Triumph For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  Roger’s heart leaped. “Nice work! Was the car stolen ? ““We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”

  “Turnbull will come and have a look,” Roger said, and grinned when he saw that Turnbull, as lively as by day, was slapping a trilby on to his thick auburn hair.

  At half past five, it seemed certain that the Hillman had been stolen from a private car park at a hotel in Tooting. By six o’clock, this was proved. Late in the morning, a man who had seen the Hillman driven off was found. He was a nervous little man who claimed to be a waiter in a Soho restaurant; he had missed the last bus and walked home.

  “I was just turning the corner when the car came out of the park,” he said. “Nearly knocked me down, it did. I shouted at the driver to be careful.”

  “Did you see him?” asked Roger.

  “Clear as I can see you,” the waiter declared. “There’s a street lamp on that corner. I’d recognise him again if I saw him. I’m sure of that, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t want to get no one into any trouble,” the waiter said, uneasily. “It was only chance that I saw him.”

  “You won’t get anyone into trouble unless they’ve asked for it,” Roger said. “How many people were in the car?”

  “Two men.”

  “Did you see them both clearly?”

  “I only got a good dekko at the driver, a little dark bloke, he was. He didn’t half give me a nasty look, too.”

  “Which way did the car turn?”

  “Clapham Road, toward Brixton,” asserted the waiter. “It wasn’t ‘arf moving, too; the road was quite clear. You—er, you won’t put me in the box, will you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Roger promised.

  C Division, which controlled the Tooting area, worked at high pressure, and fragments of information brought in were quickly piece together. The movements of two men seen walking near the car park were checked. Turnbull discovered a policeman on his beat who had seen two men leaving a house in Hill Lane, Tooting, at about one in the morning; they had returned there at about four o’clock.”

  “Anything definite known about them?” Roger asked.

  “We haven’t found anything yet,” said Turnbull, “but there’s one queer thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of them is named Brown.”

  Roger sat back in his chair. Eddie Day, who was making a pretence of working but was actually listening, exclaimed: “Crikey!”

  “Another Brown, is he?” murmured Roger. “Tony Brown’s brother lived out there, remember.”

  “I remember. Where shall I meet you?” Turnbull asked.

  “C Division Headquarters,” Roger said.

  He was there in half an hour, and Turnbull drove him to the home of Mr Brown. He had already picked up some information about the man. Brown was married, and had just moved into a flat which he and his wife shared with a man called Deaken. Little else was known about him, and it was not even certain that Brown was still at the flat, which had not been under observation until nearly five o’clock that afternoon. Brown might have left at any time during the day.

  A plain-clothes officer from the Division was strolling along the street. He recognised West and saluted, but walked on.

  The house was a modern villa, turned into two flats. Roger and Turnbull walked up a short path to the front door which was unlatched; there were two doors inside a tiny hall, and one of them stood open.

  A girl of three or four came solemnly towards them, stared, and asked shyly: “Do you want to see my mummy?”

  “It’s the upstairs flat, sir,” said Turnbull.

  “Not just now, thanks,” said Roger, smiling down, and pressed the bell of the upper flat as the little girl stood watching. A woman called out to her, but she ignored the summons. Roger wished the woman would keep quiet; it was impossible to hear any movement on the stairs.

  He rang again.

  “Mary, come along in!” A flustered, sharp-faced woman appeared at the door of the ground-floor flat. “I’m sorry she’s so disobedient. I simply can’t do anything with her.”

  “I’ve two boys of my own, so I’m used to children.” Roger made himself smile. “Do you know if anyone’s in upstairs?”

  “Well, I think Mrs Brown is.” The woman tidied her hair, and looked at the bell. “I should ring again if I were you; that bell doesn’t always work properly. I do hope there isn’t anything the matter.”

  “What makes you think there might be?” asked Roger.

  “Well—I think Mr Brown hurt himself last night; he was out late, I know,” the woman answered. “And it was quite early this morning when Mrs Brown came downstairs to borrow my first-aid kit. That’s right, sir, keep your finger on the bell. Listen.” She craned her neck towards the door. “There it is now. I can hear it.”

  Footsteps on the stairs became audible, too.

  The woman showed no inclination to go, and as soon as die door opened she burst out: “Oh, Mrs Brown, this gentleman couldn’t make the bell ring, so I told him to keep his finger on it. I do hope Mr Brown is better.”

  The girl in the doorway said, “Sure, he’s all right.”

  She was a plump little creature with a mop of fair hair, a good figure, and round blue eyes. She looked tired, and the sight of the callers obviously alarmed her. She licked her lips, glancing from Roger to Turnbull, and then asked sharply: “Well, what is it?”

  “I’d like to sec Mr Brown, please,” Roger said.

  “He’s out.” The words seemed to leap from her.

  “Then perhaps you can spare me a few minutes, Mrs Brown?”

  “Oh, you’d better come in,” she said at last, and stood aside, glaring at her neighbour and the child.

  Roger and Turnbull stepped inside, and followed her up a flight of narrow stairs which were carpeted in plain green. Mrs Brown walked quickly, and Roger could see the back of her knees and half way up her sturdy, bare thighs, because her linen frock was too short. She had very full calves, arid ankles which tapered away to small, sandal- clad feet. Turnbull made a smacking motion with his big right hand.

  “Is he in?” asked Roger.

  “I’ve told you: no, he isn’t! I wouldn’t have let you in, either, if that damned busybody downstairs hadn’t been gawking; she never could keep her nose out of our business!” Mrs Brown turned to face them, her lips trembling, her voice hoarse with emotion. Fear? “I can’t tell you anything, it’s no use asking me!”

  “So you know who we are?” asked Roger.

  “You aren’t the first policemen I’ve seen.”

  “I don’t suppose we are,” Roger said, dryly. “We want to ask your husband a few questions about what he was doing last night.”

  “I don’t know where he was.”

  “You know what time he got in.”

  “—was asleep. I’m a heavy sleeper, and I didn’t notice. It’s no use asking me.”

  “Three of you share this flat, and the two men were out last night. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Mrs Brown moistened her lips, and said nothing.

  Roger said: “Sit down, Mrs Brown.”

  She was so nervous that she collapsed into a chair.

  Roger glanced about the living-room, pausing to give her a chance to collect herself. Some band instruments, drums, two trombones, and a trumpet in a corner instantly reminded him of the saxophone at Tony Brown’s flat. Beyond them were several photographs on the top of a cabinet.

  “Docs your husband run a dance band, Mrs Brown?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Why the hell don’t you say what you’ve come about?”

  “You don’t want to get your husband into trouble, I know, but it isn’t your fault if he has broken the law,” Roger said. “If he has, the sooner he admits it and starts afresh, the better for both of you. Where—”

  He broke off. He had caught a glimpse of one of the photographs again, and it had put him off balance. Turn- bull looked puzzled. Mrs Brown turn
ed to see what had attracted him, as Roger moved past her chair towards the cabinet. There were five photographs, three of men and two of women. Mrs Brown was one of the women; the dead Brown was one of the men.

  “What the hell are you staring at?” screeched Mrs Brown.

  Roger picked up the photograph of the dead man; across one corner was written: “To Katie and Bill from Tony.”

  “Who is this?” He was very harsh now.

  Turnbull had a look that was almost smug.

  The woman put out a hand to touch the picture, then drew it back. Her eyes were brimming over with tears. She brushed them away, sniffed, blew her nose vigorously, and then sat back with her lips set.

  “You know damn well who he is,” she retorted.

  Roger pulled up an easy chair, and sat on the arm. “Mrs Brown,” he said quietly, “this, is a serious affair, but as far as I know your husband is only on the fringe of it, and hasn’t committed any serious crime. He is suspected of having been in enclosed premises last night. A sympathetic magistrate might let him off with three months—and three months isn’t very long. Magistrates are usually sympathetic, if we tell them there’s reason to be. Don’t you think your husband might be better off inside prison than out and about, now that this has happened?”

  She was terribly pale. ‘What—what do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” Roger took out cigarettes and offered them. She took one, and her fingers were trembling when she leaned forward for a light. “Who is the man in that photograph, Katie?”

  “Bill—Bill’s brother, Tony,” she muttered.

  “The man who died in a gas-filled room.”

  “Died be damned, he was murdered You and the coroner can call it an accident, but he was murdered, do you hear me?” She was fast losing her self-control. “The swine murdered him because he knew too much, that’s what happened, and you bloody cops call it an accident! It’s always the same: just because a man’s a millionaire, you don’t care a damn what he gets away with, but my Bill—”she broke off.

  “Your Bill thinks his brother was murdered,” said Roger. “Does he think he knows who murdered him?”

  “Raeburn did, of course.”

  Roger said: “Katie, the police go for their man, whether he’s a millionaire or a pauper, but Raeburn couldn’t have killed Tony. He was somewhere else during the whole of that evening. Every minute of his time has been accounted for by independent witnesses.”

  “Anyone with money can buy witnesses.”

  “This wasn’t bought evidence.”

  “If he didn’t do it himself, he paid someone to do it for him,” Katie Brown asserted, gruffly.

  “If I could get any evidence to prove that, I’d arrest Raeburn at once,” Roger said, “but I don’t think there is any evidence. Do you?” When she did not answer, he insisted: “Let’s have it. Do you seriously think you or anyone else can prove that Raeburn hired a man to kill Tony?”

  After a pause, she muttered: “He’s too clever for that, but he was behind it all right.”

  “If Tony Brown was murdered, we’re going to find out, and we’ll get the man who was behind it,” Roger assured her, “but we need all the help we can get. Why should Raeburn or anyone want to murder Tony?”

  “Don’t you know that?”

  “I want to know what you know.”

  “It’s all because of that whore he was in love with, that Eve Franklin.” Mrs Brown stubbed out her cigarette, stung her fingers on the glowing end, and winced. “Tony made a proper fool of himself over her; he even gave up the band, because she was tired of it. He couldn’t see anything wrong in her, the little bitch! If I had my way, I’d tear the skin off her face! All she ever cared about was money. Tony never had a penny for himself when he was with her. Always buying her expensive presents, taking her places, spending money like water on her—and what did he get for it? She dropped him the minute she got her claws into a man who could spend more money on her. If I could lay my hands on her I’d poke her eyes out! Don’t talk to me!”

  She stopped, gasping for breath. Roger kept quiet, and Turnbull, standing near, picked up the photograph.

  “Oh, what’s the use?” Mrs Brown went on, in a quieter voice. “I didn’t want Bill to do anything about it, but he was always a fool over Tony. He wanted to bash Raeburn’s face in, that was all he was going to do; he wasn’t going to kill him, he was just going to mark him. There, now you know.”

  “A lot of people would like to see Raeburn have a thrashing,” said Roger. “But why is your husband so sure that Raeburn’s behind Tony’s death?”

  “Listen, copper,” said Mrs Brown. “Eve saved Raeburn from going down for a stretch, didn’t she? She said she saw the accident, and that Raeburn couldn’t help it. That night she was out with Tony, so she couldn’t have seen it.”

  Turnbull raised his clasped hands, and shook them vigorously.

  “You don’t believe me, I know,” Mrs Brown said. “You don’t really want anything on Raeburn, that’s the truth. You just want to put Bill inside, you just want to close his mouth. You damned coppers are all the same.”

  Roger said: “Why didn’t you tell us about this after Raeburn’s trial, Katie?”

  She bit her lips.

  “You knew the case broke down because of false evidence, but you held your tongue,” said Roger. “That certainly didn’t help us to get Raeburn. Now you talk about him being behind Tony’s murder, and say you know Eve Franklin committed perjury, but can you prove either?”

  “It’s all true! Tony told Bill it was.”

  “When did he tell him?”

  “What’s the use of asking all these questions?” she demanded, almost sobbing. “I don’t know when he told him, I only know he did.”

  “Did he tell anyone else?”

  “I don’t know, but we all know it’s true.”

  “Whom do you mean by ‘all’?” Roger persisted.

  Katie Brown began to talk more calmly. All three people who shared this flat knew what Tony had said, and it was clear that they believed that Tony had been killed to stop him from talking. Katie Brown did not say so, but obviously her husband had some good reason for avoiding the police, and had decided to punish Raeburn himself. One thing shone out clearly in her story: a deep attachment between the two brothers.

  Roger let her talk while Turnbull made notes. When she had finished, she sat up, with her plump, shapely legs crossed, and looked at Roger nervously, as if afraid that she had said too much.

  “You won’t regret any of this,” Roger assured her, “but I’ve got to find your husband, Katie. If Tony was killed because he knew where Eve Franklin was that evening, it’s possible that anyone else who knows is also in danger.”

  She realised that all right, and said stubbornly: “If you think you can get anything from me about where Bill is, you’re making a big mistake, because I just don’t know. He and Frankie Deaken have gone off for a few days, but I don’t know where.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Roger said flatly.

  “I don’t care whether you believe me or not, it’s the truth,” she snapped. “You’re only trying to scare me, that’s all. There isn’t any danger for Bill.”

  Roger said slowly: “There was danger for Tony.”

  “Raeburn doesn’t know that Bill knows anything!”

  “If Raeburn doesn’t know already, he’ll soon find out that Bill tried to attack him last night. Bill was seen by two people, and the resemblance between the two brothers is so great that they’ll soon guess who Bill is.” Roger’s voice was softly insistent. “I can’t force you to tell me where to find him, but you’re making a big mistake by keeping silent.”

  “I tell you I don’t know!” she cried.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE BRIGHTON ROAD

  THEY COULD get nothing more from Katie Brown, and Roger gave up trying after a quarter of an hour. She was still scared, but not really resentful when they left.

  “What n
ow?” demanded Turnbull. “Going to have another go at her, at the Yard, or keep digging?”

  “Watch her, and keep digging,” said Roger.

  One early result of the spadework was the discovery that Raeburn was going to Brighton for a week, staying at the Grand-Royal, and that Eve Franklin would be in the same hotel. Roger promptly telephoned the Brighton police.’

  “Are you coming down yourself?” asked the Brighton Superintendent.

  “Not yet,” said Roger. “I’m sending Turnbull and a younger brother of Peel. You know Turnbull, so don’t let him get too cocky. I’ll leave it to him to get in touch with you.”

  “Right-ho,” said the Brighton man. “We’ll help as much as we can.”

  Roger rang off, not sure whether to be pleased or sorry that Raeburn would be out of London for a few days. At least it would give an opportunity to concentrate on Katie, Bill Brown, and Tenby, but he had a feeling that he ought to find a new angle of approach. Brown was a possible angle, but might be in hiding for weeks, and Eve was the big chink in Raeburn’s armour. How could he widen it?

  Months ago he had sent out a general request for information about Warrender, Ma Beesley, and Tenby, and now he took out the files which he checked every day. A report that must have come in that morning was on top of Ma Beesley’s file. It was from the Surety Nationale, typed indifferently, and with several misspellings.

  The door opened, and Eddie Day came in.

  “Watcher, Handsomer’

  “Good afternoon, Mr Day,” Roger said with exaggerated politeness. “Since when have you been my office boy?”

  “ ‘Oo, me? Not on your Nelly! If you mean that Paris report, it blew off the desk, so I put it in Ma Beesley’s file for safety. It’s about her, ain’t it? Says they think she was with a gang of confidence tricksters working the French coast ten years ago, and was married to a Frenchie who died after taking on British nationality. How does that help?”