Triumph For Inspector West iw-7

by John Creasey

  Tenby looked at him, insolently. “Okay, I’ll come,” he said, “but you ‘aven’t ‘eard the last o’ this, Mr Ruddy West.”

  He got up and began to dress.

  Obviously, he was worried, and his truculence sprang from the effort to hide his anxiety. He dressed slowly and deliberately. Now and again, his gaze wandered to a corner cabinet, but it did not linger for long; obviously, he had not expected tonight’s visit. A search of the room might yield a stock of drugs, as Tenby had once been a chemist, but without a search warrant it wasn’t worth the risk. A man could stay outside, and make sure that no one else entered the room.

  “Well, I’m ready,” said Tenby, at last.

  In his car Roger kept glancing at his passenger, but

  Tenby stared haughtily ahead. This was the man who might be much cleverer than the police realised; he might have murdered Tony Brown, and been responsible for the attack on Bill Brown—if the police theory was right.

  At the Yard, Turnbull went to Information, and Roger took Tenby along to his office, then sent for a shorthand writer. Tenby’s continued silence began to irritate him; he was suspicious of a trick, and watched his words carefully.

  “Now, let’s have it. Where have you been tonight?”

  “What’s the charge?” demanded Tenby.

  “If I make a charge, you’ll soon find out.”

  “I don’t want any more of your lip,” sneered Tenby. “I’m not going to make no statement, but I’m going to raise hell about being dragged out of bed at this time o’ night.”

  Roger said: “So you formally refuse to tell us where you’ve been tonight?”

  “And what are you going to do about it ? “sneered Tenby.

  “Make a note of that,” Roger said to a sergeant. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at the man standing in front of him. “I want to know something else,” he went on. “Do you remember the night of October 31?”

  “Why should I remember any particular night?” demanded Tenby. “You ruddy dicks are all the same, just because I had a bit of luck—”

  “I’m not so sure that Odds-on Pools are as lucky for you as you think,” interrupted Roger. “October 31 was a Wednesday, the night that Tony Brown was gassed in his room at Battersea. Remember Brown?”

  “Yes, and I knew a man named Smith once.”

  “The day will come when you won’t feel so smart,” said Roger. “Let me remind you about the 31st of October again. You weren’t at The Lion all that evening. You weren’t at home. Your landlady has been questioned, and she knows you were out. None of your friends know where you were, but you were reported to be in Battersea Park.”

  “That’s a lie!” Tenby’s voice rose.

  “We’ll find out whether it’s true or not. If you weren’t in the park, where were you?”

  “You don’t expect me to remember where I am every night, do you?”

  “I think you remember that particular night,” said Roger. “You refuse to tell me that, too—that right?”

  “I tell you I don’t remember!”

  Roger glanced at the shorthand writer.

  “Got that, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Tenby, I shan’t hold you—yet. But you’re in big trouble, unless you remember where you were on the night of the 31st of October.”

  Tenby’s little eyes were looking everywhere but at Roger, and his hands were working. The sergeant stood stolidly by.

  “Get going,” Roger said, roughly.

  Tenby hesitated.

  “Well?” asked Roger, abruptly.

  “I can’t remember what happened nearly three weeks ago,” Tenby muttered. “Tonight—”

  “Yes?”

  “I was out seeing some of me old friends. Just because I’ve ‘ad a bit o’ luck, it doesn’t mean that I drop me old friends like ‘ot cakes. Wouldn’t be fair.” Tenby became virtuous. “I got a Number 11 to the Bank, then picked up a 13 to Algit. That’s where I was, see? If you’d asked me decently, I would have told you right from the beginning.”

  “Where did you go?” demanded Roger.

  “The Three Bells.”

  “What time did you arrive there?”

  “Round about ten, I s’pose.”

  “It doesn’t take an hour and a half to get from Chelsea to Aldgate.”

  “I ‘ad to wait for a bus—”

  “There’s a good bus service,” said Roger, coldly, leaning back in his chair. “Have you seen Warrender tonight, Tenby?”

  “ Who? ”

  “George Warrender. Raeburn’s secretary.”

  “Now, listen,” said Tenby, earnestly. “I wouldn’t go to see that geezer if you was to offer me a five-pound note. I did a few jobs for them once, mind you. When Raeburn bought ‘is dog-racing tracks, I kept an eye open for them before the races, to see there wasn’t no funny business with , the dogs. But d’you know what? They wanted me to dope the dogs. Me! I soon sheered off them. Mind you, they didn’t come out in the open; a lot of ‘ints, that’s all there was, but it told me plenty. I don’t interfere with a man’s sport, Mr West, you can take that from me. Why, I ‘aven’t done a stroke of work for Warrender or Raeburn since then —you can ask them if you like. They can’t say no different.”

  “And you haven’t seen Warrender tonight?”

  “Of course I haven’t!” Tenby rubbed his hands together, nervously. “Listen, Mr West, I’ll tell you what did happen tonight, Gawd’s truth. I ‘ad a telephone message at The Lion, a man asked me to meet him at Algit Pump, see? ‘E said he was a friend of a friend. ‘E said he’d got a dead cert for me at Birmingham, so I said I’d go along. I was early and he was late, that’s how it was I was so long getting to The Three Bells. This bloke wanted me to lend ‘im some money—that was the truth of it. You’d be surprised the tricks they get up to. I’m sorry I can’t account for where I was every minute of the evening, but that’s the truth, Mr West.”

  “It had better be,” Roger said, grimly.

  “And if you’d been as friendly when you woke me up as you arc now—”

  “You’d have lied to me then, instead of now,” said Roger. “You won’t get away with murder, Tenby.”

  “Why, I never said a word about—about murder!” Tenby jumped up. “It’s not fair, Mr West, picking on me like this just because I ‘ad a bit o’ luck!”

  “Tony Brown didn’t have much luck.”

  “I never knew there was such a man until I read about him in the paper,” protested Tenby. “I’ve told you the solemn truth, Mr West. I give you my oath on it.”

  “All right. I’ll want you back here to sign a statement in the morning,” Roger said. “You can make up your mind about any additions by then.”

  “I don’t mind what I sign,” declared Tenby. “I want to make things as easy as I can. But you rake my advice, Mr West, and don’t trust that Warrender or that Raeburn. They’re nasty pieces o’ work.”

  “I know a lot of nasty pieces of work,” said Roger, and Tenby gave up.

  Roger sent a sergeant to drive him back.

  There was the gap which Tenby could not account for, and a lot could happen in three-quarters of an hour. Roger made a note to inquire from the landlord of The Lion whether there had been a telephone message, and, after a few minutes’ talk with Turnbull, went home.

  Peel’s condition was unchanged.

  Before Tenby arrived next morning, the landlord of The Lion confirmed that the man had been called to the telephone; that part of his story seemed true. But why had he refused to tell it earlier? In the cold light of morning, Roger found another important question: why had Tenby’s manner changed so abruptly? Had he been knocked completely off balance by the talk of Tony Brown’s murder?

  Undoubtedly, Tenby had been at The Three Bells, Aid- gate, at ten o’clock, but his movements between those critical hours of nine and ten could not be checked. There were no grounds for making a charge, or even searching his rooms. If anything had been c
oncealed in the corner, it would almost certainly be gone by now.

  Nothing else had happened at Eve’s apartment.

  Raeburn and Warrender reached the City office together soon after ten o’clock; that was normal enough.

  Roger had a telephoned report about that at a quarter to eleven, and was then told that Tenby was waiting to see him. The statement was already typed out. Roger went along to a waiting-room, and the little man signed before witnesses. His manner was calmer, and more ingratiating.

  “If there’s anything I can do for you at any time, Mr West, I’ll be only too glad, I will really,” he said. “Last night was a bit of a shock. I wouldn’t have behaved like that if I ‘adn’t just been woke up, that’s the truth.” He rubbed his bleary eyes. “I’m sorry I be’aved so badly.”

  “There is one other job you can do for me,” Roger said.

  “Anything, Mr West, anything! What is it?”

  “I want you to have a look at a man who’s been knocked about a bit,” said Roger. “You may recognise him.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” said Tenby, “but I’ll see ‘im.”

  Tenby seemed on edge on the way to the City Hospital, but had recovered some of his confidence. Once or twice he rustled some chocolate paper in his pocket.

  They walked along the corridors, Tenby complaining that he didn’t like the smell of antiseptics: they always made him feel sick; he never went into a hospital unless he was forced to, he declared.

  “Nor did this man,” said Roger, dryly.

  He reached Joe’s room, and opened the door without knocking. Joe was sitting up in bed with a newspaper in front of him. He glanced up, and his expression hardened when he saw Roger who entered first.

  Then he saw Tenby. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes; only a flash, but quite unmistakable. Roger looked sharply at Tenby, but Tenby’s face was blank.

  So there was another indication; still not evidence, but another line which might develop. Given a trivial charge against Tenby, they could step up the pressure against him.

  Where could he find a charge?

  He left Tenby in the hall, eating chocolates, and went along to see Peel, who was conscious, but still drowsy. He was not badly hurt, and the chief effect was from morphia. Peel could only suggest that his flask of tea had been doped.

  As Roger left, a little old lady hurried along the passage: Peel’s mother, intent on seeing her son.

  In the office, Roger still worried about Tenby’s sudden change of mood, then put it in the back of his mind, and set to work on other possibilities. He rejected the idea of telling a newspaperman about Raeburn’s forthcoming marriage; a leakage would probably be blamed on Eve, and do no good. He was anxious to locate the cottage she had mentioned, and sent out a memorandum to the provincial police.

  Eddie Day was inquisitive, and called across the office: “Why should Raeburn want to keep the engagement secret, Handsome?”

  “Not feeling well?” asked Roger, sympathetically.

  “Now come off it!”

  “You shouldn’t need to ask,” said Roger. “He doesn’t want us to realise he’s going to marry a woman so that she can’t be subpoenaed to give evidence against him.”

  “Why, of course, that’s it!” exclaimed Eddie.

  Raeburn put down the telephone, and lit a cigarette. Warrender leaned over the desk in the big office at Raeburn Investments, and Raeburn held out his lighter. Probably no one else would have noticed it, but each was aware of the telltale signs of nervousness in the other. Warrender looked thin, older, and more careworn, but the strain of the past few days had not outwardly affected Raeburn.

  “Well?” asked Raeburn, at last.

  “I think we shall be able to act soon,” said Warrender. “The police called for Tenby late last night, and took him off to the Yard. They didn’t keep him long, but they suspect him of the attack on Peel, and will watch him pretty closely now—more closely than they had been doing. He swallowed the bait all right.”

  “Yes,” said Raeburn. “Who did attack Peel?”

  “I did, after I’d noticed him and telephoned for Tenby,” answered Warrender. “You needn’t worry, they can’t get us for that. I slipped out of a first-floor window at the back, went round to the waste patch, and put a morphia tablet in his tea. It didn’t work quick enough, so I caught him from behind. He didn’t see me, though, don’t worry. Tenby’s suspected, and he’ll be scared enough to do whatever we want.”

  “I suppose it’s all right,” said Raeburn, uneasily. “But you’re taking a lot of chances.”

  “I’ve got to,” Warrender said, very deliberately. “I can’t trust anyone else, Paul. There’s a new porter at the flat, and I think he works for the police. West is like an India rubber.”

  “One day I’ll get him.”

  “Forget it,” said Warrender, “you’ll only be asking for trouble. All we want is to fool him. We’ll send Tenby down to the cottage first, and let Eve go afterward. She’d better arrive just before dark. I’ll deal with her, and Tenby will come tearing away for help. I’ll intercept him, and give him his faked passport and visa, with enough money to satisfy him. Okay?”

  “It ought to be all right,” Raeburn conceded. Warrender took a slip of paper from his pocket, and dropped it on to the desk. “Here’s something that will interest you,” he said, casually.

  Raeburn looked down. It was a scrawled note, threatening to tell the police the truth about Eve Franklin’s evidence unless Raeburn paid the writer five thousand pounds. There was no signature, but there were instructions to meet a man wearing a red carnation outside the Palladium the following day.

  “That will be identified as Tenby’s handwriting,” Warrender said, with a smile that did not touch his eyes. “It’s a perfect forgery, Paul. When the police come to see us, after Tenby’s gone, we’ll show it to them, and we’ll make out a list of imaginary threats by telephone. We’ll get away with it, all right.”

  “Does Melville know?”

  “He does not! No one knows but you and me,” said Warrender. “I haven’t even told Ma.” When Raeburn didn’t reply, he went on: “Paul, what’s on your mind? You’re not yourself this morning.”

  “I’m myself, all right,” Raeburn said. “Someone else isn’t, that’s the trouble. Your India rubber went to see Eve last night.”

  “ What! ”

  “It worries me, too,” admitted Raeburn. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at Warrender through his lashes. “Did you know about it?”

  “My God, I didn’t!”

  “Wasn’t someone supposed to be watching the apartment?”

  “Tenby fixed that with a woman across the road,” answered Warrender. “He said there was always someone in—I was told quickly enough when West first went to see Eve. That’s the trouble—it’s been the trouble since we started employing Tenby; we can’t rely on anyone to do exactly what they’re told. But—Eve can handle West now, can’t she?”

  “She went home and got tight,” Raeburn told him, bluntly. Warrender made no comment, but his lips were tightly compressed. “She says she’s sure she didn’t tell him anything that mattered, but did tell him about the engagement, and that was plenty. He’ll probably hand the story out to the newspapers.”

  “They’d talk to us before doing much,” said Warrender, without conviction. “Anyhow, the Cry will let us know if the story’s been put around.”

  “I think you’re underrating West now,” Raeburn said, quietly. “There would be no general statement. It would be passed on to one paper as a scoop, and West wouldn’t choose the Cry. The best thing is for me to release the story, and spoil West’s move. But we’re getting away from the point, George. We must know whenever anyone visits Eve.”

  “I’ll see to that in future,” Warrender promised.

  “You say that very smoothly,” said Raeburn. He stood lap and walked toward the little man, staring down at him. I” You’re going to look after everything, are
n’t you, George? You aren’t going to make any mistakes, now that you’re doing everything yourself. I should make sure it’s done extremely w^ll.”

  “It will be,” Warrender said, flatly. “Listen to me, Paul. Eve will be killed, so she can’t talk, and Tenby will fall over himself to get out of the country. It just can’t go wrong.”

  Raeburn thrust his hands into his pockets, and did not look away.

  “I don’t think we ought to take any risk that Tenby might be caught,” he said. “Now that we’ve gone so far, I think we ought to make a clean sweep of it. Tenby’s got to be killed.”

  “But the whole thing turns on Tenby being framed!” Warrender protested. “If they’re both killed, we’re bound to be suspected. We must have a scapegoat, Paul. You’re worrying about nothing, anyway. Tenby couldn’t do us any real harm, only Eve can. He killed Tony Brown; we’ve never been directly involved. He says he saw you kill Halliwell, but his evidence wouldn’t stand up on its own. He introduced Eve to us—why, Melville could prepare a case which could get Tenby hanged, and leave us clear. There isn’t any doubt about it, Paul, don’t make another mistake now.”

  “Another mistake?” murmured Raeburn.

  Warrender flashed: “Yes, another! If you hadn’t lost your head and killed Halliwell, none of this would have happened. And you wouldn’t let me stop Tenby when I saw he was going too far.”

  He broke off, shocked by the glitter which appeared in Raeburn’s eyes.

  “So you haven’t much confidence left in me,” said Raeburn, very thinly.

  “I don’t trust your judgment over this.”

  “I’m beginning to doubt whether I can trust yours in anything,” Raeburn said, softly. “We’ll talk about it again, later. I’ll see you at the flat at half past three.”

  He made a gesture of dismissal as he went back to his desk, while Warrender looked at him intently. Raeburn ignored that protracted stare, and telephoned the Editor of the Evening Cry. He began to give details of the story he wanted to appear in that evening issue concerning his coming marriage to Eve Franklin.

  Warrender went out, and closed the door softly.