by John Creasey
“I refuse to believe that is possible.”
“His car was found in the River Thames,” Roger announced, but he could not be sure whether this man knew what had happened to the car.
“Are you telling me that my nephew’s body has been found?”
“All the evidence points—” Roger began.
“Mr West, I do not believe that my nephew committed suicide. If there is any reason to believe that harm has befallen him, then it is either an accidental injury or—one caused by a third party. Roy is not the man to commit suicide, not the one to avoid his responsibilities.”
“Such as a charge of murder, sir?”
“Had you charged him with murder?”
“He had reason to suspect that we would.”
“I see,” said Maddison very slowly, and his voice dropped even lower. “In that case it is conceivable that he was driven to desperate straits. And I hope you are aware whose responsibility that would be, Mr West. What efforts are being made to find out whether he is, in fact, dead?”
Roger said: “Every possible effort.”
Maddison had made one mistake, and probably realised it; he was too cold, too unemotional. He was behaving as if he did not care at all what happened to his nephew, and was more interested in scoring off the policeman in front of him. It was often the same: few men were as clever as they believed themselves to be.
“I must ask you not to publish this information or do anything which might distress my wife,” Maddison said. “If the worst does come to the worst she will have to know, but, until then, may I rely on your discretion?”
“Did you know of your nephew’s association with Mrs Kindle, sir?”
“Yes. And strongly disapproved.”
“Is there any history of mental illness in your nephew?”
“There is not,” answered Maddison, coolly. “Is there any way in which I can help you look for the boy?”
“You can tell me where he would normally go if he wanted to hide,” Roger answered. “The names and addresses of relatives, clubs, friends, parts of the country he liked – all that kind of thing.”
“It is quite impossible for me to tell you all of that offhand,” said Maddison. “I will arrange for a statement to be made available for you in an hour’s time. Will that serve your purpose?”
“Very well, sir, thank you,” Roger said. “May I ask one more question, please?”
“If you’ll hurry.”
“Yes, sir. Why didn’t you report that your own baby had been threatened?”
Again there was a momentary glint in Maddison’s eyes, as if he had been taken by surprise, but that was gone in a flash, and he said: “I understood that was reported by my wife. I hardly needed to repeat it. Didn’t my wife tell you?”
“She reported to the local police, sir, yes. I understand she was in some distress,”
“We have an excellent resident staff: a man and wife. I cannot be home all the time, and my wife will come to realise how good the servants are. Mr West, give me your considered opinion: if a man intended to harm a child, would he warn the parents?”
“There’s no telling, sir,” Roger said woodenly. “I would like to know exactly what happened, please.”
Maddison told him, and his responses came pat. No, he had not heard the caller. As far as he knew, there had been no earlier threats. He did not attempt to understand it. Yes, it was strange that his nephew should be suspected of a baby murder, and his, Maddison’s, child should be threatened. It was possibly an inverted kind of revenge; bereaved parents did become deranged. He, Maddison, had taken all necessary precautions at home; it was for the police to do the rest.
Roger was not satisfied, but did not force the issue. He was nodding to the silver-haired man twenty-five minutes after he had first entered the office quarters. He turned away from the saleroom entrance as the slim American woman and her bulky husband appeared. A turbanned Sikh was at the door, bowing them out; that was the kind of touch which Roger could well appreciate. He went to his car unhurriedly, for he felt sure that he was being watched, drove off and switched on the radio to the Yard immediately.
“West speaking.” His voice was hard and clipped and eager. “Is Mr Gibson there? … Hallo, Jim, glad you’re back. I want the servants and neighbours at Edward Maddison’s home watched and checked,” he said. “Fix it with the Surrey chaps at once, will you? And I think I may have got a line on young Cartwright,” he went on. “I want one of our chaps, smaller than average, and a policewoman, to go to Maddison’s carpet warehouse. They’re to go as customers, man and wife, say, looking for a special carpet – who’ve we got who knows anything about carpets?”
“Evans did the big carpet warehouse racket way back,” Gibson answered. “He might be recognised, but he knows the place.”
“Better send him,” Roger decided. “We want all entrances to the premises watched – it’s just possible that we might flush Cartwright.”
“Why not get a warrant?” asked Gibson.
“I’d rather play it this way,” Roger said. “If we produce a warrant Maddison and everyone at the warehouse will be warned. If we do it by stealth, we might find more. If this attempt falls down, though, we can get a warrant soon enough.”
“O.K.,” Gibson said. “Will you be at the warehouse?”
“I’m going to nip home, change my suit, and return by taxi,” Roger answered. “I’ll be in the place, but Evans and the woman aren’t to recognise me. Right?”
For the first time emotion of a kind sounded in Gibson’s voice.
“Wouldn’t it be better for me to go?”
Roger said: “No, you—” and then he broke off, grimaced, and realised that what had sounded like envy was really Gibson showing rare tact. He ought not to go himself, much as he would like to. That was one of the drawbacks of a superintendency – he would be stepping into danger because he might be recognised. He did not relish the idea, but in fact this was a job for Gibson, not for him; and when he had talked about changing his clothes, Gibson had seen that; there wasn’t a quicker mind at the Yard, although he gave the impression of being so slow-speaking and slow-moving.
“All right,” Roger said. “You come over. The whole warehouse wants searching. Pose as a potentially big customer, so that they take you around.”
“I will,” said Gibson.
He had left the office when Roger reached the Yard, obviously determined not to lose a minute. On Roger’s desk was another pile of reports, and several memos from Hardy, about the baby murder case. There was also a note that Mrs Kindle had come round, and a pencilled one in Hardy’s handwriting saying: “I should talk to her yourself.”
“And I’d better,” Roger said aloud.
But he wished that he was with Gibson and the others.
He checked that the exits from the warehouse would be watched, gave instructions that any van leaving with a load of carpets should be stopped when out of sight of the warehouse and searched, and then got up to go and visit Mrs Kindle in the nursing home. He did not relish it at all; her grief would be greater and would show itself in the same way as the other mother’s at Ealing Common. There was Maddison’s wife, too. Would it be wise to see her, soon? He wanted to know her version of the story, and also to hear what Maddison’s reaction to the news had been.
Yet Roger was thinking of Gibson, not the mothers or the babies, as he drove away from the Yard.
Chapter Eight
Carpets
Gibson was thinking about Handsome West when he reached the main entrance to Maddison’s warehouse. He saw a bearded Sikh, just inside, standing at attention. On one of the great plate-glass windows two words were written in gold leaf: Oriental Carpets. He paused for a moment to look at the two displayed in the window, and then moved towards the door. The Sikh opened it before he could touch the handle, and greeted him in a deep voice with only a hint of accent: “Good-morning, sir. What is your pleasure?”
Gibson said: “I’m from Jasons, of T
oronto, and I want to look at some carpets.” His voice was much more heavily accented than the Sikh’s; an unmistakable Canadian voice. He had spent twenty minutes reading up about carpets and five talking to Evans: the name Jasons was a reasonable one, for it was one of the Canadian department stores who were likely to have or want business with the Maddisons.
“If you will come this way, sir, we will help you,” the Sikh said. He was massive and magnificent, and dwarfed Evans, who was standing with a policewoman in plainclothes, Margaret Webb, of the C.I.D., and studying carpets which were probably worth more than his year’s salary. The Sikh led the way to a small partitioned office, where a bald-headed man sat at a small desk, forehead wrinkled, unbelievably pre-occupied. On the window of the partition was some lettering in gold leaf: North America. Similar small offices were partitioned off round the walls of this large room, and each was marked in much the same way; Gibson noted with respect the thoroughness of this organisation.
The bald-headed man’s forehead smoothed out instantly when they stopped at his door.
“From Jasons, sir – yes, of course, I know the firm very well. We have a small account with you, and naturally we would do all we could to make it larger! What particular kind of carpet are you interested in?”
“What I would like is a chance to look round and see what you’ve got and whether you’re competitive in price,” Gibson announced.
“I’ll gladly procure a guide to take you to all departments,” the little man promised.
The guide was introduced to Gibson as Miss Osborn. She was a slim, willowy young woman with a mass of gold-coloured hair, a touch of severity, a smooth complexion, beautiful teeth and a look which suggested that all kinds of things happened in the warehouse and she was quite used to keeping men at their distance. She walked a little ahead of Gibson, whose eyes dropped to her legs; they were quite beautiful. She had a little wobble, partly because of spikeheeled shoes; probably she asked for whatever she got.
“Just a quick look first will suit me very well,” Gibson said, “and we can go back to anything that interests me.”
“Very good, sir.” The guide was very prim.
Gibson could imagine how much West wished that he were here. West was a terror for wanting to be in the thick of a job like this; superintendency kept him tied to his desk too often. Gibson, keeping the girl in sight appreciatively, looked round while he examined the carpets and the girl gave the obvious sales talk about quality, beauty, price. He saw pile upon pile of great carpets, and was astonished at the size of the warehouse; it was like a great honeycomb of different salons. Evans had given him some idea what to expect; carpets from a dozen different places in India, from Pakistan, Turkey, Persia, all parts of the Middle East, from China, Yugoslavia, from South America. Going round, Gibson began to realise the extent of the business which Maddison Brothers did. In one salon he estimated that there were fifty carpets, in each of four piles, and the two men standing by to turn the carpets back so that customers could examine the patterns and colours. He knew of at least twenty salons: that made over four thousand carpets – and obviously he had not seen all the storerooms.
Every time he went into a new place he glanced at the men waiting on duty.
Each time, he half-expected to see Cartwright; but he did not.
He saw a dozen places where a man might hide; small doors marked Private, others marked Emergency Exit, alcoves where rolled carpets were leaning, passages leading to every section of the warehouse. A man who knew this place well could slip from one section to another without the slightest difficulty, and remain hidden from twenty policemen; unless he had a slice of luck the only real hope of finding Cartwright would be by having a search warrant, ordering everyone to stand where they were, and making a kind of military operation of the search. It might come to that: West wouldn’t give up if he thought there was a real chance of getting Cartwright.
He kept catching glimpses of Evans and the policewoman. Then he followed his blonde along a narrow passage, and she said calmly: “This actually goes underneath the road, sir, the underground premises extend much further than the ones above. Is this your first visit to London?”
“I’ve been here before,” Gibson told her, and glanced over his shoulder.
No one was in sight.
He saw no need to feel uneasy, yet in a way he did. Evans, a man on the short side of medium height and with a thin face and very thin nose, was unmistakable; and Evans would not fall down on his job. They would probably meet again soon. The girl’s ridiculous heels went tap-tap-tap on the cement floor of the tunnel, which was well lit. He saw more carpets at the far end, and brighter lights. He stepped through into another huge salon. Here were the British-made carpets, Axminster and Wilton, in great piles, some of them draped.
The uneasy feeling remained.
He told himself that there was no need for it, that nothing could possibly go wrong. He was not a nervous man, either and there was no need for nerves. There couldn’t be. The girl was so normal, tap-tap-tapping and wriggle-wriggle-wriggling along.
Then Gibson saw Roy Cartwright.
Gibson had given up hope of seeing his quarry. Like all men who worked at speed, Roger West made a lot of bad guesses, and this had seemed likely to prove one of them. But there was Cartwright, standing behind a stack of carpets which were knee high to him, gaping, mouth open, as if he could not believe his eyes. Recognition was instantaneous, and it seemed to paralyse Cartwright. Gibson, recovering from the momentary shock, saw the puzzled way in which the girl looked from him to Cartwright and back. She didn’t speak. Another man, small and elderly and with a humped back, was standing in a corner, head twisted round on his short neck, equally aware of the tension.
Gibson fell back on the obvious formalities.
“Good-afternoon, Mr Cartwright.” Cartwright didn’t answer. “I wonder if you will come to Mr Maddison’s office with me?” That would not mean much to either the girl or the man with the humped back.
Cartwright still didn’t answer.
“Is everything all right?” asked the blonde girl.
“Perfectly all right,” Gibson told her. He was now using his normal speaking voice, and realised that it was a mistake; but he found what he had come for, the time for pretence should be over. “I want to see Mr Maddison at once. Come along, Mr Cartwright.”
“You realise who Mr Cartwright is, don’t you?” said the girl shrilly.
“Yes, Miss Osborn. Now, Mr Cartwright, you’ll come along to the office with me, won’t you?”
Gibson was suffering from his own shortcomings, then; from the fact that the only approach he could make when dealing with a situation like this was the formal one. He had learned his job thoroughly, but in many ways parrot-like; only when he had mastered it had his mind began to move outside the strait-jacket of rule and regulation, formal charge and formal answer.
Cartwright moved towards a corner of the pile of carpets and towards Gibson, as if resignedly, but Gibson did not like the expression in his eyes. Gibson jumped up on to the carpets and darted towards one of the tunnels.
The man with the humped back grabbed a corner of the top carpet and heaved, to fling a part of the carpet back. It rose like a great wave from the sea. Gibson saw it, tried to jump over it, but it caught him just above the ankle, and he was moving at such speed that he could not save himself from falling. He did not hurt himself, the carpets were so soft, but his legs were caught up in the top one and he could not keep himself free.
“Come back there!” he roared. “Come back!”
He was trying to get up, but something struck him behind the knees. He pitched forward. He knew that the other side of the carpet had been flicked over deliberately. Part of it was beneath him, part of it now covered his legs up to the knees. It was very heavy. He tried to kick it off, but could not get free. He caught a glimpse of Cartwright disappearing, and of the man with the hunched back holding the corner of another carpet, beneath the top one. The
man’s forearms were bare, and for the first time Gibson saw how the muscles stood out, and realised what great strength there was in those arms.
“Stop that man!” he roared.
The little man heaved, and the second carpet came up at Gibson. It was like another wave from a sea of carpets, and he couldn’t save himself from it. The more he kicked and struggled, the more difficult it would be to get away. He had to keep still, had to make this man and the girl realise what they were doing. But it was difficult to be dignified; he was treading carpets like a man treading water where thick mud oozed beneath it.
He stopped moving, prepared to get out the best way he could, while he shouted: “In the name of the law, I demand—”
Something struck him on the back of the head. The weapon was heavy but soft, and it sent him forward again, on his knees. Before he realised what was happening, he felt a great weight and saw abysmal darkness descend upon him. A whole carpet. It was thick, the smell of wool and oily canvas was overpowering. Dust got into his mouth and caught at his throat, and he choked. In that moment he fought desperately, as a drowning man, but all he could do was punch the thick pile, which seemed to press upon him, head to foot. He was aware of movement. He knew he was being pushed about; then realised that he was being rolled up in the carpet. He went over and over, and the dust was thick in his throat and nostrils; he began to cough. He could not stop. He could not put his hand to his face, or hold his stomach, or do anything to stop the paroxysm. It got worse. He was still being rolled over and over and over again. He was just aware of that, but the most awful thing was the coughing, because he seemed to be suffocating himself.
