by John Creasey
“Yes,” said Sloan.
“Good – and listen. Sybil Lennox will probably leave Sibley’s in about half an hour, and be followed by a man dressed in a shiny navy-blue suit. Height about five seven.”
“Want ’em both followed?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if they split up?” asked Sloan.
Roger said: “Better send two men.”
“I’ll get cracking,” promised Sloan.
Roger replaced the receiver and slipped out of the box. When he reached the dining-room, he beckoned Goodwin, who got up immediately.
“The man who followed her the other day is outside. I’ve sent for tailers, but they may be too late. If our man moves off, the commissionaire will look into the hall and yawn twice. You follow. If Louis doesn’t signal, wait for me. Don’t let the girl see you when she leaves.”
“I hope the chap moves off,” said Goodwin.
The girl looked up, unsmiling, as Roger returned to the table. He told her that Goodwin had to go off on another job, and over the sweet, then coffee and cigarettes, they said little.
They finished just before two o’clock. “Is there anything else?” asked Sybil. “I must get back to my office.”
“I think we’ve said all we need say for now,” said Roger.
“I’ve said everything I can,” the girl assured him as she stood up. “Mr West, if you think you have to question me again, I’d be glad if you won’t telephone me at my office. They will always give me a message at my rooms, but my employer is touchy about private calls while I’m at work.”
“I’ll avoid calling you at the office if I can,” promised Roger.
She went off, and Roger smoked another cigarette. Before it was finished, Goodwin came in, looking glum. Roger grinned.
“So he waited for her?”
“Yes. Peel and Harrison are following them,” said Goodwin. “I took a dekko out of the window.”
“Did they go off together?”
“No. The man stood in a shop doorway, and I don’t think she noticed him. He let her go half-way down the street before he followed.”
“Anyone else about?” asked Roger.
“I didn’t see anyone,” said Goodwin. “I would have if anyone had been there.”
“Jack, keep one thing in the back of your mind all the time,” advised Roger. “A man was waiting round the corner for Randall, and put two bullets into his chest at point-blank range. Whoever did it was a tough customer. We’ve got to take every precaution. I’ve already arranged with old Sibley to use the back door.”
He paid his bill, and they went through the kitchen quarters, where the chef, in his tall, white cap, and his satellites were relaxing after the midday rush. The head-waiter led the detectives through, and they stepped into a dingy side-street, where there were some coster’s barrows piled up with fruit and several small shops. They reached Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Now what?” asked Goodwin.
“Slip along to Sibley’s front entrance and make sure that no one’s watching it,” said Roger. “Then go back to the Yard. If I’m not in when Peel and Harrison report, follow up anything that looks urgent.”
“Right-o,” said Goodwin. “What are you going to do?”
“Have a word with Sybil’s landlady,” said Roger.
Brill Street, Chelsea, was similar to Bell Street where Roger lived only in its name. Its tall, grey, terraced houses all looked alike, except that a few had recently been painted; the tiny front gardens were mostly paved or cemented over. Some were private houses, but as Roger walked along the pavement towards number 37, where Sybil Lennox lived, he saw that almost every other front window had a notice, such as: Bed & Breakfast; Apartments; Vacancies. He went up the four steps leading to the front door of number 37 and rang the bell. A woman opened the door. She was middle-aged, grey-haired, sharp-featured, and wore a dark-blue dress.
“I’ve only one room and it’s on the top floor,” she announced in a flat voice.
Roger showed her his card and said: “You’re Mrs Clarke, aren’t you?”
“Oh, the police,” breathed the woman. “What’s it about – that Miss Lennox?”
“No,” said Roger. “That Mr Randall.”
“Same thing,” said the landlady. “You’d better come in, I suppose.” She drew to one side, and he passed into a narrow, gloomy hall. “That room there,” she said, pointing, and he went into the front room which was crammed with bric-a-brac.
“I never did like that girl. Stuck up little brat, and not so particular as she might be,” Mrs Clarke said with a sniff. “Too many men friends, if you ask me. But I’d some rooms vacant and I’ve got to live. She paid her rent all right, I will say that for her, but … I never could really trust her. She must have had a good job to spend all that money on her clothes.”
Roger nodded.
“And then there were the men,” said Mrs Clarke. “Mind you, not a man stayed the night here – nor tried to. But I can’t stop them girls seeing friends in their rooms, although out they go at ten o’clock, and they know I don’t like it.”
“So Miss Lennox has several men friends visiting her, does she?” asked Roger.
“She used to have.”
“And you stopped it?” murmured Roger.
“I want to be honest,” said Mrs Clarke self-righteously. “She stopped it herself. And I know why. Beneath her, she decided – she hadn’t no time for the likes of them when she was in the money. The last one called about three months ago – and after that it was all Randall. Not that he came in here. I never set eyes on him except when he was in his car.” Mrs Clarke meandered on. Rather grudgingly, she admitted that the girl had appeared to be very happy after Randall had come on the scene, following a weekend she had spent at Brighton.
It wasn’t very illuminating, and Roger began to think that the visit might prove a waste of time. He would have liked to see the girl’s room, but had no excuse for searching it.
He got up – and as he did so there was a thud above his head.
It made him glance up, but nothing prepared him for Mrs Clarke’s sudden gasp, and her tense: “Who’s that? Who is it? It’s a burglar!”
Chapter Six
Rough-And-Tumble
“It is,” she breathed. “It’s a burglar!”
“It’s probably one of your boarders,” Roger said, moving swiftly towards the door.
“They’re all out,” breathed Mrs Clarke. “It’s a burglar – go on, you’re a policeman, catch him!”
Roger said sharply: “Listen to me; keep talking, as if I were still in the room. Whose room is above here?”
Mrs Clarke gasped: “Hers!”
“Keep talking,” urged Roger. Mrs Clarke began to talk again, but in a low-pitched voice which didn’t help at all. Roger stepped into the hall and stood close by the door. The woman’s voice grew louder. Roger peered up the narrow, carpeted staircase, and started up.
He was half-way up when the door of Sybil Lennox’s room opened an inch; he saw bright daylight coming through. Whoever was in the room could see the bottom of the staircase and the hall-passage, but not the landing. Roger reached the landing and stepped close to the wall. The door opened wider. He saw the shadow of a man on the floor and the wall opposite.
The man stepped out of the room, and went to the wooden rail and peered over the stairs. He was short and rather plump – he wore the kind of hat Louis had talked about. He carried a brief-case in his right hand; his breathing was wheezy and sounded plainly. Roger took a step forward. The floor was covered with linoleum, which gave a slight squeak under his foot.
The man swung round.
He raised the brief-case and struck at Roger’s head.
The corner caught Roger in the eye, a shoot of pain darted across his head, water welled up, blinding him – and the next moment his assailant kicked him in the stomach. The ferocity of the attack made Roger back to the wall, unable to see, bending forward slightly because of the pai
n in his stomach. He felt himself grabbed by the shoulder and pushed away; in spite of the pain he sensed that the man was rushing towards the head of the stairs, and he stuck out his leg.
The man fell over it, and crashed down, making the landing and the passage shake. Mrs Clarke gave a high-pitched scream which echoed through the house. The man swore, and Roger heard him scrambling to his feet and, through the tears in his uninjured eye, saw him vaguely. Roger jumped forward, striking out blindly and wildly. He caught the man’s face and brought a grunt. Another blow missed; the man grabbed his wrist, twisted, and thrust him backwards. As he fell, he heard Mrs Clarke still screaming, heard footsteps thudding on the stairs. So he’d lost his man. He came up against the wall, banging his head painfully, making his eyes water more freely.
Then he heard a man say: “Oh, no, you don’t!”
That was Goodwin’s voice.
“He’s got a gun!” screeched Mrs Clarke.
“Don’t be a fool!” said Goodwin in a harsh voice. “If you use that, you’re for the high jump.”
Then – crack!
The report rang out, and Roger saw the flash of the shot through the mist of tears. He glimpsed Goodwin reeling down the stairs and the man following him. Goodwin hit the wall with a thud and fell. The man jumped over him.
Roger gripped the handrail and leapt over. The gunman looked round and saw him. Roger landed on a stair just above Goodwin’s inert body. He slipped, staggered backwards and then fell on to Goodwin. Mrs Clarke had disappeared, a door closed like a thunderclap, and the gunman was touching the front door-knob with his left hand and looking behind him. His gun pointed at Roger.
Crack!
The bullet smacked into the wood of the banisters, splintering it. As he regained his feet, Roger snatched his cigarette-case out of his pocket and flung it – he had no other missile. The man ducked and fired again.
This time the bullet hit the wall.
Roger was in the passage now, but the front door was open. The man jumped down the street steps.
Roger reached the porch and saw the fellow running towards the Embankment; then another mist of tears smeared his vision. He shouted: “Police! Police!”
Another dark figure appeared from a doorway, and ran in the same direction as the gunman. Roger could suddenly see more clearly, the spasm of pain and tears had eased. He saw the gunman turn and fire; he missed, but forced the pursuer to lose pace. He reached the corner and disappeared – and as he did so, a car pulled up alongside Roger.
A man said: “What’s the trouble?”
“End of the road – turn left!” snapped Roger. He sprang on to the running-board of the car and clasped the door handle. The wind cut into his eyes, and he lowered his head and with his free hand wiped the tears away. The traffic passing along the Embankment seemed to move very fast, but as they drew up there was a gap, and the driver was able to swing left without halting.
The gunman was on the pavement, opposite the riverside, threading his way among startled people. As he went, he looked over his shoulder and saw Roger clinging to the car.
He darted into the road.
Whether he hoped to double-back or did that just to un-sight Roger, Roger never knew.
The man disappeared from his line of vision, but almost at once brakes squealed. He heard a woman scream again, then heard a thud.
The driver of the commandeered car gasped: “Oh, my God!”
His hands slackened on the wheel, the car wobbled, then he regained control, coming to a standstill fifty or sixty yards from the end of Brill Street. Looking past him through the far window, Roger saw a car with its rear wheels on the pavement, its front wheels turned towards him – and a shattered hulk of what had been a man lying in the roadway.
The law went into action. Three policemen appeared and took charge of the crowd, the body, the car, and its injured driver – not badly injured, but cut about the hands and face. Roger spoke to a sergeant of the uniformed branch, giving instructions for the body to be taken to Cannon Row morgue, and men to be sent to 37 Brill Street.
He went back himself, and found that a small crowd had gathered outside and the little passage was packed with people. Two policemen, a man in dark-brown, Mrs Clarke, two other women – and Goodwin still on the stairs. Roger pushed his way through, and recognised the man in brown as Sergeant Peel, one of the men who had been sent from the Yard to follow Sybil and her ‘companion.’
“Hallo, sir,” said Peel quietly. “Afraid Goodwin’s in a bad way.”
“Not dead?” Roger rasped.
“No, sir, but I’ve sent for an ambulance and a doctor. Should be here any minute. Best to leave him where he is, I think. He’s got a bullet in the chest, about where Randall got it. I’ve padded it, to stop the bleeding.” Peel’s short sentences were graphic, indicating his frame of mind. “He’s unconscious, doesn’t feel anything. Did the swine get away?”
“He ran into a car.”
“Dead?” exclaimed Peel.
Roger nodded and heard a bell ringing, the ambulance turning into Brill Street. It had hardly drawn up outside before a car followed, and the Divisional Police Surgeon stepped out. He made a brief examination of the injured man and said: “An operation might save him.”
The ambulance men came in with a stretcher. Roger watched them carry Goodwin out.
“Station a man outside and send another to the back of the house until we’ve finished here,” he said to Peel. “Get the name and address of the driver of the car I used, and get rid of him nicely. Then come upstairs to me. Don’t let Mrs Clarke leave the house, and if any of the boarders turn up, they’re to wait down here until I give the all-clear.”
“Right, sir,” said Peel.
Roger went slowly up the stairs and into the girl’s room. It was large, bright and airy, and the furniture was modern. He glanced at his face in the mirror; there was a dark bruise just above his right eye, where the brief-case had caught him.
The brief-case …
He reached the door as Peel stepped on to the landing.
“Have you seen a light-brown brief-case, Peel?”
“One was found downstairs, sir,” said Peel. “I had it wrapped in brown paper, and it’s now on the hall-stand. Shall I go and get it?”
“Please,” said Roger.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his stomach, which was sore from the kick. Peel brought in the brown-paper parcel and a cup of tea.
“Thought you might be glad of this,” he said. “Like a spot of whisky in it?”
“Not a bad idea!”
Roger felt brisk and clear-headed when he put the cup and saucer on the mantelpiece, and talked to Peel. The sergeant’s story was simple enough. He had followed the man from the restaurant, and Sergeant Harrison had followed the girl, who had returned to her office in the Strand. Harrison was still there and would follow her tonight. The unknown man had come to Chelsea, and Peel had seen him enter the tiny back garden of number 37. By chance, a radio-patrol car had been passing, and he had asked the driver to send a message to Goodwin, who had hurried here. Peel had spoken to him, and then Goodwin had come round to watch the front while Peel had watched the back.
Goodwin, presumably had found the door open – or Mrs Clarke had let him in – and entered the house when he had heard the noise. Peel had heard the shooting, and rushed along an alley which led from the back of the houses to the street. He had arrived just as Roger had commandeered the car.
“Let me have a look at that brief-case,” said Roger. “Anyone but you handled it?”
“No, and I used a handkerchief.”
“Good.” Roger pulled on a pair of thin, blue cotton gloves, picked up the case by the handle and then unfastened the straps, careful not to touch the shiny surface of the leather more than he could help. He soon had the case open and turned back the flap.
Written in neat, black writing was Randall’s name and address.
Chapter Seven
A Man
Named Kirby
Peel’s eyes glistened.
“So we’ve got it,” he observed. “No doubt that devil had something to do with Randall’s death. Probably his killer – he fired point-blank at Goodwin – aimed at the chest, and the gun was a small one.”
“You saw it?” asked Roger.
“Just caught a glimpse of it in his hand,” said Peel. “And I heard it – sounded like the whine of an automatic to me; it wasn’t a revolver, anyhow.”
“The man had the case in his hand after he’d dealt with me,” said Roger. “He dropped it by accident when he fell over Goodwin. The question is, did he come to get it from here or did he come to plant it on Sybil Lennox?”
Peel said slowly: “If he’d come to plant it, would he have troubled to take it away again?”
“Might have,” said Roger. “It would have been one thing to leave it here without anyone knowing he’d been in the house, another to leave it when he’d been seen and it might be guessed that he’d brought it here. If recent prints of Sybil Lennox are on it, then the case has probably been here all the time. We’ll get a sample of her prints,” he added, looking at the dressing-table. “Got your kit with you?”
“Afraid not, sir.”
“Mine’s in my car, parked along the street,” said Roger. “Get it, will you? I’ll look round.”
Against the wall, opposite the large single bed, was a big wardrobe; in a corner there was another smaller one. A tallboy with eight drawers stood near the bed, and the dressing-table backed on the window.
There were no letters or papers in any of the drawers. He tried the wardrobes. Sybil Lennox had plenty of clothes, and all seemed expensive; he could more easily understand Mrs Clarke’s gossip. Unless Sybil was earning a very high salary, she hadn’t bought these out of her ordinary income.
Peel came in with the case of equipment, and while Roger looked through the drawers at the foot of the tall wardrobe, Peel brushed some of the grey powder over a powder-bowl and a hairbrush handle, and then blew it gently away.
“Good prints?” asked Roger.
“Perfect.”
