by John Creasey
But he steadied himself, put one arm around her, and in a moment she was pressing close to him and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. He led her to a chair, sat down, and drew her on to his lap. By that time she was groping for his handkerchief. She rubbed her eyes and blew her nose.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself,” she mumbled, “but I was hoping that you’d have a few days off, or at least not be so busy; and now Goodwin rings you up in the middle of the night and you’re going off to the Yard.”
“No,” said Roger. “Goodwin’s coming to see me and it’s not official – not yet, anyhow. Nice chap, Goodwin – he’s just been promoted to first-class sergeant. He’s taken something so seriously that he wants to have a word with me about it, and I didn’t like to turn the chap down.”
“I’m not sure that this isn’t worse,” said Janet. “That brings the office right to our very doorstep.”
Goodwin hadn’t arrived when they had finished the snack, and Janet decided to go to bed. Roger went upstairs with her, and they stepped quietly into the nursery. There slept Martin called Scoopy, their elder boy. He lay on his back, breathing softly through his nose, fair hair untidy and draped over his eyes, a look of concentration on his broad, strong face. They stood looking at him a few minutes; then they went into the small spare-room, in which the second child, Richard, slept. The boys made too much noise when they were together in the nursery.
As they came out of the room and shut the door, the front door bell rang.
“I won’t be long,” promised Roger.
Janet squeezed his hand, and he went downstairs to let Goodwin in.
At the age of thirty, Goodwin had done very well at Scotland Yard. He had been transferred from A Division three years ago, with the rank of detective-officer, and had stepped up through third and second-class sergeant to his present first-class. After two or three years at his present rank, he was almost certain to get an early inspectorship. Roger thought he looked tired, but his eyes lighted up at the sight of the beer Janet had brought in.
Roger poured out and said: “Sit down, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Goodwin sipped his beer.
“Ah, thanks. Look here, sir, have you a brother?”
Roger’s eyebrows gave a comical lift.
“Brother? Well, yes. He—”
“In London?”
“No, he emigrated to South Africa years ago. But what’s my family got to do with your worries?”
Instead of answering, Goodwin took a large envelope from beneath his coat and extracted a photograph, about 9” x 5”. He handed it to Roger; obviously it had recently been printed, for it was damp to the touch. Roger turned it over, and saw Guy Randall’s face. Then he saw the drool of blood-bubbly saliva at the lips, and asked sharply: “Accident case?”
“No. Murder,” said Goodwin, and began to talk more freely.
Chapter Four
Danger
The case was handled at first by the Divisional staff, and the Yard was ‘kept informed.’ Roger followed the reports day by day. He shared an office with three other Chief Inspectors. Two of them were newly-appointed; one, who seemed to be a fixture at the Yard as well as in his rank, was Eddie Day. The room was a large, airy one, overlooking the Embankment, and was in the new building.
On the Monday morning, Roger entered the office just after ten o’clock. Eddie Day sat at his corner desk by the window, sucking his prominent, yellow teeth. Eddie’s features were pointed, his nose large, and he was fat. He pretended to be reading a report. In fact, from the moment Roger entered he watched him almost furtively, muttering into his chest: “Morning, Handsome.”
“Hallo, Eddie,” said Roger, whose soubriquet, ‘Handsome’ West, was likely to stick while he remained at the Yard. “Had a good weekend?”
“So, so,” said Eddie. “Got some more peas in.”
“Oh, good!” said Roger absently. He sat down, stretched forward for the ‘Mail In,’ and saw a typewritten envelope, an internal memorandum; usually only the Assistant Commissioner sent such missives in a sealed envelope. Eddie undoubtedly knew that the note was from Chatworth, and was aching to know what it contained.
Roger slit it open, read quickly, and pulled a face.
“Anything?” Eddie demanded.
“Eh?” asked Roger, as if startled.
“Come off it,” said Eddie. “Anything from Chatty? You know what I mean.”
“Oh, this note. Yes, he wants to see me this morning,” said Roger. “Adams isn’t very happy over the Randall job. Looks as if he’s going to wish it on to me.”
“That Adams,” grumbled Eddie. “Sits tight on a job when he ought to know better, and then expects us to get him out of a mess. If I was Chatty, I wouldn’t let him get away with it so often. Why don’t you refuse it?”
“I’ll see what he has to say,” said Roger dryly.
“Better hurry, hadn’t you?” asked Eddie. “You didn’t ought to keep the old boy waiting.”
“He won’t be ready until eleven o’clock,” said Roger. “That’ll give me time to look through the reports I’ve had in.” He picked up the largest sheaf of papers in the ‘Pending’ tray, and began to read. From this, he learned the names of most of those people whom Guy Randall had seen on the day of his murder.
There were several pages of notes about each individual, a précis in each case of the verbatim statements which had been taken. And in all of this there were only two unusual things: first, Guy Randall’s brief-case, with the Perriman order and the samples, was missing; second, the dead man’s fiancée, Sybil Lennox, appeared to Adams and his men to be an unsatisfactory witness.
Had a farmer strayed into Scotland Yard, few people would have looked farther for him than the office of the Assistant Commissioner, for Sir Guy Chatworth seemed like a true man of the soil. He wore rough tweeds; his large, square face was weather-beaten, his irongrey hair sat in little, close curls round his head, leaving a large, bald circle at the top. He smoked small, dark cheroots; he was respected by all and feared by some at Scotland Yard; and he was an able man who had the good sense to choose his subordinates carefully.
He greeted Roger gruffly in his office, which was remarkable at Scotland Yard, because – in the spacious days before austerity – he had managed to get it refurnished in a style which he liked. Only Chatworth could have got away with black glass, chromium, tubular-steel chairs, and a general atmosphere which struck a chill into many a man who sat in front of the huge glass-topped desk and looked into Chatworth’s eyes.
“Morning, Roger,” he greeted. “This Randall case. The Division’s got no further with it. Adams thinks”—he managed almost to sneer the word—“that there’s something more behind it than he’s been able to find out. In fact, he hasn’t found much. No motive, unless it’s to do with this girl Lennox – but you’ve kept abreast of the case, haven’t you?”
“Closely, sir,” said Roger.
“Go and see Adams,” said Chatworth brusquely. “Take a sergeant; go through everything in detail.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, off with you,” said Chatworth, but when Roger reached the door, he glanced up and asked: “Decided who you’re going to take with you?”
“Goodwin,” said Roger.
Chatworth grunted; it might have been with approval.
Adams’ collection of written statements was verbose and voluminous, and it took Roger and Goodwin two days to wade through the lot. The routine of this was only broken by an interview with Sybil Lennox. She answered his questions frankly enough, and only showed signs of alarm when he asked her whether she had been followed on the day of Randall’s murder. She denied it emphatically. Otherwise, she behaved much as Roger might have expected.
She hadn’t properly recovered from the shock of Randall’s death, and all the evidence pointed to the fact that she had been deeply in love with him, but she gave the impression that she was holding something back. Undoub
tedly Adams had accused her of this; Roger made no mention of it then, and left her, if not happy, at least no more worried than she had been.
For the rest, he learned what the various witnesses had said; and when that was done, he went to interview them one after the other. Thus he learned much of what Randall had done on the day of his death, and discovered that Adams had missed three things – things which he found out only after several more days of patient investigation. They were that Randall had seen Jeremiah Scott that day; that Akerman, one of the buyers at Perriman’s, had heard what Scott had said; and that the proprietress of the boarding-house where Sybil Lennox lived had a poor opinion of the girl. At the end of that patient first period of investigation, exactly three weeks after Randall’s death, Roger sent a chit to Sergeant Goodwin, which said briefly:
‘Meet me at Sibley’s at 12:45 today.’
Roger walked from the street where he had parked his car to Sibley’s. He was brooding over an idea which had occurred to him the day before – a way of breaking down Sybil Lennox’s resistance, or at least of finding out whether it was real or imaginary.
Louis, the commissionaire, recognised the man who walked briskly towards him, with a sense of shock.
Roger saw his intense stare and drew up by his side.
“Good morning, Louis. How are you today?”
“Haven’t got over it yet,” declared Louis. “Just like him, you are, Inspector.” Louis swallowed the last word and then gabbled: “Found-oo-did-’im-in-yet?”
“Still trying,” said Roger. “The last time I saw you, you promised to think over Mr Randall’s visits, especially what happened on that last day. Do you still think Randall’s girlfriend was followed?”
“I’m as sure of it as I’m sure you aren’t Randall,” Louis declared. “I can see the fellow now, so to speak. She always walked as if the devil was on her heels, and he kept up wiv’ her, although he didn’t seem to hurry.”
“Did she always walk like that, or only on that day?”
“Mostly always, except when she was with Randall,” said Louis. “But that day she walked faster than ever. And she kept looking over her shoulder.”
Roger nodded.
“He wasn’t fat and ‘e wasn’t thin,” continued Louis. “Not so tall as you and me, but not really short. Dressed in blue, and was the seat of his trousers shiny!”
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
“But he was behind Miss Lennox when she came here for lunch and again when she arrived for dinner.”
“I’ve said so, ‘aven’t I?”
“Yes – thanks,” said Roger. “She looked scared too, I think you once said.”
“S’right … and kept looking over her shoulder.”
“Had she ever looked scared before?”
Louis shook his head decidedly. “Nope.”
“I see. Well, she’s coming on her own this morning,” said Roger. “I’m going to see her inside.”
Roger went in, and was greeted by the little, old man with a thin, white beard who was Sibley.
“I have the table reserved for you, Inspector, and you won’t be overheard, I’ve made quite sure of that.”
“Thanks,” said Roger. “You know it’s for three?”
“Yes, it is all ready,” said Sibley.
It was a corner table. Several people looked with undisguised curiosity at Roger, and at Goodwin when he came in. Goodwin’s bulk seemed to fill the room.
“Hallo, sir!”
“Sit down, Jack,” said Roger. “We’ll wait until Miss Lennox arrives before we order drinks.”
“What’s the idea?” Goodwin asked.
Roger said thoughtfully: “She hasn’t yet admitted that there was anything worrying her on the day of Randall’s death, but the commissionaire swears that she was worried and scared of a man who followed her. I thought the atmosphere here might induce her to talk.”
“I see,” said Goodwin, wrinkling his forehead. “They nearly always met here, didn’t they? And when she sees you again—”
“Hush!” hissed Roger.
Goodwin was well-trained, and didn’t glance round. Sybil Lennox entered the room, and everyone noticed her. She looked cool. A well-cut linen frock of apple-green accentuated her figure. Her fair hair, massed in curls, was visible through the net crown of her hat. But it wasn’t her dress, her figure, or her hair which caught the attention – it was her face. The lines at her eyes and the corners of her mouth heightened an impression of sadness and weariness.
Roger watched her closely.
He had already discovered that he looked even more like Guy Randall when a person looked down at him, as Sybil was looking down now. She saw him, missed a step, and clutched her bag. But it was over in a flash, and she composed herself and came forward quickly.
Roger and Goodwin stood up, a waiter pulled back a chair for Sybil, and they all sat down. The wine-waiter thrust a list in front of Roger, who said: “The Chablis, I think.”
“Yes, m’sieu.”
“If that’s all right with you,” Roger added, looking at Sybil.
She nodded, without speaking; her hands clenched tightly on the edge of the table. Roger had discovered that Randall and the girl had usually drunk Chablis here. If she realised that he was deliberately working on her nerves, she gave no sign but slowly relaxed. Goodwin, rather awkwardly, offered her a cigarette. Roger flicked a lighter and, when the cigarettes were alight, dropped it on to the table. Involuntarily, her gaze followed the fall of the lighter – and she drew in her breath and the cigarette fell from her lips.
The lighter was the same make as Randall’s; it was a replica of the one which had been found in Randall’s pocket.
She picked up her cigarette.
“Mr West,” she said, “I can’t understand why you want to see me again.”
“I’m trying to reconstruct that last day in your late fiancé’s life, Miss Lennox.” Roger’s voice was quiet, almost indifferent. “I’m retracing every step he took – hence this meeting.” A waiter came up, with a menu for each of them, a big yellow card. “H’m … pâté, I think.”
Randall always started off with pâté.
“I’ll have some thick soup,” said Goodwin gruffly.
“Hors-d’oeuvre, please,” said Sybil in a voice which was hardly audible. She drew deeply on her cigarette. “I can’t see the point of it, Mr West? He’s gone, you haven’t caught his murderer, this is only … cruel.”
“We’re going to find his murderer,” said Roger in the same quiet voice. “No matter how long it takes us, how often we have to question you, how cruel we may have to be, we’re going to find out who killed him, and the first thing is to find out why he was killed. Miss Lennox, are you sure there was nothing in that brief-case which might have provided a motive?”
Chapter Five
The First Crack
Sybil didn’t answer.
“After all, the brief-case was stolen,” said Roger.
“He—he might have lost it.”
“Oh, come!” protested Roger. “He had that huge order in the brief-case, and a single slip of paper which represented his greatest triumph. It meant everything to him, didn’t it? When you were here that day, didn’t he actually say to you: ‘We’re going places – we’re in the money?’”
After a long pause Sybil said: “Yes, he did at lunch.”
“That could only have been the result of his good news that day, couldn’t it?” demanded Roger.
“I—I suppose so.”
Roger stubbed out his cigarette. His voice altered, became sharp, decisive.
“You only suppose so. What else could it have been? In what way could he have been ‘in the money’ except through his work?”
She said: “Oh, it must have been that!” She seemed to have forgotten that at lunch-time Randall had not yet obtained the order.
“Are you sure?” asked Roger. “Or are you hiding something from us, Miss Lennox?”<
br />
“I—I wasn’t thinking.”
The waiter came up and put their plates in front of them, giving her a momentary respite. Sybil started to eat.
“Miss Lennox, I am sure you will regret it if you’re not completely honest with us,” Roger said.
She turned the full boldness of her gaze on him, and said deliberately: “I know of nothing else that Guy was doing to make money. Just now, I was thinking of everything that his success would have meant to us. We were so very happy.”
“I simply want the truth, Miss Lennox, and must get it,” Roger said gruffly. “There’s another thing. When you came here on the day of Mr Randall’s death, you were followed.”
“I was not!”
“But I have clear evidence that you were.”
She cried: “Someone’s lied to you.”
He didn’t press the question, and the waiter brought the second course. They were half-way through it when the head-waiter came up and murmured: “You’re wanted on the telephone, sir.”
“Oh,” Roger hesitated, then stood up, dropping his table-napkin on the table. “Thanks. Excuse me a moment,” he said, and followed the head-waiter.
Immediately they were out of the room, the other man said: “I’m sorry, sir, but I thought it best to say that. Actually Louis wants to speak to you urgently.”
Louis was standing in the gloomy hall, near the staircase, and as soon as Roger reached the foot of the stairs, he said hoarsely: “Come ‘ere, sir – you might be seen. The chap’s outside. The one that followed ‘er, I mean. Come up just like ‘e did before, only she never saw ‘im. Didn’t look over ‘er shoulder, any’ow.”
“You ought to have been a policeman,” said Roger. “Go outside and keep an eye on him. I’ll send a man down soon. If this merchant moves off before Miss Lennox comes out, yawn twice, where you can be seen from here.”
“Oke!” Louis entered into the plot. “I’m on my way.”
On the landing nearby were two telephone boxes; Roger stepped into one, and was quickly on to the Yard. He asked for Sloan.
“Bill? Roger here,” he said quickly. “I want a good tailer at Sibley’s pronto. Can do?”
