by John Creasey
Roger put question after question, until he felt sure he had learned all they could or would tell him now. As soon as he stopped the questions, there was a movement at the door, and Pendleton came in.
“I’ve been questioning the couple downstairs,” the Divisional man announced. “Like to come down and compare the stories, Superintendent?”
“I’ve told you the truth,” muttered David Bradshaw. “Listen to me, can’t you? It’s not my wife’s fault, she didn’t know what I was doing. She wanted me to come to the police. For God’s sake, don’t blame her.”
“We’ll need to see both of you at New Scotland Yard,” Roger said formally. “We’ll send you there, and if we can let your wife go after you’ve both signed your statements, we will. It won’t be up to me.”
It could be, of course, but there was no reason to say so.
“Take them down to a car,” he instructed the man who had made a record of questions and answers. He stood aside for them to pass, Beth with her head raised now in a kind of defiance, David with his head hanging, his big hands clenching and unclenching. As they were taken down the stairs, Roger asked Pendleton, “How much of that did you hear?”
“Most of it.”
“Do the others corroborate this chap?”
“Pretty well,” said Pendleton. “We know what the situation is here all right. As far as I can judge no one but David Bradshaw had any idea of what was going on until Lewis was dumped into the hotel. Lot to think about over that, haven’t you?”
Roger said, “Yes.”
He made himself ask, “How is Lewis?”
“Not so good,” Pendleton answered. “He’s on his way to New Westminster Hospital. You should get a report from there soon.”
Pendleton looked round the rather dingy bedroom, with the blue uniform of a BOAC steward on a hanger behind the door, a BOAC cap, a battered suitcase with the BOAC label on it. The square of brown carpet was threadbare, two easy-chairs needed re-covering, there was a look of dilapidation and neglect everywhere.
“Better have a look round here, and then check the rest of the hotel. Like us to look after it, or would you rather do it with your own eagle-eye?”
“Let me have a report first thing in the morning,” Roger said. He managed to grin at Pendleton’s obvious satisfaction. “Good job you pinned that picture up early, Pen. God knows what might have happened if Lewis had stayed there another night.”
He paused.
“Is it Van der Lunn?”
“Your dark-skinned pal thinks so,” Pendleton answered. “He’s gone over to the hospital. I got the impression that he didn’t really believe what he’d seen with his own eyes – he didn’t want to believe it was the man you’re after.”
“I’ll go and talk to him,” Roger said.
Downstairs, Joshua and Rebecca Bradshaw were still answering questions, the woman promising that they would do everything they could to help, swearing that they hadn’t intended to break the law, that the hotel was absolutely respectable. Roger glanced at the Visitors’ Register, and saw that it seamed to be kept in good order. He felt quite sure of one thing: if the hotel was run for illegal purposes, Pendleton and the Divisional detectives would find out.
Roger went outside. The night seemed cooler and clearer now with starlight, and the glow from all the street lamps, the windows of the hotel and nearby houses, all seemed much brighter. Klemm was waiting for him. Roger shook hands with Pendleton and got in beside Klemm, who was at the wheel of the police car.
“What happened to our driver?” asked Roger.
“Pendleton sent him off with Jameson.”
“Right. Let’s go and see how things are at the hospital,” Roger said. He sat back for a few moments as Klemm swung the car into the side-road, then took a road across the common, towards Battersea and the Thames. Klemm obviously sensed that this was no time to ask questions, and drove with a casual skill which sometimes seemed almost to be negligent, but in fact never was.
They crossed the Thames at Battersea Bridge, beneath smoke belching out of the four great stacks of the power station, and with the lights of the bridges and the Embankment reflecting like new-born stars in the smooth surface of the river. They turned off the Embankment towards the new hospital, a mammoth place of glass and ferro-concrete, more like a hotel to look at than a hospital. The forecourt outside was small, but beyond it, down a slope, was the underground car park, the entrance a huge slit like an open mouth ready to devour all cars which ventured near.
They pulled up outside, and Klemm asked, “Want me to come in?”
“No,” said Roger. “I don’t think there’s anything else for you tonight. Make out your report for the morning. It needn’t be too detailed, just general. We’ll go over everything then.”
“Thanks,” said Klemm. “Er—”
“Yes?”
“Won’t be working too late, sir, will you?”
Roger frowned. “I’ll survive. Take the car. I’ll get one from the Yard when I’m ready.”
He nodded to Klemm, and walked up the steps to the main hall of the hospital, where first the doorman, then the porter seemed like pale relics from the old world in this new one of glass and brittle silence. Only two nurses, smart in their uniforms, seemed to fit in here. But the men were helpful, and obviously regarded him with the awe that the police seemed to inspire in so many people. They had been expecting an officer from the Yard, and Roger was led by another porter along the wide, pale walled corridors, past the closed doors which hid life’s secrets, to a silent lift, and eventually to a floor marked ‘Private Wards.’ Red lights showed over some of the lintels. A little convoy of white-clad people, two male nurses, two female nurses, a man in a white smock, and an attendant came along, the attendant pushing a trolley on which a man lay at full length, unconscious. It wasn’t Lewis alias Van der Lunn. Light shone from a partly-open door marked ‘Sister,’ and the boy tapped at it.
A youthful, starched-looking woman looked up from a desk placed behind the door.
“Yes?”
“Superintendent West from New Scotland Yard, Sister.”
The woman’s aloof expression changed. She stood up and smiled herself into being human, dismissed the boy, and said to Roger, “I’ve heard so much about you, Superintendent.”
“Mustn’t believe all you hear, good or bad,” said Roger almost mechanically. “Is Lieutenant Jameson here?”
“We have an empty ward, so he’s waiting in there. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please. And if you could find a sandwich I’d appreciate it.”
“So you missed your evening meal, too,” the Sister said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Tall and precise of movement, she led the way along the passage which was empty and silent now. There were lights over some of the doors, and she opened one and stood aside.
Jameson sprang to his feet.
“Hallo,” Roger said. “It looks as if we’ve found a home from home. Sit down.”
He waved to the chair, then sat on the edge of the single bed in this small, square antiseptic room, with its pale green walls and its metal bedstead and its spindly table. He looked across at Jameson, and saw that the man’s face was drawn, that he really seemed worried and anxious.
“How is he?” Roger asked.
Jameson said very slowly, “He is sick unto death, Mr West.”
“Is he really as bad as that?”
“Yes, sir. It appears that he has been under morphine for nearly five days, and that the doses have been very large. Also, when he fell from the window, he injured the back of his head rather seriously, and they are operating on him for that injury now. Have no doubt, he is sick unto death.”
If he died, whose fault would it be?
“And he is Van der Lunn?” Roger made hi
mself ask.
“Yes,” answered Jameson bleakly. “I cannot understand it. I cannot believe that he would associate himself with this smuggling, but . . .” He shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of resignation which made him seem very young. “It will be some time before he can talk, even if he lives to talk at all.”
He stood up and began to walk about the room. “Did you get any information from the people at the hotel?”
Roger began to tell him, and was interrupted by a tap at the door. A dark-skinned nurse came in, shiny-cheeked and attractive in her blue frock and white sash and headscarf, carrying a tray with sandwiches and a pot of coffee. She smiled brightly at Jameson, who had obviously seen her before. Two black, one white, Roger thought a little absurdly. The girl had a pleasant, soft-toned voice, and seemed a little shy. Or coy? As she went out, she cast a quick look over her shoulder at Jameson, not at Roger.
Roger said, “A conquest.”
“She is very nice.”
“Yes.”
“She comes from Kingston, Jamaica,” Jameson volunteered, “and she has been in England for two years. She likes it very much.”
He seemed to brood for a few moments, and then went on, “Will you tell me the rest, please? . . . And please allow me to pour out.”
Roger picked up a sandwich.
“When do you expect to hear from the operating theatre?”
“They told me that there might be some news by eleven o’clock, and it is now half past ten,” Jameson answered.
There was no news at eleven o’clock, by which time Roger’s story was told, the sandwiches and coffee were gone. There was a sense of anti-climax in the period of waiting. Sick unto death, Jameson had said. Why had this affected him so much? It was almost as if there was a strong personal anxiety, apart from anxiety to do his job as thoroughly as he could. It was ludicrous to blame himself for allowing the man to slip.
Footsteps sounded outside, and Jameson sprang to his feet as the door opened, but it was the coloured nurse, here to collect the empty tray. She seemed more positively coy than she had been before. As she went out, Jameson looked at Roger, almost smiling, as if something had happened to help him relax.
“Mr West, I must wait here, but there is no need for you to stay.”
“We should have the news soon,” Roger said. “The quicker we know whether we’ve a murder charge on our hands, the better.”
Could he have saved that man?
8
MURDER CHARGE?
It was after midnight.
Roger felt tired out, partly from reaction, partly because he had been up so early that morning. Now, the evening newspapers were spread out on the bed. The Jamaican nurse had brought in another, smaller armchair, for Jameson. There were two messages; one from Pendleton to say that there were no diamonds at the hotel, one from the Yard to say that Elizabeth Bradshaw could be released if he, West, decided that was the thing to do. Roger wanted to know whether this would be a murder charge before he made up his mind.
Footsteps sounded again; this time Jameson sat still, but his body tensed.
The door opened, and the Sister and a grey-haired man in a white smock came in; probably the surgeon. He was rather plump, rather too red-faced, a little like a bucolic young man whom some shock or insupportable burden had aged in a few short years. Now Jameson stood up, and Roger felt a quickening of his own anxiety. Why did surgeons and doctors often take so long in saying what they had to say? As the thought passed through his mind, he knew that it was unreasonable.
The Sister said, “Mr McMurray, this is Superintendent West and Lieutenant Jameson. Mr McMurray has just come from the theatre after the operation.”
There were the usual formal pleasantries, during which Jameson was obviously drilling himself not to ask questions.
“Superintendent, as far as I can tell you, Mr Lewis has a good chance,” McMurray said. “The operation itself has been successful, but his general condition could affect his recovery. I think it will be a matter of several days before we can say what will happen with any certainty.”
‘Thank God for that,’ Roger thought.
“But you are hopeful?” Jameson couldn’t restrain himself.
“Yes, Mr Jameson.”
“I am very grateful,” Jameson said. “Thank you very much, sir. When will it be possible for Mr Lewis to have visitors?”
“Certainly not for another two days, and it will be even longer before he can be questioned, no matter how important these questions may seem to you.” McMurray was quite definite, yet managed to make his pronouncement pleasantly. “Will you want a man at the patient’s bedside, Mr West?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will arrange the necessary facilities, Sister, won’t you?”
McMurray nodded at the two detectives and went out, as if glad his duty was done. Jameson, obviously suffering from the anti-climax, kept moistening his lips. Roger saw how very pink his tongue was; it had a curious fascination.
The Sister said, “There’s a car waiting for you in the forecourt, I believe.”
“I’d like to use a telephone before we go,” Roger said.
He spoke to the night duty Superintendent at the Yard and arranged for a man to be at Lewis/Van der Lunn’s bedside. There was something else on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring it to mind, so he rang off.
Klemm had arranged for the car; Klemm was certainly anxious that he shouldn’t overdo it. Did he give the impression that he was heavily overworked? He knew a lot of men at the Yard who had nearly cracked up, over the years. The approach of a nervous breakdown through overwork had been obvious to Roger and to others who worked with them, but had always come as a surprise to the sufferers themselves. Should he have a medical check-up? The idea that he might need one was surely an indication that he did. He tried to shrug the thought away as he sank back into the car, with Jameson by his side.
“Where can I drop you?” he asked.
“If you could stop at a bus stop—”
“Nonsense. Where do you live?”
“In Bloomsbury.”
“My place is nearer,” Roger said, and leaned forward to the driver. “Drop me at Bell Street, and then take Lieutenant Jameson to his home.”
“Right, sir.”
“You’re very good,” Jameson said. After a few minutes, he went on, “I hope there will be an opportunity early tomorrow to discuss the inquiry together, Mr West. There are some aspects of it which I am sure would interest you and which I am sure you would find useful.”
Roger shifted back in his seat, studied the face which was so black, the eyes which shone brightly as street lamp after street lamp passed, and the full lips. Jameson was smiling, but it wasn’t really a smile, it was an indication of some kind of nervousness.
“Why are you so worried?” Roger asked. “Why is Van der Lunn so important to you?”
After a long pause, Jameson answered, “He is a very good man, a very progressive man. It would be a bad thing if he were to die. And he is an important man in the economy of my country. We need engineers and men of vision.”
Roger said drily, “That may be half the reason.”
“Mr West—”
“It’s all right,” Roger said, “if you mustn’t tell me, you mustn’t. Forget it.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, constraint upon them for the first time. The car turned into King’s Road, and gathered speed; Bell Street, one of the turnings to the left, was looming up. They slowed down and took the turn. The bedroom of his house was in darkness, Roger saw; Janet and their two sons would probably be asleep – he must be careful not to waken them.
“Mr West,” Jameson said as the car stopped, “I hope I have not caused any offence. I am a very troubled person. I am troubled because there seems to
be some reason to believe that Mr Van der Lunn might be involved in this smuggling of diamonds, and, if he is, then it will have grave repercussions in my country. Already there is more than enough to preoccupy the Government, such a scandal as this could be . . .”
He hesitated, and then went on, “Disastrous, yes, disastrous.”
“We haven’t any proof that he’s involved yet,” Roger said. On the spur of the moment, he went on, “Like to come in for a drink?”
“You are very kind, but I must return,” said Jameson. “What time may I present myself at your office in the morning?”
“Is half past nine early enough?”
“I will be there at nine-thirty,” promised Jameson. “Goodnight, Mr West, and thank you.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, ‘ank you, ‘ank you, you, you, you, you, you.” The soft voice seemed to fade into the distance, carried away by the purring of the engine of the police car. Roger wondered why he stood for a few seconds and stared after it, waiting until the red light turned the corner, and then vanished. The noise of the engine and the echoing of the voice were gone. Roger turned towards the front door of his house, passed it, and went along to the back; he preferred to go in that way, there was less risk of waking Janet. He reached the corner and saw a glow of light at the farthest window on the upper floor; that was Martin’s room. He smiled to himself, a little grimly. It was nearly one o’clock. Martin would have a full day at his college of art tomorrow, and yet he was up there, painting or sketching, oblivious of the time. Roger slipped his key into the keyhole, pushed the door open, and went in as the light flashed on.
In the doorway leading to the front of the house stood Martin, hand at the light switch, mouth open, eyes rounded. He was a powerful-looking youth, with a crew cut which gave his face a rather unadorned look, and his eyes a surprised expression.
