by John Creasey
‘Thanks,’ said Chatsworth, more affably. A pause, then: ‘Why don’t you ask me why I’ve come?’ snapped Chatsworth. ‘Every other man on my staff would.’
‘I took it for granted you would tell me in good time, sir.’
‘You did, did you?’ growled Chatsworth, and then to Roger’s surprise he yawned widely, several times in quick succession. Now that Roger was able to study his Chief more closely he saw that Chatsworth’s eyes were very red-rimmed, that he looked tired out.
The fit of yawning over, Chatsworth said abruptly: ‘I’m beginning to understand what you felt like. Sleep seems to be a thing of the past. How are you? Better?’
‘Much,’ said Roger, firmly.
‘Fit enough to start in again?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You can’t take anything in this case at half-speed, you know,’ said Chatsworth. ‘Anyhow, we want you back whether you’re fit enough or not. I was managing with Chambers, but he’s got hay fever. Hay fever!’ snorted the AC. ‘What’s your opinion of Detective Sergeant Sloan?’
‘I couldn’t ask for a better man, sir,’ said Roger promptly.
‘So you’ve a soft spot for him, have you? You’re probably right, and he gives me the impression that he knows nearly as much about this case as you do. I had your message about the Concerto on the radio. Nothing helpful I’m afraid. A disc jockey in a nostalgic mood, and certainly not connected with Riordon.’
‘We’ll get a break soon,’ said Roger. ‘Have you seen this disc jockey?’
‘Upon my living say so, West, do you think I have time to interview such men? Of course I haven’t seen him. Would you have?’
‘I think I’d ask Sloan to see him, sir.’
‘Do what you think best,’ said Chatsworth, offhandedly. ‘All right, now what else was it you sent along? Oh yes, the man Parker. We haven’t found him. I wish I hadn’t let him go now, but—’
‘I’ve been rather puzzled by that,’ admitted Roger.
‘I let him go because I thought he was a harmless old reprobate, and the only reports I had on him were that he hadn’t been begging lately or getting drunk and disorderly. That was a pretty detailed story he told Lessing, you know. It answered all the questions.’
‘Ye-es,’ said Roger.
‘Confound you, tell me just what you’re thinking!’ rasped Chatsworth. ‘Think I was wrong to let him go?’
‘In the circumstances I should have had him watched, at least. But Riordon was known to live in Queen’s Street for some time, and a lot of people would get to know him. There was nothing particularly suspicious about Parker’s story, but—’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘He certainly wasn’t down here by accident, and I don’t think he followed Lessing to get the money that was due to him. He would have visited this cottage had he intended to do that, and he would have had some trouble in explaining how he managed to find the address.’
‘H’m, yes,’ grunted Chatsworth. ‘Now what about that map? Do you still think there’s a chance that Riordon is looking for it? You sent a note to me about Lessing’s idea on that, remember?’
‘The more I think about it the more likely it seems,’ Roger assured him. ‘If my wallet was stolen by an ordinary dip, then the map might be anywhere – probably burned, or thrown away on a refuse heap. The thief wouldn’t have kept it after he’d taken the money out.’
Chatsworth stared. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘I don’t quite follow you, sir,’ said Roger, and, although he gave no hint of it, he felt that Chatsworth was now getting to the crux of his story, the real reason for this late call. He had kept his curiosity in check, but it increased as he saw Chatsworth’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
‘Haven’t you any other ideas about the wallet?’ demanded the AC sharply.
‘We-ell, only vague ones,’ admitted Roger. ‘I have wondered whether another interested party – say someone who is trying to get at Riordon without our help – had anything to do with it. Or even someone working with Riordon but aiming to take over his authority. That’s all very vague, I’m afraid, but—’
‘It’s right,’ said Chatsworth abruptly. ‘The private inquiry man we told you about has seen Riordon again. Riordon wanted information about the map. The agent told him it had been stolen from you. Riordon apparently guessed at once who had taken it, left as abruptly as he left Lessing the other night, and—’
Chatsworth paused, as if even he found it difficult to wind up what he had to say, and Roger’s tension increased unbearably. ‘Well, he didn’t get the map back,’ finished Chatsworth. ‘I’ve got it. But he’s taken one more of our atom scientists. Two others are being threatened, the daughter of another is missing. We can’t let this go on much longer, West. We must find Riordon’s headquarters. We must, do you understand?’
Three Suspects
‘I’ve realised that for some time, sir,’ said Roger.
He spoke after a long pause, in which he had reflected with relief that there was no danger of the case being handed over to anyone else. This visit, especially so late at night, told him a great deal. Amongst it was the obvious fact that Chatsworth had been desperately worried by recent developments and had decided that the only way to find out whether Roger was fit enough to resume work was to come to see him.
The recovery of the pencilled map was another major point. It would surely be possible to find a topographer who would be able to identify the places on it, even though the search might take some time. But the kernel of the visit was what had accompanied the finding of the map.
Chatsworth took his wallet from his pocket and took out the sketch. It was on a slip of paper no larger than an ordinary private correspondence envelope, and the lines and dots on it were in ink. Moreover the sketch, although hastily done, had been drawn by a man who knew how to use pen or pencil.
‘I’ve felt jittery ever since I’ve had the thing,’ he said. ‘I should have had it photographed, but I was in a hurry.’ If Roger had made such an admission – that a vital piece of evidence had not been properly looked after – Chatsworth would have blown up. ‘That’s how the case affects all of us, I suppose. Now, I’ve told you that Riordon created the impression that he knew who had taken it from you. He gave Pep Morgan no idea of the name of the man, but Morgan, who is proving very useful indeed, recovered in time to follow Riordon. You know the way the man ignores – absolutely ignores – danger from us? He walks about as if he had an unblemished reputation, confound him.’
‘But we know why that is,’ said Roger.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Chatsworth. ‘That makes it worse, not better. Where was I? Oh yes, Morgan followed him. He made three calls. Apparently he found nothing after the first two, or he would not have made the third, but that isn’t certain. Are you ready for a shock?’
‘I think I can stand it, sir.’
‘I hope you can,’ growled Chatsworth. ‘One of the troubles is that everything seems more sinister than it need do in this business, but you probably know that as well as I do. His first call was at the Admiralty. He had a forged pass.’
Roger had a vision of that rabbit warren of offices and passages, and of Riordon going inside.
‘Well?’
‘He went to the Admiralty,’ repeated Chatsworth. ‘And he came out without any trouble. I’ve checked up since, of course. He went to the office of a Commander Morris. Do you know him?’
‘The name is vaguely familiar.’
‘Anti-atomic submarine research,’ said Chatsworth. ‘Sound man as far as we know, brilliant in some respects, responsible for much good work. But he went there and Morris saw him. Morris denies it – not very good, is it?’
‘It’s pretty bad,’ admitted Roger.
‘Riordon came out, bold as brass, then went across the road to the Home Office buildings. He saw
Sir William Bennett. Exactly the same story. Bennett denies it, but our inquiries elicited the fact that he was in his office, alone, when Riordon went there. Similar situation to that of Morris, of course, and most unsatisfactory. Bennett is a good man, a very good man. One of the better kind of Civil Servant,’ added Chatsworth, ‘and not a “do-everything-by-red-tape” slave. We don’t know what Riordon said to either him or Morris, but we do know that Riordon came out and then went a little further afield.’ Chatsworth sounded dazed. ‘He went to Broadcasting House. It’s nearly as difficult to get in there without a permit as it is either of the other places, but Riordon waved his magic wand and went up to Michison’s office. Lionel Michison – even you know him.’
‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘He is the producer of many of the variety programmes. I—’ he stopped abruptly, but did not say what had entered his mind, for Chatsworth went on: ‘Michison says exactly the same as the other two – that he did not see Riordon and knows nothing about him. Well, in some circumstances I might be inclined to believe all three, and in others I might be tempted to think that they are victims of Riordon, and therefore too frightened to make any report. However, there’s something else I don’t like at all. I’ll digress a moment. Morgan, by then, had telephoned the Yard. Three Special Branch men went over to the Home Office and followed Riordon to Broadcasting House. There’s no doubt about what followed.’
He paused, and Roger watched intently, his mind groping for the significance of these new facts. Chatsworth glanced absently at the whisky before going on: ‘One of our men decided to try to tackle Riordon. They followed him into St James’ Park and surrounded him. Riordon did what we would expect, and started to fight. In the fight one of our men managed to get everything out of his breast pocket, but before it was over Riordon had floored the others. Among the things in the pocket was that map – it is the original, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Roger, who had seen his mark on it. ‘There’s no doubt at all.’
‘Riordon didn’t have it when he started out,’ said Chatsworth, ‘but he did when he was tackled. Consequently we know that it came from Bennett, Morris or Michison. And in turn that means that one or the other of them, probably Michison for it’s doubtful whether Riordon would have made the third call for the sake of it, arranged to get it stolen from you. Now do you see why I’m so worried?’
‘I do indeed,’ said Roger.
It was easy to imagine the reaction to the fact that it was now proved that Riordon had contacts in the Admiralty, the Home Office, and the BBC. Moreover, it was almost impossible to comprehend how far the ramifications of those contacts might go. Again he felt aghast at the calm confidence of Riordon, his utter conviction that no matter what he did or where he went he would not be in danger.
‘I’m glad you do,’ said Chatsworth. ‘What are you thinking of doing? How long before you can start work again?’
‘About seven hours,’ said Roger. ‘What will you do for the night, sir?’
‘There’s a pub of some kind in the village, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, but they probably won’t appreciate being called up in the early hours.’ Roger hesitated. ‘I think there’s a small room here which you could use, if you don’t mind cramped quarters? I’m sure Mrs Dean won’t mind.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Chatsworth, and his eyes twinkled. ‘D’you mean she won’t mind being cramped?’
Dutifully Roger smiled as he went out of the room.
He fancied that he heard a rustle of movement in the passage or on the stairs, but could not be sure. Stepping cautiously past nooks and crannies and places in the shadow, he went upstairs. The rustling came again, this time ahead of him. He thought of Marion Byrne, tried to dismiss the thought, and then heard a door creak.
Could Marion be at the cottage? Or any intruder?
He opened the door of his room, and the creaking of the door when it closed was identical with the sound that he had heard a moment before.
Janet was in bed, breathing heavily and pretending to be asleep. The moonlight was bright enough for him to see that her eyes were moving a little under the lids. He put his head on one side, and said slowly: ‘That won’t do, sleepwalker.’
‘Er?’ murmured Janet. ‘Eh?’ She widened her eyes. ‘Why, darling, I’ve been asleep again!’ Her tone was one of utter innocence.
‘Asleep and awake,’ said Roger. ‘If you’d been a second or two later getting in the room I should probably have jumped on your back. How much did you hear?’
Janet gave up her attempt at deception. ‘Not much, darling, and after all, I’m only human. Did you say something about Sir Guy having the little room for the night?’
‘I came to ask you if you knew whether the bed’s made up.’
He did not show that he was seriously concerned because Janet had overheard much of the conversation. He could hardly blame her; officially he was on the sick list, and even at Fulham her interest in his cases had been keen. Often he had made a habit of talking some aspects of them over with her. In this one the ever-present shadow of Riordon made him particularly anxious not to implicate her in any way: not only would the details make her more disturbed than usual, but it might lead to danger for her.
The spare bed was ready.
When Chatsworth had been down for his case, parked his car, and taken the tiny spare room, Roger and Janet returned to the larger bedroom. Janet took off her dressing gown, eyeing Roger as he stood looking out of the window. ‘He’s rather a dear,’ she remarked.
Roger grunted. ‘Is he? He’s a bounder in some respects, and if he’s listening in I can’t help it. I’m going to London tomorrow,’ he added shortly.
‘You’d better come away from the window then, and get to bed. You don’t want to start tired out.’
Roger turned to look at her. ‘And no objections from you?’
‘You were very decent about me coming downstairs,’ said Janet demurely. Then her mood changed. ‘Darling, you’ll be careful, won’t you? Terribly careful?’
‘Terribly, terribly careful,’ Roger said.
He had never meant anything more.
Odd about that, Roger thought, when he was in bed. Riordon had beaten off an attack from several men but had surrendered that which he had been most anxious to take away with him. And Riordon did not usually walk about London ignorant of the fact that he was being followed. The harmonica player was not often caught napping. Roger wished that he could follow the workings of the man’s mind. It was just possible that Riordon had paid the three visits in order to mislead the police – but there seemed no reasonable grounds for considering that seriously.
When Roger woke, just after seven o’clock, he wondered what had disturbed him so early. His travelling clock, propped up on the table by the side of the bed, told him the time. Then he heard a faint booming noise, and a few minutes afterwards the voice of a BBC announcer.
‘Big Ben,’ he said half to himself. ‘My clock’s fast.’
The news, heard vaguely, was not startling, and his thoughts settled on the problem confronting him. On the previous evening he had been quick to see the possible association between Michison of the BBC and the harmonica player who had rendered the Concerto so well. If Riordon had influence with Michison it was just possible that he had been able to arrange for that piece to be played. If he had, why had he chosen it at that time?
Roger found himself more than usually perturbed as the vista widened. The tune was a signal, a danger signal; but it need not always represent danger, and it was just possible that Riordon had contrived to send a message via the BBC.
‘It’s too circumstantial,’ muttered Roger, ‘and probably has no real foundation, anyhow.’
Nevertheless the possibility troubled him.
Janet woke up soon afterwards, and then Paula’s maid brought in some morning tea. While dr
inking, and taking the bull by the horns, Roger broached the subject of Janet staying at the cottage for a week.
‘It’s not that I won’t miss you, but—’
‘You’ll be able to concentrate on taking risks, darling. All right, I—’
A scream cut across her words.
It was a high-pitched feminine scream, and whoever it was seemed terrified. Roger flung back the clothes and jumped out of bed: the corner of his pyjama jacket caught a cup and sent it flying. He opened the door, with the crash of breaking crockery on the floor echoing in his ears, to see the maid pointing towards the little room. The door of it was open, and Paula was coming out of her bedroom, dustcap in hand.
‘There’s a man!’ screamed the maid. ‘A man – in there!’
‘A man – oh, a man,’ echoed Roger, suddenly comprehending.
He soothed the girl while explaining to Paula what liberties he had taken with her spare room, and while he was in the middle of it Chatsworth appeared, clad in a mackintosh. He was a vast and burly figure with his little fringe of hair sticking out at the sides, looking much thicker than it normally appeared. He apologised graciously to the maid for scaring her, as charmingly thanked Paula for her unwitting but, he was sure, quite willing hospitality. Paula fell for him at once.
Mark was the last to get up.
Roger was not surprised to find him sore at being allowed to sleep during the talk with Chatsworth: nor was he surprised when Mark, with unusual lack of insistence, agreed that in view of the trouble with his hand he could not do a great deal in London.
‘I should say your hand will keep you out of it for another three days, including today,’ said Roger. ‘Marion is leaving on Friday, isn’t she?’
Mark had the grace to colour.
With characteristic cunning, Chatsworth called a meeting of four soon after breakfast, and the lounge was put at their disposal. As well as himself, Roger and Mark, Sloan was at the conference, and Chatsworth gave a brief résumé of what he had told Roger the previous evening, to smooth any ruffled feelings on Mark’s part. The discussion veered round to the map before long, and Chatsworth sought in his pocket for his wallet, took it out, and said reflectively: ‘It’s just possible that the venue is somewhere near here, I suppose. Anyhow, one of you might have more luck than West did in identifying the place. Where is the damn thing?’ He took a dozen or more papers from his wallet, dropping them to an occasional table and frowning. ‘I know I put it in here,’ he went on, and then looked sharply at Roger. ‘Or did I give it to you?’
