by John Creasey
In court he gave evidence of arrest, and applied for a remand in custody. Quist stood rigidly to attention in the dock during the brief hearing. When asked if he had anything to say, he said quite clearly: “I am not guilty, sir,” and that was all. A youngish solicitor whom Roger recognised only vaguely made a formal “not guilty” plea. The magistrate remanded Quist in custody for eight days. Quist was about to leave the dock when something at the back of the court attracted his attention; he raised his hands as if in dismay, closed his eyes for a moment, and then stared at someone who had just come in.
Roger turned quickly, to see.
This was Sybil Henry, as fresh and charming as her pictures made out, yet looking lost and even bewildered. The youngish man joined her.
Quist was led out of court.
The girl said: “Where is he?” in a clear voice, as the few people in the public seats drifted out, and clearly she didn’t mean Quist. She saw Roger. “Isn’t that him?” She came hurrying, with the young solicitor behind her, clutching at her shoulder as if in protest. “Aren’t you Chief Inspector West?”
“That’s right,” said Roger. “Can I help you?”
“Miss Henry,” the youngish man interrupted, “if you say a word before consulting us, you may prejudice all Mr. Quist’s chances of establishing his innocence. Please be advised by me.”
Chapter Eight
Nails
The man was quite right.
If the girl knew anything which could help Quist, it would be best kept away from the police until the lawyers decided when to use her evidence. But if she could be made to talk, what she said might be used as another nail. Roger’s job was to use every item of proof he could get.
“You’ll never do any harm by telling the truth, Miss Henry,” he said. “If you have any statement to make, I’ll be glad to hear it.”
“Miss Henry, I must insist—”
He might be a good solicitor, but the youngish man didn’t know how to handle spirited young women. The glint in this girl’s clear blue eyes told Roger that, and the other must have realised that he hadn’t done very well. His lips were set tight in annoyance.
“How can you help?” Roger asked, in his most pleasant way. “We have only one purpose in mind, Miss Henry: to establish the truth. If Mr. Quist didn’t—”
“He didn’t!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.”
“Were you with him all Monday evening?”
“Nearly—nearly all; he—”
Roger saw an elderly man saunter up, and was wary. He knew this man Samuelson, whose knowledge of the law was as detailed as that of any solicitor’s, although he had no qualifications. He had been known to hover behind the scenes of many a big-case defence, his task to bend the law wherever it would bend. He had silvery hair, a charming smile and a pleasing voice. He also had the ear of many people of importance, and was reputed to be adviser on many financial matters to large business houses.
“Good afternoon, Chief Inspector. So we meet again.” He sounded as if he was delighted. “In trying circumstances for Mr. Quist, of course, but I don’t think we need worry about that too much. I’m holding a watching brief for Saxby’s, by the way. But how are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” Roger said. “Miss Henry—”
“If Miss Henry wants to say anything to help Mr. Quist, I hope she won’t hesitate,” said Samuelson, and his smile became even more charming. “True, in a lifetime of such work I’ve learned that it’s wise to be carefully instructed in what one says to the police; the law can be used in such a variety of ways which the police know well – don’t you, Chief Inspector? – and the layman knows very little. But if you’re really anxious to make a statement now, Miss Henry, I’m sure the Chief Inspector would find time. I’d rather you made an appointment for later in the day, but—” He left the sentence in the air.
The young solicitor mopped his forehead.
“I—I would like to say something,” the girl said in a low- pitched voice, “but perhaps it would—it would keep. Can you see me at once, Mr. Samuelson?”
So she knew him.
“I can, and I know the Chief Inspector will fit in an appointment to suit you at any time.”
“Whenever you like,” Roger promised, and his expression hid his disappointment. “Don’t make it too late, will you?” He nodded, turned away, and went out of the court.
Samuelson could get away with murder.
Odd thought.
Quist was already on his way to Cannon Row, and would stay there for the rest of the day, then be taken to Brixton. Roger had Theophilus Pegg to see, then the schoolboy, Clive Harrison. When both statements were signed and added to Mrs. Kimmeridge’s, the defence would need an earthquake to shake the case, Samuelson or no Samuelson.
Roger didn’t like Theophilus Pegg.
He didn’t like rather fat, short, bouncy little men who drank too much, if their complexion and veinous nose were an indication, who talked too much, and who were anxious to make it apparent that they knew everything better than anyone else. But Pegg’s statement was lucid, and he didn’t seem to be a man who would be easily shaken. Questioned about his second cousin’s statement that the friend ‘Mike’ had been jealous, he wouldn’t shift. That’s what she had told him, and that’s what he would say in court if he were wanted as a witness. He hoped that if he was, he wouldn’t have to waste a lot of time at the Old Bailey; he was a busy man, expanding business, couldn’t get sufficient help, wanted every minute he could get for work. In future, for instance, would it be possible for the police to visit him, instead of his visiting the police?
“If we have cause for another interview, certainly,” Roger said briskly. “Do you know Mrs. Kimmeridge, Mr. Pegg?”
“Met her. Downstairs flat at Page Street.”
“That’s right. Was your cousin on good terms with her?”
“Couldn’t say,” replied Pegg. “Kept herself to herself, Rose did. Neighbours pry. She didn’t like prying. Can’t see how it affects the issue. Fact is, my cousin was cruelly murdered.” He made it sound like ‘crooly’. “Want to find the swine.”
“Would you recognise him again?”
“Said so four times this morning.”
“We have to be doubly sure of these things, particularly on serious cases,” Roger said, and pushed a dozen photographs, placed one on top of the other, towards the bouncy man. “Would you mind telling me if you have seen any of those people before?”
Pegg nodded, turned over photograph after photograph without giving them a second glance, and then came to Quist’s, which was near the bottom. He stopped immediately, took the photograph between his flat thumb and flatter forefinger, and flicked it on to the desk.
“That’s him. That’s the man she called Mike. Saw him at her flat; called to get a document signed, didn’t know she had company. Next time, at the Angel, Chelsea. You know it?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Roger said.
The Angel was a big and popular pub, and it wouldn’t be easy to get corroborative evidence, but it would have to be tried. Roger made a note to tell Ibbetson to go there himself, or to send a really good man, and quickly got rid of Mr. Theophilus Bouncy Pegg. He gave himself five minutes to check over what the man had said and to make notes, and then sent for the sixteen-year-old schoolboy who had seen Quist – or seen a man answering Quist’s description – come out of the house in Page Street.
Oddly, Roger didn’t really take to Clive Harrison, either.
The boy was polite. He stood almost to attention, saying he would rather stand than sit. He held his cap firmly in his hand, and he met Roger’s eye, and yet – if this was a friend of his two sons, Roger would be a little wary of him, and want to know more before he encouraged the friendship.
But the boy repeated what he had told Ibbetson almost word for word, and picked out Quist’s photograph almost as quickly as Theophiius Pegg had.
“So we’ve got Quist nai
led in,” Cortland said, about six o’clock that evening.
“Looks like it,” Roger agreed. “What would you advise – that I just hand in my written report to the Assistant Commissioner, or present it in person?”
“Hand it to Miss Foster,” advised Cortland. “Don’t give him any excuse to say you’re being too forceful. Didn’t know him at all before he came here, did you?” Cortland was a big, powerful, shaggy and dark-haired man, with a perpetual frown.
“No.”
“Not done anything to rub him up the wrong way?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Funny thing; he seems to have made a dead set at you,” said Cortland. “Keep this to yourself, but he sent for your file this afternoon, wanted all details of the cases you’ve worked on, record of success and failure – all that kind of thing. He hasn’t done that with anyone else.”
Roger made himself grin.
“Why pick on me?”
Cortland was a humourless man, and except where his work was concerned, as tactless as an angry bull.
“Looked round for someone to make an example of, I suppose, and you seemed right. It’s like being back in the ruddy army.”
Roger ejaculated: “Back?”
Cortland grinned. “Did my seven years before I joined the Force, didn’t you know? Sergeant-major before I finished. Ruddy terror, I was. I know all about coves like Colonel Uppity Jay; never satisfied until they’ve shown how strong they are, and let you know who’s boss. What did we have to have one of them for?”
“Perhaps we were getting slack.”
“Got you wondering about that, too, has he?” asked Cortland, and relaxed and patted the papers in front of him. “Forget it, Handsome. When’s he got this one on a plate he’ll look round for someone else. Perfect job, this is, and you haven’t lost a second. How’s he to know it’s a typical West job? Could be a flash, in the pan, but it’s a pretty bright flash. Okay, Handsome, your luck’s in as usual!”
Roger took the written report along to the A.C.’s office. He caught Miss Foster preening herself in front of a mirror, and that didn’t please her. He was formal, she was almost curt. There had been a time when he had been absolutely at home in this room; now it was like foreign territory.
“Good night, Miss Foster.”
“Good night.”
Little bitch.
He wondered if she used Creem, grinned wryly, and went back to his office. Eddie Day was still there, but everyone else had gone home. A dozen memos were on Roger’s desk, mostly to do with cases which he had handed over earlier in the day. Ibbetson had left a note to say that he wasn’t going to the Chelsea pub himself, as he was known there; he was sending a detective officer who lived at Hampstead and had just come from the Division. He would be armed with photographs of Quist and Rose Jensen.
There was also another report on Rose Jensen, although, it didn’t say much. There was no particular reason why it should, but Roger wanted a clear picture. She might have been a married woman separated from her husband, thus explaining the wedding-ring callouses. She might have been divorced. She might have been widowed. She had come out of nowhere and taken this flat, and from then on had kept open house, as it were, for the men friends.
That couldn’t have been too ostentatious, or more neighbours would have protested.
It was after seven before Roger cleared the desk. There was no word from the solicitor or Samuelson, and it wasn’t likely that Sybil Henry was coming now. Samuelson had quietened her most effectively. Was that good or bad? Roger pondered as he left the Yard and walked briskly across to Cannon Row police station, where the constable on duty greeted him heartily; so did the C.I. in charge.
“Come for a word with Quist, Handsome?”
“Yes. How is he?”
“Taking it pretty hard.”
“Solicitor been to see him?”
“Spent an hour and a half. Mr. Greenways.”
“Right, thanks,” said Roger, and went along to the cells. He walked briskly, with a sergeant behind him, and there was no doubt that Quist knew that he was there; but Quist was sitting sideways to the cell door, which was of iron bars, and didn’t trouble to look round. He was reading an evening newspaper in a ‘cell’ as comfortable as many a bedsitter.
“They’ll be over from Brixton at eight o’clock,” the sergeant said.
“Good; thanks.” Roger hesitated, not certain whether to speak to the accused man, who was so deliberately avoiding him, or whether to let Quist remain sullen.
“Quist.”
Quist put the newspaper down slowly and looked round. He didn’t speak. He hadn’t much colour, and his shiny, red-rimmed eyes suggested that he had a severe headache. But there was a natural courtesy in the man, and now that the ice was broken he stood up slowly.
“Good evening.”
“Got everything you need?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“You’ll be transferred to Brixton in an hour’s time, but you’ll find things pretty much the same there as they are here. I’ll be ready to come and see you if you want to make a statement at any time.”
“I’ve nothing more to say,” Quist said, “except that I didn’t know this woman Jensen and I didn’t go into the house.”
Why should Mrs. Kimmeridge lie?
Why should Theophilus Pegg lie?
Above all, why should a schoolboy lie?
One witness could be doubted, but three – it wasn’t sensible to doubt them. Quist must be lying. Undoubtedly the solicitor, advised by Samuelson, had told him not to make any statement, except to keep reiterating his innocence, keep maintaining his lie. It was almost certain that Samuelson would use private inquiry agents, and probably it wouldn’t be long before he discovered the names of one or more of the witnesses.
Why had Saxby’s used Samuelson?
Roger put in a call to the chief of the Fraud Squad, whose deputy answered.
“No, nothing known against Cole’s or any of the other firms you named,” the deputy said. “They’re all small businesses, run privately, not limited liability – and we’re checking on the proprietors. But you know as well as I do that the name on the note-paper is often a stooge. It’ll take us a day or two to find. We could work quicker if we could get our hands on those altered cheques.”
“According to Quist, he enclosed them with a report that’s now missing,” Roger said.
“That keeps us from making a direct approach unless Saxby’s make a formal complaint,” the deputy declared. “I’ll tell you what, though; Saxby’s won’t miss anything.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“They’ve been using Samuelson for some time,” the Fraud Squad man said. “He did one or two probes of this kind for big firms being defrauded. He’s handy if a thing is to be hushed up.”
“Ah,” said Roger. “Thanks.”
Roger saw the little grey Austin standing outside his house in Bell Street, Chelsea, when he reached home at a quarter to eight. He knew no one who owned a car like it. Few people were about, the neighbours would be in their back gardens or at their television sets. The antennae of dozens of sets were angled darkly against the pale blue of the evening sky. It was cooler than it had been for several days. Roger pulled into the drive-way, but didn’t garage the car. He heard nothing as he approached the front door, and was a little puzzled. Usually one or the other of his sons was on the lookout for him, and he had telephoned his wife to say that he was leaving for home.
He caught a glimpse of slim, crossed ankles in the front, best, room; ankles he didn’t recognise. Visitors? He let himself in with the key, and was startled to see his elder son, Martin – called Scoopy – standing just outside the front-room door, and peering into the room. Martin could see in but not be seen. He flushed bright red when he saw Roger, and stood as if caught out in some crime. He was very tall for his fourteen years, already five feet nine, and was broad and strong in comparison. He had a wide face, with even, attractive feature
s.
“Hal—hallo, Dad,” he whispered.
Roger didn’t catch on.
“Hallo, Scoop,” he said. “Who’s there?”
The boy shook his head vigorously, and it was then that Roger understood. The visitor was quite something to look at, and at fourteen, Scoopy—
Roger moved swiftly, finger to his lips. Scoopy gave a half-hearted smile. Roger peered through a crack in the door, and then turned his head and nodded. That took a lot of doing, he was so startled by what he saw; but this wasn’t a time to make the boy feel foolish.
“Nice, isn’t she?” he whispered.
Scoopy nodded.
“Who?”
“She’s a Miss Henry, or something. I heard her tell Mum. Mum had to go across to Mrs. Hallam’s; something’s up, and Richard’s out with a crowd of the chaps. I—I’m doing homework.”
Roger grinned, now.
Scoopy chuckled.
“All right,” Roger said, still whispering. “Why don’t you tap at the door when I’ve gone past, go in and keep her company until I come? Say I won’t be a minute.”
Scoopy’s eyes brightened. “May I?”
“She won’t bite!”
“I know that.”
Roger went on to the living-room and the kitchen. He could do with a drink, but decided not to have one yet. He sluiced his face in stinging cold water, ran a comb through his hair and then went into the front room, where Scoopy was talking with surprising freedom.
“Well, you see, there’s only a year’s difference between my brother and me, hardly a year really, but I seem to grow in every way, and he’s about average, so I look much older. That photograph gives you a good idea; it was only taken last year. And that’s my mother, and that’s my father; he’s a very well known officer at Scotland Yard.”
“Yes, I know,” said Sybil Henry, and Roger gave her full marks for composure. “I’ve come to see him about a friend of mine who’s suspected of a crime. Do you think he’ll be willing to help if he can?”
“And I can tell you one thing,” Scoopy said with the earnestness of his age, “if your friend didn’t do it, he’s quite safe with my father. The last thing he’d ever want is to find an innocent man guilty. That’s certain.”
