Sport For Inspector West

by John Creasey

They did not know where other stores were kept.

  “Find anything on them?” asked Roger, who was now up and dressed.

  Peel was sitting opposite him in the front room.

  “Only one thing that will interest you much,” said Peel. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Roger. “One from each man,” he added, and Roger opened the envelope and took out two programmes; they were for the previous Fulham home match.

  “Questioned them about this?” asked Roger sharply.

  “No – I thought it might be wise to let it sweat.”

  “When are Fulham at home again?” asked Roger.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  Roger grinned. “We’re going to see a football match! Nice to mix a bit of pleasure with duty sometimes, isn’t it?”

  Peel laughed.

  “And there’s nothing else?” said Roger.

  “Well, no – you know that Randall’s pal, Wilson, has been at Perriman’s, don’t you? He’s spent a lot of time with Akerman, and he’s obviously trying to make sure that he digs the Crown company well in, and keeps Tucktos out.”

  “Can’t blame him,” said Roger. “And is that the lot?”

  “There have been several food robberies at shops and warehouses up and down the country. There’s one queer thing too. We haven’t traced a quarter of the stolen food, and I’d say that a lot of it hasn’t been released. But it will be, soon, and I’ve been wondering how. We’ve always rather assumed that Perriman’s themselves would be above a racket, but they’ve a perfect set-up for disposing of stolen stuff, haven’t they? Thousands of shops.”

  Roger said: “I’d need a lot of convincing that they’re in it. Why steal their own stuff to sell in their own shops?”

  Peel leaned back.

  “They get insurance for the original loss and good prices for what they sell. They could pass it on to some of their own shops too. They’d have to use the manager and possibly some of the assistants at picked shops, but it could be done. It would mean that a good flourishing business would be ruined if it were found out, which makes me wonder whether someone in Perriman’s, someone high up, might be behind the racket, using the stores without the knowledge of the other directors.

  “It is possible, isn’t it?” insisted Peel, when Roger didn’t answer.

  Roger said slowly: “Yes. The seaside branches might be worth watching. We’ll send word round to some of the coastal resort police and get them to keep a look out.”

  “I suppose Mr Lessing couldn’t do anything at Brighton,” murmured Peel.

  “I’ll have a word with him.”

  Peel left soon afterwards.

  Mark Lessing telephoned later in the afternoon. He had nothing much to report, except that Sybil Lennox appeared to be benefiting from her rest. He saw a great deal of her, although she wasn’t by any means easy to approach, and so far she wouldn’t go places with him, beyond a walk along the promenade.

  Roger detected the keen note in Mark’s voice when he was asked to keep an eye on the Perriman branches in Brighton.

  “All I want to know is, if there appears to be anything unusual – unusual type of customer, dirty work at the back door after shop hours, mysterious vans – that kind of thing. Don’t do anything – just keep your eyes open,” Roger added.

  “Trust me,” said Mark.

  Roger was at the office next day, and had been through an accumulated mass of letters and memos when the telephone bell rang.

  “Liverpool CID on the line, sir,” said the operator. “Superintendent Haythorn.”

  “Put him through,” said Roger.

  A man spoke in a gruff, north-country voice.

  “That Inspector West … Haythorn of Liverpool here. You may remember, we met two years back, when you came up on the Larramy job.”

  “Oh yes, of course – how are you?”

  “I was all right,” said Haythorn dryly, “but I’m not feeling so good right now. We’ve just discovered some big losses at the docks. Bacon and canned foods mostly, taken during the night wi’out being noticed. Must be most of a hundred tons gone, and the night-watchman with it. Reckon it’s part of your business?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Roger heavily, and drew a pencil and paper towards him. “Fire away.”

  Haythorn gave him a detailed story and rang off.

  Three-quarters of an hour later the telephone operator said: “Southampton CID on the line, sir.”

  Another port.

  “Put ’em through, please.”

  The Southampton man’s voice, oddly enough, was as broad Lancashire as Haythorn’s had been; and his story was on similar lines.

  Liverpool, Southampton, Plymouth, Bristol, Cardiff, Newcastle, Hull, Harwich – from all round the coast, during the next twenty-four hours, came reports of similar losses. The robberies had all been bare-faced; lorries had driven up and the stuff loaded and taken away, aided and abetted by night-watchmen or other members of the warehouse staff.

  More and more reports came in from the provinces and from all over London.

  Next morning the Echo’s headlines screamed the story.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Match Winners

  Just after two o’clock on the Saturday afternoon, Roger was driving away from the Yard when Chatworth drove in.

  “Where are you off to?” demanded Chatworth.

  “As a matter of fact, sir,” said Roger, “I’m going to see Fulham play.”

  “You what? Confound it, Roger!” Chatworth was shaken. “This is hardly the time—eh? Who? Fulham?”

  “Yes, sir. Peel’s already there, and I’ve got the Divisional people watching all the turnstiles. They’ve got photographs of Jeremiah Scott, and several others whom we think might be concerned. Just an idea that they might make contact with one of the leaders on the ground. These programmes—”

  “Well, it’s one excuse for watching a football match,” said Chatworth. “All right. Nothing to report?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Chatworth nodded and Roger went back to his car.

  It was nearly half-past two when Roger reached Stevenage Road and the Fulham ground. The queues were quite long, turnstiles were clicking, dozens of men and boys were calling: “Programmes – ‘ficial programmes!” They were kept busy taking programmes out of the canvas satchels swung round their waists, making sales by the dozen. Roger walked slowly towards the stand turnstiles, and saw Peel with a thickset man who was probably from the Fulham Police Station. Peel noticed him and raised a hand.

  Roger joined him.

  “Sergeant Parker, sir, of Fulham.”

  “Hallo, Parker,” said Roger. “Nice easy job, to pick individuals out of this crowd.”

  “Often had to do it, sir,” said Parker.

  “I’ve fixed a seat for you in the centre stand,” Peel said to Roger. “Had a word with the manager. He doesn’t know what we’re looking for, of course. I haven’t seen Scott, but there’s one man I have seen. Akerman – the Buyer at Perriman’s.”

  “Any idea where he lives?” asked Roger thoughtfully.

  “I haven’t checked up, but I will. I—”

  Peel hesitated, then turned his face away from Stevenage Road and looked straight at the nearest turnstiles. Roger glanced in the same direction, and Peel whispered: “Couple just getting out of the Rolls, sir – recognise them?”

  “Well, well!” murmured Roger. “Samuel Perriman and the great Emanuel. Football fans!”

  Neither of the Perriman directors looked round or appeared to take the slightest interest in what was going on about them.

  “Let’s get in,” said Roger.

  They went to the next entrance and presented their tickets. Beyond the entrance was the back of the stand. An iron fence kept a small part of the enclosure separate from the rest, and small boys and a few men hung about near the rails. Among these were the Perrimans.

  Peel said: “Been here before, sir?”

  �
��Not this part – I usually have my two-bob’s worth,” said Roger.

  “Same here, sir. That’s Craven Cottage.” Peel pointed to a small house at a corner of the ground. “Home team’s dressing-room is in there, visitors through that side door.” He pointed to two cars. “Those belong to directors. The crowd’s waiting for the players who pass here on their way to the field. Must be nearly ready for the kickoff.”

  “That’s three-fifteen,” said Roger.

  “In ten minutes, then,” said Peel. “Anyone who hasn’t turned up now will have to be slippy. I can’t get over that couple of Dismal Jimmies. Fancy the Perriman’s—”

  “Need it be a poor man’s game?” came a voice behind them. They turned abruptly, to see Jeremiah Scott. The familiar halfgrin, half-leer curled his lips. “Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief – all come to football matches. And so, obviously, do policemen. Looking for anyone?”

  “We thought we might find you,” said Roger dryly.

  “Oh, always. Member’s ticket – didn’t you notice that when you went through my pockets? I like football, and so do the Perrimans.” Jeremiah laughed. “Often seen them here. Akerman appears now and again, probably so that the bosses can spot him. Any other information I can give the police before I take my seat?”

  “Not now, thanks,” said Roger.

  Jeremiah waved his programme mockingly, turned and disappeared beneath the stand.

  “That man’s too clever by half,” growled Peel.

  The enclosures were densely packed, the terraces were crowded except at the two far corners, and every barrier was crammed with people.

  Roger had a seat in the third row, near the Press and only a few yards away from the Perriman brothers, who were bending over their programmes. Roger felt that someone was looking at him, turned and saw the Tucktos man’s sardonic grin. Roger grinned and waved, and was at least certain that Scott hadn’t expected that. Then he scanned the people near him, and saw Akerman.

  A sudden roar of cheering made him glance round.

  The Fulham team were coming from the corner of the ground, strapping fellows wearing white shirts and black shorts, and then the air was split with another roar, much louder than the first – Rentown taking the field.

  Rentown won the toss and Fulham kicked off against a light breeze, coming from the Bishop’s Park end.

  It was surprising how quickly the ground emptied after the game. One minute there had been a cheering excited mass and a swarm of boys following the teams from the pitch; the next, there was quiet and the people thronged towards the exits.

  Roger saw the Perriman brothers leave, followed by Akerman. Perriman’s certainly supported Fulham. He lit a cigarette and a man said from his side: “Got a light, mister?”

  That was Scott again.

  Roger flicked his lighter.

  “Thanks,” said Scott. “Not a bad game, was it? Fulham just about deserved to win. See any bad men?”

  “At least one,” Roger said. Scott laughed.

  Peel came up. “There’s a drink going in the directors’ room, if you feel like one, sir,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t be a copper if he didn’t,” said Scott. He laughed again and turned away.

  “You didn’t see anything helpful, I suppose?” Peel said.

  “I can’t say I did,” said Roger, “except the number of people in this case who’ve a soft spot for Fulham. I—hello, Scott’s dropped something.”

  The tall man had dropped his programme, and Roger went and picked it up, then put it absently into his pocket.

  “Any reports from our fellows?” he asked.

  “Nothing at all, I’m afraid.” Peel began to lead the way beneath the stand. “It would be a good place to meet, though – messages could be easily passed on, couldn’t they?”

  Roger nodded.

  They went through a low doorway in a brick wall and found themselves in a small area – V-shaped, with one exit leading to the pitch, the other to the road. A crowd of people stood about. He saw one man nudge his companion, and recognised an Echo reporter. The man grinned and waved. Roger nodded and followed Peel to a side entrance to the Cottage itself. They entered a narrow passage, with doors on either side, a glass partition and a hatch, which was up, disclosing the office. The next door was open and was marked: ‘Secretary’s Office.’

  Inside, a hundred people seemed to be talking at once. There were nine men to every woman, standing, sitting or lounging about, drinking tea, beer or whisky and eating sandwiches.

  “As soon as this crowd has eased off a bit, I’ll take you to see the manager,” said Peel. “The more I think about those programmes found at Hurlingham, the more odd I find it, sir. Most people throw their programmes away, don’t they?”

  “Wouldn’t say so,” demurred Roger. “Not immediately after the game, anyhow.”

  He finished a beer, and looked up to see the Echo sports reporter standing in the doorway by the side of a heavily built man with a rugged, rather attractive face. The reporter was pointing at Roger, and Peel whispered: “That’s Osborne, the manager.”

  Osborne raised a hand to attract Peel’s attention and jerked his head towards the passage. Then he went out. Roger and his sergeant edged their way across the room, and found Osborne standing in the doorway of his office. Peel introduced Roger, they shook hands and Osborne said: “Come and meet our chairman of directors, Mr West. Bill”—he spoke to the steward—“shut the door and don’t let anyone come in until I open it again.”

  The office was quite small. There was a roll-top desk in one corner, and some odd chairs, a bookshelf and some filing cabinets. Dean, the chairman of directors, was a tall, smiling man, who gave Roger the impression that he had something on his mind. But first he offered drinks.

  “Enjoy the game?” he asked.

  “Thoroughly,” said Roger.

  “The boys were at their best today,” said Dean, lighting a cigarette. His hand was a little unsteady. Osborne leaned against the roll-top desk with a glass in his hand. “Yes, right on top of their form,” Dean went on. “Er—Mr West …”

  He broke off.

  Roger smiled.

  “Any particular reason for your being here today?” asked Dean. “In force, I mean – you’ve been watching the turnstiles and the crowd pretty closely, haven’t you?”

  “Never heard of pickpockets?” asked Roger lightly.

  Dean said eagerly: “Is that why you’ve concentrated so much? I know the local inspector well, of course; he didn’t say anything about a special pickpocket check today. Usually does, if one’s coming off. Did you come for pickpockets?”

  “Know of any other reason why we should be here?” asked Roger.

  Dean and Osborne exchanged quick glances.

  “As a matter of fact …” began Dean.

  “Yes, we do,” said Osborne bluntly. “We may be wrong, but one of our boys is missing.”

  “Boys?” echoed Roger. “Do you mean players?”

  “Not this time,” said Osborne. He lit a cigarette, and now seemed as troubled as the chairman of directors. “This one is our assistant trainer, Maidment. Hasn’t been with us long. We needed a second assistant to our trainer, and Maidment suited. Good recommendations, first-class at his job, but—”

  “He’s disappeared,” said Dean. “Made me furiously angry when I first heard about it. Still, if he can’t help it—”

  “I don’t quite follow you,” said Roger. “How do you know whether he can help it or not?”

  Osborne rubbed his long jaw, and then said: “He was here on a Tuesday afternoon last week, and that’s the last we heard about him. I went to his home myself – couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t answer the telephone. Found the house shut up, and a policeman seemed to be watching it.” Osborne grinned. “He seemed to be very interested in me until I told him who I was! And he’s a fan! It’s a house in Hurlingham, not very far away from here—”

  “Kent Street?” interposed Roger.

 
Osborne said softly: “So you know something about him, Inspector?”

  “I know all about that house in Kent Street,” said Roger, and began to feel real excitement. “How long had he lived at the house in Kent Street?”

  “He was in digs there – moved there when he got his job,” said Osborne.

  “Have you got his old address?” asked Roger.

  “Sure, it’s in the files. Like to have it?”

  “Please.”

  “Do you know anything against this house in Kent Street?” asked Dean tensely.

  “You might call it a home for crooks,” said Roger dryly, as Osborne opened a drawer in a filing cabinet and rummaged through some papers. “What build was he?”

  “Well—” began Dean.

  “Bill!” called Osborne, and immediately the door opened and the steward appeared. He was rather shorter than medium height and plump. “That’s about his figure,” said Osborne. “You’d say you were about the same weight as Maidment, wouldn’t you, Bill?”

  “Not a couple of pounds different,” said Bill, standing quite still, while Roger eyed him up and down and thought that he was remarkably like Tommy Clayton in build.

  Bill took himself off, while Osborne handed Roger a letter. It was written in careful, rather schoolboyish handwriting, and was a formal application for the post of second assistant trainer. The address was Manor Park, E12.

  “Now, Inspector, why did you come here? It wasn’t after the dips – you needn’t try that one on me. Is it about these murders?” Osborne asked bluntly.

  Roger said: “It could be. As a matter of fact, we found some of your programmes at this Kent Street house, and one or two people we’ve pulled in have had programmes in their pockets. So we checked to see if any suspects came here today. Drew a blank, as far as I can find out,” he added.

  Maidment had lived at the Manor Park address for two years. He was a single man, and his landlady knew very little about him, but she did know his dentist. So, at half-past eight that night, Roger went to see the dentist, who was reluctant to leave his fireside, but agreed to come to the Yard and bring with him his records of the work done on the mouth of Mr Maidment.

  By ten o’clock Roger knew that the body in the dump at Woodhall was that of the assistant trainer.