by John Creasey
She took off her coat and hat, then put a kettle on a gas-ring. While it was coming to the boil, she slipped off her clothes, everything, and put on pyjamas and a dressing-gown. She made tea, and sat in an easy chair to drink it.
She pictured the attack in the grounds of the house again. But for the Scotland Yard detective, Malcolm would not have had a chance. Yet he had deliberately balked the detective, and let the captured assailant get away. The police would find that inexplicable, but she didn’t: she believed it was because he thought he knew who was behind the attack; thought he knew who had set out to kill him.
And if he knew, she did, too.
Ought she to tell the police?
It was now nearly ten o’clock, and there was at least a chance that Roger would miss the pathologist at the hospital. That possibility made him dwell less on Tessa Lee than he had intended: he could come back to her later.
He drove fast to the hospital, parked just outside the main gates, where he could see everyone who came out, and flicked on his radio. Two cars turned into the drive of the low, flat, modern building; and another came up behind Roger. This was an ambulance. As he talked to the Yard, he saw it draw up, saw the back open, and the stretcher with a man or woman on it being lifted gently out.
He spoke to Kimbell, lately promoted to Chief Superintendent on night duty.
“Hallo, Handsome,” Kimbell greeted. “I’m told your job’s opening up a bit.”
“I’m not sure that I like the shape or size of it,” Roger said. “What I’d like is a complete dossier on Malcolm Munro and his father – in fact on all the directors of the firm, and on Colonel Harrison. The same on Michael Grannett, too – you’ve got him on your list, I take it.”
“Yep. Both these jobs had better be handled by the morning chaps, hadn’t they?”
“Get what you can for me tonight, will you?” Roger pleaded. “Especially on Malcolm Munro, and also on his secretary, plus—”
“Plus what?”
“Don’t know, yet. She’s Teresa Lee, Tessa for short, and lives at—” Roger gave the address rapidly, and then added: “I’d like to find something we could use to make the girl talk. I think she’s scared, but she won’t admit it, still less say why.”
“We’ll get cracking,” Kimbell promised. “If she hasn’t a record, the most likely bet tonight will be a newspaper or a press agency.”
“I don’t care where it comes from,” Roger said. “I just have a feeling that there’s more to this job than there seems. I’ll be in about eleven.” He was about to switch off when he remembered that he hadn’t telephoned his own home to say he would be late. “Hey, Kimmy! Call my wife for me, will you, tell her this looks like being a midnight job.”
“I’ll do it right away,” Kimbell promised.
“Thanks.” Roger rang off, started the engine, and drove up to the front doors of the hospital. No one else had come in or out. A porter was on duty in the big hall, two others were at a reception window. He was expected, and the porter was detailed to take him to the laboratory at once.
So the pathologist and Cartwright hadn’t gone.
He didn’t like hospitals, but if he had to be in one, this was as good as any. Its newness was apparent, the floor was of some kind of composition which muffled sound, the doors and the elevator worked silently. A faintly astringent antiseptic smell was everywhere. He passed the door of a brightly lit room, which was swinging open, and on the door saw the word theatre. Then another door opened marked laboratory. He went in. Two white-smocked men were standing at a long, wide bench, there was all the usual paraphernalia of burettes, Bunsen burners, pipettes, test tubes, a kind of glorified school chemistry lab. Round the walls, on shelves, were specimens in glass jars; hands, fingers, toes, hearts, all kinds and sorts and sizes, all floating in spirit. He wasn’t so used to this as to the general hospital atmosphere.
“Chief Inspector West, sir,” announced the porter, as if he was nervous of interrupting.
The two men turned. One was Legg, perhaps the best of the younger Home Office pathologists, tall, dark-haired, with a hooked nose and the softest, gentlest pair of brown eyes in the world; a softvoiced man, too. Next to him was a stranger, a lion of a man with a big, handsome face and a fine head of greying hair, who was stripping off rubber gloves; his hands were more the hands of a woman, the fingers long, white, beautiful.
Legg’s weren’t; Legg had a charwoman’s hands.
“Sorry I’m late,” Roger said. “This job goes deeper than it looks. Got anything for me?”
Legg said: “You don’t know Mr Cartwright, do you?”
Cartwright offered his hand; not all surgeons would trouble to.
“Good evening, sir.”
“So you’re the great West,” Cartwright said, and obviously meant the compliment; his smile was warm and friendly. “My wife tells me that some time during your investigations I’ve got to ask you in for a drink.”
“Nice of her,” Roger said. “I’d be glad to come.”
“I’ll keep you to that. Now—” Cartwright looked at Legg, who turned to the bench, where several photographs were lying, and where there were several tiny pieces of what looked like bloodstained bone.
“We can go back into the morgue, where we’ve taken him, or you can take our word and these pictures as evidence,” said Legg. “There are the bruises on chin, chest, and face, commensurate with blows from a fist – very powerful blows, too, the nose is fractured.” Legg was tracing marks on the photograph of young Roy Grannett, with a wholly dispassionate red forefinger. He pointed to another, of the back of the head. “Here are bruises and one slight cut, commensurate with a fall after being knocked down, and banging the head on concrete. Got that?”
“Yes.” Roger was looking at a third photograph, which had been taken after the post mortem, and he hardly needed telling what was to come.
“There is a different kind of injury, caused by a single severe blow with a hammer, or some similar weapon, and it was that which caused cerebral haemorrhage, and death,” said Legg. “If you follow the position of the wounds you’ll see that this fatal wound was superimposed on the others. He was murdered by that blow, and it must have been delivered between the time that he was taken from the spot where they had the quarrel, and when he was collected by the ambulance and brought here.”
“Positive of that,” Cartwright put in.
“Quite positive.”
“In other words, someone hit him after he’d been taken to the works hospital, probably hoping that it would look as if he’d died from the fall on the back of the head,” Roger said almost to himself.
“That’s how I add it up,” Legg agreed.
It could have been done so that Malcolm Munro would be blamed for the youth’s death.
Now the task was to find who had access to the factory hospital.
Chapter Eight
Hush-Hush
Roger drove through the gates at New Scotland Yard, off the Embankment, saw one constable on duty salute, and another hurry from the foot of the steps to open his door for him. He got out, and stretched; he was stiff and hungry and tired, and it was nearly half past eleven, but he couldn’t go home yet.
“Better night, sir, bit cold, though.”
“Could be worse,” Roger said. He hurried up the steps to the main hall, and a sergeant welcomed him with a broad grin.
“Mr Kimbell in?” Roger asked.
“Haven’t seen him leave, sir.”
“Put me on to him,” Roger said, and waited while the sergeant put a call through to the Night Superintendent. He used the time to try to get his thoughts in order, and when Kimbell spoke, said almost lightly: “Wouldn’t care to have a cuppa in the canteen, would you? All I’ve had since midday is a couple of sandwiches.”
“You go ahead, I’ll join you,” said Kimbell. “The steak’s good tonight.”
“Thanks.” Roger rang off and went to the canteen. It was nearly empty; the main mealtime for the night st
aff was between twelve and one o’clock. He ordered a steak, knowing that it would be cooked exactly as he liked it, and resisted the temptation to nibble at some bread. He was still waiting when Kimbell came in, a tall, nearly whitehaired man, whose face belied the hair; he looked no more than forty-five. He was thin and rather angular, and his grin was friendly to all and sundry.
He came and sat down opposite Roger.
“What are you going to have?” Roger asked.
“Coffee, but I’ll wait,” said Kimbell. “What’s all this about murder?”
Roger explained …
“Couldn’t have it more positive than that,” said Kimbell. “What do you make of it?” He had a genius for getting other people to talk, and also for picking out the salient points of a story.
“I may be wrong, but I think the way these two attacks were made on young Munro suggests something deeper than vengeance consequent upon today’s shindy,” Roger said. “As if the assailants had been put up to it. But I could be fooling myself.” He sat back as his steak arrived, sizzling, a heap of chipped golden brown potatoes with it. “Looks fine, Ted, thanks,” he said to the man who brought it. “Two coffees now, please.” He waited for Ted to go, and then added: “I think someone hates Malcolm Munro’s guts, and saw a golden chance to get him charged with manslaughter, and perhaps wreck his whole future at Munro’s. But it could go deeper still. It could be that someone is out to wreck Munro’s, at least to the length of stopping them from getting their Mark 9 on to the export market.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you agree?”
“Haven’t enough evidence to agree or disagree,” said Kimbell, “but if I were laying money, it would be on you. You want: (a) someone who hates Malcolm Munro, and (6) someone who hates the whole set-up there.”
Roger cut into the steak, and it could not have been more tender.
“With especial attention to Michael Grannett, and an eye on the Lee girl, who might know the very thing we need.”
“Grannett’s the strong candidate for hater-in-chief and troublemaker in excelsis,” Kimbell observed, and so proved how thoroughly he had studied the reports which had been sent through only an hour or so ago. “Haven’t got anything on him yet, except that he’s worked at Munro’s for twelve years and been a thorn in the flesh all the time. But I’ve got something for you on the other one, part (a) as it were.”
Roger stopped eating.
“Enemy of Malcolm Munro?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t hold out on me.”
“Fellow by the name of Hugh Torrance,” Kimbell said, and did not even show how much he relished the revelation. “You’ve heard of him. Chief test driver of Munro’s for the past ten years or so, probably one of the finest drivers in the country. Remember?”
“Of course I know of Torrance. What makes him Munro’s enemy?”
“Two things. First, Torrance was almost set for a seat on the Board, until Munro decided to go on. There’s a story that now that Munro’s on, Torrance never will be, because of his antipathy. Second, a girl named Teresa Lee. The trouble with you is second sight.”
Roger, who had started to eat again, put his knife and fork down, and said: “That’s right, spoil my steak. Give.”
“Same source of information is a motoring correspondent of the Globe,” Kimbell told him. “It seems that Torrance and Tessa Lee were very good friends at one time; in fact, engaged. That lasted until about three weeks after Munro became a director. Then she broke off the engagement. The following night, Torrance picked a quarrel with Munro at a small drinking club, exclusive to the motoring set. Dozens of witnesses. Munro tried to stop it from developing into a brawl, but finally there was one.”
“Who won?”
“Munro cut Torrance into little pieces. Munro is just about the best heavyweight to come out of Oxford in the past fifty years, it seems. How does it sound?” Kimbell was smug.
“It sounds as if you’ve got someone looking for Torrance and checking into his recent activities,” said Roger, and started on his steak again.
“I’ve two men doing it, but like the other things, it’ll probably have to wait till morning,” Kimbell said. “Never know what turns up if you dig a little hole in dirt, do you?”
“Think Tessa Lee knows about this?” Roger asked.
“She was present when the fight took place. Torrance was drunk. He’s not much of a drinker, can’t hold his liquor.”
“Well, well,” said Roger. “I had a feeling she was holding something back tonight. Do you happen to know if Torrance was on duty at the factory this afternoon?”
“Yes, he was getting a Mark 9 ready for a test run tomorrow, when there’s a party of big export buyers due to see a demonstration.”
Roger finished a mouthful of steak, and then deliberately cut another piece off without looking at the Night Superintendent, but he said: “You are about to explode a bombshell. What?”
“Torrance had a slight spill on the trial track this afternoon. About two fifteen. He went to the works hospital for attention. In his overalls. Carrying his tools. Including a spanner. Like me to bring him in for you?”
“No,” said Roger very softly, “not yet. It’s almost too perfect. Right man, right place, right weapon – too much for coincidence. Kimmy, do you know what I’d do if I were the boss around here?”
“Yes,” said Kimbell, promptly. “You would treat the news of the murderous blow on Grannett’s head as hush-hush until we’ve had time to look round a bit more, and get some more facts assembled. If the killer thinks we’ve been fooled, he’ll feel so good that he might get a little careless.”
“Thanks,” said Roger warmly. “Recommend it in your chit to Knightley in the morning, will you?”
“Yes. My Gawd,” exclaimed Kimbell, noticing Roger’s plate, “if I put away a meal as fast as that I’d have indigestion for a week.” He took a cup of coffee from Ted, and went on: “Why don’t you have baked jam roll or plum duff or something equally light for sweet?”
“What have you got, Ted?” Roger asked.
“As a matter of fact, sir, the baked jam roll’s still on.”
“Fine.”
“Double portion, as usual?”
“Please, and don’t forget the extra jam.”
“I give in,” Kimbell marvelled, “I give in. This must be where you get your reserves of strength from, Handsome. Anything else you want?”
“Yes, please, sir,” said Roger humbly. “A couple of men out at the factory tonight, to work there – here’s the key to the office they’ve put at our disposal. And a recommendation for a clerk – one of the older men will do – and a couple of good detective officers at the factory by eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Going to make that your HQ?” Kimbell mused. “Probably a good idea. OK. Well, I’ve got to go up to the office, you may not believe it, but there are other bad men about tonight. The worst job we’ve had is an old chap nearly battered to death at Highgate. I’m expecting the swine who did it in any minute. Here’s a note of what we’ve done for you, you can put it under your pillow, and if you have a nightmare, don’t blame anything but your greed.”
Roger took a slip of paper.
“Kimmy,” he said, “there ought to be more like you. Thanks.”
“Think nothing of it,” Kimbell said, and went off. Roger studied the list, and began to smile. It was a summary of everything which he had recommended from the time he had reached Munro’s factory, and it included reports from the Division. Sir lan’s house was being watched, back and front, three youths suspected of taking part in the first attack on Munro had been questioned and released because there was no proof, oddments of clues had been found at the scene of the attack, but nothing really helpful had yet come from them. There were notes on a report from Coombs, two on reports from Sheppard, and a note that Kimbell had told Sheppard to go off duty at ten-forty. In brackets were the words: He wanted to wait for you, Handsome. Wouldn’t let him
. There were details about Torrance, too. If Tessa Lee believed that Torrance had become so deadly an enemy, it would explain why she had pretended to know nothing.
If Malcolm Munro, undoubtedly capable of a kind of twisted quixotism, believed the attacks had been inspired by Torrance, but didn’t want it proved, it was easy to understand why he had let that man escape.
There were many undercurrents, too, among them the tension between Mike Grannett and the management, which had lasted for at least twelve years.
Roger went up to his office, and spent three-quarters of an hour writing out a report for Knightley and the Assistant Commissioner, and making a list of the inquiries he wanted started first thing in the morning. Time would be invaluable.
Then he went to his home in Bell Street, Chelsea; a small, detached, inner suburban house in a quiet street, where only the lamps were alight, and all the houses were in darkness. He drove the car into the garage, the doors of which had been left open for him; Scoopy and Richard, his two children, would have seen to that. He closed the garage doors softly, and opened the front door of the house, listened for the slightest sound, and heard none. He yawned, relaxed and tired now that the tensions of the day were past, and didn’t even go into the kitchen. His wife had probably left some sandwiches out, but it was a household rule that if he didn’t eat them, one of the boys would take them for lunch next day.
He went upstairs, the only light coming from a street-lamp shining through the landing window. He opened the boys’ door, heard their soft breathing and could just make out their heads against the pillow. Peace at thirteen and fourteen. He could see that Scoopy’s big body was askew, and Richard nearly hidden under the bedclothes. He closed the door quietly, went into his own bedroom, and undressed by the light of that friendly street-lamp. Janet didn’t stir until he got into bed. She was very warm. He pushed the eiderdown back, and she moved and grunted a little, and then quite suddenly asked in a clear voice:
“Are you in bed?”
“Yes, sweet.”
“Good night”
