by John Creasey
“The Rose and Crown.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“I really cannot see what right you have to ask me these questions,” Henry said, “and I am answering them only out of a sense of public duty, because I do not want you to waste your time or the public’s money. I arrived about half-past eight, and left at about twenty-past ten.”
“Were you there all the time?”
“I was.”
Henry spoke as if he knew that the statement could be proved, but there was wariness in his eyes, perhaps even a hint of fear. But he had his emotions under control, and it wouldn’t be easy to break him down. This wasn’t the moment to overdo pressure, and Roger stood up.
“Very well, Mr. Henry. I may have to ask you to repeat your statement formally, later.”
“I have no objection to repeating the truth,” Henry declared, with heavy dignity.
Roger went out. The cashier who had ushered him into the manager’s office was waiting and watching, as if making sure he didn’t miss anything there was to see. The other cashiers stared Roger’s way, too. Roger nodded curtly, almost reached the door to the sunlit street, then turned round on his heel and hurried back to the office.
He opened the door abruptly.
Henry was sitting in exactly the same position, but his eyes were the eyes of a badly frightened man. He had no colour at all.
If his statements could be fully corroborated, what was on his mind?
Had Quist seen him enter Number 31 Page Street? Or was Quist out to damn this man?
Chapter Seven
Arrest
The Assistant Commissioner sat in his big chair behind his big desk, his face quite without expression as he looked at Roger, who had not been invited to sit down. If Jay kept him standing, it would be the worst possible sign; surely the man couldn’t be such a boor.
“Sit down, Chief Inspector,” Jay said at last.
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry that I was delayed this morning. I was interviewing a man in connection with the Jensen murder.”
“Very well. With what results?”
“Satisfactory, I think, sir. The man, by the name of Michael Quist …” Roger didn’t waste words, but was not too formal. Jay had already shown interest in the cyclist, and the case against Quist seemed to grow stronger in the telling, particularly because of Mrs. Kimmeridge’s evidence. But Roger couldn’t get any guide as to Jay’s reaction; it was like looking into the face of a statue. “… and in view of the spontaneous evidence of both women, I think that it would be a mistake to let Quist go, for the time being.”
Jay said: “I see. Have you charged him?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think the evidence is strong enough for a charge?”
“Yes, sir. On Mrs. Kimmeridge’s evidence, he was there after this elderly man arrived, whether that was Henry or not, and didn’t leave again until about half-past nine. The elderly man wasn’t seen to leave by anyone. The medical evidence is that Rose Jensen died at about nine o’clock the night before last. We can safely allow an hour on either side, and say that death took place between eight and ten o’clock. On the present evidence, and in the absence of anything to prove that anyone else went to the flat after Quist, I would hold him. If the elderly man was in fact Henry, the evidence from the barman and customers at the public-house is bogus, but it’s not very probable.”
“It’s conceivable,” Jay said thinly. “Has Quist made a statement?”
“Yes, sir, in great detail.” Roger explained, and told Jay of the missing report.
“I fail to see how that affects the murder issue,” said Jay. “It might concern the motive, of course, but beyond offering Quist a plausible reason for following Henry, it seems to do nothing else. You are giving full attention to the opportunity Quist certainly had, I hope.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Beyond this Mrs. Kimmeridge’s evidence, is there any evidence that Quist went into the house?”
“No, sir. And there’s no sign of his fingerprints inside, but any man who went in with intent to kill might wear gloves, or wipe any prints away, so the defence couldn’t make much of that. I’d like to establish Quist’s association with the woman, if possible, as that’s a key point, but I think it could be done after we’ve held Quist. Holding him would be quite justified.”
“Although he had weighty legal aid at his disposal?”
“If I didn’t think there was a good prima facie case against Quist I wouldn’t recommend holding him, sir. It’s not strong enough for the Public Prosecutor’s office yet, but no legal obstacle to a charge exists.”
“Very well. Charge Quist at whatever you consider the appropriate time. I would like a written summary of your reasons for making a charge, and of Quist’s reaction when charged.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Thank you,” Jay said. “And check the bank cashier, Henry.”
Was he just a cold fish?
Or was this a case of personal antipathy?
One of the big troubles was that Jay upset Roger’s balance and sense of humour. That was restored a little when he reached the lift, and heard Ibbetson, on the landing below, saying exasperatedly: “Where the hell is he? I get the juiciest bit of news for a week, and what does he do? Run out on me. He—”
“You talk too much, Ibby,” another man said.
The lift came up, with three sergeants in it. Ibbetson saw Roger, and flushed as red as a rose of Lancaster.
As Roger reached his desk he sat on a corner and asked: “What’s so juicy, Ibby?”
“Remember those cardboard tubes and boxes at Rose’s place, where she kept her wools and tapestry oddments. All marked ‘supplied by Pegg and Company’?” Ibbetson said.
“Yes.”
“I checked them, and found she got ’em direct from Pegg’s. I shopped around a bit, and a girl at the store where she got her wools says she told her that she got these tubes and cartons from Pegg’s free, because Pegg was her cousin. I called the firm, and the chap Pegg admitted it. He says Rose changed her name, so he didn’t recognise Jensen, and his paper didn’t carry a photo. He’s coming to see you this afternoon; I laid it on. Hope that was all right.”
“Yes.” Everything was falling like manna from heaven. “How did Quist crop up?”
“Oh, Pegg didn’t name Quist, just said that there had been a boy friend who was giving trouble, a jealous one or something. He’s a bit vague, and says he didn’t know Rose very well. I asked him if he knew this boy friend, and he said he’d met him a couple of times, once at Rose’s flat and once at the Angel, in Chelsea. In between those occasions, Rose told him she was having trouble. The boy friend’s name was Mike – Pegg didn’t know the surname – and she meant to break with him as soon as she could. Asked for a description, Pegg described Quist to a T. Which reminds me, sir, we ought to get some photographs of Quist.”
“And Henry. We’ll get ’em done at once,” promised Roger. “How’s your shorthand?”
“It’ll stand up.”
“I want to go down and see Quist now,” said Roger. “The A.C. says it’s all right to charge him.” He turned towards the door with Ibbetson on his heels, and then saw the door open and plump Brown came in, showing more animation than usual; he had even forgotten to tap.
He pulled up short.
“What have you got?” Roger demanded.
“Quist’s girl friend,” replied Brown with deep satisfaction. “Picked it up at the second go; never known a job run so smoothly! Name of Henry, daughter of a bank cashier; lives at North Hadworth when she’s at home. She has a job as a travelling beauty specialist, goes round to exclusive shops and stores demonstrating Creem Beauty Preparations. She met Quist at the Hadworth Tennis Club; he joined a few weeks ago.”
So Quist had told some of the truth.
“Where’s Sybil Henry now?” Roger asked.
“At her home this week, on holiday. Her father’s got a nice house, small car, eve
rything just about as you’d expect, Suburban idyll,” Brown went on smugly.
“Could be,” Roger agreed. “I want Henry watched, anyhow.” He told Brown what he knew, and then went on: “Did you see that barman at the Rose and Crown?”
“Yes, sir. He’s quite definite that Henry was there from eight-thirty or so till closing time. I’ve seen two customers, and although they’re not so definite, they saw Henry there most of the evening after they arrived, about eight o’clock.”
“And we know she wasn’t dead at eight,” Roger mused. “I’ll go and charge Quist. If he knows anything else to help him, he’ll talk all right. Brown, nip along to my desk, and take one copy of the names and addresses of four firms you’ll find there along to Superintendent Carling of the Fraud Squad, and ask him for a detailed report on all the firms. We want it down quickly.”
“Right, sir!” Brown was glad to be on the move again.
Roger went downstairs, and let the door close on the policeman who had been with Quist. Quist had been here for nearly four hours, and undoubtedly it was getting on his nerves; that wasn’t surprising. He looked more touchy, and as if he could easily lose his temper. He was wary, too, when he saw Ibbetson. The sergeant went to the telephone table, sat down, and took out his notebook.
“Now, Mr. Quist,” Roger said, in a tone as dispassionate as ever, “I’ll be glad if you’ll tell us again everything you can about your reasons for going to Page Street, what you did there, and where you went afterwards. Take your own time.”
Quist said, in quick, abrupt tones: “I have decided not to make any further statement until I’ve been able to talk to a solicitor. I hope there’s no objection to that.”
“None at all,” said Roger smoothly. “You are fully entitled to legal aid. In fact Mr. Gorringe has put the Saxby Company’s legal advisers at your disposal. But I want to advise you that it will be in your best interests to state categorically your reasons for going to Page Street, and to state where you went afterwards. There is no question of compulsion; I’m simply expressing my own opinion.”
At mention of Gorringe, Quist’s eyes had lit up; now he was smiling, although he said: “I’ll see my solicitor first, please.”
“Very well, Mr. Quist, it will be arranged. Meanwhile, it is my duty to charge you with the murder of a woman named Rose Jensen at her flat at 31 Page Street, Elwell, on the evening of Monday August 9th of this year, and it is my further duty to advise you that anything you say may be written down and used as evidence at your trial.”
Ibbetson opened his notebook.
Quist had gone very pale.
“I know nothing about the murder,” he said. “You are quite wrong.”
“Very well, Mr. Quist; that will be noted. How long had you known Rose Jensen?”
“I tell you that I didn’t know her. I saw her last night for a minute or two in a window, that’s all.”
“Was she by herself?”
“I’ve said all I intend to say until I have legal advice,” Quist said flatly.
“Very well,” said Roger. “Do you want us to inform anyone where you are?”
“No.”
“Not even Miss Sybil Henry?”
Quist lost what little colour he had left, and clenched both his hands.
“That got under his guard,” Ibbetson said with deep satisfaction. “He’s damned touchy where this Sybil Henry is concerned.” They were walking along the passages away from the waiting-room, where the constable and two plainclothes detectives were now with Quist, who would be charged before a special afternoon hearing at the magistrate’s court. “Brown says she’s quite something to look at. He’s getting some photographs – she has a lot taken; they’re displayed in shop windows before she gives a demonstration. Small, fragile, very sweet type, I gather, almost platinum blonde.”
Roger wasn’t thinking about Sybil Henry.
The shock of arrest had stiffened rather than weakened Quist’s resolve; he wouldn’t talk about Henry now, at least until he’d been advised. Roger looked at the facts, without bias. Henry had some sort of an alibi, where Quist had none at all.
But Roger didn’t like the situation. There were too many undercurrents he didn’t understand.
When he reached the G.I.’s desk, by himself, Roger found several memos on it, as well as a little pile of photographs. He sat down. Only Eddie Day was there, deeply preoccupied, and working with the tip of his tongue pressed against those protruding teeth. Ibbetson was transcribing the report of what Quist had said, before arranging for Quist to be photographed. Quist’s clothes had already been searched, but nothing in them helped.
Roger picked up one of the photographs, of a girl who looked really charming. There was freshness about her, a hint of a provocative smile. Here was a kind of dream-girl; mother’s dream, father’s dream, young man’s dream. Sybil Henry. He reminded himself that she would look and feel very different when she heard about Quist. That was, if she was as much in love with Quist as reports seemed to make out. And if her father was deeply involved, too—
Roger put down the photographs, all stamped Creem Beauty Preparations on the back, and looked through the others – of Rose Jensen, Quist and Charles Henry. He went through some reports, including carefully prepared notes on Quist’s background, too. Brown and Ibbetson between them were really doing a job.
Then Roger came upon the statement from the man named Theophilus Pegg.
Pegg was Rose Jensen’s second cousin, he said. His wholesale business was to do with cartons, all manner of cardboard boxes and cardboard packing, such as tubes. It had been established for twelve years, he had a sound reputation, his statement was quoted briefly and there was a note pinned to the report: “Mr. Theophilus Pegg will be calling at 3.30 p.m. today.”
“Just send me one more good witness, and it can’t go wrong,” Roger mused. “Queer, though. If we could get hold of the altered cheques, or examine Cole’s accounts and see if a large payment was credited at the relevant time, we’d get somewhere. Would Quist have talked of the altered cheques if he didn’t think he could prove it? Would he have made up a story about a report to Gorringe?”
If Henry had taken the report away, it would be destroyed by now.
Roger stood up abruptly. “Well, a man must eat!” He lifted the telephone, told the operator he would be at the pub in Gannon Row, picked up his hat and jammed it on the back of his head, and went out. Few people were about. The usual sergeant and constable in the hall, the usual men at the foot of the steps, the others at the gate. Everything was quite normal.
The big dining-room of the pub was crowded, mostly with Yard men, but there were one or two journalists and a few local businessmen. Through a haze of smoke and the appetising smell of cooking, there was the sight of a dozen or so men tucking into their lunch, and more standing around the bar. Roger went to a long table where half-a-dozen others were sitting, including Superintendent Cortland, who he imagined would be one of the first to take advantage of the change of atmosphere at the Yard; for Cortland, the senior superintendent, had the ear of the A.C. Any gossip from him was worth thinking about.
“Hallo, Corty.”
“Hallo, Handsome,” Cortland said; that was friendly enough. “Having a cakewalk, aren’t you?”
“Could be.”
The others at the table were laughing at some joke, and for a moment Cortland and Roger were not overheard. Cortland leaned forward, and said in a low-pitched voice: “Don’t stand Jay up again; he didn’t like it this morning.”
Roger felt himself close up.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Never knew how good Chatworth was until he’d gone,” Cortland went on. “This chap will probably turn out all right, mind you. Bit of a red-tape-and-regulations type, that’s the trouble; Chatworth was a bit careless in some ways. Okay.” He leaned back as the others finished their huddle, and one called out to Roger; all that was quite normal, but Roger’s feeling wasn’t.
A waitress came up,
absurdly small, with a black dress and a tiny white apron which seemed designed to emphasise her little pointed bosom. She had snappy blue eyes and far too much lipstick.
“Decided what you want yet, dear?”
“Is there steak pudding?”
“Always got what you want on, dear. Two veg?”
“Please.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Half of bitter,” Roger said.
“Okay, dear.” The waitress went tapping off on absurdly high heels.
“What’s the matter with you, Handsome?” one of the others said: “lost your thirst?”
Another quipped: “Chatworth must have taken it away with him.”
It wasn’t meant, but the attitude was apparent everywhere. The one essential thing was a swift success with this inquiry; at least that would give him an even chance with Jay, who could hardly ignore results. But there were complications he didn’t begin to understand.
Roger was back at his desk at a quarter to three, and had hardly sat down before the telephone bell rang. He smoothed his hair and hesitated before picking up the receiver, then lifted it abruptly.
“West speaking.”
“Ibbetson here,” came the north-country voice with its unmistakable note of jubilation. “Glad you’re back, sir; we’ve got the final nail for Quist’s coffin.”
Roger said slowly: “What is it?” He wanted it, and yet wasn’t elated as he should be.
“We’ve found a kid who was in Page Street about nine o’clock on Monday. He says the chap on the bike went in to Number 31 soon afterwards. The kid’s only sixteen, but he says he was hanging around hoping to see a girl.” Ibbetson was elated enough. “He says it was the bike which interested him, and that’s kid-like.”
This was a six-inch nail.
“I’ll see the boy after I’ve seen Pegg,” Roger said. “It couldn’t be better. I’m going over to the court now. You ready to leave?”
“Yes. Won’t be long, will it?”
“Five minutes at the most; just formal evidence, that’s all. If Saxby’s are awake, their lawyer might ask for a remand, but it’ll only be a formality. I’ll see you downstairs, and we’ll use my car.”
