Triumph For Inspector West iw-7

by John Creasey

  “I will hear the evidence for the prosecution, Mr Melville.”

  “As you wish, Your Worship. I have no further questions to ask the witness.” Melville looked positively delighted, and Roger was quite sure what would happen now.

  When Melville called Eve Franklin as the first witness for the defence, the court was hushed. And the witness did not disappoint. She wore a silk suit of navy blue, which would have been acceptable in any cathedral, but somehow made her figure a thing to marvel at. Her dark hair was a cluster of demure curls. Her face was pale, and she wore little makeup. Her voice was low-pitched, but she was completely self-assured.

  She was sworn.

  “Now, Miss Franklin,” said Melville, “I want you to understand that the court is interested only in your evidence. You must not speak of anything you did not actually see. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were on Clapham Common on the evening of October the 22nd—or, more accurately, the early morning of October the 23rd?”

  “I was.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t that rather late for a young woman to be out alone?”

  “I’m not so young.”

  Someone tittered.

  They’re going to believe her, Roger thought, and he felt an even greater tensing of his nerves. Here was a man he knew was guilty, about to get away with it again, unless the police solicitor could throw serious doubt on this girl’s evidence.

  “I don’t think positive accuracy about your age is a matter of great importance to the court,” murmured Melville, suavely. “Will you object if I ask you what you were doing at that time?”

  “I was walking home,” answered Eve.

  “I see. There is no public transport at that time of night and you couldn’t get a taxi. Is that it?”

  “The witness will give us all the relevant information,” interrupted the magistrate severely.

  “I am sorry, Your Worship. I am anxious only to make this ordeal as bearable as possible for the witness. Why did you walk home, Miss Franklin?”

  “Because I couldn’t get a taxi.”

  “Why did you walk across the Common?”

  “I often do. Some friends of mine live on the other side of the Common, you see.”

  “Had you been with these friends that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was it when you left?”

  “About one o’clock.”

  “Can you be more precise?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” answered Eve, apologetically.

  “Perhaps it is immaterial,” conceded Melville. “Did you walk along the sidewalk or along the road?”

  “I cut across the Common, on a path.”

  “Did you see anything coming along the road?”

  “I saw a big car,” answered Eve. “I don’t know what make it was; there wasn’t very much light. I know it was a light colour, though—white, I should say. Its headlights were on.”

  She moistened her lips.

  She’s lying, Roger thought, desperately, but they’ll believe her.

  “Go on, please,” murmured Melville.

  “Just as it turned a bend in the road, a man ran out from the bushes,” asserted the girl. She looked as if the moment of horror still affected her, the lying bitch! “He didn’t seem to look where he was going, just ran across the road. The car swerved, and I quite thought it would crash. I remember standing still and staring. I couldn’t even cry out.”

  “We quite understand,” soothed Melville. “And what happened then?”

  “I saw the man fall,” said Eve, simply. “He—he simple didn’t get up again.”

  “Did the car stop?”

  “It slowed down, then went on.”

  If she was lying, would she admit a thing which didn’t show Raeburn up in a good light, even though it made her testimony seem still more reliable?

  “I see,” said Melville, quite untroubled. “Now, you saw an accident, one of many sad fatalities which occur on the road, but you did not inform the police. Why was that ? “

  “I—I was so frightened,” answered Eve, uneasily. “I could never stand the sight of blood; it always makes me faint. I just stood staring, not knowing what to do. Then a man came up on a bike—on a bicycle.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Not very well,” said Eve. “He startled me, because I didn’t see him at first, his lamp was so dim. He got off his bike and bent over the man in the road. I went a little nearer, and saw he was a policeman. Obviously, there wasn’t any need for me, so I hurried away.” Her voice was hardly audible.

  “You now know that you should have made yourself known, and told this policeman what you saw, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I—I’m sorry, really. But I was so scared, and I didn’t want to become involved with the police.”

  “I don’t think we should blame you for that,” murmured Melville, and flicked a glance at Roger. “What time did you arrive home?”

  “Just before a quarter to two.”

  “Do you live with your parents?”

  “No, I’ve a flat.”

  “Did you see anyone when you reached the flat?”

  “No. No one was up in the other flats as far as I know. I’d a terrible headache, and took some aspirins, and went straight to bed. My head was still awful next morning, and I stayed in bed all day. It was horrible! I haven’t been really well since, but if I’d known how important it was I—I would have come forward, I mean that.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Melville, glancing at the magistrate. “I have no more questions to ask this witness, Your Worship.”

  The Police Solicitor made the best of a bad job, but could not shake the girl’s evidence.

  Two men and a girl were put into the box, and testified that Eve Franklin had been with them on the night in question until nearly one o’clock, but Melville still wasn’t finished.

  “Your Worship,” he said, after the last witness had left the box, “I would venture now to make a statement which I hope you will agree is timely. It is evident that the accident was quite unavoidable. There remains, however, the charge that my client was drunk and incapable at the wheel of his car. I do not think that was the case. I intend to bring witnesses who will testify to his sobriety not only on that night, but at all times. He himself will tell you that he thought he had avoided the man who ran across the road, and

  Melville poured ridicule on Dr Anstruther Breem’s evidence, and even shook the assurance of the mobile police who had found Raeburn near Roehampton.

  An hour later, Raeburn was almost mobbed by sycophantic admirers when he left the court.

  Roger opened the front door of the Bell Street house, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him. He stood still, listening. No sound came from the kitchen. Janet was probably out, and the boys not yet home, although it was nearly six.

  He had come straight from Scotland Yard, after a gloomy post mortem with Turnbull and Chatworth. He decided to change into slacks, and turned to the stairs. As he put his foot on the bottom stair, the kitchen door opened, and Janet stepped out.

  “Oh! Oh, darling, you seared me.”

  “Sorry, sweet. Boys not back?”

  “They’ve gone swimming.” Janet’s quick smile faded when she saw his expression. “He didn’t get off?”

  “He’s as free as the air,” said Roger, bitterly. “I’m sick and tired of the whole damned business. The man’s so rotten that he stinks. I feel that if I even hear his name mentioned again, I’ll throw a fit.”

  They stood staring at each other, until suddenly he grinned. “Sorry, sweet! No more hysterics. Any hope of an early supper? I didn’t get more than a sandwich at lunch.”

  “I’ll have it ready by the time you’ve changed,” promised Janet. “Why don’t you have a drink first?”

  A whisky-and-soda, sausages, eggs and chips, and a boisterous half hour with the two b
oys when they came in, damp-haired, bright-eyed, and ravenous, drove gloom away.

  At nine o’clock Martin, called Scoopy, a massive fourteen, and Richard, called Richard, an average thirteen, came away from television, rubbing their eyes.

  Janet said: “Bed now, boys, and don’t take all day to get ready.”

  “No, Mum. I just want to ask Dad something.” Scoopy eyed his father, while Richard watched from the door; this was obviously a put-up job, probably schemed to win ten or fifteen minutes’ respite from bedtime. “I was reading about that man, Raeburn, who got off, Dad. Didn’t you think you’d got him?”

  “I did,” answered Roger.

  “What happened?”

  “Either I’m a bad detective, or a witness lied.”

  “You mean that Eve Franklin?”

  “The pretty woman,” Richard put in.

  “We were reading about it in the evening paper,” Scoopy explained. “Do you really think she lied?”

  “Between these four walls, yes,” Roger said, “but if you breathe a word outside, I’ll never confide in you again. Now, off to bed!”

  “I jolly well know one thing,” declared Richard, his blue eyes looking enormous, “you’re not a bad detective.”

  “Come on, Fish, no need to say the obvious,” Scoopy said, and dragged his brother off.

  Roger slept soundly, woke in a more cheerful mood, and was even prepared for a few knocks in the morning newspapers. Scoopy, five feet ten and absurdly powerful, bounded up the stairs with them, announcing: “You’re starred again in the Cry, Pop!”

  A good photograph of himself stared up at Roger from the morning paper which Raeburn owned, but Roger was interested only in the caption:

  CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, THE YOUNGEST CI AT THE YARD, WHO WAS IN CHARGE OF THE CASE AGAINST MR PAUL RAEBURN.

  The case had big headlines, and, as he read, a subheading caught his eye: WASTE OF PUBLIC MONEY.

  Richard called out: “Have a game of darts, Scoop? Mum’s only just started cooking breakfast.”

  “Do you more good to check your homework,” Scoopy said, but went off.

  Roger read on: “Another important factor is the waste of public money. Had the police exerted themselves to find Miss Franklin, a case of such gravity would never have been brought. A man of exemplary character was pilloried in public because of an unavoidable accident. Even the charge of being drunk in control of a car was not established. Mr Raeburn will be a generous man if he does not sue the police for wrongful arrest.”

  “All right, Mr Ruddy Raeburn,” Roger said softly, “if you’re not satisfied with getting off, I’ll give you plenty to think about.”

  “The worst of it is you can’t answer back,” Janet complained, angrily.

  “Perhaps I can get Eve Franklin to answer for me,” Roger grinned. “If I know Chatworth, this will make him hopping mad. It’d be funny if Raeburn’s cooked his goose, after all, wouldn’t it?”

  * * * * *

  “You can have as long as you want to prove that Franklin woman was lying,” Chatworth growled. “Concentrate on that. If Raeburn wants to have a fight, let him have it.” He glared up, and his shaggy eyebrows made him look ferocious. “You agree?”

  “All the way, sir.”

  “And you’ve a personal interest, after this smear campaign,” Chatworth said. “Concentrate on the job, Roger.”

  The Yard’s attitude was almost identical with Chat- worth’s. “Get the so-and-so, Handsome, we’ll take care of the rest.”

  Janet said, uneasily: “You make it sound like a crusade, darling.” Then she added: “Raeburn’s rich and clever, that’s the worst of it. Be careful!”

  CHAPTER IV

  EVE

  EVE FRANKLIN drew sheer silk stockings over her slim legs, fastened her garters, and stood up in front of the long mirror. She stretched her arms above her head voluptuously, as a cat roused from sleep. She looked at herself with a pensive smile, as if she were practising seduction. When she moved her head, the bright lamp above picked out the lights in her dark hair. Her arms and shoulders were bare.

  She sat down on the dressing-table stool, and reached for a cigarette; every movement studied. She lit the cigarette and blew smoke against the mirror, obscuring her reflection. As the smoke cleared, the brightness of her eyes and the sparkle of her teeth showed up through the greyness.

  She did not notice the door begin to open, but suddenly a man’s face appealed in the mirror—a long, sallow face.

  His gaze lingered on her shoulders and her body as she swung round in alarm.

  “Not bad.” He came in and closed the door, then leaned against it. “Going places?”

  “I’m—I’m going out,” Eve said, sharply. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just feasting my eyes,” said the man. “You’re quite a dish, Evie.”

  “Don’t be so crude!”

  “Getting refined, are you?” The man slid his right hand into his pocket, drew out a silver cigarette case, flipped it open and lit a cigarette from a lighter fitted into the end of the case. He put the case away before speaking again, and all the time Eve stared at him with an edge of fear. “You don’t have to worry, Evie, I’m not going to strangle the life out of you yet.”

  “Don’t talk like that!”

  “Well, you expected trouble, didn’t you?” He moved forward with a slow movement. He was wearing a brown suit which had padded shoulders, and beautiful straight lines; he was dressed to kill. His oiled black hair swept back from his forehead; there were lines in it, made by the comb. His small lips were rather like a woman’s and his eyes were a smoky brown.

  When Eve made no comment, he went on softly:

  “You didn’t think Tony Brown would let you go without making a fight for it, did you?”

  Now she spoke, gaspingly: “You—you’ve no right here! Get out! I don’t want—”

  “You don’t want your Tony any more,” interrupted Brown. “I’m all washed up, aren’t I? You’ve cost me plenty, Evie, more than I could afford, and now you’ve found someone with mere money, and you don’t even want to say goodbye.”

  He touched her shoulders. She flinched, but did not try to get away. His long, slender fingers caressed her skin softly, moving nearer and nearer to the slim white neck. He could see a little pulse beating beneath her chin.

  He moved his forefinger and touched the pulse, feeling its fluttering.

  Eve kept absolutely still, as if petrified.

  “Scared to death, aren’t you?” the man said.

  “I—no! I’m not frightened of you.” She could hardly get the words out.

  “You ought to be,” said Brown. He pressed more firmly, his hands right round her neck. “Just think of what I could do to you, Evie. Just think of what Paul Raeburn would say if there were dark bruises on that lovely neck, if your face was swollen and purple and—”

  “Get away from me!” she screamed, and sprang up, freeing herself. “Get away!”

  “You don’t have to worry,” Brown repeated. “I didn’t come here to kill you. I’m a fighter, Eve, and I haven’t lost yet. I’ve come to talk to you. Sit down.”

  She stood where she was, her hands clutching her throat.

  He leaned over, pulled a wrap from a chair and draped it round her shoulders. Then he pushed her towards a divan which was close to the blue-papered wall. “I said sit down.”

  She obeyed now, fought to regain her poise, and drew her legs up, curling them beneath her. Brown pulled up a chair, turned it round, and sat astride it, leaning on the back as he looked towards her.

  “Eve, you’re making a big mistake,” he said.

  “I know what I’m doing.” She was less frightened.

  “You don’t know a thing, and you’re asking for trouble,” Brown said. “Raeburn thinks the police have burned their fingers so much they they’ll stop trying to get him, but they won’t. I know the police better than he does. They mean to get Raeburn sooner or later. They’ll probably find o
ut your evidence was perjury, too, but whether it happens now or later, one of these days Raeburn is going down with a hell of a bump. When he goes, he’ll drag his friends with him. He’s like that, Evie. He takes you up, but he doesn’t stick to you.”

  “He’d never let we down.”

  Smoke curled up from Brown’s cigarette into his right eye, and he screwed it up. “Eve, even if you were the only woman in Raeburn’s life, which you aren’t, and even if he married you, which he won’t, you’d still be making a mistake, because the police will get him. But before that, maybe a long time before that, he’ll get tired of you. When he does, he’ll know you could go back on your testimony, and he wouldn’t like the risk of being blackmailed.”

  Eve caught her breath.

  “Don’t be a fool! I didn’t commit perjury. I saw the man—”

  “You saw nothing,” retorted Brown, and added sharply: “You were with me that night.”

  “That’s a he!” But she was terrified again.

  “It happened so long ago you thought I’d forget,” Brown sneered. “Or maybe you told Raeburn’s friends that you were alone all evening, so that no one could prove you were lying. Well, someone can. I can. But I know when to keep my mouth shut and when to talk. Right now I’m keeping it shut.” Brown paused, and demanded sharply: “How much did he pay you?”

  She could not find her voice.

  “Whatever it was, you ought to retire on it,” Brown said. “A thousand pounds? It wouldn’t be less, anyhow. That’s a lot of money, and you ought to be satisfied with it. Turn Raeburn in, Eve, and let me look after you. We could go out to Australia—”

  He broke off at a new expression in her eyes: repugnance. “So that’s the way it is,” Brown said, softly. “Okay, Evie, have it your own way, but don’t forget one thing: I know you didn’t see that man or that car. I know that Raeburn ought to be inside. One of these days, when he gets rough with you, maybe I’ll tell the police what I know.” He let the cigarette drop from his lips, and trod it into the carpet. “Maybe it won’t be so long, either.”

  He got up, put the chair aside, and tossed a key into her lap. “I won’t need that again.”