Trusted Like The Fox

by James Hadley Chase

  “What’s up?” Edwards asked, his moon face suddenly serious. “Anything wrong, Joe?”

  “Nothing no one can do anything about,” James returned. “I’ll have to be getting along. Thanks for your help, Ted.”

  Edwards grunted, watched the inspector walk to the door. He noticed the military bearing was a little slumped, the spring missing from the walk.

  “Getting an old man,” he thought. “Pity. One of the good sorts. Well, well, we all have to come to it.”

  The corridor seemed very long as James walked towards the stairs. So Daphne had tampered with the watch as he had thought. The little fool! Fancy doing a thing like that. Well, no one must know. Somehow it had to be hushed up. He’d have to get Grace’s fingerprints again, and this time, there must be no mistake. She must be Grace Clark, he told himself; but even now, he was cautious. Better get her prints again before he took action, but he’d have to be careful. It looked as if Crane was up to his ears in this business. And Crane could be dangerous. He was glad he had told Rogers not to go near the bungalow. That was one good thing about Rogers: he obeyed orders. Of course, he was headstrong and keen, and if James hadn’t ordered him to keep away from the place he might have taken it into his head to have had a look round. It wouldn’t do to alarm them: anyway, not yet. No, Rogers would obey orders and James would have time to lay his plans. There must be no mistake next time. He’d prepare a trap and catch both Crane and Grace Clark and if Cushman turned up in the net so much the better.

  Big Ben was striking eleven o’clock as James made his way through the gateway of Scotland Yard. He nodded to the constable on duty who nodded back without any show of interest. These young chaps, James thought gloomily, not like the old days. Still nothing’s the same. We have to keep pace with the times.

  He hailed a passing taxi, got in.

  “47c Hay’s Mews, off Berkeley Square,” he said.

  “Right-ho, guy-nor,” the driver returned, and drove James rapidly along the Embankment, up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square,

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Hay’s Mews lay parallel with Charles Street and was the usual kind of Mews to be found in Mayfair’s back alleys. On each side of the Mews was a sedate line of garages over which were dwelling places, called, for a better word, flats. The cobblestones and twisty chimneys added to the picturesque appearance of the Mews, and three or four chauffeurs in their shirt sleeves, cleaning their cars, lent industry to an otherwise silent and sleepy backwater.

  Inspector James marched down the Mews, aware that the chauffeurs were eyeing him with jaded interest. He was anxious now to get his business over and return to Taleham, for he had something to say to his daughter and he was impatient to say it.

  Number 47c was a garage with a flat above like all the other garages in the Mews. It had, however, certain distinctions. The front door was painted scarlet and had glittering chromium fittings. The window-frames were also painted scarlet and two attractive window-boxes, crowded with multi-coloured blooms, added to its gay appearance.

  Number 47c was easily the most prosperous-looking of the flats in the Mews and James eyed it with respect. He knew the power of money, and he was suddenly conscious that he was acting in an unofficial capacity, but that fact did not deter him from ringing the front door bell.

  He waited patiently, conscious of a jeering kind of scrutiny from the chauffeurs. After a minute or so, he rang again, but still received no answer. He stepped back, glanced up at the windows, but their curtained panes gave away no secrets.

  “Bit early for that sort of thing, matey,” one of the chauffeurs remarked. He was a small, rat-eyed man, with a hard mouth and curiously deformed ears: they curled inwards and were without lobes.

  James regarded him coldly.

  “Speaking to me, my lad?” he barked.

  The chauffeur grinned. “Don’t ‘ave to ask permission to speak to yer, do I?” he demanded, his hands on his hips. “I said it was a bit early for that kind of thing and I might add a man of your age oughta know better.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?” James asked quietly, although his moustache began to bristle.

  “Come orf it, dad,” the chauffeur sneered. “We all know wot you’re after.”

  “Oh, you do?” James snapped, now thoroughly annoyed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you don’t explain pretty quick you’ll laugh the other side of your ugly phiz.”

  The chauffeur lost his grin. He scowled threateningly. “Now look ‘ere, dad,” he said. “Mind ‘oo you’re talking to. If yer wasn’t old enough to fertilise a graveyard I’d dot you one in the eye.”

  With a wintry smile James produced his warrant.

  “Take a look at that,” he said evenly, “and then perhaps you’ll remember your manners.”

  At the sight of the police card the chauffeur’s attitude changed abruptly.

  “Blimey, a busy!” he exclaimed. “Why couldn’t you ‘ave said so before? First busy I’ve lamped oo’s got small feet. Thought you was a perishing farmer, damned if I didn’t.”

  “Never mind who you thought I was,” James said, fixing him with his piercing blue eyes. “Suppose you tell me who you are — what’s your name?”

  “Sam White,” the man told him, a scared look in his eyes.

  “I don’t want no trouble, mister. I was only ‘aving a bit of fun.”

  “I don’t like your idea of fun,” James rasped. “You’d better explain what you meant just now. A bit too early for what?”

  “Well, it was only my little joke, see?” White said, shuffling his feet. The other chauffeurs exchanged grins, paused to listen. “Seeing yer ringing on the bell, I thought yer was one of ‘er clients.”

  “Oh, did you?” James said, light dawning. He hid a grin. “So she’s one of those, is she?”

  “That’s right, guv’nor,” White said, eager to curry favour. “Very choosey and ‘igh class, but one of ‘em just the same.” James glanced at the flat.

  “I might have guessed it,” he muttered half to himself. “She advertises all right, doesn’t she?”

  White grinned uneasily. “Well, it pays to advertise, don’t it? They call ‘er the Scarlet Lady around ‘ere. Not a bad piece, but a bit snooty unless you ‘ave a ‘undred smackers to spend on ‘er.”

  “I suppose she’s still in bed,” James said.

  “No, she ain’t, guv’nor; she’s away. I ‘aven’t seen ‘er around for more than a month.”

  James frowned. Could she be the girl staying with Crane after all? he wondered uneasily. He doubted it. There was nothing of the professional courtesan about that girl; in fact she was rather a simple-looking kid.

  “Well, that’s a pity. I wanted to talk to her. Any idea where she’s gone?”

  “No idea at all, guv’nor, but there’s a woman wot comes regularly to clean the place; she might know.”

  “And when does she turn up?”

  “Should be ‘ere any minute now.” White looked up and down the Mews. “She’s usually ‘ere by ten o’clock.”

  James took Grace’s photograph from his pocket.

  “Would you say this was the Brewer woman?”

  White glanced at the photograph and burst out laughing. “Er? Not likely! Why, she’s no more like Julie than I’m like ‘Eddy Lamarr.”

  James grunted, put the photograph away. That seemed to settle it, he thought. So the girl was not Julie Brewer in spite of having Julie Brewer’s identity card. Well, it looked as if Crane was in the business all right. He had introduced the girl as Julie Brewer, unless, of course, she had stolen the identity card and had passed herself off as Julie Brewer to Crane. James was becoming more and more convinced that the girl was Grace Clark. Was it worth while hanging about for further information or should he get back to Taleham? He decided, after a moment’s hesitation, to investigate further. He’d like to find out if he could how Grace Clark had got hold of Julie’s identity card. He’d also like to find out if Crane happened
to know Julie.

  “ ‘Ere she is now,” White said, jerking his thumb to a woman who was hurrying towards them.

  “All right, you get on with your work and keep out of this,” James said, suddenly official. “And watch your tongue in the future.”

  “Right-ho, guv’nor,” White returned sheepishly, and wandered back to the old-fashioned Daimler he had been cleaning.

  James eyed the woman as she walked towards him. She was hard-featured and hostile, and as she approached she glanced at him suspiciously.

  James nodded. “Good morning. I’m looking for Mrs Brewer.”

  “Well, she ain’t in,” the woman said shortly.

  “Then I’d like to talk to you,” James returned, an edge to his voice.

  She eyed him over. “Police?” she asked, a stony expression now on her face.

  “That’s right. We’ll go inside where we can talk without these monkeys listening in.”

  “No, we won’t,” the woman snapped back. “You can say what you want to say here and then hop it. I’ve no time to talk to coppers.”

  “This may be a serious matter,” James said in his most official manner. “We can’t talk in the street.”

  The woman hesitated. “Well, come in then.” She unlocked the front door. “But you can’t stay long. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  It was easy to see that the woman was worried in spite of her suspicion and coldness, and as James followed her up the steep stairs that led to the flat he had a feeling that his visit was not as unwelcomed as she made out.

  The woman showed him into a luxuriously furnished sitting- room and planted herself defensively before the fireplace. Looking around, James was astonished at the rich furnishing and excellent taste of the room. The colour scheme had been chosen and blended with considerable skill and the furniture was obviously worth thousands of pounds.

  “My word!” he exclaimed, startled. “She knows how to make herself comfortable, doesn’t she?”

  The woman made an impatient movement. “What do you want?” she demanded. “Come on, say your say and hop it.”

  “Let’s have your name for a start,” James said, placing his hat carefully on a chair and taking out his notebook.

  “Mrs Fowler if it’s any business of yours.”

  “How long has Mrs Brewer been missing?”

  The woman’s eyes shifted. “I didn’t say she was missing, did I? She’s away.”

  “Now let’s be frank with each other,” James said. “You know as well as I do she’s disappeared. We’ve found her identity card.”

  Mrs Fowler drew in a sharp breath. “Her identity card?” she repeated, her eyes showing fear. “Where? How did you find it?”

  “We found it,” James said, determined to give nothing away. “So you may as well be helpful in case something’s happened to her.”

  Mrs Fowler sat down abruptly. “What could have happened to her?” she asked. “What are you hinting at?”

  “I’m not hinting at anything. She’s disappeared; her identity card’s been found and that might mean she’s met with an accident.”

  There was a long pause, then Mrs Fowler said in a low voice, “What do you want to know?”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “About four weeks.”

  “Can you get it closer than that? When did she leave here?”

  Mrs Fowler thought for a moment, crossed the room to consult a calendar. “It was a Saturday. It’d be the 10th of July.”

  “And it’s now the 20th of August. Hmm, did she say where she was going?”

  “She said something about going to the country for a week or two.”

  “Alone?”

  “Well, no. She went away with her gentlemen friends from time to time. She was going with one of them, I believe.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” James said sharply. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. She’s a professional, isn’t she?”

  Mrs Fowler bridled. “She isn’t a common streetwalker, if that’s what you are trying to insinuate. She has gentlemen friends, and if she likes to give them a good time and if they like to give her a present now and then, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? And let me tell you, she only moves in the very best circles. Why, only a month ago, Lord . . .”

  “All right, all right,” James broke in hastily. He had a horror of poking into the grimy secrets of the aristocracy. “So she planned to spend a couple of weeks in the country, is that it?”

  Mrs Fowler nodded.

  “Didn’t she give you any idea where she was going?”

  “She didn’t discuss her plans with me,” Mrs Fowler said a little curtly.

  “But she did say she was coming back in a couple of weeks’ time? She didn’t suggest that she might be longer?”

  “She had to be back by the 27th of July because she had agreed to spend that week-end with Sir Charles . . .”

  “Never mind who she was going to spend the week-end with,” James said hurriedly, thinking this young woman seemed to be corrupting the bulk of the aristocracy. “She didn’t write or telephone?”

  “I haven’t heard a word from her. I was surprised and a bit worried when she didn’t turn up for the 27th. Sir Charles was ever so put out.”

  “I expect he was,” James said drily. “She has never gone off for so long before?”

  “Never, that’s why I’m worried. I’ve known Julie for a long time and I wouldn’t like to change my job, but if she stays away much longer I’ll have to. I can’t live on air.”

  “You have no idea who she went with? I mean did you see her leave? Did you catch sight of her companion?”

  “I saw her leave all right. I was in the kitchen when the Buick turned up and I called out to Julie to have a good time.”

  “The Buick?” James repeated, stiffening.

  “That’s right. A big car, black and as long as a street. I never saw the gentleman. He never got out of the car, just tooted on the hooter and Julie went down. I’ve looked out of the window many a time but I’ve never seen him. You can’t, you know, from these windows. You can only see the top of the car.”

  “You didn’t think to take its number?” James asked, thinking of Crane’s big, black Buick in which Daphne used to go for rides.

  “What on earth for?” Mrs Fowler returned. “I’ll have you know I’ve better things to do than take the numbers of cars. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “So this chap — the owner of the Buick — had been here before?”

  “Oh, yes. He comes about twice a month, and Julie goes off and spends the night with him. She never said where they stay, but he was generous. He gave her a squirrel coat once.”

  “You never heard his name?”

  “Julie called him Dick. I’ve heard her talk to him on the telephone. You don’t think he’s done her harm, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” James said, controlling his rising excitement. It must be Crane, he thought. The same Christian name and the same make of car. It must be the chap. “Young ladies who have so many gentlemen friends,” he went on gravely, “are asking for trouble and sometimes they get it.”

  Mrs Fowler lost colour. “Well, you’d better do something,” she said, getting up. “You’d better find them.”

  “I’ll find them,” James said, took Grace’s photograph from his pocket. “Ever seen this young woman before?”

  Mrs Fowler shook her head. “Who is she?”

  “Never mind,” James said with a sigh. “When I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

  He left her, made his way down the steep stairs and into the Mews.

  The chauffeur, White, eyed him expectantly, but James ignored him. He walked slowly towards Berkeley Square, deep in thought. There was even more to this business than he had realised. What had happened to Julie Brewer?

  A cruising taxi stopped at his signal.

  “Somerset House,” he said to the driver and sat back, his face grim, his eyes
worried.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Major-General Sir Hugh Franklin-Steward, K.C.B., D.S.O., M.C., Chief Constable of the district, was pottering among his roses when Inspector James was announced.

  Sir Hugh, a tall, white-headed man in his late sixties, sighed regretfully, said he would be along in a moment. Always someone worrying about something, he thought. There seemed very little peace these days. What in the world did this chap want? Must be some private matter: couldn’t be police business. James had no official access to the Chief Constable: he’d have to go through the proper channels.

  Sir Hugh laid down his pruning knife, gave a lingering look at the orderly rows of rose bushes, and ambled towards the vast house that was now too large for him since he had lost three sons in the war and his daughter was soon to be married.

  Inspector James was waiting in the hall. He stood stiffly to attention beneath a fine head of a tiger, shot by Sir Hugh some forty years ago in the Province of Bengal, and seemed ill at ease.

  “Morning, James,” Sir Hugh said, nodding amiably. “Don’t see enough of you these days. I believe this must be your first visit to the house, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” James said, looking as awkward as he felt.

  “It’s a nice old place, but too big for us now, and the taxes are far too high. Ought to think about finding something smaller, but it won’t be easy and I shall miss my roses. Did you see them as you came up the drive?”

  “I did, sir; very fine if I may say so.”

  Sir Hugh beamed. “Well, they aren’t bad,” he returned. “The Sultans of Zanzibar and the Lady Ashtowns should get firsts at the show, although Colonel Harrison seems very confident he’s got something up his sleeve to surprise me. You haven’t seen his roses, have you?”

  James shifted his feet, said he hadn’t.

  Sir Hugh looked at him vaguely, remembered James couldn’t have called to discuss roses, sighed.

  “Mustn’t get on to roses,” he said, taking James’s arm and leading him into his study: a comfortable room, full of books, flowers and shooting trophies. “I’m a bit of a bore when it comes to roses, I’m afraid. Sit down and make yourself at home.” He glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece, saw it was a few minutes after six o’clock. “Wouldn’t be bad to have a little something, would it?” he went on, producing a bottle of whisky from his desk drawer. “I don’t usually take whisky at this hour, but I think the occasion calls for one, don’t you? Your first visit, eh?”