Design For Murder

by Francis Durbridge

  Without any further ado, Angus took Lauren Beaumont in his arms and began to dance. When they had moved out of earshot, Perivale said curiously:

  ‘What was it you were staring at, Wyatt?’

  ‘Just a bulge in Sir Donald’s inside coat pocket.’

  ‘It was probably only his wallet.’

  Wyatt shook his head.

  ‘It would have to be a pretty large wallet stuffed to capacity to make a bulge like that. My guess is that he had a nice fat pile of banknotes tucked away there. Let’s hope he’s kept a note of the numbers.’

  They saw Lathom tap the band boy on the shoulder and take him off to the manager’s office. After some discussion, they decided that no useful purpose could be served by waiting to talk to Angus in his present mood, so they made their way down a long corridor that led to the office. It was a very simply furnished room compared with that of Charles Luigi. Most of the chairs looked well-worn, and there was a large but serviceable light oak roll-top desk under the window.

  Lathom was obviously having some trouble with Roy Antonio, alias George Royston, for they could hear the musician’s angry voice some distance from the door.

  ‘It’s no good you saying you’ve never met Sir Donald Angus,’ Lathom was shouting, ‘because we know perfectly well you’re as thick as thieves!’

  ‘I tell you I’ve never seen the guy!’ came the pseudo-American voice of Royston.

  ‘We saw you talking to him on the dance floor, only a few minutes ago,’ said Lathom harshly.

  ‘You must be nuts!’ snapped Royston.

  ‘This lying won’t get you anywhere,’ barked Lathom. ‘Three of us saw you.’

  ‘Just a minute now. You don’t mean that grey-haired guy with a voice like “Annie Laurie”? He came and asked me if I knew where he could find a girl named Beaumont.’

  ‘Ah, now we’re beginning to get somewhere,’ said Lathom. ‘You do know Miss Beaumont?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  At this point the door opened to admit Perivale and Wyatt.

  Royston swung round and looked them up and down.

  ‘What’s this – a police raid?’ he rasped.

  ‘You could put it that way, Mr Royston,’ said Wyatt smoothly.

  Royston turned to Lathom.

  ‘Who are these men?’

  ‘My name is Wyatt, and this is Sir James Perivale – we’re delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Royston.’

  There was an angry light in the trumpet player’s eye.

  ‘Where d’you get this Royston stuff? The name is Antonio – Roy Antonio.’

  ‘And a very nice romantic sort of name; it must be a great help with the ladies. You seem to be on pretty good terms with them, if I may say so.’

  ‘I get by,’ said Royston indifferently.

  Wyatt leaned against the desk and said quietly:

  ‘How friendly were you with Miss Marjorie Faber?’

  Royston shook his head.

  ‘That’s a new one on me, brother. I once knew a dame called Webber who used to sing with a six-piece outfit at Epsom; she won a crooning competition over there and—’

  ‘Listen to me, Royston,’ snapped Wyatt abruptly, going over to the musician. ‘If you take my advice, you’ll drop that phoney American twang and come down to brass tacks. A girl name Marjorie Faber came here last night; she was picked up by someone and she disappeared. That person who picked her up was either the notorious “Mr Rossiter” or a member of his organization.’

  ‘What’s all this got to do with me?’ demanded Royston insolently, eyeing Wyatt with a shifty glance.

  ‘That’s exactly what we’re here to find out, Royston. Are you a member of that organization?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of any organization,’ snarled Royston. ‘And I’m due back on the stand. There’ll be a hell of a row if I’m not there to—’

  ‘Just before you go,’ continued Wyatt blandly, ‘I want to ask you one or two questions about your old friend, Professor Reed.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Professor Reed?’

  If Royston was familiar with the name, he did not betray the fact, though they were watching him closely. Wyatt went on talking in the same level tones.

  ‘The late Professor Reed was particularly well known in the East End, both as an unlicensed vet and also as—’

  ‘What d’you mean – the late Professor Reed?’ interrupted Royston.

  ‘Didn’t you know he was dead?’

  ‘I … I tell you I never heard of him,’ replied Royston sullenly.

  ‘That’s a pity in a way. He was quite a character. His death was really most regrettable. Pity he was murdered in cold blood like that.’

  ‘Murdered!’ repeated Royston. ‘Who murdered him?’

  ‘Why, “Mr Rossiter”, of course.’

  Royston drew his coat sleeve across his forehead, upon which had appeared tiny beads of perspiration.

  ‘I see you’re beginning to call Professor Reed to mind now,’ went on Wyatt inexorably. ‘You see, Royston, the professor had served his purpose. So far as “Mr Rossiter” was concerned, he was a back number, just as all “Mr Rossiter’’’s accomplices become back numbers in time.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m merely trying to bring home to you the fact that there’s sure to come a day, Mr Royston, when you are in some danger yourself from “Mr Rossiter”. You pulled off a big job for him last night, and—’

  ‘Nothing happened here last night as far as I’m concerned,’ asserted Royston angrily.

  There was a pause.

  ‘All right, Mr Royston, if that’s the attitude you propose to take,’ said Perivale at last; ‘we’ve no definite evidence against you. But there is something you might like to bear in mind.’

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Royston, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

  ‘Just at the moment, we’re interested in two things. The identity of “Mr Rossiter”, and what happened to that girl last night. But there’s quite a possibility that tomorrow we might be interested in – you!’ Perivale spoke slowly, weighing every word.

  ‘I’ve told you! I know nothing about what happened here last night,’ repeated Royston.

  Wyatt began pacing up and down the room. There was a a steely quality in his voice now as he confronted Royston once more.

  ‘I put it to you, Royston, that for weeks now you’ve been watching Marjorie Faber. We’ve discovered that you were on friendly terms with her. It’s my bet that you contacted Reed and he promised to get in touch with “Rossiter” and let you know. But Reed couldn’t keep that appointment for a very good reason. He was dead. However, someone else kept it … someone else brought you the money, the instructions – and the hypodermic syringe!’

  Royston appeared to recoil. He took half a step backwards, then recovered. He licked his lips nervously.

  ‘How did you know about the syringe?’ he said in a gruff whisper.

  ‘You injected a dose of “Amashyer”,’ went on Wyatt quickly, ‘and then you smuggled the girl into your car. Now … where did you take her?’

  Royston seemed to be thoroughly frightened.

  ‘I – I didn’t take her anywhere.’

  Lathom went up to him and thrust him down on to a chair, he stood over him menacingly.

  ‘Where did you take her?’

  Royston clenched his hands until the knuckles showed white.

  ‘You’d better talk fast!’ growled Lathom. ‘If that girl’s dead, you’ll be put on a charge right away. Now – where is she?’

  ‘I – I took her to Shadwell Basin,’ said Royston with an effort. ‘She was all right when I left her – I swear—’

  ‘Who met you when you got there?’ It was Wyatt taking over the questioning again.

  ‘The man who brought the money – he came instead of Reed.’

  ‘Well,’ said Wyatt, ‘surely you know his name.’

  Once again Royston hesitated. He looked round the room as if he wa
s seeking some means of escape. But finally he said quietly: ‘Never saw him before, but I think his name is Luigi.’

  ‘H’m, now we’re beginning to get somewhere,’ nodded Wyatt. ‘I don’t think you’re quite aware of what you’ve been mixed up with, Royston. It’s a much more dangerous game than you imagine. Now, what happened at Shadwell Basin?’

  ‘We got the girl out of the car,’ said Royston with some reluctance, ‘and there was a launch waiting near Millgate Steps. We put the girl in the boat and Luigi handed over the money.’

  ‘How much?’

  Royston paused. ‘Two hundred pounds,’ he said at last.

  ‘Where did he take the girl?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t know,’ said Royston, trying to loosen his collar.

  Lathom was on him like a terrier.

  ‘Did you get the impression that he was taking her a long way, or just a short trip?’ he persisted.

  ‘I tell you he didn’t say anything.’

  Lathom stood looking down at him, with his hands on his hips.

  ‘You’d better think hard, Royston. The sooner we find that girl, the better it’ll be for you.’

  Royston tugged at his collar as if it were choking him.

  ‘I can’t say for sure,’ he said with an effort. ‘I did somehow get the idea they weren’t going far. He said something to a man who was steering about a warehouse – I think he said the linseed warehouse … it sounded like that. I swear that’s all I can tell you.’

  Perivale looked questioningly at Lathom, who had been attached to the river patrol for some years.

  ‘There is an old linseed warehouse about a mile down-river from Millgate Steps,’ nodded Lathom. ‘It hasn’t been used for some time, as far as I know.’

  ‘All right, we’ll have to get busy,’ decided Perivale. He turned to Royston and said:

  ‘You’d better go back to your band, Royston, and keep your mouth shut. It’s lucky for you that you’ve told us this – it may save that girl’s life and yourself from being mixed up in a murder charge. All right, you can go now. We’ve got your address from the manager and I expect we’ll be in touch with you again.’

  Royston wiped his forehead once more, muttered something under his breath, then went out. A minute or two later they followed him back into the dance hall, where a riotous samba was in progress. They had to wait until it was finished before they could cross the floor to Sally.

  Wyatt told Sally that he was going with Perivale and Lathom to the East End, and did not expect to be back until fairly late.

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll go back to Janet and the party,’ nodded Sally, looking a trifle anxious. ‘Do be careful, Lionel – don’t go rushing into things,’ she added.

  ‘I’ll just limp along behind the others,’ said Wyatt with a grin, and he went back to Perivale and Lathom, who had been telephoning the river police.

  There was a tang of frost in the air and the moon was lurking behind a bank of clouds as they cast off and made their way downstream. It was chilly on the water, and Wyatt buttoned the collar of his light overcoat closely round his neck.

  They did not see much traffic on the river, apart from an occasional tug. Wyatt chatted to the sergeant in charge of the launch, who knew all about the old warehouse, which, he said, had been badly damaged by blast in the air raids.

  ‘I’ve thought once or twice I saw lights in the little office place at the far end,’ he told them, ‘but I couldn’t be certain. It might have been somebody with a torch inside; on the other hand, it might have been the headlights of a car reflected on the windows. One thing’s certain, there’s nothing in there worth pinchin’, or I might have tipped off the shore men. Anyhow, we’ll be seeing for ourselves tonight, maybe.’

  They slid past Millgate Steps and reached their objective five minutes later. There was a slight trace of mist curling over the river. The moon was still behind the clouds, so they could only see the dim outlines of a long, narrow structure, when the launch eventually bumped against some wooden steps immediately beneath the warehouse.

  Wyatt stood up rather cautiously to get some idea of the lie of the land. The launch’s headlight picked up a small rowing boat moored a few yards further on, and he drew Perivale’s attention to it at once.

  The Assistant Commissioner frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘I think perhaps you’d better stay here with the sergeant, Lathom, just in case somebody tries to make a getaway. Wyatt and I will go and take a quick look round.’

  He put one foot on the slimy steps and tested it carefully.

  ‘Don’t come up till I’m at the top,’ he said to Wyatt, ‘just in case they won’t stand the weight of both of us.’

  He climbed the steps slowly and cautiously, and presently called to Wyatt to follow. They both carried torches, but it was a little lighter now, and they did not use them, to avoid attracting attention. The sergeant had also switched off all the launch’s lights and the engine had now stopped its throbbing.

  Perivale and Wyatt stood silently on the wooden landing stage for two or three minutes, getting their bearings. They could see that the warehouse was built out over the river, supported by large wooden piles around which the water swished.

  ‘Come on Wyatt – and watch your step!’

  They started to walk slowly round the building.

  ‘It looks pretty derelict,’ observed Wyatt.

  ‘The perfect hide-out.’

  They moved on, picking their way amongst piles of rubbish at the side of the warehouse. Suddenly, they both stopped and listened.

  A small object had dropped into the water with a distinct ‘plop’ a few yards away from them.

  ‘What the devil could that be?’ whispered Perivale.

  ‘Sounds like something fallen through the floor of the warehouse … or maybe one of us kicked a pebble or something.’

  ‘I thought it sounded further underneath …’

  As he spoke, there was another ‘plop’ which sounded in exactly the same place.

  Sir James gripped Wyatt’s arm, and they listened tensely. About ten seconds later there was another tiny splash.

  They moved in its direction, and the next ‘plop’ sounded appreciably nearer.

  ‘It might be water rats or something like that,’ whispered Perivale, but Wyatt shook his head.

  ‘It wouldn’t happen in exactly the same spot,’ he murmured.

  Wyatt looked round carefully as if he were trying to come to some decision. There were no lights visible within a hundred yards. The dockside appeared to be completely deserted, and the only sounds were the occasional dismal hoot of a ship’s siren and the clatter of a train over a bridge nearly a mile away.

  When the tiny splash sounded below them yet again, Wyatt seemed to make up his mind. He clenched his fist and hammered the wooden wall of the warehouse.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ he called.

  There were two tiny ‘plops’ in quick succession.

  ‘Someone’s in there,’ said Wyatt at once. ‘They’re dropping things through the floorboards to attract attention.’

  ‘But surely they could call out,’ said Sir James dubiously.

  ‘We’ll soon see about that,’ replied Wyatt quickly, leading the way along the side of the building until they came to a door. At first it seemed to be locked or bolted, but a little pressure revealed that it was only jammed.

  In a few seconds they were inside the building. Sir James laid a restraining hand on Wyatt’s arm.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘It might be a trap of some sort.’

  They separated from each other until there was about six or seven yards between them. Then each shone his torch alternately for a few moments. The light revealed they were in an enormous shed, which seemed to be practically empty, apart from a few old boxes and a pile of refuse. There were several holes in the roof.

  Not far from the door through which they had entered Wyatt spotted a small cabin-like structure which had proba
bly been used as an office in past years, and he directed the beam of his torch upon it at once. They walked round it cautiously, noting that its one small window was heavily boarded up. They returned to the door, and Wyatt called out in a low voice:

  ‘Is anyone there?’

  There followed a queer thumping sound which vibrated the floorboards. Without further ado Wyatt turned the knob, but the door was locked. The thumping continued …

  ‘Put your shoulder to it, Wyatt,’ said Sir James. ‘Now!’

  The door gave at the second attempt, and they burst into the little room. It was practically bare of furniture, except for a cheap table and a broken-back chair. The beam of their torches swung round, until in the far corner they saw a girl, propped against the wall. She was half-lying on the floor, her arms and ankles were bound and she was effectively gagged. Wyatt noted at once that she was wearing an evening gown, which had become very bedraggled. Her hair had tumbled over her forehead, and her make-up had smeared under her eyes.

  Near her feet was a small pile of odds and ends, including nuts and bolts and various bits of scrap iron, and she had been pushing these through a fair-sized hole in the floor hoping they would attract attention when they fell into the river below.

  Wyatt looked inquiringly at Perivale as they started to untie her and remove the gag.

  ‘It’s Marjorie Faber all right,’ said Sir James.

  The knots were so thoroughly tied that Wyatt had to produce his pocket knife and cut the cords, noticing as he did so that the girl appeared completely dazed.

  When they released her, she gave a long-drawn sigh of relief and her head fell forward as she relapsed into semi-consciousness. Sir James produced a small silver brandy flask, and they managed to get her to drink a little, after which she began to show some signs of reviving.

  ‘I – I heard your boat,’ she said presently. ‘I tried to attract your attention, though I thought it might be – it might be them again.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Wyatt reassuringly. ‘Just take it easy and don’t try to talk.’ She drank a little more brandy, and after a while they lifted her to her feet, but they had to support her all the way out of the warehouse. The strain on her nerves had been a heavy one, and she was sobbing half-hysterically as they moved slowly towards the launch.