by John Creasey
Roger opened the kitchen door, to hear Richard say, “It’s fantastic! There am I, sitting in state, with my name on the door, and except for the really big shots, everyone taps before they come in.”
The lad was standing by the larder, and tapping the door lightly. Suddenly his tone of voice altered and he declaimed, “Come in . . . and I’m banging away on the typewriter so I just wave them to wait . . . then whoever it is says ‘Squire’ – they all call me Squire these days; it’s a studio joke. And the really funny thing was this morning. Someone tapped, so I did my stuff and rattled away a letter and then turned round – and Harry was standing watching me, looking like a statue. Harry – my boss! I couldn’t tell whether he was amused or not, until I realised he must have been pulling my leg, or he wouldn’t have tapped . . . why, hallo Dad!”
“Roger!” exclaimed Janet. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Go on, Fish,” said Roger.
“I’ve finished, really,” said Richard hastily. He was tall, nice-looking in a lean-faced way, had a good colour, and dark curly hair. In that second Roger saw Faith as if she were standing beside the boy, and wondered how they would get on together. Richard-sometimes-called-Fish was now twenty, and he looked two or three years over his age sometimes. He had fallen on his feet in a studio near Watford, and was working with the script supervisor on a policy series for television; ‘Harry’ was his chief, for whom he had formed a great admiration.
“Harry just started calling me ‘Squire,’ that was all . . .”
Soon, Roger asked, “How’s work going?”
“Pretty well, I should think. I’ve started on a scene in a script, goodness knows whether it’s what Harry wants, but I think it’s better than the last one which he said was nbg. Only he didn’t put it quite like that! I say, I promised to go and collect Scoop from that lecture. I’ll be seeing you.”
Richard went out of the house like a rocket, and soon the engine of his car snorted. Janet was putting cold ham, pork-pie, pickles, bread, butter, and cheese on the kitchen table, while Roger rinsed his hands and face at the kitchen sink. Roger tucked in as they talked about the trivial things of the day. Janet looked tired, he thought, and when tired she almost looked her age. There was a remoteness about her which Roger had noticed recently, as if she found it difficult to think about what they were saying, and everything she said came off the surface of her mind. The only real warmth in her voice came when she talked of the boys.
“I feel so tired,” she said about ten o’clock. “I think I’ll have an early night, darling.”
Roger thought, ‘I’m out night after night, and here’s one when I’m home and she feels too tired to stay up.’ It was not a very deep reflection, and when she had gone upstairs he put it out of his mind. He took her some tea and they had it together. By eleven o’clock Janet was dozing off; Roger felt sure that she was asleep almost before he closed the door. She must be tired out. He hoped Hardy wouldn’t telephone too soon, and disturb her; and he hoped Hardy wouldn’t telephone too late; that would break right across her sleep. It was one of those nights when anyone from the Yard or any hopeful newspaperman might call.
He looked through the documents in his briefcase, making sure that every case he had been working on was annotated so that whoever took it over would have the full picture. This took him until half past eleven. The boys weren’t in; next thing he knew, they would telephone to say they would be late.
In fact they arrived just after midnight, big-eyed with the kind of tiredness which youth would never admit. As always Richard had coasted the MG the last fifty yards, and they came in, closing the back door quietly.
“Mum gone to bed?” asked Richard.
“Yes. Does she usually go so early?”
“Most nights,” answered Scoop, and added in one of his devastating moments of frankness, “After all she would only get bored, sitting up and waiting for you. I say, Dad, what happened at Cannon Row this morning? The newspapers say you tried to save the man who was shot.”
“The newspapers which say that are simply guessing,” Roger declared. “I didn’t have any warning, and I don’t think anyone would have been able to save him. Did your mother say much about it?”
“Just read the story in the Evening News, but didn’t say a word,” Martin answered. He usually arrived back from the college of art before Richard came in from the studio, and was always better informed about events at home.
“Had any luck?” asked Richard. He was opening the refrigerator door and taking out milk and a chunk of the pork-pie. “I mean, made any more arrests?”
“Not just yet,” Roger said drily.
He left them, went into the front room, poured himself a whisky and soda, and looked through the morning and evening newspapers. The boys poked their heads in, whispered goodnight, and went upstairs; a door banged. There was no creaking sound from Janet above his head, and as he sat back in the easy-chair Roger wished he could go up to bed. He was more than tired enough, but if he was in bed and Hardy telephoned it was bound to wake Janet. Here, the telephone was at his side. He folded up the newspapers, and picked up the skeleton plans, checking how much he knew by heart. As he did so, the telephone bell rang; he snatched the receiver off almost before it had finished its first ring.
“West.”
“You asked me to call you,” Hardy said.
“Sorry to worry you,” said Roger. “Something’s cropped up you ought to know about.”
He told the Assistant Commissioner exactly what had happened, and also told him of Soames’ reaction, and of what he, Roger, had done.
“Better release the story generally,” decided Hardy. “I’ll talk to Sharp tonight. He can cable Pretoria and tell them what we’re going to do and then we can tell the Back-Room Inspector to release it here.”
“Sure you wouldn’t like me to do that?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” After a pause, Hardy went on, “When can you be ready to go?”
Roger’s heart began to thump.
“Go where?”
“You know where. The quicker you can see Nightingale and find out what he’s really up to, the better. He probably won’t talk to the South African police. If he won’t talk to you we’ll know he’s deep in the smuggling,” guessed Hardy. “Haven’t you checked what flights there are to Johannesburg tomorrow?”
“No,” said Roger.
“You’re slipping,” Hardy said. “Why don’t you check with London Airport, and then tell Sharp to get you fixed up?”
15
FLIGHT
“Would you like to come to the airport?” Roger asked Janet.
In the past she had been to see him off on long trips abroad, and had always given him the impression that she liked to. This morning, he wasn’t sure what her reaction would be. He had told her what Hardy wanted him to do, that there was a BOAC flight to Johannesburg direct at one-thirty that afternoon, which meant that he would be able to spend all the morning at the Yard.
When Janet didn’t answer now, he went on almost awkwardly, “Jan, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter.”
“I have to go, you know.”
“I know.”
“Are you coming to see me off?”
“If you want me to.”
Her eyes were lacklustre where they should be so bright, her manner was almost listless where it was usually brisk and lively. He did not know what to do or say, but he did know that they were expecting him at the Yard and every minute he could spend there would be precious.
“Will you pack a few things for me? I’ll call for you at half past twelve,” he said. He wished there was time to suggest that he should come home earlier so that they could have lunch at the airport, but if he promised that and something cropped up to prevent it she would be disappointed. It was better not
to risk it.
“How does that sound?”
Janet hesitated; and then she forced a smile and put some enthusiasm into her voice.
“That sounds fine! Now you’d better be off, or you’ll be late. You’ll need every minute you can squeeze in this morning.”
She gave him a peck of a kiss, and shooed him off, but there was something not quite normal about it; she had to make the special effort. He was preoccupied as he drove to the Yard, and whenever he tried to make himself think of the smuggling case, uncertainty about Janet drew his thoughts back to her. Now that he had noticed this remoteness, he realised that it had been gradually developing for some time – certainly for months. And it was a fact that he had spent more and more time at the office in the evening, doing paperwork which never seemed to end, so that he could carry out the actual work of investigation during the day. It had become a habit, he was so deeply involved in his job; could one say that he was obsessed by it?
He turned into the Yard, to find Gorlay waiting, obviously to look after the car.
“Everything all right?” Roger asked.
“Nothing new as far as I know,” said Gorlay. “Mr Klemm and Mr McKay have been in since seven, to get everything ready before you go.”
Roger said, startled, “How do they know I’m going anywhere?”
Gorlay grinned. “Little bird I suppose, sir!”
Roger laughed, and hurried up the steps. There seemed a greater briskness about most of the people whom he saw on the way. He reached his own office to find everything cleared from his desk except the papers and reports on the smuggling investigation, and also to find a clearly marked list of everything that had been done, and every letter posted, last night. He smiled with satisfaction as he rang for Klemm and McKay, who came in together so quickly that it was obvious that they had been waiting for the summons. Klemm looked bright-eyed, McKay a little tired, but Yard men were used to working through the night and snatching sleep whenever they could.
“Anything new?” Roger asked.
“One thing,” answered Klemm. “We’ve had a visit from a taxi-driver – the chap who delivered Van der Lunn to the Common View Hotel. He says that someone paid him a couple of pounds to take the man there, and told him that Van der Lunn was drunk. Most cabbies get that kind of job. He didn’t think anything of it until he saw the description of the motor scooterist who drove Bradshaw’s murderer away.”
Roger asked sharply, “Same man?”
“The cabby says so.”
“Where’d he pick the passenger up?”
“At the corner of Great Compton Street and Frith Street, but we had a bit of luck.” Klemm looked almost smug. “The cabby had been round the block, looking for a fare, and had noticed the Italian and the so-called drunk leaving the Seven Seas strip club. He’d seen the Italian before, and swears it was Severini or Galli. The description fits either of them.”
Roger said, “Better double the watch on that club, though; the manager might know more than he admits.”
“We’ll look after this end,” Klemm assured him confidently, and McKay chimed in with a subdued, “Aye.”
Then Klemm went on, “I’ve talked to our man at the hospital. Van der Lunn hasn’t come round enough to speak yet, and the surgeon says that with the dope they’ve pumped into him it will certainly be forty-eight hours, and probably a week, before he can tell us anything.”
“What we need is another break,” Roger said. “You heard about Nightingale?”
“Jameson told us. Bloody fool to go in with a faked passport,” said Klemm. “Any idea why he did it?”
“I hope to find out tomorrow,” said Roger. “Now, let’s go over the drill for while I’m away. I’ll need a detailed report by cable or telephone once a day – find out from Jameson or someone at the South Africa Embassy the best time to get through to Johannesburg. I’d like cabled confirmation on all the salient points and an airmail letter with more details every day. Start telephoning the European police tomorrow. And as the replies come in from our questionnaire, I’d like copies by airmail with word by telephone if you think it’s urgent enough. All clear?”
“No trouble,” said Klemm.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to work from this office while I’m gone, but you’ll be out on your necks the moment I’m back.”
They laughed.
“Anything in about David Bradshaw?”
“All the reports we’ve had from people who knew him pretty well corroborate the story from Common View Hotel,” answered McKay. “Except for one thing.”
“What thing?”
“He liked leg and strip shows. Some of the places he visited on flights were very spicy and expensive, from Cairo to Istanbul and Singapore to Hong Kong. There isna’ much doubt that the man had exotic and expensive tastes, and the Seven Seas Club was the kind of place he could get what he wanted.”
Roger said softly, “Let’s go.”
The manager was tall, lean, hungry-looking; his secretary somewhat like a Sunday school teacher who had lost her faith. They were in a small, messy office behind the main room of the club, where the chairs were standing on the tables, cleaners went about their work sluggishly, a Negro barman was busy polishing glasses and dusting bottles. A band of three middle-aged men and a youthful one were rehearsing a new number on the little stage, and the booming of the drum was very loud even in the office. Boom . . . Boom . . . Boom . . . Boom . . .
Roger thrust photographs of Nightingale and Van der Lunn in front of the manager and the woman.
“Yes, we were shown those last night, and we’ve made investigations,” the hungry-looking manager said hurriedly. “They were here on Monday night, both of them. So was the man I was asked about yesterday, the man with the big nose.”
“David Bradshaw,” Roger said.
“Yes, sir. We recognised him from his photograph. What a terrible thing to happen! And in a police station!” The man seemed too nervous and edgy to mean that maliciously. “He was often here, sir. He spent a lot of money, he really was a big spender. But that other man, he didn’t spend much.”
He pointed to Nightingale’s photograph. “He has been here several times, and I can tell you this, he was usually here when Brad—Bradshaw was. No, he didn’t spend much, but Bradshaw spent hundreds of pounds some evenings . . .”
“What we want is a team to visit banks in the West End area to find out if Bradshaw had accounts with them under different names,” Roger decided. “And if we can’t get any results from the West End, spread the inquiries farther. At the hotel he didn’t look as if he had two pennies to rub together, but if he spent money like water at the Seven Seas, he got it from somewhere and maybe he keeps it safely in a bank.”
“We’ll fix it,” Klemm promised. His eyes were very bright. “My God, what a case this is!”
When Roger returned to his office, he found an envelope marked BOAC on the desk. Inside was his return ticket, the return date open, labels, some brochures about South Africa including the game parks, embarkation instructions, and ‘Notes of Interest to Passengers.’ There was also a note from Hardy, wishing him luck; Hardy was at the Police Conference in the city.
It was a little after twelve o’clock when BOAC telephoned.
“The flight has been put back by one hour, sir. If you care to reach the airport at two-thirty instead of one-thirty that will be in ample time.”
“Ah,” said Roger. “Thanks.”
He put in a call to Janet immediately, and when she answered he spoke with a lilt in his voice which he hoped would bring back an answering response.
“Hallo, sweet! The flight’s been put back an hour; we’ve time to lunch together at the airport restaurant. How about it?”
He was half afraid that she would make some excuse.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Janet ex
claimed.
There was still a hint of remoteness when they had lunch together. She had packed everything Roger needed, done everything she could, yet she was holding something back. There was a kind of constraint between them even when they said goodbye. Roger had the impression there was something she wanted to say, but could not bring herself to say it.
Hammerton and Jameson were there to see him off at the aircraft itself, and the last face Roger saw out of the window was that of the Negro, smiling his almost wistful smile.
Roger found the fascination of the sun glistening on the snow-clad Alps, the beauty of the valleys, the smallness of the towns and villages, the vivid blue of the Mediterranean, as great as ever. The flight over the Mediterranean was so uneventful that it was almost humdrum, but when the mosques and towers of Cairo loomed up, and the fantastic labyrinth of tiny streets slashed here and there by great boulevards, there was a surge of excitement. But they landed too soon. A few passengers got off, two Egyptians and a big Rhodesian got on. They were off in an hour, catching a glimpse of the Nile with its green strips of land on either side, before darkness fell, and the sky was filled with stars of unbelievable brilliance. Roger dozed, had a whisky and soda, chatted with a middle-aged passenger across the gangway, ordered a mixed grill, and was waited on as attentively as any VIP. From time to time he glanced through the booklet, which described the land over which they were flying. Down there, hidden by the night, was the Valley of the Nile, the Valley of Kings, the magnificence of Luxor, and the sand of the unending desert.
He dozed off.
When he woke, the stewardess was shaking his shoulder.
“Some tea, sir, we’ll soon be at Nairobi.” As he sat up, she added, “Mount Kenya’s looking magnificent this morning.”
The sun, rising out of the dark earth into a clear, pale sky shone on the snow-capped peak, giving it a breath-taking beauty.
There was the usual tension as they went down at Nairobi, the release from it as the aircraft stopped, then the bustle of passengers getting out and others getting on. Out of Nairobi, they flew over scrub, then over thick jungle, soon over a rock-strewn land. The great Rift Valley looked as if it was something in a relief map, not part of the earth.
