by John Creasey
Kennedy turned, took the cigar and drew at it, took it from his mouth and looked at the faint red glow beneath the pale-grey ash. He was quite steady.
“I should like to hear more about it.”
“You can listen to your dictaphone recording in the morning,” Roger said. “I thought I was the big risk in this outfit. Now I know that you are. Have the police got anything on you?”
“They’ve a name, that’s all. You know me as Kennedy. A few other people do. I’m not known here as Kennedy. That isn’t my name. I’m careful, Rayner.” He slipped back into the use of Rayner easily. “They don’t know anything against Kennedy. They might suspect him of a few minor crimes, that’s all. There’s no need to fly into a panic.”
“Call it what you like. This is dangerous. Sloan came to warn me that I was playing with bad men when I played with Kennedy.”
Kennedy said: “Perhaps he thinks you’re honest!” He didn’t seem to be amused. “I’ve always been worried by the man Sloan, he got on to Kyle too quickly. He was after the men behind Kyle, of course, that’s——”
“How the police get half of their results. They pick up a man on one thing, and find he’s connected with another. They’re much better than you’ve ever given them credit for.”
Kennedy said: “Maybe. Would Sloan have a dossier on you, this Kennedy, and anything else to do with the case?”
“He’d keep a record, probably in his desk—more likely there than at his home. Few policemen keep everything in their heads. They never know what they’ll forget—and they never know when they might run into trouble, so they leave their testimony behind them. Sloan usually kept his note-book in his desk.”
“Would he talk to anyone about this?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“He hasn’t any close friends at the Yard. He’s young— young for his rank, too. He and I were usually together on a job. He’d confide in me. And on this job, he’s more likely than usual to keep it to himself, because I’m at the bottom of it. He’d feel that the others were laughing at him for thinking I’d been framed—most of them have probably assumed that I killed the girl at Copse Cottage.”
Kennedy drew at the cigar again.
“I see. Have a drink, Rayner? I can recommend the brandy, or——”
“I wouldn’t mind a whisky.”
“Please yourself.” Kennedy poured out. “Do you know of anyone at the Yard you could bribe?”
The question wasn’t a surprise, was no more than Roger had to expect. He took the glass and didn’t answer.
“Do you?” The other’s voice was thin and harsh.
He had to win Kennedy’s confidence; there was no drawing back.
“I wouldn’t like to say. There are one or two I didn’t trust, but I doubt if they’d sell anything that mattered.
We had our black sheep, though. There’s one——” he broke off and gulped down his whisky. “No, you’re crazy! The Brixton job was bad enough. Corrupting a Yard man——”
“You wouldn’t have to do it. The man who’d tackle the job would be prepared for trouble. He’d be safe enough from our side. But it might take him six months to find the right prospect. This is just another way you can help me, Rayner—and help yourself.”
Roger shrugged. “I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Who is the man you’ve got in mind?”
“Well—Detective Sergeant——”
“Small fry,” sneered Kennedy. “Do better.”
“He’s your best bet. You can’t get at the high rankers —I’ll stake my life on any one of them. This man, Sergeant Banister, is an old chap. He has a damning habit of antagonizing his seniors, especially Assistant Commissioners, and he’s failed at most of his exams. He’s good, but he can’t get promotion and the accompanying pay increase, and he has a rough time at home. His wife’s on the sick list—a chronic invalid. I don’t know how far he would go, but he’s your most likely prospect. What do you want?”
“Sloan’s desk note-book.”
“What else?”
“Anything about the Copse Cottage murder, you, Kyle, Kennedy, and Marion—dossiers on them all. They’re easy enough to get for a man inside, aren’t they?”
Roger said: “They should be. They might be out— that means with the Assistant Commissioner, the Home Office, or one of the Superintendents. That wouldn’t be for long, but if Banister played ball, he might not be able to get everything for a few days. But there’s a snag.”
“What is it?”
“Once the dossiers were missed, the Yard would make a grand slam against the people covered by them. You’d be surprised what happens when those experts really put their heads together. They know all the tricks, all the answers.”
“I wouldn’t want the papers for long; just long enough for them to be photolithoed.”
Roger said: “Well, try Banister. Don’t say I haven’t warned you.”
“I won’t.” Kennedy laughed—that curious laugh with his head back. “Beginning to see what a tower of strength you are to me? I’ve often wondered how much they’ve got on certain friends of mine. This will help me to find out.”
Roger said: “No violence—with Sloan or anyone else.”
“I know where to stop,” said Kennedy. He looked earnest—until Roger glanced round at him from the door, five minutes later. Kennedy was grinning; at the thought of what was going to happen to Bill Sloan. This was like playing with T.N.T. The footman closed the door. Roger crossed the landing, and another door opened. A woman, small, chic, beautiful, looked straight at him. She wore a dinner-gown of black with lace half-revealing her shoulders and the gentle swell of her breast; she wore a tulle scarf, which wisped up at the back of her head. Her hair was corn-coloured. She didn’t smile, but withdrew and closed the door.
Percy was waiting outside in the street.
“Where do you want dropping?” he asked.
“The same place will do.”
Roger got in. A small car parked farther along the road moved after them. He didn’t see it, once he was inside, because the blinds were down, but it was still behind them when he was dropped in Piccadilly. He walked slowly towards the Circus. It was a fine, starry night, with no wind. The lights of London were on again, and the Circus looked gay with the moving advertisements.
A man followed him.
He made no attempt to avoid the man, but walked to his flat. He went upstairs and switched on the light, then went cautiously down again. The man was lounging in a doorway, opposite. So Kennedy—whose name wasn’t really Kennedy—had told Percy that the red light was on: Kennedy was making quite sure that Roger didn’t try any tricks. The telephone was tapped, of course. If he’d made a mistake it was in telling Kennedy that he knew of the dictaphones; but Kennedy had probably already realized that he knew. The risk, the great almost unforgivable risk, was with Sloan.
Sloan was marked down for murder as surely as Lucille had been.
To-night? Possibly to-night, but not if he stayed indoors; this would be another accident, not open murder. Roger stood in front of the telephone, undecided. He could switch off the dictaphone, but a different contraption might be fitted to the telephone itself. He suspected that the other offices in the building were owned by Kennedy, but wasn’t sure. He mustn’t take a risk with that telephone.
How long would the guard remain outside?
He went back upstairs, sorted through a small tool-box in the kitchen, selected several, including a key that would serve as a pick-lock, and then remembered Harry; Harry was usually in by eleven o’clock on his nights off; it was now nearly ten, and an hour wasn’t enough for what Roger wanted to do. He would take a chance by waiting until Harry came back. Roger picked up a book and began to read, but couldn’t concentrate. He switched on the radio; there was hymn singing. He read the Cry article again.
He didn’t like it; he didn’t like seeing the names of Janet, Scoopy, and Richard in print.
Then he
heard Harry’s key in the lock.
Harry walked in, smiling sombrely, asked if there were anything Roger wanted, and went to bed; he had a small room which wasn’t included in the main rooms of the flat. Roger waited until the man had had time to undress and get into bed, then went into his own room, adjacent. He hummed to himself as he ran water from the tap, did everything as if he were going to retire. He switched on a small radio; there was dance music. He took fifty pound notes from the safe, then put on a pair of shoes with rubber soles and heels, wrapped up the tools and dropped them into his pocket, switched off the radio, and crept out.
At the front door he paused, to look towards Harry’s door. A line of light showed underneath, but he heard no sound of movement. As an afterthought, he went into the living-room, tore a piece of gummed paper off the wrapping of Mrs. Delaney’s package, and marked it with a pencil. He stuck this at the foot of his door, sealing door to frame. If Harry looked in to see if he were there, the paper would be broken and he would be warned.
He crept downstairs.
Harry hadn’t replaced the guard; the man was still huddled in the doorway.
Roger turned to the ground-floor office of the building and worked on the door with his tools. The lock wasn’t difficult, a policeman could crack a crib with any man if the need were great enough. He fiddled for five minutes before the lock clicked back. There were tell-tale signs at the door, marks of the tools, but they probably wouldn’t be noticed if nothing were stolen. He crept across a large office to the window which overlooked the yard—as did his office upstairs. The window was latched. He unfastened it and pushed the window up, climbed out into the concrete yard and then closed the window. He went to a narrow service alley which led to the next street, walked past the end of Lyme Street and saw the guard, and then averted his eyes quickly, for Percy swung round the corner in the Daimler.
The Daimler pulled up in front of the watcher, who hurried to it and climbed in. The Daimler moved off and was lost in the streets near Co vent Garden. That was reasonable proof that Kennedy relied on Harry to keep a watch on Roger at the flat; and with luck, Harry thought he was in bed. He needed luck. But he had never done anything to arouse Harry’s suspicions and had made no attempt at independent action until to-night. He had to do a lot to-night.
The tools were heavy in his pocket as he went along the Strand, then into a side street where he knew there were telephone booths.
He dialled Sloan’s private number.
He felt shivery as he did so, and as the brrr-brrr sounded. Was Sloan out? The ringing tone seemed unending. If Sloan were out, then he might run into trouble. Brrr-brrr. Sloan must be out, and it was too early for him to be in bed. Brrr-kk.
“Hallo?”
Roger schooled his voice. Sloan might guess it was Rayner, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Mr. Sloan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m warning you, Mr. Sloan. They’re after you.”
“Who——”
“Use your wits. There’ll be an attack. Maybe a rundown. It’ll come quick. I’m warning you, Mr. Sloan.”
“Listen! Who——”
“I’ve warned you, just look out. And there’s another thing, Mr. Sloan.”
“Well?” Sloan had stopped expecting to be told the name of his caller.
“Remember the Copse Cottage job. Girl you never traced. Have a try in Paris. 23 Rue de Croix, District 8. Got that?”
“23 Rue de Croix, 8. Yes. Will you——”
“It’s the same job, and they mean to get you.”
Roger rang off and slipped out of the box. That was as far as he dared go; farther than was safe. He walked to the Strand and beckoned a taxi from the rank near the Savoy.
“Do you know Ealing?”
“Palm of me ‘and, brother!”
“Try and find Merrivale Avenue, will you?”
“Orf the Common, ‘seasy. There an’ back?”
“With a wait in between.”
“It’ll cost yer the world.” The cabby laughed his joke off. Roger sat back, legs crossed, watching the passing lights, letting his thoughts roam. A great deal depended on whether he got back without being missed. He smoked two cigarettes, and was half-way through a third when the cabby slowed down near Ealing Common Station.
“What number, Merrivale?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Okay.”
Number 35 Merrivale Avenue was a small house, standing in a tiny patch of garden, which even under the light of the stars, looked neat and tidy. No lights were on; it was now nearly half-past eleven, and there were few lighted windows in the long street. Roger rang the bell, and waited; rang again and knocked immediately afterwards.
A light went on, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
The man coming was Pep Morgan, who knew Roger West well; once, had known him very well indeed. He ran a private inquiry agency, and seldom risked a clash with the police. He opened the door, a ball of a man wrapped in a thick dressing-gown. His sparse hair was awry, and his nose and mouth were screwed up in annoyance. He squeaked:
“What the hell do you want?”
“Your services,” said Roger. “Fifty pounds for a job that’s not worth ten.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re inside, maybe,” said Roger. He squeezed past the round ball as a woman called out from upstairs: “Pep. Who is it. Pep?”
“Just a client, m’dear, just a client.” Pep closed the door and put on the light of a front room. He had bright-brown eyes, from which all traces of sleepiness had vanished. He eyed Roger closely. “I don’t know you,” he said.
“I hope you never will.” Roger took the fifty pounds from his pocket and put it on top of a small upright piano. Pep hardly glanced towards it. “This is a simple job, there’s no risk, and there’s nothing illegal, but it’s urgent. First thing in the morning—if you can’t do it earlier!—I want you to arrange for a man on a bicycle to start from the Burlington Arcade, take the first right and then the second left—got it?”
“I’ll write it down.” There was a pad and pencil near the telephone. Pep’s stubby fingers moved swiftly. “Yes?”
“And around there he’ll find traces of flour, which was dropped from a passing car. There are more traces, in different streets, usually at corners—always at corners, except one place. That’s a few doors from a house numbered twenty-seven. The number of the house is painted in black on a cream, fluted column.”
Pep wrote swiftly. “Yes?”
“I want to know the name of the street and the name of the owner of the house—just that and no more. As soon as you’ve got it, leave word at your office. A Mr. Brown will call you, probably about lunch-time—all he wants is that name and full address. All clear?”
“What’s worth fifty quid?”
“Being hauled out of bed.”
Pep rubbed his button of a nose. “Okay,” he said.
* * * *
Roger went back the way he had come—through the window of the downstairs office, so that he could latch the window and lessen the risk that signs of intrusion would be noticed. He locked the passage door with the skeleton key and went quietly upstairs.
The piece of gummed paper at the foot of his door was still in one piece; so Harry hadn’t realized that he had been out. He ripped it off, went in, closed the door gently, and then sat down in an easy-chair. He felt more light-hearted than he had for weeks.
Sloan could look after himself now.
Couldn’t he?
CHAPTER XVIII
SLOAN
BILL SLOAN tapped his silver pencil against his strong white teeth as he skimmed through the notes he had made on what he called The West Disappearance. These notes were kept jealously for his eyes alone. They contained a precis of everything he had done in the past two months in his quest for Roger. They showed that he had spent every spare minute of his time on the hunt. They also showed that he had worked with Mark Lessing, but not
consulted any official at the Yard. He had taken the extreme precaution of buying a diary with a lock on it. There were references to Kennedy—a name only—Kyle, Marion Day, and several others; nothing was evidence in a legal sense.
He locked the book, put it away, and pressed a bell on his desk. He shared the big office with five other D.I.’s, but none of them was in. None had seen the book.
A middle-aged man with florid face, straggly grey moustache, barrel-shaped figure, and sullen, disappointed eyes came in. He let the door slam behind him.
“Want me?” he asked gruffly as he approached the desk. He was slovenly dressed. His brown suit needed not only pressing but also cleaning. His hair needed cutting. He looked as if he thought the world was against him, and had an almost furtive expression in his cloudy blue eyes.
Sloan said : “Yes, Banister. Do you know if the Assistant Commissioner is in?”
“Yes, I know the old—yes, he’s in.” Banister bit on his comment, and evaded Sloan’s eyes.
“Been after you again?” asked Sloan.
“He’s always after me. Everyone’s—oh, forget it.”
“All right, that’s all,” said Sloan. He watched the sergeant go out; the door slammed again, indicating that Banister was in a foul temper. Sloan leaned back in his chair for a few minutes, forgetting the A.C. He was recalling a conversation he’d had with Roger at Roger’s Bell Street house, a week or two before the disappearance. Roger had started it.
“Happy about Banister, Bill?”
“Can anyone be ? The scales are pretty heavily weighted against him.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean?” Sloan knew, but wanted it put into words.
“Would you trust him with much?”
“Well—I’ve no reason not to, but if I wanted anything kept right under my hat, I wouldn’t choose him to hold my hat for me.”
“That’s what I mean,” Roger had said.
The Yard was full of Roger; his face, his brisk walk, his crisp confidence, his unorthodoxy, his daring, his friendliness. Sloan owed his quick promotion to Roger; he felt lost and out on a limb ever since Roger had gone. The odd hint here, a suggestion there, a chat over a difficult case— Sloan had trained himself largely on Roger West. Admiration and respect had grown into confidence and friendship. He was probably the last man at the Yard who still believed that Roger was alive; and who believed the sun more likely to fail to rise than Roger to become corrupt.
