by John Creasey
An hour and a half suddenly appeared a very long time.
The maid came out.
“Mrs Cartier will see you now, sir.”
‘Mrs Cartier’, reflected Roger. A well-trained maid would have said ‘Madam’.
But his fears and forebodings soon faded.
Mrs Cartier rose from an easy chair in a room which set off her tall figure, perfectly gowned in black and gold. The room was pale blue, the luxurious chairs upholstered in maroon-coloured mohair, the furniture Louis-Quinze, and the carpet thick and muffling his footsteps. Roger took the extended hand, resisting an absurd temptation to bow over it, then looked into the smiling face of the woman.
“I’m so glad you came,” said Mrs Cartier. “I have so much to tell you. But first — have you forgiven me for pretending to wish to see your wife when I called ?”
CHAPTER 15
Mrs Cartier is Helpful
“I CERTAINLY haven’t forgiven you,” Roger said. “I beg your pardon.”
“Mrs Cartier, we haven’t time to fence,” Roger said. “I haven’t forgiven you for coming to me this morning with half a story. I might easily have been murdered; a friend of mine was in fact badly wounded. Had you told me what to expect that might have been avoided.” He thought that she was as shocked by his attitude as Malone had been by Tennant’s unexpected versatility. “I hope you’ll tell me much more than you have so far. A great deal is at stake — but you know that.”
“You mean your reputation ?” Mrs Carder’s voice was soft and her smile faintly mocking.
Roger looked at her steadily.
“I really don’t think that remark was worthy of you,” he said.
She threw back her head and laughed; her slender throat was flawless, her teeth very even and white.
“Come and sit down, Inspector ! I shall like you, I thought from the first that I would.” She lifted a carved wooden cigarette box from a table at her side and flicked a lighter into flame for him, but did not smoke herself. There was a small ashtray on the arm of the settee, kept in position by weights. She was still smiling, but there was a more sober expression in her eyes and she no longer gave the impression that she was hoping to influence him by her beauty.
“I can help you, Inspector, if you will help me.”
“So it’s conditional?”
“First, I want you to understand what has happened. My Society — and although you may not believe it, I have its interests very much at heart — has been used to conceal serious criminal activities. I discovered that just over a week ago. You can understand how shocked I was and how anxious to adjust the situation ?”
Roger did not speak.
“I should explain that I went to the office without telling Pickerell to expect me. He was talking with the girl receptionist — so charming, don’t you think?”
“I hardly noticed her.”
“Then you must take my word for it, Inspector. Lois Randall is a most charming girl!” Mrs Cartier went on. “She speaks several languages, which has made her invaluable, and her manner with those who come for help is extremely gracious. I should not like you to think badly of her.”
“Why should I ?” asked Roger.
“Because she has been going to your bank, calling herself your wife and making things so unpleasant for you,” said Mrs Cartier, softly.
Half-prepared for that, Roger was able to look as if the news was unexpected. He jumped to his feet and stared down at his companion.
“Please believe me. She has done all this against her will,” Mrs Cartier said earnestly. “You should be pleased to know the truth, so that you can convince your friends at Scotland Yard. Don’t you think so?”
Roger said : “If this is really true—”
“Oh, it is quite true and I think I could find the — what is the word ? — evidence, yes, evidence to prove it. The police are so particular about evidence, aren’t they? Please sit down, Inspector, and listen to what I have to say to you.”
Roger sat down, tapping the ash from his cigarette.
“I discovered all this because I visited the office unexpectedly and heard them talking,” Mrs Cartier declared. “Pickerell, the secretary with whom you appear to have had a difference of opinion” — she smiled her secretive smile — “and Lois Randall. She was being sent to the bank, and protested. Pickerell threatened her with some disclosure and after a while she agreed to go. I hurried out of the office and met her in the passage. I have rarely seen anyone so agitated. She was muttering to herself and when she saw me she what I believe is called “fell through the floor”. I pretended that I knew nothing of what had happened. I was shocked because I had heard enough to make it clear that the visit to the bank was intended to jeopardise your position. I only knew you as a name, then, but I realised the gravity of the situation for you.”
“Did you?” Roger asked, expressionlessly.
“I wondered how best I could warn you,” went on Mrs Cartier. “I decided not to telephone you or call to see you. I made inquiries among my friends and discovered that your wife is very active in voluntary work. That gave me an excuse to call. I was so glad that you were there yourself, but I had planned to arouse the suspicions of one or the other of you — suspicions which would take you to Welbeck Street. I hope you believe me.”
“Why shouldn’t I ?” Roger asked.
“Is it my imagination or are you being just a little difficult?”
“It’s quite a shock,” Roger reminded her.
“Of course, how foolish I am !” She leaned forward and rested a hand on his arm; her fingers were cool, soft and long. “I must tell you everything quickly. I realised from what I had overheard that Pickerell was not interested in the Society. I contemplated dismissing him but doubted whether that would be wholly effective. I wondered how I could help the girl and saw no way, but believed that if you discovered what was happening, you would be able to solve the problem.”
“Did you indeed ?” Roger said heavily.
She drew her hand away.
“Why do you disbelieve me?” Her voice was sharp and her expression angry.
Very flatly, Roger said : “All this happened a week ago, Mrs Cartier. Had it been two days ago I could have understood the delay, but you appear to have given Pickerell good time to make his arrangements. Why did you wait for so long? And how did you learn that I was already in trouble at Scotland Yard? You’ve implied that you did know.”
“But yes, of course,” said Mrs Cartier, her voice softer again. “I am not used to dealing with those whose life is spent in seeing the flaws in the statements of others! I will answer your second question first. I have friends, one of them on the Echo. I get a great deal of publicity for my Society through her and I asked her if she could get some information for me. She brought it to me yesterday, and told me that you were under suspicion and had actually been suspended. That was at dinner last night. She told me her informant was a reporter named Wray.”
Roger began to think she might be telling the truth.
“I know Wray, and he certainly knew about it.”
“As for the other point, Inspector—” Mrs Cartier shrugged. “It was clear that this had been going on for several months. It did not occur to me that there was any great urgency. I wanted to make sure that I did nothing which might jeopardise the activities of the Society. I gave the matter a great deal of thought and took a long time in reaching a decision. That is the whole truth.”
“I see,” said Roger. “I do believe you, Mrs Cartier.”
She eyed him without speaking for some seconds and then smiled with deep satisfaction.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “Now you know why I came to see you and you must realise my own problem. I need someone’s assistance to make sure that the Society does not suffer because it employed a rogue. Will you help?”
“Yes,” Roger said.
“I was sure you would.” She pressed his hand again but quite impersonally. He wondered what nationality sh
e had been born. “Now I will help you,” Inspector. I’ve told you what you have probably known already, through Pickerell. I understand that you interviewed him this afternoon.”
“Who told you that?” Roger asked sharply.
“A German doctor, a refugee who called there and saw you. He was referred to me and I have since seen him.” She spoke confidently. “He is very observant. I knew he was there just before the shooting, so I asked him whether he had seen anyone else. He described a man whom I identified as you. The doctor’s name is Hoysen, Dr Karl Hoysen, once of Frankfurt-on-Oder. I will gladly arrange for you to interview him if you wish. In fact, you may have his address now.”
She jumped up and went into another room, to return quickly with a small black book. She opened it and pointed at an entry; her nail was varnished pale pink.
“There, Inspector. That will satisfy you.”
Roger took out a notebook and wrote the name and address of the Dutch doctor — Karl Hoysen, the Kronprins Hostel, St John’s Wood, N.W.8. He knew of the place, which had a good reputation.
Mrs Cartier looked positively gay. “I promised to help you in return for your kindness. That conversation I overheard was extremely interesting. I will not ask you to trust my memory. Come!” She took his hand as he rose, then rested her hand lightly on his arm and led the way to a small library, book-lined and warm, as impressive as the lounge. There was a small period desk and, unexpectedly, a tape-recorder. She opened a cupboard beneath the bookcases and took out several tapes.
Roger watched with great hope.
“You must understand that I am aware that some of the people who come for help are not displaced persons but Russian sympathisers., For some time I have suspected that Pickerell was not all that he seemed, so I arranged for this to be installed. It was not always used, of course. I went to the office whenever suspected individuals had gone to see Pickerell. By pressing a switch outside the door, I set the machine in motion. Clever, is it not?”
“Very.”
“Thank you! I must say that before hearing this recording I hadn’t heard a conversation which I thought was really suspicious. Until my call a week ago I began to think I was wrong, and had misjudged Pickerell.” As she spoke she was fitting the tape into the machine, then she pressed a switch.
There was a faint whirring sound as the tape began to revolve. Then softly came Pickerell’s voice, alternating with
Lois Randall’s. Roger heard Lois protest, with a note of hysteria in her voice, saying that she would not ‘do it’ again. Pickerell sounded suave and threatening, the girl seemed to get nearer and nearer to hysterics. Pickerell’s threats — always about something he did not name — increasing. Then with a quickening tempo :
“Why, why, why?” demanded Lois, “why must you try to ruin this man? What has he done to you?”
Roger stiffened. Mrs Cartier’s eyes showed a repressed excitement.
“My dear, that is no business of yours,” came Pickerell’s voice, “but I will tell you that a few months ago West happened upon a discovery which could do me and my friends a great deal of harm.” The man seemed to be speaking to himself and Roger could imagine Lois standing and staring at him, could picture his faded eyes and the thick lenses of his glasses. One day he will stumble upon the truth, my dear, and that would not do. It is one or the other of us and I do not intend that it shall be me.”
“What — what beastly work are you doing?” Lois demanded.
“That needn’t interest you,” Pickerell said. “What matters is that unless you do what you are told I shall deal with you severely.” His voice hardened. “Take the money, and do exactly as you have before. Don’t be foolish enough to try to betray me.”
The talking ceased. There was a rustling sound, sharp noises which might have been footsteps, and then the unmistakable banging of a door. A laugh, soft and gentle and somehow blood-curdling; Pickerell, of course.
“I must try to make sure that the bank cashier will be amenable,” Pickerell said. “I wonder whether it is all necessary? I wonder if West will ever remember what happened on that day?” His voice was barely audible and Roger bent down, his ear close to the tape-recorder. “The unlucky 13th,” Pickerell went on, and then there was a sound as if he snapped his fingers as he added in a louder, more angry voice : “This absurd superstition!”
The voice stopped. Mrs Cartier switched the machine off.
Roger straightened up and looked into her eyes. His were narrowed and yet glistening. December the 13th, the unlucky 13th. He did not remember what had happened that day but his files at the Yard would surely tell him and he would surely be allowed access to them. With this tape, he could end all doubts and all suspicions.
He could have kissed the lovely Mrs Cartier!
“You see how important it is?” she said.
“It couldn’t be more important,” Roger said. “May I have the tape ?”
“Of course,” said Mrs Cartier. “Be careful with it, it’s the only one.” She took the tape off the machine, replaced it in its cardboard container and handed it to him. “You will keep your part of the bargain, Inspector, won’t you? You will do all you can to make sure that the work of the Society is not interrupted ?”
“You needn’t worry about that,” Roger assured her. “Is there anything else?” He smiled. “No, I’m not greedy — I’m simply trying to make sure !”
“I should not like to be a criminal with you after me,” said Mrs Cartier.
The remark was fatuous, and Roger did not quite understand why it struck a wrong note. He only knew that it did, that with the tape in his hand and the evidence he needed to clear himself there in unmistakable form, he was suddenly doubtful of this woman’s sincerity. It was as if his mind had opened for a split-second, to allow him to catch a glimpse of something badly wrong, then closed up again and left him with an insistent, infuriating doubt. He did not think that he revealed it as she led him back into the other room.
The maid had been in; there was a tray with brandy and whisky, and a dish of fruit. Two large, bowl-shaped brandy glasses were warming in front of a single bar of an electric fire. The woman approached the tray.
“What will you have?”
Before Roger could answer, there was a sharp exclamation in the next room. The maid’s voice rose, then Masher Malone said harshly:
“Well? Where are they?”
CHAPTER 16
Situation Reversed
THE MAID did not answer.
There was no sound until a sharp report followed as if he had slapped her face, then the question again :
“Where are they ?”
“In — in there,” gasped the maid.
Roger could picture her pointing towards the door. He bent down and pushed the tape beneath a low table near the wall, then stepped to the door, getting behind it and motioning the woman towards the library. She took no notice but stood staring. It did not open immediately, but one opened elsewhere. There was an oath from Malone and a stifled scream from the maid. She had given her mistress a moment’s respite by misdirecting the man.
A thud — a cry — and silence.
Roger thought tensely : “Where the devil is Sam?”
He looked round the room. There were no fire-irons, nothing at all he could use as a weapon. He didn’t fancy his chances of facing Malone with the same confidence as Bill Tennant had done, even if Malone were not armed.
Doors opened and banged. Roger picked up a small upright chair and kept close to the wall. He saw the handle turn before the door was flung open.
Mrs Cartier cried : “No, no !”
Roger swung the chair on the head and shoulders of the man who stepped in, but before it landed he saw that it was not Malone but a smaller man. The chair crashed on the man’s shoulders and sent him sprawling, the force of the blow carried Roger forward, so that he almost ran into the overdressed figure of Malone. He saw the cosh in the man’s hand as it moved downwards and caught him a paralysing blow
at the top of the arm, rose again and struck him on the side of the head. He staggered against the far wall, ears ringing, agonising pain shooting through him.
“This way,” Malone said.
Roger just heard the words but did not understand until two more men entered. The fellow whom he had hit with the chair was getting unsteadily to his feet; there was a trickle of blood on his cheek.
“We’ve got ‘em,” Malone said, with an economy of words which would have seemed remarkable at any time. He glanced at Roger and two of the men stepped to Roger’s side, one striking him with a clenched fist and sending him against the wall again.
Malone stood in front of Mrs Cartier.
His oily hair, dressed high so as to increase his stature, hardly came up to her mouth. She looked down at him, and even through the mists of pain and mortification Roger could see her draw herself up, disdainfully. Yet he believed that she was frightened — as any woman would have been frightened by such a man in similar circumstances.
Malone spoke in his husky voice.
“Listen to me, sister. You had a tape recorder at your office. Where is it?”
Mrs Cartier said : “I have no idea.”
Malone moved his right hand and snapped his fingers under her nose. She moved back involuntarily, and stumbled against the table. The tray of bottles shook and the whisky and brandy swayed up against the sides of the bottles.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Malone said. His vocabulary was grotesque in its limitations, its sprinkling of quasi-American slang. “Just say where it is, and you won’t get hurt.”
“I still don’t understand you,” she insisted.
Roger opened his mouth. “Don’t—” he began.
One of the others struck him a flat-handed blow across the mouth. He felt the warm trickle of blood from his lips. He had intended to tell the woman to let Malone know but could not speak.
Malone struck Mrs Cartier a savage blow on the right cheek, another on the left, a third and a fourth. Her head rocked from side to side, she would have fallen but for the rain of blows. Her hair spilled out from its elaborate coiffure, drooped over her eyes and face and then about her shoulders.
