The Doorway to Death

by John Creasey

“Had you ever met Miss Jensen?”

  “No!”

  There was a sharp ring at the telephone which stood on a small table in the corner of the room, after Quist’s last ‘no’. “Sorry,” Roger said, and stepped towards it, acutely conscious of the fact that Quist was watching him intently: “Hallo?”

  “Ibbetson here,” the detective sergeant said. “Quist’s fingerprints weren’t at Rose Jensen’s flat, sir.”

  Roger said: “Pity. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger.

  He rang off and turned round.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Quist was desperately anxious, and in an odd way Roger himself was glad about the negative report. You could try to be as dispassionate as possible, but couldn’t avoid personal prejudice one way or the other; it could get in the way and distort one’s perspective.

  He liked Quist.

  “How long do you think you need to consider this matter, Mr. Quist?”

  “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  “Then we’ll have to ask you to stay for a while,” Roger said. “If you change your mind, tell the constable. I’ll be in the building most of the morning.” He nodded curtly, and as he went out the constable slid into the room, as if to make sure that Quist did no injury to himself. Quist wasn’t in that kind of mood, though; he was a complete puzzle.

  Roger lit a cigarette and stood in the ante-room, drawing slowly on the cigarette. It was twenty minutes to eleven, and he was beginning to think that he had put Jay off unnecessarily. Damn Jay! If Chatworth had been upstairs, Roger would have called him, and almost certainly been told to get the essential jobs done first.

  There was a telephone handy: so he telephoned Miss Foster.

  “No, Mr. West, the Colonel is not here. He is at a conference with the Commissioner, and is not expected back until twelve o’clock. I’ll tell him that you asked to see him.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger heavily.

  His cigarette was half-smoked, and was burning his tongue a little. He walked slowly upstairs. Jay couldn’t have allowed him many minutes’ grace – or else had left that message to teach him, Roger, that he couldn’t be trifled with. What was needed were results; something to justify the delay. Was there any way to get them fast?

  Roger was about to enter his office when he saw Ibbetson. “Anything special for me, sir?”

  “Yes, Ibby; I’d like to get this one over quick. Go to Page Street, and ask Mrs. Kimmeridge if she’ll come here to help us with an identification. Try and get at least one of the other people who saw this cyclist in Page Street the night before last. Then lay on an identification parade – better have that laid on for a quarter to twelve.”

  “Right!” Obviously Ibbetson wanted action, too.

  “Fine,” said Roger. “Where’s Brown?”

  “Checking that Quist does work at Saxby’s, and live at 10 Mayhew Road, trying to get a general line on him.”

  “In the sergeant’s room?”

  “Yes.”

  Roger nodded, passed the C.I.’s door and hurried round the corner. Three or four sergeants, all big men, were in a small room which was crowded with desks. Detective Sergeant Brown, the other man working on this job, was a plumpish, brown-clad man with brown hair spread very thin; his pale skull showed through in places. He was making notes, and stopped immediately when he saw Roger.

  “How’re you doing?” Roger asked.

  “Quist is what he says he is, sir,” Brown said. “One of the accountants at Saxby’s of Piccadilly, training in the secretary’s office for a higher position. They have a very high opinion of him. He’s worked there since he left school, grammar school, at the age of sixteen – that’s eleven years ago. Did his two years’ national service, and they kept the job open for him. Got quite a future, they say.”

  “Who’d you see?”

  “Chap named Gorringe.”

  “Oh, he’s there, is he?” Roger said.

  “Just got back to work after a dose of ’flu,” Brown told him.

  “That squares,” Roger said. “He have anything else to say about Quist?”

  “Seemed to have a pretty high opinion of him.”

  “Hm,” said Roger musingly. “What about Quist’s home?”

  “His parents died several years ago; he’s lived at a small flat in Mayhew Street, Hadworth, for the past six years. A kind of service flat – one of six in a converted house. He has an independent income, too; don’t know how much yet. Careful with his money. Doesn’t drink much; mostly beer when he does. Plays a bit of cricket for Saxby’s, more tennis, golf, rugby. No special girl friend until recently.”

  Roger said sharply: “Any details about her?”

  “No. I had a chap go round to the flat, and a woman who looks after all six apartments lives in the one downstairs. She says Quist’s had his girl friends, but there’s been no funny business. Then about a month ago he started going steady – out most evenings and weekends, sprucing himself up a bit when he does go out.” Brown gave a resigned-looking smile. “All the usual signs.”

  “We want to know more about that girl friend,” urged Roger. “Just who she is and where she lives and where we can get hold of her in a hurry. I want to know if he was with her the night before last.”

  “Right, sir,” Brown said.

  Roger went back to his own office, to find Eddie Day holding up a telephone, and saying in a complaining voice: “Well, I don’t know where ’e is, so—oh, ’old on a minute, ’e’s just come in.” He held the telephone out to Roger. “Grey of ’Adworth,” he said querulously. “Anyone would think the world would come to an end if ’e couldn’t find you.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” Roger said. “Hallo, what’s on your mind out in the suburbs?”

  “Got your fat, elderly chap,” Grey said promptly, and his voice betrayed satisfaction. “One of the customers at the Rose and Crown knows him. Chap named Charles Henry, chief cashier at the Southern National Bank, Hadworth. Goes in every now and again for a nip; a lot of bank officials like to have their liquor where they aren’t likely to bump into their own customers.”

  “Talked to him yet?” asked Roger.

  “No, thought we’d better leave you something to do,” Grey said. “But it looks as if he was in the pub when the Jensen woman was killed.”

  “Check closely, will you?” Roger pleaded. “I’ve got a parade coming up, and then I’ll nip over and see Henry.”

  The telephone bell rang again almost as Roger put the instrument down. He lifted it quickly, and the operator said: “I’ve a message from Sergeant Ibbetson, sir. He says that he is about to leave Page Street with Mrs. Kimmeridge and a Mrs. Evans.”

  “Right, thanks.” Roger nodded.

  At least they could stage the identification parade before twelve, and he would have evidence of quick, decisive work to show Colonel Jay. He would make time to go and see this bank cashier, too.

  A little before a quarter to twelve, eleven men had assembled in the courtyard near the police station at Cannon Row, across the way from New Scotland Yard. They were all young or youngish men, mostly dressed in light grey or in flannels and sports jackets, and most were bare-headed. They had been accosted in the street by soft-voiced detectives and asked to come and help, and were all curious enough to be willing. They stood in a line, a yard or two from the big wall of the police station, a little self-conscious and uncertain of themselves.

  Michael Quist saw them when he entered the yard with the detective named West and another man he hadn’t seen before. West had asked him if he had any objection to co-operating; he had agreed to do whatever was wanted. He realised what was going to happen as soon as he saw the line of men, and it annoyed and exasperated rather than angered him. He had admitted being in Page Street; there was no reason why he should stand in an identification parade to give added ‘proof’. The niceties of the laws of evidence did not occur to him. He didn’t protest, just walked towards the line of men.r />
  “If you’ll stand in the middle,” West said, in his pleasant way. “That’s right; thanks.” He glanced along the line of men. “Thank you for your co-operation, gentlemen; we won’t keep you many minutes.”

  A woman came from the Yard, accompanied by a plainclothes detective. Quist had not seen her before. It was unnerving to stand here, knowing that everyone else realised that he was the suspect – everyone, that was, except this woman.

  She walked along the line, tall, well-built, bosomy.

  Most of the men were not given a second glance. One or two suffered a closer scrutiny, but the only man who really caught the attention of the woman was Michael Quist. She didn’t speak, but went away with the plainclothes man. An older woman came next, and except that she was more nervous, acted in very much the same way.

  When she had gone, West went back to the Yard building, with Quist, and left him in the waiting-room again.

  Quist realised that he might be feeling unduly sensitive, but he fancied that West’s manner was colder and less friendly.

  The little woman from 30 Page Street, nearly opposite Number 31, identified Michael Quist as the cyclist of last evening without hesitation. She said that she couldn’t be sure, but didn’t remember seeing him go into the house. Roger sent her home in a police car, and then talked to Mrs. Kimmeridge. There was a gleam in this woman’s eyes, almost like the light of battle, and she talked even more freely than before.

  “… oh, yes, no doubt at all, that was the man. I knew when I was half-way across the yard, I was that certain. He’s been in the house half-a-dozen times at least. I even felt sorry for him, because even if she is dead, Rose Jensen was a good forty – it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she was forty-five. And he’s not much more than a boy! I pray God nothing like this ever happens to a son of mine.”

  Roger evaded the bait; if he inquired about her family she would take a lot of stopping.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Kimmeridge. And you’d be prepared to swear to this man as a frequent visitor to Miss Jensen, in court if necessary?”

  “There’s no need to be frightened of the truth,” declared Mrs. Kimmeridge downrightly. “The truth will out, that’s what I always say, and as true as I’m sitting here, that young man was with Rose Jensen the night before last for the sixth time at least. I’ll swear it before the Highest Court of all.”

  It did not occur to Roger that she was lying.

  Jay wasn’t yet back.

  Roger went along to see Quist again, and it was obvious that the identification parade had shaken the other man; he was nothing like so sure of himself, and probably more vulnerable than he had been before.

  “Mr. Quist, I think it’s time you told me the simple truth,” Roger said sharply. “I now know you were in Page Street for several minutes on Monday evening, and I have reason to believe you knew Rose Jensen intimately.”

  “I didn’t know her at all,” Quist said doggedly.

  “How well do you know Mr. Charles Henry?” Roger asked without warning.

  That was the question which gave him what he wanted. He could see Quist’s resolve weakening, and did not think it would be long before Quist talked.

  Quist thought gloomily: “There’s no point in keeping quiet any longer.”

  He told the whole truth, quietly and convincingly, and could not complain about the attention which West paid to the story.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Roger said, when it was told. “You held back with all this because you didn’t want to involve Henry or his daughter?”

  “I was only interested in Sybil Henry,” Quist replied.

  “You were withholding important information from us, and that can get you into plenty of trouble,” Roger said, but he didn’t labour the point. “What about this report to Saxby’s?”

  “I put it on Mr. Gorringe’s desk on Monday morning. He was away with ’flu.”

  “Who were the companies concerned and what kind of fraud was involved?”

  “Several companies, including Thomas Cole, the coal-and-oil people, Edgers’, who supply all Saxby’s stationery, Marshall’s …” Quist gave the list readily enough, and Roger made notes. “In some cases cheques had been altered—”

  “Recently?”

  “Within the past few weeks.”

  “What amounts?”

  “Always several hundred pounds.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why did you first suspect Henry?”

  “He’s the man who usually deals with Saxby’s queries, and he seldom misses even a trifle. But he’d passed cheques which even I could see had been altered.”

  “Good point,” Roger nodded.

  “I got to know Sybil so as to check on her father,” Quist went on. “I wish to God I hadn’t, I felt such an utter swine.”

  “Will you swear that you saw Henry go into Number 31 Page Street?” Roger demanded.

  “I don’t know that I want to involve—” Quist began. “This isn’t a time for sentiment,” Roger interrupted. “This man may be a killer, and killers often strike twice. Will you swear to it?”

  Quist gave way.

  “If necessary.”

  “Did you go into the house?”

  “No.”

  “Positive?”

  “Absolutely positive,” Quist said.

  But he had lied, earlier; once a liar often a liar?

  And in any case there was the clear and damning evidence of Mrs. Kimmeridge.

  If this statement of a report to Saxby’s was confirmed, it would make Quist’s story look much better, but it would not necessarily clear him of the murder charge. He might have killed and be ready to switch suspicion on to Henry, no matter how reluctantly, if driven into a corner.

  Roger still liked the man. If it could be proved that Henry had gone into that house—

  One reliable witness to corroborate Quist’s story would throw the case wide open again.

  Roger left Quist, went up to his office and immediately put a call in to Saxby’s. He glanced through some reports, and it was five minutes before the operator called him.

  “Mr. Gorringe is on the line, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Roger said. “Mr. Gorringe—”

  “I was going to get in touch with you at the Yard,” Gorringe interrupted at once. He had a deep, strong voice. “Is it true that you’re holding Mike Quist on some serious charge?”

  “He’s being questioned, sir,” said Roger.

  “What’s he supposed to have done?” asked Gorringe, and then gave a deep laugh. “I can hardly expect an answer to that, I suppose. Can I speak to him?”

  “I’ll gladly give him a message.”

  “All right,” said Gorringe. “Tell him we’ll back him all the way, and our legal department is at his disposal.”

  “I’ll tell him,” promised Roger. “Have you studied the report which Mr. Quist left on your desk?”

  There was a moment’s pause, before Gorringe said as if in surprise: “What report? I haven’t—hold on a minute, though. I’ve been off duty for a day or so. Miss Gill!”—he sounded further away—“have you seen any special report from Mr. Quist? … Eh? … Oh, all right.” He was louder again. “No report’s been here, Superintendent. What’s all this about?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I can,” Roger said quickly.

  Had Quist lied?

  Or had that report been stolen?

  If so, by whom?

  Roger sent a sergeant to talk to Gorringe’s secretary, and find out who had had access to Gorringe’s office and desk. Several members of the company had, it proved, as well as a cashier from the Southern National Bank, at Hadworth, who came on a weekly call to settle queries.

  Charles Henry.

  “Charles Henry, you’re next,” Roger said softly.

  The shopping district of North Hadworth was pleasant, with wide roads, grass verges, trees which gave plenty of shade. The shops were
nearly all in pseudo-Tudor style, and on a corner was the branch of the Southern National Bank where Charles Henry worked. It was unexpectedly large, and a cashier, one of eight behind the counter, said at once: “I’ll see if Mr. Henry’s free, if you’ll wait a minute, sir. The manager is on holiday, and Mr. Henry is deputising for him.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger.

  He had to wait only three minutes; then a message came that Henry would see him. He was ushered into a small but well-furnished room, one likely to inspire confidence in most of the bank’s customers. So was Charles Henry, who looked the part of manager well enough.

  He sat behind a large polished walnut desk. Folded on it was the Financial Times; there were two telephones, an ink-stand and a few oddments, but nothing else. Henry sat there, hardly plump enough to be called fat, rather Buddha-like in his immobility, pale hands folded across his paunch, clean-shaven, with thinning, close-cut hair still almost black, and belied the lines at his face which betrayed his age as over sixty. He had a set smile, and Roger thought that his eyes were veiled, as if he was making sure that he didn’t give anything away.

  “Good morning.” He made a gesture of getting up, and held out his hand. “I understand that you would like to see me on business, Mr. West.”

  “On police business, Mr. Henry. I am Chief Inspector West.” Roger came out with his vital question swiftly: “Do you know a Miss Rose Jensen, sir?”

  Henry didn’t move an inch as he said: “No.”

  It came out almost too flatly: as if he had been waiting to utter the denial. He pursed his lips a little, and breathed rather heavily through his nose.

  “Did you visit a house in Elwell on Mondav night, sir?”

  “I did not.”

  “When you left your own home on Monday evening, where did you go, Mr. Henry?” Roger asked, with studied politeness. Just as he had taken to Quist, so did he dislike what he saw of Henry, and what he judged of Henry’s attitude.

  “To Elwell, for a drink,” Henry said. “I—I have every right to go wherever I wish.”

  “Aren’t there any public-houses nearer your home than Elwell?”

  “I prefer not to be seen drinking in public too near my bank.”

  “What public-house did you visit, sir?”