Triumph For Inspector West iw-7

by John Creasey

  It was obvious at a glance that Eve was nervous. She was wearing two great silver fox furs over a smart two-piece dress as she walked quickly up and down the lounge of the Grosvenor. When she saw Raeburn, she caught her breath; then she went toward him with her hands outstretched.

  “You look—wonderful,” he greeted her.

  So all was well!

  “Do I, Paul?”

  “Too wonderful to remain single,” Raeburn said, his eyes brimming over as if with good humour. “I’ve decided to tell the newspapers, darling, but we’ll fool them one way. I’ve a special licence in my pocket—”

  “Paul!”

  “Hush,” said Raeburn, squeezing her hand. “We’ll get married this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Paul!”

  “And you’ll go straight home; no one will be likely to follow you except the police, and it doesn’t matter about them,” Raeburn said. “Tomorrow afternoon I’ll send the Rolls round to you, and you can drive to the cottage. I’ll come later in the evening. Happy, darling?”

  “It’s like—it’s like a dream.”

  “It will be a dream! We won’t leave here together, my sweet. Go straight to Caxton Hall, and I’ll be there at two o’clock.”

  A clerk and a porter were the witnesses.

  When Raeburn reached his flat after the ceremony, the policeman who was watching outside looked at him long and hard. The porter suspected of being a detective was in the hall, but avoided his eye. Raeburn turned to the lift, and a man darted out of the shadows toward him.

  “Mr Raeburn!”

  Raeburn swung round, for the voice was familiar, and die face only too familiar: it was Tenby.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Raeburn felt a surge of violent rage as he spoke.

  “I’ve got to ‘ave a word with you,” muttered Tenby. “It’s important or I wouldn’t ‘ave come. I’ve just got to. It won’t take long.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  TENBY ACCUSES

  THE DAMAGE was done, Raeburn thought savagely; “Tenby had been seen coming here, and the police would guess whom he had come to see. Raeburn fought to control his feelings. “All right, come along.”

  He walked to the lift, with Tenby following at his heels, meekly. They did not say a word in the lift because of the porter. Raeburn thought he saw the suspect porter hurrying up the stairs, but could not be sure. There was no sign of the man when they reached the flat.

  Raeburn opened the door with a key, and ushered Tenby in. Ma Beesley popped her head out of the room; at sight of Tenby, she raised her hands in shocked dismay. When her smile came back, it looked as if it were glued on.

  “Is George in?” Raeburn demanded.

  “Why, yes, in the study.” Ma actually gaped at Tenby.

  Warrender was sitting at the desk, pretending to look through account books. He stared, poker-faced, until he saw Tenby. Then he sprang up. “Good God!”

  “It shook me, too,” Raeburn said. He slammed the door, then gripped Tenby by the coat, and drew him close. “Why the hell did you come here? You know you’re paid to keep away. I’d like to—”

  Tenby cringed. “It was the only thing to do, Mr Raeburn. I couldn’t stay away—nor would you, if you thought what I think.”

  “Think? You haven’t enough brain to think, you drunken swine.”

  “Maybe I can think better than you imagine,” Tenby retorted, with nervous defiance. “I’m not going to be double-crossed by anyone, not even you, Mr Raeburn. It wasn’t any use asking you to come to see me, and I mean to get things straight.”

  Raeburn released him, and Tenby shrugged his coat into position.

  “That’s a fine way to treat a man who’s worked for you like I ‘ave,” he muttered. “Anyone would think I was i bit of dirt.”

  Raeburn looked as if he had difficulty keeping his hands off the man. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, now you’re here.”

  Tenby took a newspaper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pointed to a single-column headline, an account in the Evening Cry of the attack on Peel. “See that?”

  “It’s in every evening paper,” Warrender barked.

  “I dessay it is,” said Tenby. “But here’s something that ain’t. West nearly pulled me for that job.”

  “I’ve told you West will catch up with you one day,” said Warrender.

  “West won’t ever catch up with me if I’m not double- crossed,” retorted Tenby, softly. “You think I don’t know what happened, don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you something. I was called to Algit last night by a man who said he was a friend of mine. I didn’t know who it was, and thought it might be you. When I reached the Pump, no one was there to see me. I hung about waiting for a bit, and that’s the time when Peel was bashed. I’ve got no alibi, see ?”

  Raeburn said: “Well?”

  H “I couldn’t understand it until I read that story,” Tenby went on. “Then I knew it was a frame-up, Mr Raeburn. Someone made sure I’d got no alibi, too. It looks to me as if you and your pal George think I’m too dangerous, and want me inside. Let me tell you this, I’ve got plenty to say if I get caught. If West catches up with mc on his own, I won’t open my trap, but if you fix me— then you’ll see what happens.”

  He stopped, and moistened his lips.

  Warrender said: “You’re a fool, Tenby,” but Tenby was staring at Raeburn, who had been bleak-faced during the first part of the story. Toward the end, he began to smile in a curious fashion, not one that Tenby could dislike.

  “If you had an idea like that in your head, it was better to get it out,” he said, “but you’re wrong, Tenby.”

  “Then who—”

  “I don’t know who sent that telephone message, but I do know that we don’t want you in the dock.” Raeburn spoke derisively. “Where would we be if you were put up in front of a good counsel? Don’t be a fool.”

  “Then who did it?”

  “We’ll have to find out,” said Raeburn.

  “Maybe you know where to start,” muttered Tenby. The other’s attitude obviously both placated and puzzled him. “I’m tired of it, Mr Raeburn, that’s the truth. I don’t mind admitting I thought I did a good job when I got rid of Brown, but ever since then I’ve been worried because things just haven’t gone right. It’s not only the telephone message, it’s the other business, too.”

  “What other business?” Warrender demanded.

  “Don’t kid me,” sneered Tenby. “You know. The Barnes Common do and the affair at Berry Street.”

  “We want to talk to you about those,” said Raeburn. “Perhaps it is as well you came. Why did you fix those two jobs?”

  “I didn’t fix ‘em!” Tenby looked flabbergasted. “ ‘Ere, what’s the game, Mr Raeburn? You’ve been using others besides me; it’s no use pretending you ‘aven’t. Even last night, there was another bit of mystery. The skirt I got to watch Eve’s flat was taken in by a phony message—someone said ‘er old man ‘ad met with a n’accident, but he ‘adn’t. Wot is all this, Mr Raeburn?”

  “Are you trying to pretend you didn’t attack Katie Brown——”

  “I’ve got more sense!”

  After a long, tense pause, Raeburn said: “Then who did?” He stared at Warrender, who looked almost frightened; a barrier of suspicion and distrust had risen between them; there was dislike in the way they looked at each other. “I certainly want to know who did,” Raeburn went on. “That’s something else we’ll have to find out, Tenby, but I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

  “That’s easy to say, but everywhere I go the dicks are on me tail. It’s coming to something when they drag me out of bed for questioning. The truth is it’s time I dropped the lot and cleared out.”

  “You mean out of the country?”

  “Out of London would do for a start,” Tenby replied, edgily. “Not that I would mind going abroad for a bit. Wot’s on your mind, Mr Raeburn?”

  “I’ve a little cottage in Berkshire, not far from Reading,
where you’d be all right for a few days,” Raeburn said. “It’s empty, too. Care to go there?”

  “Maybe it’s not a bad idea,” Tenby conceded. “But understand me, Mr Raeburn, I didn’t do the Barnes job or the Berry Street one, neither.”

  When he left the flat, he had a box of chocolates and the keys of the cottage with him. Raeburn’s final injunction was ringing in his ears: he must make the journey after dark, so that the police wouldn’t find out where he’d gone.

  Turnbull came into Roger’s office, next morning, and squatted on the corner of his desk. Roger was opening a letter addressed to M’sieu l’lnspecteur Roger West, and glanced up.

  “Half a mo’.”

  “I only want to tell you that Tenby called on Raeburn last night, and Raeburn didn’t think much of it.”

  Roger dropped the letter from France. “When was this ?”

  “I heard about an hour ago,” said Turnbull, swinging his legs. “Raeburn went up in the air when he saw Tenby, but soon cooled off. He took Tenby upstairs, and our little friend came down half an hour later, looking as pleased as Punch—and hugging a box of chocolates!”

  “Chocolates,” echoed Roger.

  “Tenby’s got a sweet tooth, remember.”

  “But still—a box of chocolates ‘from Raeburn to Tenby,” said Roger. He paused. “Tenby still being followed by a good man?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s okay.” At last, Roger opened the letter from Paris, and his eyes brightened as he read. He pushed the letter across to Turnbull, and was actually grinning. “Ma Beesley used to go around with one tall handsome man, and one small, very thin man,” he said. “The Trouville and Deauville police were after them. There’s no proof, but strong suspicion, that they were confidence tricksters. I’ll ask Raeburn how he likes the twin resorts, one of these days. It can’t be coincidence.”

  “Shouldn’t think so, but it doesn’t give us what we want,” Turnbull said. “Anything else come in?”

  “No. I’ve arranged for Raeburn, Warrender, and Ma to go along to the City Hospital to see Joe,” Roger told him. “I had a job to persuade them, but they toed the line. It’s a long chance, but we might strike lucky. Any trace of Ma’s early London life?”

  “She lived way back in a flat in Bethnal Green,” said Turnbull, “and her reputation wasn’t so hot; she sent her kids out begging, but always managed to keep her nose clean. She left there in 1929.”

  “How old were the kids?”

  “The eldest was about fifteen,” said Turnbull. “The others still school age.”

  “Did you get their names?”

  “Not yet, but I’m still trying. What about Raeburn’s little cottage in the country?”

  “I nearly forgot that,” Roger said.

  “Yeah?”

  Roger shrugged. “We can’t .very well watch every place that Raeburn owns, but I think there’s some funny business over this place where Eve is going. I’ve located it—not far from Reading. I’ve asked Mark Lessing to go down there; he was aching for a chance to get his own back.” Roger narrowed his eyes, as he went on: “We might withdraw most of our men from open tagging for twelve hours, but keep all Raeburn’s associates watched, of course. They might get careless.”

  “What does Chatworth say?”

  “He says that the Cry’s readers are enough to drive anyone mad, judging from their letters of protest, and he supposes I know what I’m doing,” said Roger, flatly. “We’ll have them off tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, we’ll let Raeburn and his friends see our mysterious Joe. Care to come along?”

  “I would!”

  “You drive Warrender and Ma, I’ll take Raeburn,” said Roger. “They’re due here any minute. All they know is they’re going to see a man suspected of burgling their flat.”

  The* trio were waiting in the hall, Raeburn with obvious impatience, Warrender looking a little shinier, Ma even fatter. During the journey, Raeburn sat silent, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As they reached the Bank, he asked: “Just where are we going, West?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” asked Roger, as if surprised. “This man’s at the City Hospital. One of our men was knocked about badly the other night, and is also there.”

  “This business won’t take long, I hope?”

  “It should be all over in less than twenty minutes,” Roger said, mildly.

  He took Raeburn into the ward first. Joe was sitting in bed, propped up with pillows. He was a better colour, and looked younger than he had at Berry Street, and during his first few days at the hospital. The bald patch at the front of his head added years to his appearance; he was probably in the early thirties.

  Joe looked at Raeburn blankly.

  “Have you ever seen this man before, Mr Raeburn?” Roger asked.

  “No,” answered Raeburn, flatly. “Never.”

  Nothing in his expression suggested that he was lying, and there was no flash of recognition between the two.

  “And I certainly don’t know him,” Joe said. “I’m a stranger to millionaires who get their names in the papers.”

  “Is that all?” asked Raeburn, coldly.

  “Wait outside for a few minutes, please, while the others come in,” Roger said.

  Turnbull brought Warrender in, a lion with a black sheep. Warrender gave the impression that he was afraid of a trap, and looked relieved when, after a prolonged stare at the man on the bed, he said: “I don’t think this was one of the men who burgled the flat. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  “Right, thanks,” said Roger, briskly. “Mrs Beesley, please,” he called.

  Ma Beesley came in. She grinned inanely about her, but on the instant Joe’s expression changed and for a second there was recognition in his eyes. It quickly disappeared, and there was no change at all in Ma’s manner, but Roger was convinced that these two knew each other.

  Outside the hospital, a newsboy stood selling papers. Raeburn bought an Evening Cry, and Roger followed suit, wondering whether news of the engagement had leaked out. The first headline to catch his eye ran: PAUL RAEBURN WED.

  Roger looked up into Raeburn’s face.

  “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” the millionaire asked, smoothly.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  REPORT FROM LALEHAM COTTAGE

  MARK LESSING reached the Berkshire village at lunchtime, and drew his Talbot up in the gravelled courtyard of The King’s Arms. It was drizzling, and the sky was very dark in the east; a bleak wind was blowing, and there was little about the weather or the countryside to cheer him. The low-built inn needed painting, and might be drab. He had driven through the village, and found it equally depressing. It was off the main road, and the local inhabitants seemed to take little pride in their homes. Nearly opposite the inn was a garage, outside which stood several derelict cars and some rusty petrol pumps.

  Mark had to bend low in order to get into the hall of the inn. He stood for some minutes, but no one appeared. He pushed open two doors marked SALOON and LOUNGE, but both rooms were deserted. He could hear voices from the back of the inn, and, going to another closed door, he pushed it open and called: “Anyone about?”

  “Whassat?” a man asked, almost from underneath his nose.

  He looked down to see a little wizened creature, with overlong hair, staring at him.

  “Can I get some lunch?”

  “Lunch?” the man echoed, as if the word were new to him. “Well, now, I don’t know if there’s anything left.”

  “Bread and cheese, and a glass of beer would do.”

  “I daresay we can fix something. Just go through the lounge,” said the little man.

  The lounge had not been tidied up since the previous night’s occupation. The ash trays were full, and the dried marks of wet glasses showed on the tables. The grey ashes of a long-dead fire looked cheerless in a small grate. Mark had started out cheerfully and hopefully, but this was enough to damp anybody’s spirits.

  He pushed open a door marked DININ
G ROOM, and light from a blazing fire in a large grate made him blink. The room was warm. Several people sat at the small tables, and everyone looked up at him. Most of them had reached the sweet course.

  No one was there to take his order, so he went to a table near the fire and looked at a finger-soiled menu card. The pencilled offering was ‘Roast Beef’. He glanced toward the service door; at last it opened, and the little man came in, carrying a plate of soup.

  He made a beeline for Mark. “You’re lucky, sir,” he announced, proudly.

  “That’s good.”

  “Beef to follow,” went on the wizened man. “Anything to drink?”

  “A pint of beer, please.”

  The pint came in a battered pewter tankard, but the brew was good. So were the roast beef, the rich Yorkshire pudding, and even the Brussels sprouts. Mark’s spirits rose as he set to. He was the last in the dining-room, except the little man who stood warming his back and looking at him as he ate.

  “Passing through?” the man asked at last.

  “Yes and no,” said Mark, and told his prepared lie. “I’m looking for a house.”

  “Not the only one,” said the little man. “Shocking, the shortage is. Large or small?”

  “Medium.”

  “Don’t know of one.” The little man shook his head. “Might have more luck in Reading, but I doubt it.”

  “I’m looking for a place in the country,” Mark explained, “and I thought I’d stay here for a night or two. You have a room, I suppose?”

  “Could do it,” conceded the little man. “We’ve got several rooms, if it comes to that. Show you the best one after lunch.”

  He became positively garrulous when they left the dining-room, and was soon chatting about Laleham Outage; Mark’s errand had reminded him of it. The cottage had changed hands some months before, but no one had come to live there. Oh, yes, it was furnished. It was a crying shame that people bought houses and left them empty, while others had nowhere to live. The cottage was just over there—he pointed out of a front bedroom window— as a matter of fact, it had five bedrooms and three rooms downstairs, as well as a couple of acres. Some cottage!

  The house was built halfway up a bleak hill, and about half a mile away. Beyond the building, the hill was wooded, and at one side was a dark patch of shrubs.