by John Creasey
‘Won’t you?’ Roger asked, furiously. ‘You—’ He paused, biting his tongue, remembering that Sandell was no longer a policeman with a policeman’s strict code. It suited him to turn a blind eye on occasions and mind his own business. ‘One thing,’ he said, levelly.
‘What?’
‘I’d like the names of O’Hara’s visitors, please. I’ll be at the studios in about an hour and a half.’
‘Do what I can,’ grunted Sandell, obviously equally anxious not to allow the situation to develop into a quarrel. ‘See you.’
Roger rang off.
It was sticky in the office but he could put most of his discomfort down to nerves – the tension building up inside him generated heat through his whole body. He saw the communicating door open, and Watts put his head round, gingerly.
‘What’s on?’ Roger asked.
‘Information’s had another report on James Donovan,’ announced Watts.
‘What is it?’
‘He’s on a Green Line bus going towards Watford, and that particular bus passes through Borelee. Pretty certain he’s heading for the studios, isn’t it?’
Very slowly, Roger answered: ‘Yes, it is.’ He stood up, slowly. ‘So am I, and I’d like to be there first. What’s the bus timetable, do you know?’
‘Leaves Victoria at 2.15, is due at Borelee at 3.46,’ answered Watts.
Roger glanced at his watch.
‘I can make it easily enough.’
He told Watts what Peterson had told him, and the additional information from Coppell. He saw the scowl on his subordinate’s face, then for the first time heard Watts explode.
‘How the hell do they expect you to solve a case if they hold half the facts back?’
‘Good question,’ said Roger grimly. Here’s a better one.
‘Coppell can’t have any ulterior motive, he badly wants the case solved, but Sandell could have a motive. He could know about the smuggling.’
‘That would square with a lot that he does,’ Watts said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Roger. ‘I’m going to Borelee. You keep tag on the situation here. I’ll take a driver and one other man.’ He thought of Pell as he spoke, of sitting next to the man on his previous journey to the studios, and he could see that the same thought struck Watts. It was hard to realise that Pell was dead. ‘Who’ve we got?’ Roger asked.
‘Greenwood and Smith are standing by, sir.’
‘Thanks,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll be downstairs in a quarter of an hour.’
In twenty minutes he was in the back of a black Ford, weaving through the heavy traffic, sandy haired Greenwood and compact Detective Officer Smith in front. Every four or five minutes the radio crackled, with stage by stage news of the progress of the Green Line bus. They saw a bus at the turn off to the M1 – the bus went by the ordinary main roads.
‘That’s it, sir!’ Greenwood said. ‘Wonder why he’s heading for Borelee now, sir. Putting his neck in a noose, so to speak.’
‘You couldn’t be wondering any more than I am,’ Roger said gruffly. And he thought: I hope it isn’t too late before we find out. There was another thing at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
‘Does Mr Sandell know he’s on the way?’ asked Greenwood.
‘If he knows, I haven’t told him,’ Roger said. ‘He expects me. You keep in touch with Information, and have the studio surrounded so that once he’s in he hasn’t a chance to get out. When I’m with Mr Sandell, you go to Division. I want every man we’ve got in the studio to carry two of those miniature fire extinguishers; the ones that make a lot of foam. Get ’em somehow, and have plenty in reserve.’
‘You’re expecting—’ began Greenwood.
‘I’m expecting you at the studio with the sprays as soon as you’ve got everything laid on,’ Roger said, and turned briskly away.
‘Right, sir,’ the detective sergeant said.
Chapter Eighteen
O’Hara’s Guests
Everything at the studio was as Roger remembered it; the care at the entrance, the pass, then an atmosphere of leisurely progress, the Allsafe men in their grey uniforms, the parked cars, the little studio cars. He saw two Yard men and recognised two others from the Division as he was driven to the Allsafe offices. He went inside as the car moved off.
For half an hour he would have no idea of what was happening outside; no Yard reports would reach him. Yet it would be over half an hour before Donovan could get there, so there was no need for anxiety.
He was kept waiting for several minutes outside Sandell’s office: probably Sandell was underlining his position here. If that was intended to get under his, Roger’s skin, it was a wasted effort. Suddenly, an Allsafe man appeared at the door.
‘Mr Sandell’s free now, sir.’
‘Thanks.’
Sandell rose from behind his desk, but did not attempt to shake hands. They watched each other closely, warily, as Roger sat down. Sandell remained standing. There were some papers in his hand, and he flicked them with his forefinger.
‘There’s your list of O’Hara’s guests,’ he said.
‘How many?’
‘Twenty six,’ answered Sandell.
‘In six months?’
‘One guest a week,’ said Sandell. ‘Three out of four come from America.’
Roger glanced down the list. He recognised a few of the names, as actors, and one or two as producers. There were script writers, directors, film and television company officials, each one clearly described.
There was not one single woman.
‘Like the other list?’ asked Sandell.
‘What other list?’
‘The starlets who went along to dine with our guests.’
‘Yes,’ Roger said. ‘I’d like it.’
Sandell handed him another typewritten list, and this was a duplicate of the first but had names typed in red beneath each of the male names. The girls’ Christian names were given and four of the names were starred with an asterisk. Roger studied these and saw that two girls had been at O’Hara’s flat on two separate occasions.
‘But never the same male visitor,’ Roger remarked gruffly. ‘How long did it take you to prepare this?’
‘It wasn’t difficult once I knew what you wanted. Danny’s diary, with appointment notes, was at the office. I know better than to keep officers of the Yard waiting.’ There was a latent hostility in Sandell’s voice.
‘That’s a good policy,’ Roger said. ‘How many more of your men are security risks, Dave?’
‘What the hell do you mean—security risks?’ Sandell’s face went white as he spoke, his voice took on a savage note.
‘I mean, how many might be in James Donovan’s confidence, and also in his pay?’ answered Roger.
Sandell did not answer, but gripped the arms of his chair tightly, knuckles, chin, lips going white with tension. He looked about to explode. Roger watched warily, half-prepared to be attacked, acutely aware of the other’s effort to maintain his self-control. Slowly, Sandell moistened his lips.
‘What you’re saying is that I allow my men to work for Donovan—let this happen under my nose without knowing what it’s all about. What would that make me?’
‘The thing under your nose is often the most difficult to see,’ Roger murmured.
‘Or—’ Sandell almost choked – ‘do you mean I knew what Donovan was up to, that I connived at it?’
‘You know the truth, I don’t,’ Roger said simply.
‘My God! I’ll break your neck!’ Sandell actually half rose from his chair.
‘I shouldn’t,’ Roger said drily. ‘Why not simmer down and look at the facts. If I suspected you were involved, do you think I’d be sitting here? I’d have had you pulled in for questioning long ago. We’ve now had two murders, the death of a policeman, a fire which could have destroyed a whole street, two more people at death’s door, and the whole world looking on. Would I take a chance with you?’
Sandell dropped ba
ck into his chair.
‘You’re a smooth tongued basket,’ he said gruffly. He opened a cupboard in the desk, took out a soda syphon and a glass, splashed in soda, and drank, rinsing the soda water round in his mouth before swallowing. ‘Drink?’ he invited, obviously as an olive branch.
‘I’ll have some of that water,’ Roger said, and after sipping, went on: ‘Do you suspect anybody?’
‘Donovan had a couple of cronies.’
‘Have you checked their movements?’
‘Yes. Nothing incriminating, but—’ Sandell breathed heavily – ‘one of them has a cottage on the actual grounds.’
‘How do you get to it?’
‘There’s a small gate in the wall with its own keys, close to the cottage. You can only get in on foot, it’s not wide enough for a car.’
‘Having it watched?’
‘Yes—by two men.’
‘Told Division?’ asked Roger.
‘I—no,’ growled Sandell. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Mind if I do?’ asked Roger without any change in expression.
Sandell stared at him, then picked up the telephone and placed it to his ear, said: ‘Get me Superintendent Marsh of Borelee Divisional HQ or whoever’s in charge.’ Then to Roger: ‘Smooth tongued basket is right for you, Handsome. If you’d been anyone else, you’d have been out on your ear by now. If you’d tried to tear a strip off me … Hallo, Mr Marsh? …. Sandell … There’s a cottage in the grounds here where one of my officers lives, and the man was a close associate of James Donovan … I’m having it watched … Care to put two of your men on to it, too? … By the junction of the main road and Borelee Lane, that’s it.… Thanks …’
There was a long pause before Sandell continued: ‘Yes, he’s here …’ He handed the instrument to Roger, without another word.
‘Hallo, Bill,’ Roger said.
‘Thought you’d like to know your man got off the Green Line bus two miles out of Borelee, near a garage,’ said Marsh drily. ‘I’m expecting a report any minute. Oh—and we can lay our hands on fifty of those hand extinguishers.’
‘Fine,’ said Roger. ‘Let me know the moment—’
‘Hold on!’ Marsh interrupted, in sudden excitement. Other voices sounded, then Marsh’s more clearly: ‘He’s just picked up a motor cycle, and he’s heading for Borelee!’
‘We mustn’t lose him,’ Roger said, sharply.
‘We won’t lose him. Think he’s going to the cottage?’
‘He might be,’ Roger said. ‘But he might also know that’s where we’ll expect him.’ He put down the receiver, sensed Sandell’s new tension, hesitated only for a moment, and said: ‘Donovan appears to be heading for the studio.’
The effect on Sandell wasn’t what he expected. The man’s eyes blazed, and he thumped the desk with a clenched fist.
‘So we’re going to get him!’ he cried. ‘Come on, we—’
‘Dave, I don’t want you or your men to do anything,’ Roger said, ‘except stand by. He’ll recognise all of you but he won’t recognise my chaps. Will you have every one of yours alerted so as to move in when they’re wanted? And alert your fire fighting groups, and have every fire-extinguisher post manned?’
‘What are you expecting?’ demanded Sandell. ‘A double dose of last night?’
‘That could happen. I’m expecting Donovan to contact some particular person,’ Roger said.
‘Well, it won’t be me, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Sandell. ‘If you keep me out of the finish of this, I’ll have your guts.’
Roger gave a half smile, and went out. As he stepped towards the road leading to the main entrance, he saw the Yard car with Greenwood in it, pulling up. Greenwood got out, and there was no doubt of his excitement. He saw Roger, and cocked a thumb over his shoulder.
Roger, looking in the direction indicated, saw a man wheeling a motor bicycle through into a car park. The man, about Donovan’s build, was in workman’s clothes, carrying a canvas toolbag. He put the motor cycle on its stand and moved away.
‘The gate guards must have recognised him,’ Greenwood muttered.
‘Yes. I’ll go ahead,’ said Roger. He saw half a dozen Divisional men and others from the Yard scattered inconspicuously, in a way unlikely to be noticed by Donovan.
Was it Donovan?
Could they have made a mistake?
Roger watched until the man turned a corner, then followed. Other detectives moved in. Roger reached the corner and saw the man with the bag heading for one of the big studios, the one where Raymond Greatorex had been attacked. A small van, painted red and marked Borelee Studios Fire Service, careered by.
Donovan went into the big building.
A minute later, Roger followed him.
The electric lamps were lit, and half a dozen men were shifting set furniture about. The snaking coils of cable appeared everywhere. Only one spotlight showed from the criss-cross of bridges and catwalks up in the ceiling. No one appeared to be working aloft.
Donovan was walking towards a staircase, built of scaffolding. From the moment he had arrived he had known exactly what he wanted to do. Roger and three other men moved nearer to him. He reached the staircase, and then spun round, flinging something on the ground. On the instant there was a vivid flash, so white, so intense, that Roger stood as one blinded. He heard footsteps on the scaffolding, could picture what the man was doing but could not see.
The steel echoed to a man’s footsteps: Donovan’s. A detective cried out in an excited undertone: ‘I can see him, sir!’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s taking something out of his bag,’ the other man said. ‘He—’
‘We want the lights on—every light on, up in the roof and everywhere,’ ordered Roger. He bellowed: ‘Lights! Put all the lights on!’ He was able to see a little now, but not clearly enough to distinguish the man standing on the scaffolding. Someone called out: ‘Lights, George!’ ‘Lights!’ another man bellowed.
Then a voice, clear and firm and venomous, arrested all attention. It was Donovan’s coming from a hailer up somewhere amid that criss-cross of structures. ‘Lights won’t help you, West!’
‘Donovan,’ Roger said, his voice sounding thin and eerie without an amplifier, ‘you won’t save yourself up there. Give yourself up.’
Donovan uttered a single, obscene word, which boomed and reverberated among the steel scaffolding and the huge, empty studio. As he did so, the lights began to go on, all those in the ceiling pointing down, all those on the floor shining up.
Now, Roger could see Donovan.
He was high up in the criss-cross of scaffolding, out of reach of anyone on the floor. He had a gun in his right hand. A detective was at the foot of the stairs up which Donovan had climbed. Quite casually, Donovan pointed the gun and fired. The flash of the shot was not noticeable, but the sound was loud and clear. The detective gasped, lost his hold, and fell.
‘Don’t let anyone else try that,’ Donovan called on the loudspeaker. ‘The next one will get a bullet in his head. That goes for you, too, West.’
‘Donovan, come down,’ Roger called. ‘It’s only a matter of time before you have to. Don’t make things worse for yourself.’
‘I can’t make them any worse,’ Donovan said. ‘I’ll give you a break, though. You and your coppers. If you’re not out of here in three minutes, you’ll be roasted to death.’
So he was going to set the place on fire.
‘Do you hear me?’ Donovan called. ‘Out—all of you.’ He raised his left hand, showing what looked like a bag of powder. ‘When I throw this, it will catch fire in less than two minutes and once it starts you can never put it out. Be wise for once, West.’
‘What good will it do you to burn the studio down?’ called Roger.
‘It will do me a hell of a lot of good!’
‘It’s destruction for the sake of it. Stop playing the fool, and come down.’
‘West,’ said Donovan in that loud and
reverberating voice, ‘you’ve wasted a minute. You can’t gain more time because I won’t listen. I didn’t plan to kill the lot of you, but if I must I will.’
One of the mechanics muttered: ‘He means it.’
‘I’ve got two of these foam guns for you, sir,’ Greenwood said, from close behind Roger.
‘Put one in each of my jacket pockets,’ Roger said.
‘You’ve lost another fifteen seconds, West,’ Donovan roared.
‘You’ll be the first to burn,’ Roger shouted back.
‘Up here? Don’t be a fool. I know how to get out when I want to, and you can’t stop me from setting fire to the place. Nothing can stop me. You made another of your mistakes when you let me come this far. You could have pulled me off that Green Line coach, or at the entrance, or on the way here. But I took a chance, I thought you’d let me come, to find out what I was up to, and if I worked with anyone here. Get out, West. You’ve only a minute to go.’
The doors were open. Roger could not see them but felt the draught. Men were going out, filled with fear of what was going to happen.
‘Donovan,’ Roger said, ‘you’ve one last chance. Come down now, or—’
Donovan drew back his left hand and tossed something down. It struck the floor halfway between the foot of the steps and Roger, and spread out, a powdery substance which had obviously been in a flimsy paper or plastic container. Nothing happened, except that Donovan gave a snort of laughter.
‘Go on, pick it up,’ he shouted. ‘If you want to burn the skin off your fingers, pick it up!’
Greenwood muttered: ‘Is that how he started the fire in Whitechapel?’
‘Go on!’ roared Donovan. ‘I dare you, West—go and pick it up!’
After a long pause, during which the other detectives in the studio stared uneasily at Roger, Roger moved slowly forward. And as he moved, Donovan’s shouting stopped. Roger looked up at him, saw another little container in his hand, poised; but Donovan seemed to be holding his breath.
Chapter Nineteen
Roof Chase
Roger, bending low, sprayed foam over the spilt Phosphol. One of the CID men muttered a sentence or two. There were sounds outside, of cars drawing up, and footsteps following. Within the studio Donovan and Roger stared at each other without movement.
