by Andrew Garve
Harry moved round to the edge of the desk and leaned down on it. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
Yardley did not answer. Instead he opened a top drawer and took from it Zero’s collar.
‘Tell me about this collar. Did you find out anything?’
Harry got a hold of his temper with difficulty. ‘It was bought by my father from a shop in St. John’s Wood. There’s doubt, a slight doubt, about the medallion.’
‘You mean it might have been changed?’
Yardley turned the metal disc over between his finger and thumb. ‘It’s got Mrs. Rogers’ name on it and your phone number.’
‘Yes. But both Liz Mason and the man who owns the pet shop, his name’s Heaton, were a little doubtful.’
Harry stopped as a knock sounded on the communicating door and Nat thrust it open.
‘Can you spare a moment, sir?’
‘Yes. What is it, Nat?’
Nat glanced at Harry’s face, saw that it was flushed with anger and guessed that he had interrupted an angry session.
‘I’ve just had a call from Sergeant Quilter. He’s found out something about Newton, sir, something we didn’t know.’
‘Well?’ Yardley barked, irritated by Nat’s habit of preluding his big announcements with these mysterious remarks.
‘His name wasn’t Peter Newton, that’s just a name he used because he thought his own conveyed the wrong image for the world of show business. His real name is Higgs, sir, Basil Higgs.’
It was late afternoon when Harry got home. He had lunched in the canteen at Scotland Yard, hoping that he would be able to collect his car soon afterwards, when the experts had finished their examination of it. In the end it was around four when he was at last told that it was available and consequently he was caught up in the beginnings of the rush-hour. As he parked opposite the flat he noticed a taxi drawn up outside the shop.
His nerves and temper were in a raw state as he turned the key in the lock of the street entrance to the flat. He had just closed it behind him when he realised that someone was coming out on to the landing at the top of the stairs. He stood still in the dark shadow just inside the door.
Mrs. Rogers was wearing her tweed coat and the hat with plastic flowers on it. She was so absorbed with the poodle in her arms that she did not notice Harry. She was pouching out her lips to the animal, receiving a thorough licking on the mouth and nose.
Half way down the stairs she spotted Harry and halted in obvious embarrassment.
‘Good evening, Mrs. Rogers,’ said Harry blandly.
‘Oh! Oh, hallo, Mr. Dawson.’ She forced a smile. ‘I—I was hoping to see you.’
‘Were you, Mrs. Rogers? I find that a little difficult to believe. I trust your nephew’s fully recovered from the ’flu by now?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr. Dawson, thank you. He is.’ She came down a few more steps. The coldness in Harry’s tone had been unmistakable. ‘Mr. Dawson, I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I lied to you in that note I left for you. The fact of the matter is, I’ve got another job.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. At that new hotel in Knightsbridge. The Royal Plaza.’
‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it?’
Harry moved to one side as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She had pushed the poodle across her left breast and it was now engaged in laundering her left ear.
‘I just didn’t know what to do. The shock of your father dying like that. Well, I just had to get away. I’m afraid I behaved very badly, Mr. Dawson. I don’t want to appear ungrateful for all your kindness but – I’m really very sorry about it.’
She seemed thoroughly ashamed of herself but Harry suspected that the whole show was an act.
‘How much do I owe you?’ he said, to cut short her protestations.
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing at all, thank you. We’re all square, with you paying the reward.’
Harry knew this was not true but he let it pass. ‘Well, anyway, we found your dog for you.’
‘Yes. And you can imagine how thrilled I was when I heard about it. I just couldn’t believe it.’ She fondled the dog’s ears. ‘Dear little Zero.’
‘How did you hear about it, Mrs. Rogers?’ Harry made no attempt to move away from the door and until he did she could not reach the latch.
‘I spoke to Hubert this afternoon and he told me about it. By the way, what’s happened to Zero’s collar, Mr. Dawson? Was it stolen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, dear.’ She turned the corners of her mouth down. ‘It was such a lovely little collar. And it was a birthday present from your father too, you know.’
‘Curiously enough,’ Harry said carefully, watching her face, ‘it was both stolen and returned.’
‘Returned?’
‘Yes. At the moment Superintendent Yardley’s got it.’
‘Superintendent Yardley?’ Mrs. Roger’s repeated the name in alarm. ‘But why on earth have the police got it?’
Harry was spared having to answer by an angry tattoo on the door knocker. He opened the door to find an impatient taxi-driver standing there.
‘Look. I can’t wait here all night, lady. I shall be in trouble, real trouble, if you don’t get a move on.’
‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘Now, please, lady.’ He nodded towards the street and looked at Harry. ‘There’s a busy-body of a traffic warden out there. She’s a real stinker!’
The driver turned back to his cab. Harry half closed the door. ‘Mrs. Rogers, before you go there’s something I want to ask you. Did you ever hear my father mention the name Conway?’
‘Conway?’ Her face had gone blank. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You’ve never heard the name before?’
‘No I haven’t.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘I feel sure I would have remembered if your father had mentioned it at all. Mr. Dawson, you’ll have to excuse me.’
She was peering out into the street, where the taxi-driver had started up his engine.
‘All right, Mrs. Rogers. Goodbye and good luck with the new job.’
She gave him a shamefaced smile. ‘Thank you. Say goodbye to Mr. Dawson, Zero.’
Zero ignored the suggestion, to Harry’s relief. He stood back and watched her as she hurried across the pavement and got into the taxi. Although she had had the run of the flat for months it somehow made him feel uneasy to think that she had been prowling about up there alone today of all days.
Harry had only meant to take a cat-nap when he sat down in the comfortable arm-chair. But a sleepless night followed by the stresses of his two encounters with Yardley had taken their toll. His head dropped and his eyes closed.
The telephone bell startled him into wakefulness. He shook his head, trying to remember what time it was. Outside it had grown dark and the din of traffic had diminished to a murmur.
He stumbled to his feet, clawing at the standard lamp to switch on some light. He blinked at the face of his watch. It was seven minutes to ten. He had been asleep for five hours.
Fortunately the caller was persistent. The bell still continued its regular ringing tone. Still rather befuddled by the effects of an unplanned sleep he grabbed up the instrument.
‘586 2679.’
Instead of a reply came the series of pips which indicated that the call was coming through a coin-box. Harry waited.
‘Mr. Dawson?’ The voice was a woman’s, low-pitched, breathless and nervous.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is Judy Black, Mr. Dawson. I was a friend of Mr. Newton’s—’
‘Judy Black!’
‘I’m in trouble, Mr. Dawson,’ the girl rushed on. She had a faint North Country accent, but he thought it sounded more like Leeds than Liverpool. ‘Terrible trouble, and I’d like to talk to you before I give myself up. Can we meet some time? Tonight, if possible.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Harry reached for a note-pad and biro. ‘Where are you? Where are you spe
aking from?’
The girl did not answer at once. The vague background sounds he had heard were blanked out, as if she had covered the mouthpiece with her hand. After a few moments she spoke again, very quietly and swiftly.
‘I’m in a restaurant. The Chez Maurice. It’s in Greek Street. The top end, near Soho Square.’
‘Stay where you are, Miss Black.’ Harry spoke in his most authoritative police officer’s voice. All his sleepiness had vanished. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’
The taxi cruised slowly up Greek Street. Both Harry and the driver were looking for some sign that would indicate the whereabouts of Chez Maurice.
Suddenly Harry spotted the name on the right-hand side of the street. He rapped on the glass partition. ‘There it is! Stop here.’
‘Can’t stop here, mate. I’ll pull into that gap up there.’
Harry could clearly see the two girls who were standing under the lights that illuminated the entrance. They had just come out and were thinking about hailing a cab. The taller of the two was a robustly built woman of about thirty. She was attractive in a tough, no-nonsense kind of way. Her red hair caught the light from the neon strip above.
The girl beside her was a real stunner. Men passing by were slowing down, instinctively running their eyes over her. Harry recognised her at once as the girl he had seen in the Fiat.
Harry already had the door of the cab open as it pulled in to the kerb thirty yards farther on. He waited impatiently while the driver fumbled for change, never taking his eyes off the entrance to Chez Maurice.
Judy Black was alone now. The other girl had gone back into the restaurant, obviously to collect something she had forgotten. Judy was looking nervously up and down the street. It was eighteen minutes since Harry had put the phone down. She must be wondering whether he was going to come.
As the taxi moved away he saw her grope in her handbag and put on a pair of dark glasses. She rearranged her head-scarf in the hope that it might conceal the head of golden hair. He hurried along the pavement, knowing that she had seen his taxi stop and watched him getting out.
A stream of cars and taxis prevented him from crossing. He gave her a nod and a wave which were meant to be reassuring. They had the opposite effect. She twisted her head and took a quick look into the restaurant. There was still no sign of her friend. Then, after another anxious glance at Harry, she abruptly came down the two steps to pavement level and started running towards Soho Square.
Something had scared her or she had changed her mind about talking to him. He plunged into the road, handing off a sharply braking sports car and squeezing through the ten-inch gap between it and the car in front. Judy had a start of twenty yards as he set off after her at the double.
Opposite Chez Maurice the driver of a green mini-van started his engine and forced his way out into the stream of traffic moving towards Soho Square. His speed was just about the same as the two running figures.
A big pre-war Rolls-Royce seven seater Sedanca had stopped opposite the entrance to a night-spot proclaimed in neon signs as ‘The Mad House’. Just before Harry came abreast of it the doors opened and out poured half a dozen long-haired youths in studded jeans. Each of them was carrying a musical instrument, the largest of them a double-bass in an enormous case. They were already fairly high and seemed amused by Harry’s efforts to get past them.
One of them grabbed his arm, laughing. ‘Say, man, you want to relax! Why not come in with us and we’ll smooth you out?’
Harry had to make a big effort to wrench his arm free from the thin but astonishingly strong fingers. In doing so he cannoned into a middle-aged American couple who were surveying, wide-eyed, this piece of local colour. He sent the woman’s handbag flying.
He recovered it from the gutter and with minimal apologies returned it to its owner. When he resumed his pursuit Judy Black had disappeared.
Harry raced towards Soho Square, not noticing the mini-van which had passed him and which he now repassed in his turn. He entered the square just in time to see a taxi at the far end turn in to pick up a girl who was waving frantically. Her cry. ‘Taxi! Taxi!’ was like a desperate call for help.
Realising that he could never reach them in time, Harry halted and watched. The girl climbed aboard and the taxi moved on up the short section of street to Oxford Street. There it turned right. The mini-van accelerated to follow it.
Harry stood hesitating for a moment. An instinct told him that Judy would head back towards the West End. He decided to chance his luck. In any case there was nothing else he could do.
Moving really fast now he sprinted round the square to the opening of Stratton Street. It cut through to Charing Cross Road. He still had a chance to catch Judy’s taxi at St. Giles’s circus.
He covered the hundred yards or so in fifteen seconds, most of it on the roadway. Heads turned at the sight of an apparently sane young man who had suddenly gone berserk. Some joker even shouted ‘stop thief!’
Traffic was streaming up Charing Cross Road. Harry had to get to the farther side. Like a rugger player weaving through the New Zealand defence he zigzagged his way through the lethal stream.
Once on the pavement he stood, breathing deeply to recover his breath, his eyes scrutinising the occupants of every taxi that passed. Fifteen private cars and half a dozen taxis went by and then Harry saw a vehicle with a pale-faced girl in dark glasses on the back seat.
He moved out on to the roadway and held up his hand. The driver could not pass without running him down. For a moment Harry thought he was going to do just that. At the last moment he braked and managed to stop an inch from the immobile figure.
He put his head out of the window. ‘What’s the game? Haven’t you got eyes in your head? Can’t you see this cab’s taken?’
Harry had moved round beside him. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said quietly but with authority. ‘Detective Inspector Dawson. I want you to take us directly to Scotland Yard.’
As the driver gaped, Harry wrenched the cab door open and stepped inside. Judy Black, taken completely by surprise, was trying to open the door and jump out on the other side. Harry grabbed her and forced her back on to the seat. He slammed the door and shouted to the cabbie.
‘Drive on!’
Still marvelling, the driver engaged his gear and moved on.
Behind him the mini-van, which had endured the hold-up with patience, kept station at a distance of twenty yards.
Harry had sat down on one of the tip-up seats with his back to the driver. That way he could face the frightened girl on the seat opposite. At close quarters she was disquietingly attractive.
‘Now,’ he demanded angrily. ‘What is this? What the hell are you trying to pull?’
‘Who are you?’ She was literally shaking with fright and the cigarette which she had just lit had fallen from her fingers on to the carpet. ‘What do you want of me?’
‘You know damn well who I am! I’m Harry Dawson. Inspector Dawson, if you like. You phoned me twenty minutes ago—’
‘I – I did?’ The girl’s voice was incredulous.
‘Why, yes!’
Judy shook her head. ‘No. I never phoned you …’
‘You said you were in bad trouble and wanted to see me—’
Harry stopped. The voice was different. There was more Lancashire than Yorkshire in this girl’s accent. He picked up the smouldering cigarette, wound the window down and threw it out.
‘What you’re saying is that it wasn’t you on the phone?’ Again she shook her head. ‘Did someone really phone you, pretending to be me?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a tip-off,’ Judy said tensely. ‘They knew I was at the restaurant.’
‘Who’s they?’
She turned away to stare out of the window. After the first shock of his appearance her confidence was beginning to return.
‘We’ve been looking all over for you,’ Harry said. ‘We want to ask you some questions about the murder of Peter
Newton.’
‘I didn’t kill Peter,’ she said angrily, turning round to meet his eyes. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it.’
‘We’re not suggesting you did, but we still think you can help us by answering a few questions.’
‘There’s nothing I can tell you. I don’t know anything about the murder.’
‘There’s a great deal you can tell us. We know, that you’ve been living with Newton. Haven’t you been living with him for over a month now?’
Judy answered coldly. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
Harry leaned forward and tried to speak in a more friendly tone, to coax her into talking to him.
‘Judy, listen. If you didn’t kill Newton then the best thing you can do—’
‘Don’t call me Judy,’ she whipped back. ‘When I want you to call me Judy I’ll say so.’
Harry sighed. He reached in his pocket for his cigarette case. The taxi had negotiated Trafalgar Square and was heading along the Mall.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To Scotland Yard. I want you to meet a friend of mine. Inspector Fletcher. He’s in charge of, the case.’
Judy gave an almost professional nod. ‘I know Fletcher.’
‘You know him?’
‘I’ve seen him around. I’m glad he’s a friend of yours.’
Harry surmised that this girl was a good deal less tough than she tried to make out. He moved over to the seat she was sitting on, letting the occasional seat snap back into place. He offered her his open cigarette case. She hesitated, then took one. Before she had managed to get his lighter out, she had produced her own, lit the cigarette and replaced the lighter in the bag.
Harry lit his own cigarette.
‘Do we have to go to Scotland Yard?”
‘Yes. I’m afraid we do.’
‘Couldn’t we go somewhere else?’
‘Where—for instance?’
For a moment he wondered whether she was going to try and buy him off, whether she was like those girls in Peter Newton’s collection of photographs. But somehow she did not seem to fit into that category.
‘I don’t know. Anywhere we can talk.’
