by John Creasey
All three had worked smoothly together, defrauding elderly widows at small continental resorts, never aiming too high, or attracting the attention of the local police. For who would suspect fat, friendly Ma Beesley of swindling?
The currency problems of the neighbouring countries proved another fruitful source of profit, and Raeburn had begun to spread his wings. He always had the bright ideas. Both at home and abroad, he had turned to property buying, made a fortune, and begun to study the Stock Exchange. Now he controlled a financial empire, was beginning to enter the industrial and commercial spheres, and seldom put a foot wrong.
Then Halliwell had come, as a ghost. In the early days, they had found him in Southampton, managing a successful wholesale business, exactly the type of going concern Raeburn had then wanted to control, for he provisioned many ocean-going ships. Halliwell, easily bribed, had been used to handle smuggled goods, and later to plant a fire bomb on board a sea-going tramp, which was heavily insured at Lloyds. The ship, with a largely fictitious cargo, had sunk.
Afterwards, Halliwell, doing a smaller job, had been caught, convicted, and jailed. Not until he came out of prison had Raeburn realised that Halliwell knew who was behind the organisation.
Warrender had always feared something of the kind. He had been the go-between in the early deals, but had soon employed others, making his own arrangements by telephone, and keeping in the background. Ma Beesley also proved to have a genius for organisation. A few agents caught by the police had been well paid for their silence; the number who knew either Raeburn or Warrender rapidly decreased. So did their criminal activities, for Raeburn now found money making money. There had been rumours about his financial activities until he had bought the Cry, and really appeared in the public eye.
They went from success to fabulous success, until a letter had come from Halliwell. Warrender had told Tenby to watch Halliwell, and Tenby had seen Raeburn seize the chance to murder the man.
For years, Tenby, a distant relation of Raeburn, had been used for small jobs, without realising how frequently he had made himself remarkably useful. He had started out as an assistant to a pharmaceutical chemist in the East End, where he had learned a great deal about dispensing and drugs; soon he was practising various forms of crime. For a time he had specialised in doping greyhounds, and had fixed several races for Raeburn in the early days. Humble, willing, and unscrupulous, any unpleasant little job went his way. He was the last direct connection between the days of crime and the days of legal plenty.
After Halliwell’s death, he had offered to say that he had been an eye witness and the accident had been unavoidable, but Melville had objected strongly to calling a witness with a police record.
Then Tenby had suggested using Eve Franklin. True, he had warned them that Brown might cause trouble, but no one had dreamed how bad it would be. But to Warrender, the real danger was less in Tenby than in Raeburn’s attitude towards him; in his general attitude.
Now he was losing his head over Eve. If Ma was seriously determined to part Raeburn from her, undoubtedly the surest way would be to make him jealous.
Warrender grinned.
He had been lying between waking and sleeping for some time when he heard a faint scratching noise which kept on and on, until he realised that someone was moving in the flat. He eased himself up on one elbow and strained his ears, and the sound kept on.
He sat upright.
The noise was coming from the hall, and he realised that someone was trying to pick a lock.
Only Raeburn locked his door at night.
10: NIGHT ALARM
Warrender pushed back the clothes and got out of bed The springs creaked faintly, but the scratching noise still went on. He groped for his slippers, straining his ears to catch every sound. He stretched out his hands to put on the light, but withdrew it quickly; a light might show under the door.
He could just make out the shape of the door, and touched the handle. He turned it carefully, in case it should squeak, but it made no sound. He opened the door and saw a faint light in the hall. This came from a torch which stood on a small table and shone on to Raeburn’s door. In the light he could see a man’s hands working at the lock, and the figure of the map crouching down with his back half turned towards him.
Warrender began to creep forward. There was no need for a weapon, a surprise attack should suffice, for the other was intent upon his task. Three more steps and he would be on him.
He heard a rustle of sound and his heart seemed to turn over. He swung round as a man came at him, and shouted at the top of his voice. He saw the man at the door leap, and felt a blow on the side of his head which sent him reeling towards the wall.
Then a door opened and light streamed into the hall, but Warrender was protecting his face with his upraised arm, and could see nothing. A terrific crack on the elbow made him feel sick, and he dropped to his knees.
A shot rang out.
Then a scream pierced the silent darkness which was closing down over his mind, and he collapsed. He did not lose consciousness, but was only vaguely aware of what was going on. There was a confused babble of sound, voices, another shot, scuffling noises, the thumping of feet. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and got to his knees. The light dazzled him, but he could see Ma Beesley in the hall. The front door was standing wide open.
Two men were rushing towards it.
Warrender saw a small gun in Ma’s hand, and croaked: “Ma, don’t! Ma!”
Flame from the gun showed clearly, but the men ran on to the landing, their footsteps echoing. Suddenly Maud appeared, her angular figure framed in a doorway.
Ma Beesley stood in the middle of the hall, wearing a huge white nightgown which made her look like a balloon.
“Ma!” Warrender gasped.
“Lend Mr Warrender a hand, Maud,” Ma said, as she crossed to Raeburn’s door and tapped on the panel. “It’s all right, Paul,” she called. “You can come out.”
Raeburn had been hiding from the danger!
Warrender realised this, as Maud helped him to his feet and into a chair. He was sitting down, his head in his hands, when Raeburn’s door opened.
In a blue silk dressing-gown, his hair tousled and his face pale, Raeburn stood staring, for once neither poised or suave. “What the hell’s all this? I heard shooting.”
“You heard shooting, all right,” Ma Beesley agreed. “I wounded one of the pair, too.”
“Wounded?”
“That’s right,” Ma said, and held up her gun. “George thought he could be a hero and deal with them with his bare hands, but I didn’t take any chances.”
“Who – ” began Raeburn, hoarsely.
“Thieves,” Ma Beesley interrupted quickly. “Just thieves, Paul, there’s nothing to worry about. Maud, dear, go and make some coffee, will you?”
The maid went off, closing the kitchen door behind her. Ma stood looking from one man to the other, her fat face wreathed in smiles, as if all this were a huge joke.
“Thieves, I don’t think,” she said. “Someone came after you, Paul. They were trying to get into your room. I have been wondering lately whether you oughtn’t to have a bodyguard.”
“But who was it?” demanded Raeburn, no longer a great man. “Who would want –?”
“That’s one of the things we’ll have to find out,” said Ma, smoothly. “We’d better stop discussing it now; someone is coming up the stairs. It’s another story for the Cry, anyway. Paul. Isn’t it a pity you can’t blame West for it?” She chuckled, and then hurried towards the door, to find a porter in the doorway.
The telephone bell rang in Roger’s ears and he stirred, without at first realising what it was. He felt Janet move. The ringing persisted, and almost on the instant he became wide awake. He stretched out his hand, and lifted the receiver from the instrument by the bed.
“What is it?” began Janet, drowsily.
“You go to sleep,” said Roger. “Hallo?”
“Hold o
n, please,” came a man’s voice.
Roger hitched himself up more comfortably, and glanced at the window. It was still pitch dark, except for a faint glow from a street lamp. The illuminated dial of his watch showed up on the bed table. It was nearly half past three.
Then the night-duty Superintendent at the Yard spoke: “Handsome, there’s been a burglary at Raeburn’s flat, just been reported. Thought you’d like to know. Here’s a chance to look round.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Roger said, very softly. “Do me a favour and call Turnbull, will you?”
Roger was wide awake when he got out of his car outside the block of flats in Park Lane. A policeman told him that the lift was waiting at the ground floor; he hurried inside, and found another constable on duty at the lift.
The front door of the flat was standing open, and light streamed into the passage. A porter was outside, whispering to a third policeman; the Yard DI, who was in charge, had left nothing to chance. Inside the flat, men were talking, and Roger paused in the doorway, looking into the study where Raeburn, Turnbull, Warrender and Ma Beesley were gathered. Turnbull, always a fast worker, lived only a minute’s drive from here. On the desk was a silver tray, and the whole group was drinking coffee.
Roger went in. “Good morning,” he said, briskly.
Raeburn, standing opposite him, saw him first. There was only hostility in his eyes, but he smiled and raised a hand. “Good morning, Chief Inspector.”
Warrender’s right eye was puffy and nearly closed up, and his lips were swollen. Ma Beesley, in a blue dressing gown, overflowed from an upright chair, her grey plaits hanging over her huge bosom, her bright little eyes turned towards him.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Roger.
Turnbull winked.
“I hope it isn’t serious,” Raeburn said. “In fact I wouldn’t have worried you, Chief Inspector, but the porter thought it necessary to send for the police. I’m sorry you’ve been brought out in the early hours.”
“It’s happened before,” Roger said, dryly, “Is anything missing?”
Ma Beesley heaved herself up. “You must have some coffee, Mr West. I’ll get another cup.” She waddled out at once, deliberately leaving the men together.
“Now, let’s have it,” said Roger.
“We’ve already told Detective Inspector Turnbull everything,” Warrender growled. “Two men broke into the flat. I caught them red-handed, and was attacked while I was trying to detain them. Mrs Beesley got out her gun and frightened them away. Nothing is missing.”
“Quite sure?”
“They didn’t have time – ” began Warrender.
“We can’t be positive,” Raeburn interpolated, coolly, “but nothing of importance is missing, you can be sure of that. The fools are probably licking their wounds now.”
“Wounds?” Roger was sharp.
“There are some spots of blood outside,” Turnbull said. “It looks as if Mrs Beesley wounded one of them. I’ve taken a quick look round, and there’s nothing to suggest that anything’s been stolen.” Pity, he seemed to add. “I’ve sent for men from Fingerprints.”
“That is quite unnecessary,” Warrender was taking this very badly.
“We won’t keep you any longer than we have to,” Roger said, “but we can’t have influential citizens attacked in their homes, can we, Mr Raeburn?”
“How true,” cooed Ma Beesley, coming in with another cup. “Isn’t it a pity I’m not a better shot?”
“Apparently. May I see your gun?”
“The other inspector has it,” said Ma Beesley.
“Have you a licence?”
“Of course I have.” Ma was laughing at him openly. “Everything was quite in order, Mr West. I think you will find that the thieves thought the safe was in Mr Raeburn’s room, whereas it is in Mr Warrender’s. We have to expect such outrages, haven’t we? There are so many criminals about, and the police have so much to do.” She gave a wide, toothy smile. “Not that they would have found much had they searched every nook and cranny; we keep nothing of value here.”
She was saying that the police could turn the flat upside down, and find little which might help to build up a case against Raeburn.
“I see. Excuse us a moment, will you?” Roger said. He went with Turnbull into the hall, where the man from Fingerprints and another detective had started work. “Anything doing?” he asked.
“There are scratches at both doors, but I think the front door was opened with a key,” Turnbull answered. “We ought to take the lock down and have a good look at it, to make sure. It could be important.”
“If they had a key, where did they get it from?” Roger examined the lock of Raeburn’s door, and then glanced into the beautifully furnished bedroom.
“Just made for two, but only one in it tonight,” Turnbull said.
“They wore gloves,” the Fingerprint man reported, factually. “There isn’t a trace of a print.”
“A professional job, all right, and with luck it will help to make Raeburn jumpy,” Roger said. “What have you started doing outside?” he asked Turnbull.
“I’ve seen the sergeant on duty on the beat, who’s making local inquiries, and I’ve been on to the office. A copper on his beat saw a car leave about half past two; that was probably the one the burglars came in. Think they were after money?” he asked.
“Don’t much care what they were after. If we play our cards right, and show Raeburn that we’re going to go to a lot of trouble to catch the burglars, we could get Raeburn and Company on one foot. Warrender’s edgy already, and Ma’s too slimy. Has she shown you the licence for the gun?”
“It’s in order.”
“It would be,” Roger said. “Right – just worry ‘em!” He turned back to the study, where the trio looked rather as if they had been caught in some prank. “It doesn’t look as if we’re going to get any immediate results, Mr Raeburn,” he said. “I’m going to have the lock taken off the front door, to see whether it was opened by a key or a tool – “
“There is no need for that,” protested Warrender.
“We must do our job,” Roger said, flatly. “We shall put the lock back within twelve hours, I promise you. Meantime, we can put you on a temporary fastening. Mrs Beesley, would you recognise either of the men again?”
“I shouldn’t like to say.”
“What about you, Mr Warrender?”
“I hardly saw them; just saw one man’s hands.”
“Since no harm was done, why make such a business of it?” said Raeburn, and now he wasn’t even pretending to smile.
Roger beamed. “You can never tell how much harm has been done until you’ve checked everything, and I’d hate the Yard to be accused of being careless, sir. We might get some surprising results before we’ve finished, too. Thieves and burglars are like most criminals: they have a long run of success, get overconfident, and then make one little slip, and we get’em. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “There are so many criminals about now, as Mrs Beesley reminded me, we can’t let these men get away with this.”
Raeburn was hard-faced and angry-eyed.
“Anyhow, I think we can safely leave you for tonight,” Roger added. “I’ll have an officer stationed on the landing, in case the men should try to come back, and have another man in the street. Many thanks for the coffee; it’s done me a world of good. Good night.” He nodded, and went out.
Turnbull followed him, grinning.
There was a hush in the study after they had gone, broken by a restless movement from Warrender. Then the front door was closed, and silence fell.
“This is the worst thing that could have happened,” Warrender said, savagely.
“Don’t make too much of it.” Outwardly, Raeburn was more himself now. “West’s very pleased with himself, but this can’t get him anywhere. The important thing is to find out who broke in. I think we’ll telephone the Cry, George.”
The Night Editor, in his office o
ff the newsroom of the Daily Cry, sat back in his chair, yawning. The last editions would be on the machines in half an hour’s time, and he would be through.
The door opened, and a boy entered bringing him pulls of a new set-up of the front page. He stretched out his hand to take them, and as he did so the telephone rang.
“Put ‘em down,” he said, and lifted the receiver. “Night Editor . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes, put him through at once.” His voice grew sharper and he pressed a bell push. “Yes, Mr Raeburn? . . . What?” He grabbed a pencil and began to write.
Five minutes later he rang off. By then the Chief Subeditor was lounging about the desk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, an eyeshade covering his tired eyes.
“Barney, put the UN story on an inside page. We want space for a new one on the front. Raeburn’s flat has been burgled, and West’s on the job. Build up the story this way: is the Yard wise to give this case to this particular man? Is there a risk of personal antagonism and consequent inefficiency? Then ease off a bit, and be conciliatory. It could be a chance for West to make a comeback, as it should be a, simple job. We look to him to make an early arrest. Got it?”
The Chief Sub-editor said: “Yes. But “
“There isn’t any time to lose.”
“This won’t take a minute. Sam, how long are we going to keep needling West and the Yard? You’re going to build up so that if he doesn’t pull the burglars in quickly you’ll be able to smack him down hard. I know Raeburn’s the owner, but we keep sailing pretty close to the wind.”
“You may be right,” said the Night Editor, “but write up the story from these notes and make sure we catch the late editions. We can’t argue, and it might even give West a break. If he does make an arrest, we’ll have to give him a good write-up. One day Raeburn might cut his own throat; but, if he did, where would our jobs be? Better hope he’s the winner!”
“I see what you mean,” the Sub-editor said.
