by John Creasey
“We-ell,” began Eddie, uncomfortably, and then he leaned forward and whispered: “Handsome, I’m with you. I think it’s all a lot of nonsense. I can’t understand the Old Man thinking you’d do such a thing. All I know is that you’re supposed to have accepted bribes over the last three months.”
“From whom?” Roger demanded.
“The squeak came from Joe Leech.”
“Oh,” said Roger, standing up and stepping restlessly to the fireplace, where the fire, burning low, glowed red. He knew Joe Leech, a bookmaker in the East End who kept within the law and was – in his own opinion – allowed to go to the extreme limits because he was a regular purveyor of information to the police. His information was usually reliable and the police were often obliged to act on it. Few at the Yard had any regard for Leech, whose bad reputation in the East End was well known. Two or three times a year he had to be given police protection after he had squealed and when relatives and friends of his victims had threatened violence. Roger had a better understanding of the reason for Abbott taking action. Leech would not have squealed, knowing that there was no truth in the allegation, unless he had been heavily bribed.
“Don’t say I told you,” pleaded Eddie. “I shouldn’t really, Handsome, but I don’t believe—”
He heard someone approaching and put his glass hastily to his eye. The footsteps passed. Eddie stared at Roger with his glass at his eye and his forehead and nose wrinkled.
“It’s a bad do, Handsome, that’s what I say, but—”
He broke off when the telephone on his desk rang. He answered it and Roger judged, from his manner, that it was Chatworth. Eddie was more impressed – even awed – by the Assistant Commissioner than most of the others, although Chatworth had a reputation for being a martinet. Bitterly, Roger reflected that he had always thought the A.C. well-disposed towards him. For the first time a vague suspicion crossed his mind that this was all being done deliberately, to make it appear that he was in bad odour with the Yard and so that he could work more freely outside it. His heart leapt, but on reflection the idea was patiently absurd.
Eddie replaced the receiver and stood up, gathering some papers from his untidy desk.
“Got to go and see the Old Man,” he said, in a confidential undertone; “he wants my report on those dud notes – you know the ones I mean.”
“Yes,” said Roger, with a flicker of interest. “Are they slush?” He thought of the £1,000 now at the Strand P.O. waiting for ‘Mr. North’ but it was too early to ask Eddie’s opinion of the two specimens; Eddie was not a man to be trusted in these circumstances. There were two Yard men who might take the risk of helping him, and one, Sloan, was on holiday.
“Stake my reputation on it,” said Eddie, half-way to the door, “but they’re good – no one else at the Yard would have told them from the real thing. Er—good luck, Handsome, if I can do anything let me know.” He went out, perspiring partly because of his coming interview but partly because he felt that the situation was beyond him.
Alone in the office, Roger looked about him, putting his hands in his raincoat pockets. He felt an envelope in there but thought nothing of it. The green-distempered walls with a few photographs, including one, old and faded, of a Suffragette procession down Whitehall in 1913, two cricket XIs, one of them including himself, two or three maps of London districts and several calendars. On one of the desks was a small vase of fading daffodils. The fireplace was littered with cigarette ends and the carpet, with several threadbare patches, had a few trodden into it. The desks were bright yellow but, in places, the polish had worn off and the bare wood showed. There were little partitions for different papers – ‘For Attention’ – ‘For Review’ – ‘Mail In.’ Suddenly he stopped reading the black stencilled letters, for his own desk was absolutely empty; everything had been removed since he had been there that morning.
He turned abruptly, taking his hand out of his pocket and drawing the envelope with it. He looked down at the crumpled paper, and frowned. It was stout and newish-looking; had it been in his pocket for some time it would have looked grubby. He remembered thinking that morning that it was a fortnight since he had last worn his raincoat. He had not noticed the envelope then.
It was sealed and there was no writing on it.
He inserted a finger at one end and ripped it open. Inside was a single slip of paper on which were two or three lines of block letter writing, upside down. He turned it swiftly and read:
Dear West.
I’ve another proposition I think will interest you – it will pay even better than the last. Meet me at the usual place, to-morrow, Wednesday, at 7.30, will you?
K.
Tight-lipped, Roger re-read it. All that it meant and all it might have led to passed through his mind, together, with a fact which he had to face and which almost stupefied him ‘. . . another proposition,’ inferring that there had been plenty of others; ‘...it will pay even better.’ ‘. . . meet me at the usual place . . .”
A film of perspiration broke out on his forehead.
To Abbott it would be just the evidence he wanted – and he had brought it into the Yard himself! He might well have left his coat on a peg and gone to try to see Chatworth, which was his chief reason for coming. He stared down, studying the ‘K’ more closely; it was a carefully formed letter; the whole note had been written by someone who knew how to use a pen. It was in drawing ink, jet black and vivid against the white paper.
He screwed it up, with the envelope, turned, and placed it carefully in the middle of the glowing embers of the fire. It began to scorch but took a long time to blaze up. He heard someone approaching and turned with his back to the fire. As he did so the paper caught alight, making a flame bright enough to cast his shadow on the nearest desk. If someone came in and saw it they might try to retrieve the evidence.
The man outside passed, footsteps ringing on the cement floor. Roger went hot, then cold, and quickly stirred the blazing paper with his toe. In a few seconds it was just black ash, glowing red in places and giving off a few sparks which were drawn up the chimney. More at ease, he went to an easy chair, to recover from the shock and to face the obvious fact: the envelope had been put in his pocket either at the house or in the taxi.
Chapter 5
NO WELCOME FOR ROGER
No one came to the office.
Roger sat in an armchair, of faded green hide, his feet stretched out in front of him. Nothing seemed quite real and the appearance of the note in his pocket was fantastic. He could remember every word and every characteristic of the lettering, the quality of the white paper, and its thickness – pre-war paper beyond any doubt. Later, it might have been useful to have, but it had been too dangerous to hold on to it.
Abbott must have searched the raincoat, so it had not been there at five o’clock. No one had been in Bell Street except his friends and the police. The thought that Morgan might have put it there did not occur to him. The more he considered it the more convinced he was that the soft-voiced stranger of the taxi had inserted it as he had climbed out of the cab. He went back over the sequence of events. He had not known for certain that he had been followed, but had not been surprised when the man had appeared – in fact, he had assumed it was the plain-clothes officer. The soft-voiced fellow must have followed him, intent on slipping that damning note into his pocket.
He stood up abruptly and went to the door.
Chatworth’s office was on the next floor. Roger walked briskly to the stairs and met two Detective-Inspectors coming down. At sight of him they looked surprised and, when he said ‘hallo,’ answered indifferently; glancing back from the landing he saw them still standing at the foot of the stairs, staring up at him, and as they went off he could hear their whispering voices. Along Chatworth’s corridor a door opened and Superintendent Bliss, vast and fat and with a voice like a dove, almost knocked into him.
>
“West!” he exclaimed.
“Yes?” said Roger, eyeing him steadily.
“Oh, nothing,” said Bliss and hurried off, while two men in the office stared at the door and Roger as if at something strange.
Tight-lipped, Roger went on to Chatworth’s office. There was a light under the door and he could hear Eddie Day’s sing-song voice. At the best of times it was unwise to interrupt Chatworth and Roger decided to wait until the A.C. was alone, although he was determined to try to force an issue. By coming here, he had at least shown confidence.
Two corridors away was a common-room, for higher officials when on fire-duty. It had a billiard table, table tennis, darts and all the paraphernalia of a club – it was Chatworth’s special concern, and he had overcome many obstacles in getting it established. Nearing the door Roger could hear the murmur of voices and then an exclamation and a burst of laughter. He went in and walked across the room without speaking or drawing attention to himself. Someone looked up from the billiard table and he heard his name uttered sotto voce. Two other men turned to stare at him. Others, by the walls playing chess and draughts, two card parties and table-tennis players, all stopped just long enough for him to realise that they were staring at him before going on with their games.
He felt the blood flooding his cheeks.
No one spoke to him and he made no attempt to start a conversation. Among the two dozen men there were many older than he but in less exalted positions; their envy had always been apparent, for he had been resented as the youngest Chief Inspector at the Yard. But the grim silence was not wholly due to their resentment, although doubtless it contributed to the willingness with which many of them judged him. One, a fair-headed, youthful-looking man, Inspector Cornish, who had recently been promoted from one of the Divisions, was the nearest approach to a close friend that Roger had at the Yard. He was the only one then on duty who might risk helping him.
Cornish, reading an evening paper in a corner, looked up, coloured and then averted his eyes. Roger stared at him for an appreciable time, but Cornish continued to study the paper. With an exclamation of disgust, Roger turned on his heel. He was by the door when he heard his name called and, looking over his shoulder, saw Cornish hurrying towards him, his fresh face alive with concern. The others looked at him in surprise and Cornish, stopping in front of Roger, spoke breathlessly.
“Damn this, Roger! You know what’s being said?”
“And believed, as far as I can judge,” said Roger.
“Is there any truth in it?” Cornish demanded.
“Would you expect me to admit it?” asked Roger and then repented the bitterness of his reply and forced a smile. “You ought to know better than to think there might be, Corny. No, it’s a canard and it will be killed one day. Then what will all my good friends say when they come begging Superintendent West for favours?” He looked contemptuously round the room and felt suddenly untroubled by the hostility and the strength of the feeling against him. He would have felt pretty strongly had someone else been in his position; it was absurd to rely on sentiment. These men believed that he had committed the cardinal crime in a policeman’s calendar; they had no time for a renegade and it was natural that they should feel strongly. He went on, sounding almost gay. “You’d better be careful, Corny, or you’ll be looked upon as an accessory. Good night!”
He went out, hearing the murmur of conversation which followed, and he was not surprised when the door opened again and Cornish hurried after him.
“Roger. Roger!” The other was distressed and Roger turned and waited for him, his hands in his coat pocket, a faint smile on his lips. “Look here, old man,” said Cornish, “just answer me this – did you do it?”
“No,” said Roger, looking into the other’s blue eyes.
“Then is there anything I can do?” demanded Cornish.
Roger warmed towards him as he considered, but he said, carefully, that in Cornish’s position it would probably be wise to show no friendliness but to go with the crowd. Cornish shook his head impatiently.
“I’ve tried that and it didn’t work,” he said. “I’ve never felt such a swine as I did just now.”
Roger chuckled. “That’s all right! Look here, if you really want to be helpful you can try to find out the name and address of the taxi-driver who picked me up at Sloane Square about three-quarters of an hour ago and dropped me here. I shared the cab with a man going to Piccadilly.” That was all he dared ask; the two fivers were too dangerous to disclose to anyone here.
“How will it help?” Cornish asked.
“I’m not going to let you get involved with details,” Roger said, “but if you can find out just the cabby’s name and address, I’ll be grateful. Don’t take this to heart,” he added, cheerfully, “it won’t last for ever!”
He went on his way reflecting ruefully that Cornish, not he, might have been the victim of this remarkable quirk of circumstances and he was smiling to himself when he turned the corner and saw Chatworth, a large, burly man with a long mackintosh which rustled about his legs, and a wide-brimmed hat – nearly but not quite a Stetson. His large, rounded features were set in a scowl, by no means unusual. His natural colour was brick-red.
“Good evening, sir,” said Roger.
Chatworth raised his massive head and stared at him. He was holding the key in his hand and about to lock his office door. He dwarfed Roger, who was nearly six feet tall and comfortably proportioned. Roger stood waiting, with a tentative smile on his lips, because he knew that that was the last thing Chatworth would expect. He no longer felt inwardly nervous of the A.C.; anger had killed that, and now a new-found determination dictated his attitude.
Chatworth put the key in his pocket and demanded: “And what do you imagine you are doing here, West?”
“I’ve come for two things,” Roger said. “First, an interview with you, sir, and second to apply for a release from duty for four weeks.”
“Oh,” said Chatworth, ominously, “you want release from duty, do you? Confound your impertinence, you are suspended from duty!”
“That’s news to me,” said Roger, mildly. “I’ve had no notification.”
Chatworth thrust his chin forward, narrowed his eyes, often round and deceptively wondering and innocent, a snare for the unsuspecting. Roger’s heart was beating very fast.
“No, you haven’t,” Chatworth admitted, a flash of honesty which was characteristic of the man who wanted no cheap triumphs. “It isn’t dated until tomorrow morning. You’re being clever, are you, West? You think you can apply for release and escape the stigma of suspension. You’re wrong.”
“Perhaps,” Roger said. “I’ve been wrong about so many things that nothing will surprise me.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Chatworth.
“I had always been under the impression that your men would receive scrupulously fair treatment,” Roger said, restraining his anger and yet feeling less detached. “It was quite a shock to find it otherwise, sir.”
“You had your opportunity to discuss this with me,” Chatworth said. He stood by the door, feet planted wide apart, his mackintosh draped about him like a night-shirt which was too large. He pushed back the big hat and revealed his high forehead and the front of his bald head. At the sides was a thick fringe of close curls, blonde turning grey.
“I had no such thing,” said Roger.
“You appear to be forgetting yourself,” Chatworth said, coldly. “You were requested by Superintendent Abbott to come here to see me, and you refused. You were insolent to a superior officer, also.”
“In the same circumstances I should be ‘insolent’ to any man who invaded the privacy of my home, adopted an arrogant and overbearing manner and tried to take advantage of his position,” Roger said, more calmly, “and Superintendent Abbott appears to have misrepresented the facts, sir
. He did not say that you wished to see me, he merely asked me to go with him for questioning. As I knew nothing of the circumstances and he would not give me any information, I refused.”
Chatworth regarded him steadily, sniffed and dug his hand into his pocket. He took out the key, unlocked the door and pushed it open, striding into the room ahead of Roger, who followed without an invitation.
“Close the door,” Chatworth barked as he walked to his flat-topped desk. Everything in the room was modern, most of the furniture was of tubular steel, filing cabinets and desk were of polished metal which looked like glass. There was concealed wall-lighting and a single desk-lamp, all of which were controlled by a main switch.
Chatworth unbuttoned his mackintosh but did not take it off. He put his hat on the desk in front of him and looked up at Roger, who was standing a couple of yards from the desk without expression. Chatworth pushed his lips forward, deliberated, and then said harshly: “I am extremely disappointed in you, West.”
“And I in you, sir,” said Roger, firmly.
“This is no occasion for back-chat!”
“It is a very serious matter for me,” Roger said, “and I don’t like the way it has been handled, sir. If a sergeant dealt with a parallel case in the same way I should severely reprimand him.”
He had burned his boats, but Chatworth would think no worse of him for his attitude and it might enable him to force a hearing. He had won a minor triumph by getting into the room at all. He stood at ease, with one hand in his mackintosh pocket, and thought of the letter from ‘K’.
Then Chatworth nearly floored him.
“Who broke into your house while Abbott was there?”
Roger took his hand from his pocket, drew a sharp breath and then, recovering, frowned and said with a fair simulation of surprise: “I don’t understand you, sir.”
