by John Creasey
She went off to the kitchen, obviously seeing that he was in no mood to be taxed with questions, and he went into the front room and sat down in an easy chair, lit a cigarette, and looked moodily at Mark, who was sitting at the piano and resumed playing, softly.
He was surprised when, after ten minutes or so, Janet shook his shoulder.
‘Wake up, sweet, or it will spoil.’
‘I haven’t been asleep,’ said Roger, sitting up quickly.
He ate with relish and felt better when he had finished and they were drinking coffee in the front room. During supper Janet had told him that there had been no hint of trouble, that Mark had been there since the middle of the afternoon, anxious not to miss anything, that Pep Morgan’s two men had been relieved at Mrs Norman’s, and that the Yard men, also relieved, were sweet.
He gave them the story of the day’s events. Neither of them interrupted, although Janet held her breath once or twice. She was sitting on a pouffe in front of a small log fire, and Mark was squatting on the piano stool.
‘What about these missing papers? Does Griselda know anything about them?’ asked Mark, when Roger’s recital ended.
‘She says not. I wish I were quite sure that she is altogether honest,’ said Roger, frowning. ‘I can’t really make up my mind. Her refusal to give the name of her friend is peculiar. She should know that we would handle the business discreetly, and that the husband need know nothing about it. I can’t help wondering whether he did know about it, and went and shot young Kelham. Griselda might even have seen him there—at the flats—just before or after, and it may explain why she got so worked up.’
At seven o’clock the next morning, the telephone bell disturbed him. Janet was already up. He groped for the telephone, on the bedside table.
‘West,’ he said gruffly.
The eager voice of Detective-Constable Gardener made him sit up; Gardener was watching Kelham and Blair at the Majestic Hotel.
‘Is that you, Inspector? I say, I think Kelham’s disappeared! His man, Blair—you know—is rushing about like a man demented. He says that Kelham’s not in his room, and his bed hasn’t been slept in. I’ve been within sight of the door all night, and I haven’t seen him!’
‘I’ll come over at once,’ said Roger.
Within twenty minutes he was out of the house and driving through the nearly deserted streets towards the Majestic, which was near Marble Arch. He was thinking evil thoughts of Gardener, but forbore any immediate reprimand when that eager young man greeted him on the landing near Kelham’s room.
‘That’s the door—this side of the one where the maid’s going in with tea,’ said Gardener. ‘I’ve been sitting here all night, and I swear I haven’t dozed for a moment. I had a good sleep when I got back yesterday, and I was as fresh as a daisy, I was really, Inspector. I—Great Scott, what’s that?’
He spoke to Roger’s back, for Roger was racing along the passage towards the room into which the maid had disappeared. She was screaming wildly, and the morning tea-tray had crashed to the floor.
Chapter Sixteen
No Respite for Roger
When Roger turned into the room the maid had stopped screaming, but she was staring towards the bed and shivering from head to foot. On the bed lay Kelham. He was fully dressed, and his face was covered with blood, his hair matted. One arm hung by the side of the bed, almost touching the floor.
Roger looked over his shoulder as Gardener came in.
‘Get Dr Winter. Tell the messenger at once, and make sure this girl doesn’t blab all over the hotel.’
‘Right-ho,’ said Gardener. ‘Come along, my girl.’ He led the maid out, while Roger, afraid that Kelham was dead and feeling a sickening sense of futility, bent over the man and felt his pulse.
His expression altered, for he could detect a faint beating. He straightened Kelham out on the bed and loosened his collar and tie. By that time he knew that the man was alive. He examined the head wounds. They were comparatively light, and the bone had not been broken. There was an ugly gash on one temple, which had caused most of the bleeding, but that was the worst feature. Roger propped him up on pillows, and decided that it would be better not to touch the wounds until the doctor arrived. He was washing his hands when Gardener came back with the agitated manager.
‘Dr Winter’s on his way, sir,’ he reported, ‘and I said we would want photographs and fingerprints. Was that all right, sir?’
‘Yes, good,’ grunted Roger, and spent a few minutes assuring the manager that he would not want the hotel roused, but did want to know who had engaged the room where Kelham was found, and would soon want to question the servants on that section. The manager grew calmer and promised all possible help.
‘This is a do, isn’t it?’ said Gardener, when the man had gone. ‘I knew I hadn’t seen him come out. There’s a communicating door, sir.’
It was not locked. Roger stepped through into the next room, which was almost identical with the one where Kelham had been found. That was empty, but there were two filing cabinets which had been brought from the flat, and several suitcases, as well as a cabin trunk. Kelham had obviously been prepared to stay away from the flat for some time. Brushes, shaving tackle and other oddments were neatly distributed about the room.
‘Go and find Blair,’ said Roger.
He was glad to be on his own. He did not try to theorise, but stood still, reviewing all that had happened, waiting for the doctor.
Dr Winter arrived, brisk and dispassionate, with little to say. He spent five minutes examining Kelham, and then looked up at Roger.
‘He’ll be all right in a week.’
‘What caused the wounds, do you know?’
‘It looks rather like broken china or glass,’ said the police-surgeon. ‘Nothing went deep. Better make a hospital case of him, hadn’t we?’
Roger said thoughtfully: ‘I think we’ll take him to his flat. We’ve a couple of men there and they can do two things at the same time. He’ll want a nurse, I suppose?’
‘One ought to look in two or three times a day,’ said the doctor, ‘but he won’t want much attention. Let me see—oh, yes, the flat in Park Lane. I’ll go along with the ambulance, if it will help you.’
There was a telephone in the room, and Roger called the men at Kelham’s flat and gave them precise instructions. He was relieved that Sergeant Willis was back on duty there.
Gardener came back, with a worried expression.
‘I can’t find Blair, sir.’
‘Go downstairs to the reception desk and find out if he’s been seen to leave,’ said Roger, keeping his temper with an effort.
There were several exits from the mammoth hotel, and he thought it likely that Blair might have got away unnoticed. He lit a cigarette, scowling about him as the fingerprint men and the photographers arrived.
‘Not much here, sir, the place has been wiped over pretty well,’ said the fingerprint man regretfully, after a few minutes.
Roger went downstairs to see the manager. The room next to Kelham had been booked by a man calling himself ‘Smith’, and none of the staff remembered him well. The room had been booked two days before. By checking, Roger was able to establish that it had been reserved an hour after Kelham had taken residence – or rather, after Blair had made the reservation. The floor staff could only describe him as an ordinary little man, and it was in a moment of inspiration that Roger asked the chambermaid: ‘Was he bald-headed?’
The chambermaid, who was not very bright, looked at him wide-eyed, and said: ‘Well, what a funny thing, sir!’
‘What’s funny about being bald?’ demanded Roger.
‘Well, sir, he wasn’t bald, but one morning he was asleep when I went in—I mean, yesterday morning, sir.’ She gulped, and tried to overcome her nervousness. ‘I thought his hair looked funny, sir, as if it were all on one side, if you know what I mean.’
‘A wig!’ exclaimed the manager.
Roger said: ‘Wait here a minute, will
you?’ He went outside and asked the photographer whether he had in his bag any prints of people connected with the case. To his delight, the man produced photographs of the Bellews and Newman. ‘You’re handy with a pencil, aren’t you?’ asked Roger. ‘Put some hair on the bald fellow, will you, and bring it into the manager’s office.’
Ten minutes later, the chambermaid stared at the touched-up photograph, and gasped: ‘Why, it’s the spit image of him, sir!’
‘Good,’ said Roger. ‘Did he have any visitors, do you know?’
‘I didn’t see any, sir.’
He could get no evidence that Mortimer Bellew, who was undoubtedly the man who called himself ‘Smith’, had received visitors, but he was fairly well satisfied with the results so far obtained. He put Gardener outside the door, got rid of the photographer and the fingerprint man, and then began a systematic search of the papers. After half an hour he began to feel tired of looking at copies of agreements and bills which he had seen before, but suddenly he exclaimed aloud.
He had found the agreement for the piece of land which the Bellews sold Kelham.
It seemed to be in order, but he set it aside, and started work again. One agreement caught his eye, but when he looked at it again he could not see what interested him, until he saw the address: it was a house in Buckingham Palace Gate.
‘Well, I’m damned!’ he exclaimed, and hurried to the door. ‘Gardener, what number Buckingham Palace Gate is that girl’s hostel?’
‘21b, sir.’
The number of the plot which Kelham had bought was 101a. He set that agreement aside, and ran through the others. He found nothing else of interest and, realizing that he was ravenously hungry, arranged for some breakfast to be brought up to the room. It was then half-past ten.
He left Gardener to watch the rooms, and went along to the Yard. Before going to Chatworth’s office, he looked through the messages on his desk. A messenger came in with an envelope.
Roger opened it. The memo inside was headed: ‘Telephoned at 11.15a.m.’, and it went on to say briefly: ‘From Det. Sergeant Mellor for Chief Inspector West. Charles Blair arrived at Poplars at 10.45. Instructions, please.’
He telephoned the Newbury Police Station immediately and asked an inspector to send a message telling Mellor to detain Blair if he left the house, and then hurried along to see Chatworth. He was greeted by a scowl which made his heart sink.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Chatworth, sitting back in his chair. He tapped a letter on his desk. ‘I have a most emphatic complaint about your handling of matters at the hostel, Inspector. The matron, who signs herself Agatha Barton, complains that you were rude, impertinent and insolent, and accuses you of gross neglect of duty.’
‘I was short with her,’ said Roger, ‘but I don’t think she’s justified in the other comments. She—’
‘I see, I see,’ Chatworth interrupted. He pulled at his underlip. ‘Well, I’ll send her a polite letter, and trust you to justify your actions by results as usual.’
‘Thank you, sir. What I came to tell you about at the moment,’ Roger went on, ‘is that Charles Blair left the hotel, dodged our men’ – he omitted to name Gardener – ‘and went straight to Kelham’s Newbury home. Mellor has just reported. I’d like to go down to Newbury, sir. Kelham probably kept papers there. Now we have an excuse for scrutinizing them, I think we ought to take it.’
‘You’d better go,’ said Chatworth.
Roger went home, picked up a packet of sandwiches, kissed Janet and Scoopy and then, accompanied by Mark Lessing, drove off.
The journey was uneventful, and they passed through Newbury and turned into the drive of Poplars a little after three o’clock. Mellor was standing near some bushes just inside the drive, and as they passed he cocked a thumb, meaning that everything was unchanged on that sector. Roger climbed out of the car and knocked at the door, leaving Mark in the car.
The maid who had answered his first call opened the door.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said Roger. ‘I think Mr Blair is here.’
‘He’s with Mrs Kelham, sir.’
‘Good! Tell him I want to see him, will you?’ asked Roger, and when the maid had gone, he grinned back at Mark.
Blair came down the stairs quickly, his face set in a scowl.
‘Well, what do you want now?’ he demanded.
‘You,’ said Roger, ‘and don’t get fresh. You made yourself liable to arrest when you ran away from London, and don’t make any mistake about it. Why did you hurry down here?’
‘That’s my business!’
‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘So you’re going to make me take a strong line, are you? I—’
‘Charles, dear!’ called a woman, in a gentle voice. ‘Charles, who is it?’
The voice had a curious quality of softness which made Rogert start, and he looked towards the landing. Blair half turned, with his hands clenched. A woman came along the passage to the head of the stairs. She wore a pale blue dressing-gown, her luxuriant grey hair was piled up, pompadour fashion, and she seemed to glide along. She was astonishingly lovely, and had a regal air as she descended the stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
Mrs Andrew Kelham
Blair spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a voice which Roger only just heard.
‘If you’ve got an atom of decency in your make-up, you won’t tell her that Andy has been hurt. She can’t stand a shock.’ He went forward and held out his hand. ‘Why, Lynda, how nice to see you downstairs again!’ He took her arm and tucked it into his, and she accepted this with a childlike docility. ‘This is Mr West, a friend of Andy’s.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr West,’ said Mrs Kelham, with a gentle smile. ‘I am very glad to see you. You must be a new friend of Andy’s, because he hasn’t mentioned you to me.’
‘I am a business acquaintance,’ murmured Roger.
‘Oh, business! When is Andy going to allow himself to rest from it?’ asked Mrs Kelham, frowning. There was a hint of reproof in her manner. ‘Are you one of the people who will worry him so much, and won’t allow him to spend a few weeks here, with me?’
‘I had no idea that he was in need of a rest,’ said Roger.
‘I see.’ She smiled, sweetly. ‘Do forgive me for what I said, Mr West. I have been upset because Andy has been detained in London again, and may not be back here for a week or more. Charles has told me all about it; I am afraid no one has any influence over Andy, except that noisome Mr Alexander! He isn’t here, is he?’
‘I think he’s in London,’ said Roger.
‘Are you one of his men?’ demanded Lynda Kelham.
‘Most decidedly not!’ said Roger.
‘I’m very glad,’ said Lynda. ‘I wish it were possible for me to forbid Alexander and all his friends entry to the house. I do not believe they exert a good influence. There are times when I think Mr Alexander is positively evil.’
‘Lynda—’ began Blair, in great distress.
‘You may think that it is none of my business,’ said Lynda, ‘but I have held my peace too long. When Andy came here last he looked really ill, and I do not believe that it was because Anthony has been sent abroad. Andy is overtired, and unless he rests he will have a breakdown. Mr West’ – she stretched out her hand, appealingly – ‘can you persuade him to go more steadily?’
‘I will gladly try,’ said Roger, with an effort.
‘How kind of you. Charles, isn’t Mr West kind?’ She smiled, and then leaned more heavily against Blair. ‘Perhaps I will go upstairs again, Charles. I did not realise that it would take so much effort to come down. Goodbye, Mr West. Thank you for your promise. Do talk seriously to Andy as soon as you see him, won’t you?’
She held out her hand; it was dry and hot.
Roger stood watching while Blair helped her up the stairs.
He had not dreamed that Kelham had lied to her about Tony, but he understood, now, why Kelham had been so anxious to co
me himself to ‘break the news’.
He lit a cigarette, and had nearly smoked it before Blair came hurrying down the stairs.
‘West, that was damned sporting of you! I’m really grateful, and I know Andy Kelham will be.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Roger, slowly. ‘Why did you come down here, Blair? Was it to tell her that Kelham had been detained and to prevent her from learning that he was injured?’
‘Yes,’ said Blair. ‘That, and to make sure that no one else blabs out the truth. She mustn’t have a shock of any kind. Tony has gone abroad. Later on, when she’s stronger, she’ll have to know the truth, of course, but it might be fatal if she were to learn it now.’
‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘Why on earth didn’t you or Kelham tell me about this before?’
‘Andy was going to tell you this morning,’ said Blair. He drew in his breath sharply. ‘How is he?’
‘Not badly hurt. He’ll be all right in a week’s time. Exactly what happened last night, Blair?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Blair. ‘I had a room next to his. He said he felt washed out and would have an early night, and asked me to call him at seven o’clock. When I went into his room it was empty and the bed hadn’t been slept in. I—I rather lost my head, I’m afraid.’
‘You did,’ said Roger. ‘Did Kelham have any visitors at the hotel?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Does he know two brothers, named Bellew?’
‘Bellew?’ repeated Blair, frowning. ‘The name’s familiar, but I don’t think he knew anyone of that name well. He—oh, I remember. He bought one or two houses from them, not long ago. Why?’
‘One of the Bellews attacked him,’ said Roger.
Blair stared, incredulously.
‘Why on earth—’
Roger said: ‘Blair, I’m going to be frank with you and I hope you’ll reply in kind.’ He paused, and Blair looked harassed. ‘The truth is that the Bellews believed themselves to have been tricked and cheated by Andrew Kelham,’ went on Roger, mendaciously, ‘and they attacked him out of a spirit of revenge. On your own admission, you know most of Kelham’s business. If I am to save him from further injury, and perhaps from death, I must know exactly what has been happening. Did he cheat the Bellews?’
