by John Creasey
‘What steps had been taken when you arrived?’ asked Roger.
‘Virtually none, sir.’
‘Isn’t Sandell cooperating?’
‘I think he is now,’ answered Watts, and then added with an obvious effort to be fair: ‘I don’t mean to imply he’s not cooperated, simply that at first he didn’t treat the matter as urgent. When he did realise what could happen, he moved like lightning. Had his twenty-man force on the move in a matter of minutes, but this thing had obviously been carefully planned.’
‘Tell me,’ Roger ordered. ‘From the beginning, I mean—I want to see the whole picture.’
As people moved about, talking in muted voices, waiting helplessly, Watts told Roger the whole story. Once a door opened and a young, attractive girl wearing a Victorian dress with a bustle and furbelows, her hair elaborately set, came in. Two or three foppish-looking, over-elegant men followed her.
‘Where is he?’ the girl asked. ‘I must see him.’
Someone said: ‘I’ll see the matron, Tina.’
Watts was watching the newcomers, and saying: ‘… there were so many extras and technicians about I just couldn’t get through. I don’t think I was deliberately obstructed, just that the assailant knew exactly what he was doing. He appears to have driven in one of the studio wagons to the wall, and climbed over. A car was waiting for him on the other side.’
‘What’s the evidence?’ asked Roger.
‘He was seen running away. A wagon was found by the wall. And there are scratch marks on the wall. One of the Allsafe men learned this and telephoned a report. I was told just before you arrived.’
‘Anyone see the car outside the wall?’
‘The Divisional chaps are making inquiries and some of them have gone round to check for marks on the other side of the wall, tyre tracks, anything that may help.’
‘Is there a written description of him yet, for sending round on general call?’
‘No.’
‘Do it at once, will you,’ Roger said, and turned to Pell. ‘As soon as Mr Watts has finished the description, you get back to Division and have them send it out on the teletype. Then go back to the Yard and wait for instructions.’
As Pell went off, a youthful man wearing a startlingly white smock coat, a sleak, well brushed, easy moving man, approached the young actress, both hands held out.
‘How is he?’ the girl cried.
Everyone in the waiting hall watched; there wasn’t a sound. Roger was both struck by the girl’s beauty and by the fact that her pose, the way she spoke, even her entry, had all been considered, as if she were acting a part. So was the way she held on to the young doctor’s hands.
‘He’ll be all right,’ the doctor said drily.
‘You swear that?’ Tina demanded in an anguished voice.
‘He will be all right,’ the other insisted. ‘But it may be weeks before he can work again.’
‘Oh, no!’ Tina cried. ‘No!’
‘We’ll know more when he’s been X-rayed and the specialists have seen him,’ the doctor tried to reassure her.
‘But he must be terribly ill—terribly! He must be at death’s door. I want to see him! Eric! I must see him.’
‘If you shout like this you’ll have to be thrown out,’ said Eric, sharply. ‘Now calm down. I’ll see if they’ll let you see him—’
‘They must let me!’
‘You must quieten down,’ said Eric. ‘One more shout and I will forbid you to get near him.’
That silenced her.
No one else seemed to take any particular notice, as Tina waited in apparent distress. Watts had already gone off. As the man Eric turned to go back into the room, Roger moved forward. The man was quick to hold the door handle and block his path. Roger flicked a card from his pocket, the man glanced down, paused only for a moment, and then said: ‘You’d better come in.’ Beyond a small anteroom was an open door. He turned to Roger. ‘I’m afraid you can’t see Greatorex, Superintendent.’
‘Is it your decision to make?’ asked Roger.
‘I am the doctor in charge, yes. My name is Anderson.’
‘You can allow a young woman, presumably not related, to see him, yet refuse the police,’ said Roger.
The doctor raised his eyebrows, said: ‘It depends what you mean by—’ checked himself, and went on: ‘They are acting together in this film.’
‘How is he?’ demanded Roger.
‘I think he’ll be all right. He’s under sedation now. You can see him, if that’s all you mean, but you can’t talk to him’
Roger said: ‘I’d like to see him, please.’
He followed Dr Anderson through the open door. Two nurses and an older man, presumably also a doctor, were in the room, standing near the couch which looked rather like an operating table. There Raymond Greatorex lay, with a sheet loosely covering him, his head heavily bandaged. His face, though ashen grey, was still strikingly good looking.
‘Did he say anything at all?’ asked Roger, not expecting any helpful reply.
‘Yes,’ answered Dr Anderson without hesitation. ‘He said: “the bloody Donovans”. Just that. Then he lost consciousness.’ He glanced at the nurses and the other man. ‘You heard that, didn’t you?’
One woman nodded, the man and the other woman echoed: ‘Yes.’
‘Not another word?’ asked Roger. ‘Just “the bloody Donovans”?’
‘Not another word,’ Anderson asserted.
‘Thanks,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’
When he reached the lobby, the girl Tina was almost directly in front of him. Full face, she was quite remarkably beautiful. On the instant Roger recognised her as Tina Hamilton, recently a sensational success in a very ‘frank’ play, Two Lovers. There was imperiousness in her manner as she stared at Roger.
He went outside, one phrase echoing and re-echoing through his head. ‘The bloody Donovans’. Watts was sitting in a car, paper and pencil in his hands. He handed Roger two copies of a sketch, with a written description. The sketch was of a man with a broad face, a broken nose, and thick, wavy hair. The description covered this, and added:
Hair – fair to gingery
Complexion – ruddy
Height – about 5’ 10”
Build – powerful. Very broad shoulders
Dress – coat, muffler, cloth cap
(Stage-set clothes. Could easily be removed)
‘That’s as near as 1 can get, sir,’ Watts stated. ‘It’s not a perfect likeness but I think he’d be recognised by it. I’d certainly recognise him if I saw him again.’
‘Forgotten you were good at this,’ Roger said. ‘That answers the description given of the man who was at Berne Court this morning, and could have drugged Mary Ellen.’
‘You mean she—’
‘I forgot, you didn’t know,’ Roger said, handing Watts one of the pictures as he told him enough to keep him up to date. ‘I’d like you to get back, have some more copies of this made, and take one to the Irish cook at 5c Berne Court. If she identifies the man we’re a step forward.’
‘I’ll go right away.’
‘Take my car,’ Roger said. ‘I’ll borrow one or get a lift back.’
Watts nodded, and went off obviously pleased with the result of his sketching. Roger, still echoing ‘the bloody Donovans’, and walking towards an Allsafe man who was vaguely familiar, looked thoughtful.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Do you know if Mr Sandell is in his office?’
Won’t take a moment to find out, sir, if you’ll come this way.’ They set out, briskly. ‘Did you hear about the assailant?’
‘What about him?’
‘They found his stage clothes at the foot of the wall, also some tyre marks in the mud on the road. Got clear away, no doubt about that.’
‘Looks like it,’ Roger grunted.
They turned a corner. The man shaded his eyes against the bright, slanting sunlight.
‘His car’
s there, sir.’
‘Good,’ Roger said, and two minutes later he was shaking hands with Sandell.
He needed no telling that the Allsafe man was very much on edge, very much on the defensive, and, probably as a result, he looked and sounded aggressive. On a side table was a heavy, old fashioned reefer coat, a cap and a red, white and black scarf. This was close to a photograph of tyre marks.
Roger went closer.
‘The getaway car?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘That was quick.’
Sandell looked up at him – almost glared at him – for a long time. Then he said explosively: ‘You needn’t temper the wind. I know bloody well that if I’d been on the ball when Watts told me what you thought, this would probably never have happened. If I’d still been at the Yard, I’d have seen the danger in that riot scene the moment Watts told me, and I’d have had every extra, every stranger questioned and checked. This bloody job atrophies a man, take it from me. It turns your mind into a block of granite. Don’t ever let it happen to you, Handsome. You’d hate yourself.’
Roger was so taken aback that for a few seconds he didn’t speak. Then he said with a laugh in his voice: ‘If I reacted like you have, I wouldn’t have much cause to hate myself.’
Sandell gave a savage grin.
‘Still the diplomat,’ he said. ‘And the charmer. What’s going on, Handsome? Do you know?’
‘Not yet, by a long way. But it’s obviously something which affects both Danny O’Hara and Raymond Greatorex. Were they close friends?’
‘They came near to hating each other,’ said Sandell, positively. ‘Had to make sure they had equal studio facilities, same quality dressing rooms, the best make up artists. They—’ Sandell shrugged. ‘Oh, what the hell! They’re both big stars, they worked like the devil. Until I arrived here I’d no idea how hard these television and film people work. And the way they work, doing and saying the same thing over and over again at rehearsals, it’s not surprising they have an emotional overflow. It would drive me crazy.’
‘Same women?’ asked Roger.
‘Same what? I—oh, I see. No. No, I wouldn’t say so. Do you mean have they ever quarrelled over a woman? I’ve never heard that they have, and most of these affaires get through to me. Danny O’Hara wasn’t much of a ladies’ man. Greatorex is, but he’s a past master and never seems to have any trouble shaking them off when he wants to.’
‘Can you suggest anything they’ve done which might make the same man want them dead?’
‘No,’ answered Sandell.
‘Any particular activity they have in common?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought they had one,’ mused Sandell. ‘But I’ll try to find out. You really believe they were attracted to the same woman, and attacked by the same man?’
‘I don’t know what I think,’ Roger said. ‘They were both murderously attacked. Greatorex telephoned me to say he could give information about the O’Hara murder, so I sent Watts over in a hurry.’
‘Why?’
‘Doesn’t it speak for itself?’ asked Roger, puzzled. ‘If anyone overheard Greatorex—’
‘But what made you think anyone had?’
There were two kinds of detectives, Roger reflected – the step-by-step, clue-by-clue, rule-of-thumbers, who build a case up with slow, ruthless deliberation; and the ‘hunch’ kind. Yet it wasn’t truly a ‘hunch’ which had made him think Greatorex might be in danger, more an instinctive reasoning – step-by-step but by an escalator, so to speak. The difficulty was to explain to Sandell. It was a curious fact that Coppell understood.
‘If he knew anything, then someone else in the studio might,’ Roger said at last. ‘They spent a lot of time together and had a host of mutual acquaintances. Clearly, it’s possible that it might be known, or guessed, that Greatorex knew something dangerous to O’Hara’s murderer. So, Greatorex might have been watched as a safety measure. If he was, then his telephone call to me was probably overheard—someone might have been listening in. There was no certainty but there were obvious possibilities. Better be safe than sorry. I tried to be.’
‘Don’t rub it in,’ growled Sandell. ‘Not a bloody thing but reason to go on, yet you got there. Couldn’t happen to tell me the name of his assailant, could you?’
‘No,’ said Roger, handing over Watts’ sketch. ‘But you could find out whether that man was taken on as an extra, or whether he’s employed here.’
Sandell turned the paper – and stared. His eyes hardened, his face set, his lips compressed into a thin, tight line. Roger, needing no telling that he was badly shaken, watched and waited. Slowly, Sandell pushed back his chair, stood up, and went to one of the pale green filing cabinets. He opened a drawer and took out a file, selected a photograph from this and turned and handed it to Roger.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’s employed here. His name is James Donovan—and he’s on my staff.’
Chapter Eleven
The Donovans
Roger took one look at the photograph, and knew there could be no mistake. In the same instant, he thought of Greatorex’s: ‘The bloody Donovans’, and of the prisoner who would now be at Brixton. He could go and see the man before the day was out, and ought to be able to get something from him. And the general call for this James Donovan, with all description and details, could go out with no delay. Sandell might be badly shaken, and with plenty of cause, but this could save the police hours if not days.
‘I want this rushed to Information,’ he said, touching the photograph.
‘I’ll send a motor cyclist up with it.’ Sandell rang for a man and gave brisk instructions.
‘Thanks,’ said Roger. ‘May I use your telephone?’
‘Help yourself.’ Sandell pushed the instrument and the file towards him. ‘Need me for ten minutes?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll get things moving,’ said Sandell. ‘Check Donovan’s movements, and buddies—he’s Irish and the Irish stick together.’ He went out, purposefully, already half recovered.
Roger shifted closer to the telephone, lifted it, found he had a direct line, and called the Yard. In seconds, he was reading out the description of James Donovan: and the more he said, the more it seemed as if he were reading out a description of the man who had visited the kitchen at 5c Berne Court.
‘Get it out at once,’ he ordered, ‘and when Chief Inspector. Watts arrives with a sketch tell him we’ve now a photograph. Report to Mr Sandell at Borelee as well as to our people if mere’s any news.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Anything else in?’ asked Roger.
‘The Donovan girl is still unconscious,’ said Information. ‘They say she’ll live.’
‘What about the charge against Patrick Donovan?’
‘Remanded for eight days, sir.’
‘Any complaints about the delay?’
‘None at all.’
‘Good. Is Mr Coppell in?’
‘No—I happen to know, sir, he looked in here with two Australian cop VIPs only half an hour ago, and told me he was going to the City of London police and wouldn’t be back until late.’
‘Thanks,’ Roger said. ‘As soon as you can, let Watts know about James Donovan’s photograph.’
‘I will, sir.’
Roger rang off, sat back in a comfortable chair, and moistened his lips. He realised that he was very thirsty, and would like nothing more than tea. He got up, and went to the door through which the Allsafe men had come, and looked through. A man and two girls were beyond a glass-walled partition which seemed to be soundproof. The man in the pale grey uniform sprang up and came into the anteroom.
‘Something you want, sir?’
‘Could you manage some tea?’
‘I certainly could, sir! Coming up.’
‘Thanks.’
Roger saw that there were several offices here, all divided by glass partitions; there was no privacy – nor was there any chance at all to dally or misbehave. He went bac
k to his chair. Sandell had been gone for over ten minutes, and Roger would be quite happy if he were away for another twenty. It was hard to remember all he had done during the day. He seemed to have been going from crisis to crisis. He wanted time, an hour at least, to sit back and think. When things happened so fast it was easy to overlook all the significance, to miss angles of vital importance. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, for instance, if he listed all the people who were involved. He took out a notebook and pencil, and began to make the list.
1.Danny O’Hara – now dead.
2.Mary Ellen Donovan – unconscious from morphine poisoning which may have been administered by
3.James Donovan, on Allsafe’s staff at the Studio and the man who had attacked and nearly killed
4.Raymond Greatorex, who had telephoned to say he had information.
5.Patrick Donovan, who claimed to be the father of Mary Ellen and who might – there is no proof – be the brother or a relation of James Donovan.
6.Mrs Ivy Mallows, and her domestic staff.
7–8.Nurses Smith and Trebizon.
9.The cook, Maureen O’Malley.
10.Dr Galbraith, something of a puzzle, reserved and noncommittal.
11.The man said by Donovan to have been at O’Hara’s apartment.
12.The anaesthetist.
He made a note to have Galbraith checked, put down the pencil and glanced up as the door opened. It was the guard, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.
‘Hope that’s to your liking, sir.’
‘I’m sure it will be.’
‘Had a call from the Superintendent, sir. He’s been delayed for about twenty minutes and would be obliged if you could possibly wait.’
‘I’ll wait,’ Roger said.
The tea was hot and fairly strong, just as he liked it. This was better than he would get at the Yard. He wondered how much Sandell earned; with his Metropolitan Police Force pension and his salary here, he must be doing very well. Amazing, his change of attitude – amazing and welcome. As he drank his second cup of tea, Roger put in another call to the Yard, and Information.
‘Ask East End to let me have a comprehensive report on Dr Galbraith, the doctor whom Mrs Mallows called in.’
