Sport For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  “Poliss bad for da bizzniss,” Guiseppe declared, and gave a curiously attractive grin. “Pliz, da cabbies are not many badda boys. Kirby no lika dem, dey no lika Kirby; only Relf lika Kirby.”

  Roger nodded and turned to Peel.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “Rosa in my caff ay,” said Guiseppe. “I giva da food, and giva poor Tommy da food. If I do not, he no eat.”

  “Lucky for Tommy that you’re around,” said Roger.

  He detailed two men to search the office. The thunder rumbled away in the distance. Lights blazed from Guiseppe’s café. Roger pushed open the door, making a bell clang harshly. A plump little woman appeared in another doorway, leading to a room at the back of the shop. Her dark hair was plaited, her cheeks were red and rosy.

  “My Guiseppe good man!” she declared breathlessly.

  “I’m sure of that,” said Roger.

  “Shutta da mouth, Marta,” ordered Guiseppe. “Getta more tea, pliz, hurry. Tea for all da polissmans.” He smacked his wife’s arm lightly as he led Roger into the back room.

  Two detectives were standing by the fireplace, the woman Rose was sitting in a winged arm-chair in a corner, glaring sullenly in front of her, and ‘poor Tommy’ crouched, terrified, in another corner. He was dressed in rags, his hair was long and unkempt, his fingers were like blackened talons. As Roger moved towards him, he sprang up and cowered back against the wall.

  Roger turned to Peel.

  “Get him to Cannon Row, and then get hold of someone who can talk to him.”

  Peel and another man took Tommy off. Guiseppe brought more tea on a tray, but the girl waved him away. Roger sipped his, and had half finished it before he said: “Not a very good day for you, Rose. When did you last see Kirby?”

  “I haven’t seen him all day!” she cried in a harsh, emotional voice. “It’s no use asking me anything about Kirby. I won’t talk!”

  “That’s asking for trouble,” Roger said quietly. “Look here, Rose, you won’t help anyone by being difficult. We aren’t trying to pin anything on you—”

  “You’re trying to pin it on Kirby. But you won’t get him – see? You won’t get him. He’s smarter than any dick in London.” She jumped up from her chair. “I won’t talk, you’ll never get him!”

  Guiseppe clucked. “Badda girl, Rosa!”

  “Kirby was murdered this afternoon,” Roger said bluntly. Rose drew back. The colour drained from her face, behind the make-up.

  Guiseppe called in a strained voice: “Marta! Marta! Getta da brandy, quick!”

  Rose said softly, sighingly: “That’s a lie.”

  “It isn’t a lie. He shot a policeman. Then he went off to join his friend, who was in a car nearby. The friend ran over him.”

  “It’s a lie!” she screamed, and flew at Roger, took his wrists and gripped them tightly. “It isn’t true,” she gasped. “You’re lying to me; you’re just trying to make me talk!”

  Roger said: “The body’s in the morgue now.”

  She didn’t move for what seemed a long time, but at last she sagged away from him, groped for a chair and dropped into it. She began to shiver, and Guiseppe came forward with some brandy in a glass; but Roger touched his shoulder and shook his head.

  “Wait,” he murmured, then raised his voice: “Rose, we’re after the man who murdered Kirby. We were after Kirby, but we can’t do him any harm now. Nor can you. The man who killed him sometimes took his cab out – he had it out this afternoon. I want to know all about him. Let’s have the story, and then you can get some rest.”

  She didn’t answer at first, but suddenly she began to talk – and what she said was dreadful and obscene. She called Kirby’s murderer everything foul that she could think of, and the tirade went on for several minutes. When she finished, she leaned back and closed her eyes, as if exhausted.

  Roger said: “You’re about right, Rose, that’s why we want him. What’s his name? Where does he live?”

  Her lips moved, as if talking were now an effort.

  “I dunno where he lives,” she said. “His name’s Mike. Mike Scott. I’ll tear his bloody eyes out. I’ll make him—” She jumped up and began to scream, and this time Roger took her roughly by the shoulders, forced her to sit down again, and beckoned Guiseppe. He stood over her while she drank the brandy. She was in no state to be left on her own that night, so he instructed the detectives to take her to Bow Street Police-Station.

  All the time he was thinking of the wanted man’s name – not Smith, but Scott; and a Jeremiah Scott already figured in this affair.

  Roger signed a bill which Guiseppe prepared for him, arranged for four men to stay at the garage to question any late-arrival taxi-drivers, and then went off in his own car to Chelsea. By the time he reached Bell Street he was taken with a fit of the shivers, and hoped he hadn’t caught a chill. It was a fine night now, although much cooler.

  Shivering, he took his keys out of his damp pocket and opened the door. He’d have to disturb the two women; he must put on dry clothes – and what wouldn’t he give for a hot bath! He glanced at his watch when he switched on the hall-light. It was just after two. The thermostat would heat the bath water in half an hour or so. He crept into the kitchen and switched on the heater, and then filled a kettle. He banged the kettle against the taps, and scowled at his clumsiness; that would probably wake Janet. He heard no sound, however. There was a bath-towel in the airing cupboard in a corner of the kitchen, and he took off his clothes and began to towel himself vigorously – no hope of getting warm, until he was dry. Gradually he started to glow. The kettle was beginning to sing.

  He turned to lower the gas – and as he did so a draught caught him, sharp and cold. The door was opening. He saw a man’s head. He grabbed a cup from the table, ready to throw. Then the head came farther into the room – a crop of brown hair and his own silk dressing-gown!

  “Noisy devil,” said this apparition. “Can’t a man sleep?”

  Roger lowered the cup. “Mark, you ass!”

  “That’s right, be offensive when I’ve been keeping your makeshift bed warm,” complained the other. He came in and closed the door. “Man in all his nakedness, eh? Get caught in the storm?”

  “I went for a swim,” said Roger.

  Janet had told him on the telephone that Mark Lessing had wanted to know if he would be back before midnight; hopefully, he had shaken down on the camp-bed.

  Lessing was tall and lean, good-looking in a way which made most people think that he was austere, even aloof. He collected old china and wrote books about it. China was his passion, but he had a secondary interest which at times superseded the first – he studied murder from every angle, including the psychological. Occasionally, he ‘helped’ Roger, and he could apply his theoretical knowledge expertly. From the beginning he had been interested in the Randall case.

  “You must be pretty tired,” he observed. “You go and tuck into bed – Jan’s left your pyjamas out for you – and I’ll bring you some tea. Me for an arm-chair for the rest of the night, and no argument.”

  “You can have the bed,” said Roger dryly. “I’m going out again. That’ll teach dilettantes like you the difference between dabbling and doing.”

  “Hot bath, hot whisky, with a lump of sugar in it, that’s what you want,” said Mark.

  “Get me the whisky, will you?” asked Roger.

  He went upstairs with the towel draped round his shoulders, and closed the bathroom door before turning on the hot tap. The room was soon filled with steam, and he soaked for ten minutes in the bath before Mark arrived with the hot whisky and sugar.

  “Any sound from the bedroom?” Roger asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “Clothes—”

  “Wear mine,” said Mark promptly. “I can borrow one of your suits in the morning.”

  “I’ll never be able to say you’re always short of ideas again,” said Roger.

  He dressed in the dining-room.

  “Noth
ing I can do in this, is there?” asked Mark.

  “Just pop out in the morning and find Sybil Lennox,” said Roger lightly. “No, I shouldn’t want you to stick your neck out in this job. I don’t like it a little bit.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Mute

  Roger didn’t go straight to the Yard, but turned into Cannon Row Police Station. Peel was in the charge-room with an elderly clergyman.

  “Mr Cartwright’s from the Deaf and Dumb Association, sir,” Peel said.

  “Very good of you to come, sir,” said Roger. “Have you seen the man Tommy?”

  Cartwright shook his head.

  “You know why we want to question him, I suppose?”

  “This gentleman says someone has been killed. I do hope this unfortunate man isn’t suspected.”

  “No, not personally.”

  Roger went into a brief account of Tommy’s known history and his association with the murdered man. Cartwright kept nodding, and when the story was finished he said: “I’ll help, gladly. Perhaps I can also help the man.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Roger. “The best thing is for us to write you out a list of questions we want answered, and you to try to get Tommy to tell you the truth.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve started on a list,” said Peel.

  “Good, let’s have a look at it.”

  There wasn’t much to add to the questionnaire, and Roger went along to get Tommy.

  The deaf-mute was in the small rest-room. He still crouched in a corner, as if that were a natural position for him, and looked as unkempt and derelict as he had at the café.

  Roger was fascinated when these two met. It wasn’t just Cartwright’s smile, but more the clergyman’s general expression, the way he came forward and took Tommy’s arm. As if by a miracle, Tommy was soothed. Then Cartwright’s fingers began to move, slowly, as if he realised that Tommy’s knowledge of the deaf-and-dumb language was likely to be scanty and imperfect. But Tommy held up his hands and made some kind of answer. The talon-like finger-nails were revolting as they clicked together.

  Then Cartwright turned to Roger.

  “Please leave us together, Mr West. He will talk more freely if we’re alone.”

  “All right,” said Roger, and pointed to a bell-push. “Ring when you’ve finished, please.”

  He went out to join Peel in the passage.

  They went across to the Yard, and the first thing he saw was the report from the ballistics experts.

  The bullets taken from Randall’s body were identical in size and barrel-markings with those taken from Goodwin’s chest. Randall had been shot by the same gun – Kirby’s gun.

  Just after five o’clock, word came from Cannon Row that the Rev Cartwright had done all he could. Roger went across and found him despondent. Apparently Relf had been the deaf-mute’s only friend. Tommy had ‘lived’ at the garage for over a year. He claimed to know nothing of Relf s activities, but had realised that his benefactor was in danger and had tried desperately to help him.

  “He may know more, Mr West, but I sincerely doubt it,” said Cartwright. “And I’m worried about him, I really am. He’s smothered with lice and filth, he needs decontaminating thoroughly. I have facilities at the hostel, and beg you to allow me to take him away.”

  “If you’ll accept responsibility for him, take him,” said Roger. “We can’t help him – you might be able to.”

  Cartwright looked astounded.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Cartwright squeezed Roger’s arm.

  “I shall always remember this, Mr West. I didn’t expect it at all. You’re very kind – most humane.”

  Roger grinned. “Well, I can guarantee that we’re human!”

  Twenty minutes later the pair had gone. A police-car followed them as a matter of routine. When the car had turned out of the gates, Peel rubbed his eyes and said: “Are we really as hard as Cartwright seemed to think?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder myself,” said Roger. “Forget it. We must put a call out for Michael Scott, and I want to see Jeremiah Scott tomorrow. Might be a coincidence in names, but—” He broke off, for speculation was pointless.

  The office work done, Roger drove to Wignall’s garage, but the men there had drawn a blank; there were no papers to help the police. A taxi-driver had telephoned Wignall, who arrived shortly afterwards. He was a chunky man who had little to say, and swore that he knew nothing about Relf’s private affairs.

  Then Roger went to see Relf’s body. The neck was broken, and death had been instantaneous.

  The contents of his pockets had been put in a heap by his side; there was little of interest, except his home address. A detective had already gone there, and found a two-roomed flat over some mews; but nothing came of a search there.

  It was well past seven o’clock when Roger reached home, after a telephone call to the hospital; Goodwin had passed a comfortable night.

  Roger slept from half-past eight until one o’clock, had a hurried lunch at home, went to the Yard to find nothing helpful had come in, and drove straight to Tucktos.

  The sprawling mass of buildings that was the main factory and printing works of Tucktos Limited spread over one of the northwestern suburbs of London, forty minutes by road from Scotland Yard. Roger was admitted by a uniformed commissionaire at the iron gates, for the whole of the factory grounds were walled or railed off. Lorries, several of them loaded with great rolls of paper, were standing about a huge shed.

  Once inside the building, Roger had a very different impression of it. The square entrance-hall was panelled with light oak; behind a desk three smartly dressed girls were sitting.

  Upstairs there was a huge office with glass walls, in which some two hundred people were working. A passage ran practically the whole length of the office, and on the other side were small offices, most of them also with glass walls. Two, at the far end, had wooden partitions, however, and the first door was marked: I Deverall, Sales Director.

  A middle-aged woman opened the door.

  “Please, Miss Grey, this is Inspector West,” breathed the boy who was guiding Roger.

  “Oh yes, Inspector! Come in.” Miss Grey led Roger across a small room to another door. She opened it and announced him.

  Two men were in the room beyond – one behind a flat-topped desk which was littered with papers and samples of boxes, one sitting in an easy chair in front of it. The first man was in his shirt-sleeves. He was probably in the middle thirties, although thick hornrimmed glasses made him look older.

  “Afternoon, Inspector. Cigarette?” He pushed a box across the desk and knocked some papers off; the secretary picked them up and then went out. “Sit down,” Deverall went on. “Still hot, isn’t it?” He flicked a lighter and Roger leaned forward to take the light. “Well, what can we do for Scotland Yard? Not often we have the chance to help.”

  His rather hard voice, his brusque manner, a peculiar air of condescension, all struck the wrong note. But Roger thought less of him than of the other man, who slouched back in his chair, with a smile that was half a sneer on his thin, rather gaunt face.

  So this was Jeremiah Scott, easily recognisable from his description.

  Roger said formally: “Not often I’ve any cause to come here, Mr Deverall.”

  “I should damn well think not!” said Deverall. “What’s afoot?”

  “I’m CID Criminal investigation, and I want to get in touch with a member of your Sales Staff, a Mr Jeremiah Scott.” Roger was still very formal.

  “Just imagine that,” drawled Scott.

  His voice was mellow and pleasant, quite unexpected from this gangling man with the almost forbidding appearance.

  Deverall rubbed his hands together.

  “And he’s right here, Inspector. There’s luck for you!”

  Roger started, as if he hadn’t known, but Scott straightened up and took out a slim, gold cigarette-case.

  “Don’t
pretend you didn’t know I was here,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to see you privately, Mr Scott,” Roger said.

  Deverall didn’t argue.

  “All right, if that’s the way you want it. I’ll call my secretary in, and you can use her office.” He stood up and pressed a bell, and the woman came in immediately. “Your notebook, Miss Grey,” said Deverall, and she bobbed out again. Deverall looked hard at Roger. “Inspector, I’m allowing this, but I hope it’s nothing to do with Tucktos business. If it is, I’ve a right to know.”

  “If it is, you’ll be told, sir.”

  Deverall flushed with annoyance.

  In the small office, Scott lowered his long figure to the typist’s chair, leaving an upright one for Roger, but Roger didn’t take it.

  “You knew Guy Randall, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “We’d met,” Scott drawled.

  “You met him on the day of his death, didn’t you?”

  “We met,” said Scott again. “We didn’t spend much time together, Inspector, and I only saw him once that day.”

  “Did he have anything to say to you?”

  “No – he seldom did,” Scott answered. He laughed – and the laugh, like his voice, was attractive. “Randall didn’t get along with me. He didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure and two whiskies in an evening were his limit …”

  “Weren’t you rivals?”

  “Rivals?” Scott’s eyebrows shot up. “I wouldn’t say that – if you mean I wanted his girlfriend, I just don’t like that kind.”

  “How well do you know Sybil Lennox?”

  “More than enough.”

  “Did Randall know that you and she were acquainted?”

  “I couldn’t say. Probably he did. But I knew her before she came up in the world. Like to know where, Inspector? Anmere RAF Station. Believe it or not, I was a bomber pilot and she was in the operations room. She thought too much of herself then, but when she started to get among wealthy friends, she thought she was God’s special gift to men.”

  Roger might have been ages discovering that the girl and Scott were acquainted; but in spite of the man’s frankness, he felt that Scott was amusing himself, almost mocking him. That might be just the nature of the man.