’s fancy to have his study at the flat an exact replica of that at Scotland Yard; the room seemed to be nothing but chromium and ebony, or a shiny imitation.
