by John Creasey
“So I don’t need to look much further for him,” he muttered.
He looked through the address book, found the name ‘Pickerell’ and an address in Lambeth. He picked up the telephone, dialled the Yard and asked for Chatworth. He was told that the AC was not in. He knew that Eddie Day would shrink from taking any action without Chatworth’s express wishes; Cornish was the only man to try, but Cornish had left. Accepting the inevitable, Roger asked for Abbott.
The Superintendent’s voice sounded far away.
“What is it, West?”
“I have the address of a man named Pickerell,” Roger said. Whatever else Abbott did he would take the message correctly. “He has admitted arranging for the payment of the money into my account, and using an employee to impersonate my wife. Pickerell has just escaped from his office. He might have gone to his home, at 81 Bligh Street, Lambeth. Is that clear?”
“Yes. But—”
“Thanks.” Roger rang off, giving Abbott no chance to ask questions, and hoping that he had forced an issue.
He heard men approaching and saw Cornish passing the open door. He called out, and Cornish hurried towards him.
“Much excitement,” said Roger, “but I’m afraid the bird’s flown.”
“Flown?” Cornish’s voice rose in disappointment.
“I’ve just phoned Abbott and told him where he might be, so you’d better stay here,” Roger said, “Abbott will probably resent it if you usurp his authority.”
“I don’t give a damn for Abbott!” said Cornish roundly.
Roger persuaded him to stay at the office of the Society. The fire and Roger’s and Morgan’s evidence were enough to justify Cornish making a search. Roger kept the address book and telephone list tucked under his coat. Eventually, Roger found that the two girls of the fire-fighting party had given Pep Morgan first aid. A bullet had entered the fleshy part of his thigh. When an ambulance arrived, the doctor said confidently that it would do perfectly until the patient reached hospital.
Roger saw the little private detective off.
“Got everything you want, Handsome?” Morgan asked as he was being lifted on to a stretcher.
“Everything,” Roger assured him. “I’ll look in before the day’s out, Pep.”
“Don’t you worry about me, you look after yourself,” urged Morgan. “Oh, there is one thing, Handsome — if you wouldn’t mind telling my wife. Don’t want some idiot putting the wind up her.”
“I’ll go straight from here,” Roger promised.
Pep said “Ta!”, and the doors were closed on him.
Roger felt a strange independence in his freedom from the obligation to go immediately to the Yard and report — and he was appreciative of Cornish’s ‘forgetfulness’ in not telling him to stay long enough to make a full statement.
He found the cabby waiting nearby.
“Anywhere else, Guv’nor ?” he asked, and then eagerly: “Your pal copped it, didn’t he?”
“Oh, that was nothing to what might happen next. Shall I hire another cab ?”
“Don’t you leave me aht o’ this,” snapped the cabby with quick resentment. “I drove all through the blitz, didn’t I? What’s a little thing like this to the blitz? Where to?”
Roger said : “Clapham Common.”
Then he broke off. Looking along the street, he saw a Daimler limousine turn the corner and approach slowly. He did not know whether Mrs Sylvester Cartier was inside but recognised her chauffeur, the man with the name of ‘Bott’.
CHAPTER 11
The Strange Behaviour of a Beautiful Woman
AS ROGER stepped away from him, the cabby drew himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest and thrust forward his square, unshaven chin, narrowed his shrewd eyes and spoke with deep feeling.
“Guv’nor, will you make up your mind? Are you a fare or aren’t you— Do you want to go to Clapham Common or don’t you?”
Roger took out a handful of silver, thrust it into the cabby’s hand, and said :
“Give me some change. Make it look as if I’m paying you off”.” He waited only for the man’s startled expression to change to one of understanding before going on : “Drive along the street and wait where you can follow the Daimler when it moves off. When you’ve finished that, telephone a report to my Chelsea house — Chelsea 0123. Keep the chase up all night if necessary.”
“Okay!” The cabby delved and found a penny. “There’s your change, Guv’nor!”
“I’m relying on you,” Roger said. “What’s your name?”
“Dixon.”
“All right, Dixon. I’ll make the job worth your while.”
The Daimler had drawn up and chauffeur Bott was standing, stiff as a ramrod, by the door. A man stepped out, tall, elegant, impressive-looking. He turned to assist Mrs Sylvester Cartier from the car, and the two of them, a fine pair, stood together eyeing the crowd which had gathered, the policemen and the evidence of a fire.
“Now what has happened ?” demanded the man. His voice low-pitched but audible to Roger. “Has one of your sorrowing gentlemen lost his head.”
“Probably,” said Mrs Cartier, distantly.
She looked at Roger. There was no sign of recognition on her face but she beckoned him — it was an imperious gesture. He moved towards her, as if reluctantly. Her eyes held an expression to which he could not put a name, yet he read warning in it — the fact that she did and said nothing to suggest that she knew him might have accounted for that. She had been instrumental in bringing him here — obviously that had been the real purpose of her visit to Bell Street, and he was prepared to play her game for the time being.
“Can I help you ?” he asked.
“Can you tell me what is happening here?” she asked.
“There’s been a fire.”
“Where?”
“On the top floor,” Roger said. “No great harm was done, they soon got it under control. I think there was some other trouble,” he went on. “A man was shot.”
“Shot!” ejaculated the elegant man. “Great heavens! Seriously ?”
“He isn’t dead yet,” Roger said drily.
“You see, Antoinette !” The man turned to Mrs Cartier, his large, expressive eyes filled with concern. “This is what happens when you indulge in such whims. A shooting affray!” He turned on Roger. “Are the police up there?”
“Yes,” said Roger.
“My dear,” said the elegant man, sadly, “I have always told you that if you allowed your social conscience to rule your head you would one day regret it.”
The woman smiled at him. “You are always so helpful, darling !” Her words and her smile held barbs. “We must go upstairs and find out what has happened. Thank you !” She smiled at Roger and then swept towards the door.
“Strewth !” exclaimed the cabby, appearing from nowhere. “Did you see ‘er ?”
Roger turned abruptly. Bott stood rigidly by the closed door of the Daimler, looking past Roger.
The behaviour of Mrs Cartier did nothing to help. If the cabby did a good job, however, Roger would soon know where Mrs Cartier lived and what calls she made that day. He would not have been surprised had she decided to hurry away from the scene when she had learned what had hap-pened but, apparently, as President of the Society she was determined to see it through. If he believed all the inferences possible from the brief conversation between her and the man — was he her husband ? he wondered — the Society was a hobby which she took seriously and of which he disapproved.
He wished that he could place the man.
He strolled towards the end of the street and smoked two cigarettes before the woman reappeared, followed by her escort.
Mrs Cartier stood outside the house and looked in either direction. Roger crossed the end of the street, seeing her out of the corner of his eye. She turned on her heel and began to walk towards him. Her escort took a few steps in her direction but she looked over her shoulder and said some-thing which made him stop, at
the side of a ladder reared against the wall. The woman had passed under it, the man stepped to one side. Then she swept along the street, tall, graceful.
Roger walked back across the road, and they reached the corner together. She stared straight ahead but as she passed she whispered :
“I must see you tonight, at 11 Bonnock House .”
She went past. A man nearby must have heard her speak, but Roger doubted whether he had heard everything. He continued walking. Mrs Cartier raised a hand to a taxi, climbed in and was driven off. Roger did not hear what address she gave. The cabby would follow the Daimler, though, and would surely report. The elegant man had entered the Daimler which was already moving in the opposite direction. Roger saw the taxi come out of a side-street and follow it.
He hoped that Abbott would have Pickerell’s home visited but decided that there was no point in going there himself. As things dropped into perspective he realised that his first job was. to find Lois Randall. He toyed with the idea of telephoning Mark, but decided that it might lose precious time. He looked at his note of the girl’s address — 29 Chapel Street, St. John’s Wood — and found a taxi.
Twenty minutes later he entered the Chapel Street house.
A board in the gloomy hall told him that the place, a large one standing in its own grounds and with an untidy garden and drive, was divided into furnished flatlets — two, said a notice, were vacant. Cards pinned against other numbers told him the names of the occupants and he found ‘Miss Lois Randall’ opposite Number 9. Another sign told him that was on the third floor.
He walked up the stone steps, his heels ringing and making the quiet of the rest of the house seem ominous. He heard no other sound until he reached the door of Number 9. There were two flats on that floor, opposite each other. He heard movements inside, flurrying footsteps, voices. One was a man’s, youthful and persistent — it sounded more frequently than the girl’s, but hers was unmistakable.
Roger rang the bell.
The man stopped talking as the bell rang. There was a brief, startled silence before the girl said :
“Don’t open it! Don’t open it!”
“Lois, you can’t —”
“I tell you not to open it!” she said urgently. “It might be —” she broke off.
In a low-pitched voice, the man said :
“Lois, if you won’t tell me what’s frightening you, how can I help?”
“You can’t,” she said. “Oh, Bill, please.”
Roger raised his voice.
“Don’t let her go out the back way. It might be dangerous for her.” The words sounded melodramatic but that didn’t matter. There was another short silence and then ‘Bill’s’ decisive voice.
“I’m going to see who it is.”
“Bill! If you do I’ll never —”
She did not finish, for ‘Bill’s’ footsteps sounded in the room and the door opened. A young man stood squarely in front of Roger. He was well-built with untidy hair and clear blue eyes. He wore a tweed coat which had seen better days, baggy flannels and an open-necked shirt; he looked as if he had just stepped out of a bath.
“Well?” he demanded. “What’s all this about?”
“It’s not him !” The girl cried.
“Do you mind if I come in?” Roger pushed past ‘Bill’, who seemed so startled by the girl’s reaction and the obvious relief in her voice that he made no protest. Roger closed the door and stood regarding the girl.
“Who are you?” demanded ‘Bill’ gruffly.
“He’s a policeman !” Lois exclaimed. “He came to the office to make inquiries. Bill, send him away! I won’t say anything.”
‘Bill’ growled : “You heard her.”
Roger said briskly : “Supposing we behave like sensible human beings. Miss Randall will be hysterical in a few minutes if you let her go on like this and you won’t help matters by threatening to punch my nose.” He took out his cigarette case and offered it to the startled ‘Bill’. The diamond ring on the girl’s finger caught his eye. “I am a policeman but I am not on duty and my inquiries this afternoon were private ones. Miss Randall can help me; I hope she will.”
“Send him away !” gasped Lois.
“Lois, surely you’re not afraid of the police?”
“Will you tell him to go?” she flared. “Or do you want to send me to jail ?”
“Nothing you have done under pressure will send you to prison,” Roger said. “I’ve made it clear that I’m here in a private capacity, nothing you say now will be used in evidence against you.”
He heard a sharp movement in the room behind them, as if something had been knocked over. The girl turned and stared at the other door, terrified. Roger stepped to the door while ‘Bill’ darted to the girl’s side.
Roger stretched out a hand, but before he touched the handle the door opened.
He did not know why he was quite so shocked, although at the first glimpse he identified the man standing in the doorway. The man had a twisted smile on his narrow face. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he was clad in a narrow-waisted suit with padded shoulders, a gaudy tie and wide trousers. He wore no hat and his hair was carefully marcelled.
Roger thought: “Malone, for a fortune!”
“What’s all the noise about?” demanded Masher Malone, swaggering .forward and eyeing first Roger, then ‘Bill’ and finally the girl. “Hallo, honey, aren’t you pleased to see me? I’ve just come to take you for a little ride.” He looked at the men again and his lips curled. “Beat it,” he said. “You’re in the way.”
He stared at them insolently and with astounding confidence.
CHAPTER 12
“Why so Frightened?”
MALONE EXPECTED them to go. It did not seem to occur to him that they would refuse. In his wide experience, Roger had met nothing quite like this swaggering confidence.
‘Bill’ stared open-mouthed at him, but the expression in his eyes suggested that his temper was rapidly coming to boiling point. The girl looked only at Malone; obviously she knew him, and was terrified.
‘Bill’ made the first move, stepping forward and speaking in a high-pitched, wondering voice :
“Who the devil do you think you are?”
“Bill, don’t argue with him!” exclaimed Lois. “Go away, please, both of you go away ! I shall be all right. He’s — he’s a friend of mine. Yes, a friend,” she repeated in a pitiful effort to sound convincing. “Don’t worry about me, Bill.”
“You heard her.” Malone cut across her words; he put his head on one side and peered at ‘Bill’. “I’m a friend of hers. Be on your way, boys.”
Roger watched the younger man and saw the slow metamorphosis. At first he had felt impatient with ‘Bill’, who seemed absurdly naive and young for his age, but the man’s eyes narrowed and his expression grew more shrewd. He closed his mouth and a wary expression filled his blue eyes. Then — the most surprising thing — he smiled faintly.
“So you’re a friend of hers.”
“You heard me the first time, I don’t want to get rough, so be on your way.”
“Bill’s’ smile widened.
“Come on, get rough,” he invited. “Lois isn’t leaving here with you, now or at any other time.”
“Bill!” cried the girl.
Malone’s eyes narrowed. He moved forward, sliding his feet over the carpet and taking his hands from his pockets slowly. ‘Bill’ stood without moving, body relaxed, hands loose by his sides. Roger felt as if he were outside the situation; the girl had obviously decided that she was helpless now.
Malone stopped in front of ‘Bill’, stared at him for an appreciable time, then moved his right hand swiftly and snapped his fingers under Bill’s nose. Bill blinked. He did not move, he did not back away hastily nor raise his hands. Then Malone moved his knee up sharply towards Bill’s groin.
Roger went forward, expecting ‘Bill’ to be taken by surprise and stagger away. He did nothing of the kind. He swerved to one side
so that Malone’s knee caught him on the thick part of the thigh. At the same time he raised his hands and struck Malone on either cheek, flat-handed blows with the reports like pistol shots. Malone backed away, dumbfounded. Dark red marks showed on his cheeks and into his eyes there sprang an ugly glitter, the evil look which Roger had seen before.
Malone whipped his right hand to his waistcoat and drew out a knife.
The swift movement would have deceived most men, but ‘Bill’ moved his right hand and chopped Malone’s wrist. The knife dropped to the floor. ‘Bill’ seemed to move his arm negligently and Malone gasped and went flying against the wall. He came up against it with a thud which shook the room and made his oily Marcel waves fall over his eyes and face. ‘Bill’ stepped forward and trod on the knife; the blade broke into several pieces.
“Would you like some more?” he inquired.
Roger chuckled, but no one took the slightest notice of him.
Malone. straightened himself up, brushed his hair out of his eyes and shrugged his coat straight. More wary and with the evil glitter in his eyes enough to frighten most people, he approached, crouching, his hands outstretched and fingers crooked, like, a wrestler. ‘Bill’ kept quite still, relaxed and yet giving an impression of latent strength.
“Come on,” taunted ‘Bill’, “I’m waiting.”
Malone flew at him, relying on speed of the movement to carry him backwards. Bill swayed to one side, gripped the man’s arm again and repeated the first manoeuvre. This time he did not stand back after Malone hit the wall, but grabbed his left wrist and brought it behind him in a hammer-lock. He dragged Malone upright, and for the first time acknowledged Roger’s presence.
“Open the door, will you ?”
Roger hurried to obey.
“Thanks,” said Bill, politely. He ran Malone forward, and the man could not stop himself. Roger watched them go out, saw Malone stagger down the first steps. ‘Bill’ was clearly determined to make a thorough job of it, for he pushed the Masher down the stairs, their footsteps echoed clearly and the heavy breathing of Malone could be heard.
