Triumph For Inspector West iw-7

by John Creasey

  He broke off, and there was another sound at the other end of the telephone, followed by a different voice, further away. “Beat it, Bill. They’re comin’ !”

  “Brown!” Roger barked.

  “Fifty-four Berry Street, Mile End,” Brown whispered, urgently. “Come quick, West. If they get me, they’ll carve me up.”

  Roger had the telephone in his hand when the door opened, and a messenger came in.

  “Information?” Roger said, quickly. “I want D Division told to surround Berry Street, but to keep out of sight. Have three Flying Squad and two Q cars in the area. Right?”

  “Right. Who for?”

  “Brown.”

  “Here’s luck!”

  “Thanks,” Roger said, and stood up. The messenger handed him a sealed envelope marked: URGENT. Roger slit it open, and found a sheet of newsprint with a note from Chatworth, saying, ‘Come and see me.’ The paper was the Evening Cry, half of the front page devoted to news instead of racing.

  OUR READERS DEMAND INQUIRY

  In response to countless requests from our readers, the Evening Cry is to make representations to the Home Office for a full inquiry into the methods employed by the police following the dismissal of the charges against Mr Paul Raeburn. Our report of the harsh methods used in interrogating Miss Eve Franklin has brought a storm of protest. We publish a selection of letters. Many readers demand the dismissal of Chief Inspector West or at least strong disciplinary action to prevent . . .

  Chatworth was alone in his office; big, glowering, with another copy of the front page.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  Roger said: “I think Brown’s cornered in a house in Mile End. I’ve ordered a concentration, and would like to go there, and take a gun. Have I your permission, sir?”

  There was a tense moment of hesitation.

  “Come and sec me the minute you’re back,” Chatworth growled.

  CHAPTER XVII

  54 BERRY STREET

  BILL BROWN squeezed out of the telephone kiosk after hanging up on the Yard. The fog was eddying about the crossroads, and he could just see the figure of his friend, Deaken, disappearing along Berry Street. He thought he saw other figures looking out of the darkness, but when he caught up with Deaken, no one else seemed about.

  “What did you put the wind up me for?” he demanded.

  “I saw a coupla blokes,” said Deaken. “Matter o’ fact, I think I saw four, all near the phone. I’m fed up with this show, that’s the truth, Bill. I wish I’d never come with you. Let myself be talked into it, that’s what. And—look out!”

  Two men loomed out of the darkness, and smashed blows at him. He jumped to one side, and ran. Brown swung his left fist at the nearer assailant, and buried it in his stomach. The man backed away, but struck at Brown’s head. Brown staggered, kept his balance, fended the man off, and darted in Deaken’s wake.

  The fog swallowed him up.

  He heard thudding footsteps, but could not see more than ten yards in front of him. He struck a lamp-post with his wounded right arm, and winced at the pain, but did not let it slow him down. Number 54 Berry Street was halfway between the kiosk and the main road. His pursuers would not be able to see which house he had entered; if he could once reach 54, he would find sanctuary.

  The footsteps stopped.

  ‘Deaken’s okay,’ thought Brown, slowing down.

  He could hear the men coming after him, groping their way through the fog, then a hollow noise was followed by a vicious oath. One of the men had banged full tilt into the lamp-post.

  Brown went into a gateway, trying to see the number on the door of a house. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, but couldn’t be far away from 54.

  “Sixty-two,” he muttered.

  Now he crept along the pavement, reached Number 54, and found the front door ajar. A man was breathing heavily inside the narrow passage. Deaken’s wind had always been short. Brown pushed the door wider open, and stepped inside.

  A fist crashed into his face.

  The blow came so suddenly, and with such a shock of surprise, that he did not even try to defend himself. He reeled back against the wall, and the man who had struck him appeared from behind the doorway. Deaken was crouching against a door at the foot of the stairs, just out of sight; and he screamed.

  The assailant struck Brown across the face. Brown felt blood trickling down his chin, and licked his lips. A third blow banged his head against the wall; another sent a stab of pain up his wounded arm, and he gasped aloud. His assailant grabbed his arm, and began to twist. The pain was so great that Brown felt the strength ebbing from his body.

  “Shut that door!” a man ordered.

  The front door slammed, and the light went on.

  Fog eddied into the hall, but when Brown looked round he could see the men waiting there. They had been hiding in the rooms. The man who had hit him was a hulking fellow, with thick, wet hps, and little porcine eyes. His hands were red and huge. Deaken was in the grip of another man near the stairs. Two others stood by, one of them small and thin-faced, with hair growing far back on his head. The yellow light shone on his forehead and long hooked nose. He was dressed in a suit; the other men were in old Army uniforms.

  “Take them upstairs, Andy,” said the thin-faced man.

  “Okay, Joe,” said the big one.

  Deaken didn’t need ‘taking’; he was eager to walk up the stairs. Andy gripped Brown’s shoulder, and pushed him forward. Brown felt a warm, sticky patch on his arm where the wound had opened. He was almost too weak with pain to move, but Andy kept kneeing him from behind, and he had to go up.

  Andy pushed him into a back room.

  “Keep yer trap shut,” he ordered.

  He stood by the door, towering above both men. Deaken snivelled and began to talk, and Andy clouted him across the face. Deaken dropped on to a camp bed while Brown leaned against the wall, his senses swimming.

  It seemed a long time before Joe came into the room, smoothing his bald patch.

  Deaken jumped up.

  “I don’t know nothin’,” he screeched. “I don’t know a thing. I only come along because—”

  “Shut up!” said Joe, and turned to Brown. His little eyes were narrowed and watering, and there was a dew- drop at the end of his nose. He kept rubbing his hands together, making a sliding noise. Andy was breathing noisily through his mouth. The sound of traffic from the Mile End Road was deadened; there was no noise of footsteps outside.

  The little house was on a terrace, and the tenant and his family were out. It had been offered to Brown and Deaken while they were on the run, and they had spent the previous night there. The furniture of the bedroom was poor and old-fashioned; the single light was little more than a dim yellow glow; they could have seen almost as well without it, in spite of the fog.

  “How did you like what you got, Brown?” Joe inquired, evenly.

  Brown said nothing.

  “How would you like some more?”

  “I can give ‘im plenty,” Andy said.

  “That’s right—plenty more where that came from,” agreed Joe. “Brown, why did you go to Raeburn’s flat?”

  Brown licked his lips. “I was going to beat him up.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Joe said.

  He went for Brown with a rain of blows which made even Deaken cry out in muffled protest. Brown was pushed round the room, trying desperately to defend himself. He kept banging his arm against the wall. His knees felt weak, and now and again he stumbled, but Andy reached forward and hauled him to his feet. By the time Joe stopped, Bill’s face was puffy and swollen and streaked with blood; he could hardly get his breath.

  “Why did you want to beat Raeburn up?” asked Joe.

  Brown muttered: “He murdered my brother.”

  “So you think he murdered your brother. What made you think so, Brown? Don’t waste time.”

  Brown mut
tered: “Try and find out.”

  “Bill, he’ll bash you again!” cried Deaken. “Andy,” said Joe in a menacing voice, “you have a

  At the third blow from the giant, Brown began to talk.

  He was talking or answering questions for over twenty minutes. Joe learned that Tony had been with Eve on the night of Halliwell’s death, and learned exactly what Katie Brown had told Roger. He pressed for more, probing to find out whether Brown could give evidence or whether all he had was hearsay, until Brown was half stupid with pain and fatigue.

  “That’s fine, that’s fine,” Joe said, when it was finished. “If you’d told me all that before, you wouldn’t have got hurt. Not so much, anyway.” He grinned. “But it’s a pity you’ve seen me and my friends, isn’t it? Because you’d talk to the narks, wouldn’t you? You’d—”

  A man shouted from downstairs.

  Joe swung round. “What’s that?”

  His answer was a thud and a gasp, then footsteps sounded on the stairs. Joe moved swiftly toward the door, taking out an automatic. Andy pulled the door open.

  A man at the top of the stairs shouted: “Get out of my way, or—”

  He broke off, as Joe appeared.

  From behind Joe, Andy called: “West!”

  Joe had kept completely cool during the moments of crisis, and now he said, quite evenly: “You’ve had it, copper.”

  He fired.

  Roger fired from his pocket as he jumped aside. The other man’s bullet smacked into the wall near his head. Joe staggered back, clutching his chest, and his gun dropped from his fingers.

  “The cops, armed,” breathed Andy. “Gawd!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  SILENT JOE

  “BROWN’S IN hospital but he confirmed his wife’s story,”

  D said Roger to Chatworth, an hour later. “Deaken’s all right, as scared as a rabbit, but not hurt. We’ve another dish of hearsay evidence, as far as Eve Franklin is concerned, but nothing that leads direct to Raeburn.”

  “What about this man Joe?” asked Chatworth.

  “He’s badly hurt. I didn’t have time to take aim,” said Roger. “He’s being operated on now. The other men seem dumb. They say they only know Joe’s Christian name, and I haven’t been able to find out anything about the man. But I will.”

  “You’d better. The Home Secretary thinks your resignation would clear the air a lot.”

  Roger caught his breath. “Are you making me ?”

  “I told him if you were suspended, I’d quit,” Chatworth said bluffly. “But we want results soon. Yesterday —well, go on.”

  Roger said, slowly: “Thank you, sir. I think we can get Raeburn eventually, but if you feel that I ought——”

  “I said, go on.”

  Roger said: “Brown says that the man Joe told him he was after Raeburn, but I don’t pay much attention to that. We might find a Joe-Tenby connection, and I’m also working on that angle. I don’t think we can complain about today’s progress.”

  “No, but this campaign against you must stop soon,” Chatworth said.

  Roger leaned back in his chair, and drew at his cigarette. He was hungry, his eyes were tired from the strain of driving through the fog, and Chatworth had given him a nasty shock.

  “It won’t stop until we’ve dropped the case or got Raeburn,” he said. “It’s shrewd and very clever— Raeburn flaunting himself as a champion of the rights of the people, and winning a lot of sympathy. But there’s a sharp contrast between the newspaper campaign and Raeburn’s usual tactics against us, and this violence,” Roger went on. “It’s almost as if two different people were behind it. Raeburn’s completely lost his head, or else he can’t control the forces he’s let loose. Either way, I think it will give us a break.” It had to. “I hope we’ll get something out of Joe soon. I’ve left a man by his side.”

  Chatworth nodded dismissal.

  At half past three, Roger heard that the bullet had been removed, and that Joe was making reasonable progress. He had not yet spoken a word, but if he had a good night he might be questioned the following day.

  Tenby was interviewed, but when shown a photograph, professed not to know any Joe. He said that he had been in his rooms all the morning, and certainly he could not be linked up with the attack on Bill Brown on the present evidence. Efforts to identify Joe went on all that day and the following morning, but without result. He seemed to have no history. The other three men, Army deserters, had been staying at a doss house; according to Andy, they had met Joe in a pub.

  Joe had paid Andy fifty pounds, and the other two men twenty each for the job.

  Roger saw Joe the following afternoon. The wounded man was out of danger, and conscious, but would not say a word. After twenty minutes, Roger gave up, left instructions with the detective on duty in the private ward, and had a talk with the sister in charge.

  “There’s no reason why he should behave like this,” she said, “and he’s spoken rationally enough to the nurses, sir. He’s had a nasty wound, of course, but—”

  “You think he’s acting dumb?” asked Roger.

  “I do rather think so.”

  “Silent Joe,” mused Roger. “Well, thanks very much.”

  He was very thoughtful as he drove away from the hospital.

  When Roger reached the Yard, Turnbull and Peel were waiting for him. The two had returned from Brighton in the wake of Raeburn and Eve. Eve had gone to her rooms in Battersea, and Raeburn to the Park Lane flat; both were being kept under observation. They had no idea why Raeburn had changed his plans; he had simply paid his bill after lunch, and driven back. The fog had cleared except in the heart of London, and the journey had been uneventful.

  “And you’ve nothing special to report?” Roger asked.

  “There’s nothing new at all,” admitted Turnbull.

  “Well, we’ve had some luck here,” Roger told him, and explained.

  “If you ask me, Raeburn’s seen the red lights,” Turnbull said, with satisfaction.

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “But we haven’t really set them at danger,” Turnbull argued. “We haven’t done anything to make him rush back to town, anyway.”

  “No,” agreed Roger. “See much of him and Eve?”

  “Too much.”

  “Cooing doves?”

  “Coo!” Turnbull grinned. “What’s on your mind?”

  “You know, apart from Tenby, there’s just one known possible witness against Raeburn,” Roger said, slowly.

  “Yes—our Evie,” Turnbull agreed, “but I tell you that pair neck so much they make me heave. Your pal Lessing agrees, too. Eve isn’t on any danger list from Raeburn, take it from me.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Roger. “Well, I’d better get home. How’s Lessing?”

  “He looks a bit raw,” said Turnbull,” but he’ll survive.”

  He went off.

  Roger tidied up his desk, and was outside by his car when a messenger came hurrying down the steps after him.

  “What’s on?” Roger asked, and his tension rose. “A report from Division, sir,” the messenger reported. “It says that Mrs Beesley’s just gone into Eve Franklin’s flat, and the Super thought you ought to know.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  MA BEESLEY TALKS

  A BEESlEY sat on the divan in Eve’s bedroom; it was the only thing in the room large enough for her to sit on with comfort. She was dressed in shiny black, which showed up the pasty whiteness of her skin. All the time she talked she smiled, showing her ugly wide-spaced teeth. Now and again, she touched her plaited hair, but not once did she shift her gaze from Eve. Her eyes were wary, half- hidden in fat, and her voice was smooth and gentle.

  “Now I’m only telling you this for your own good, my dear,” she said. “I know Paul Raeburn better than anyone living. You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last—you can take that from me. If you’re sensible, you’ll accept my offer and go away for a few weeks. You’ll soo
n forget him.”

  Eve did not speak.

  “It stands to reason that he’s only playing with you, or he wouldn’t let you stay in this place,” went on Ma, looking about the room. “If he were serious, he’d see that you had a really nice apartment. Haven’t you ever thought of that?”

  “It’s wiser for me to stay here,” Eve answered, sullenly.

  “Is that what he says?” Ma grinned, knowingly. “He’s got an answer for everything, Paul has. I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, my dear, but I’m advising you for your own good. You know the things that have been happening, you know he had to leave Brighton suddenly. Did he consider you then?”

  “He has to attend to business, hasn’t he?”

  Eve was dressed for out-of-doors, In a two-piece suit of wine red with green braid at the edges and on the sleeves. When Ma Beesley had called, she had been ready to keep an appointment with Paul, but he had sent a message cancelling it; the note had been all that she could have desired. Now this fat harridan was trying to poison her mind. She hated Ma Beesley.

  “That’s just the point, my dear,” wheezed Ma. “Paul has to attend to business, and business always comes first with him. Now you’ve got a wonderful chance, right here. Five thousand pounds is a lot of money. If you’re careful, you can live comfortably on that for a long time. And a pretty girl like you oughtn’t to have any difficulty in catching another man. What you want, my dear, is a man who’ll marry you.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  Ma leaned forward. “Now don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. You think you can make Paul marry you? Well, you couldn’t in a thousand years. If you go away with this money in the bank, you’ll be much happier than if you hang on to Paul. I’ve brought the cash with me.” She touched a bulging handbag. “Have a look at it.” She opened the bag, peering at Eve as she did so. A thick wad of bank notes rustled in her fingers.

  “See those, dear? Take a good look.”

  “Put the damned money away!” cried Eve. “I’m not going to walk out on Paul, see? You’ve only come because you know he wants to marry me. What the hell’s it got to do with you? I’ll show you whether I’m good enough. I’ll tell him that you’ve been here; then you’ll see how the land lies.”