The Executioners

by John Creasey

  Rachel del Monde was kneeling in front of the fireplace, feeding paper to the flames. She did not see him at first. The window was of the sashcord type, with one large pane at the bottom, another at the top. If he smashed the glass he might cut himself badly, and still not be able to get in.

  Davis called out from below: “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Take two men, and get into Miss del Monde’s office,” Roger called back. “This is urgent. She’s burning papers. Threaten to break in the door if she doesn’t open.”

  “Right!” cried Davis, as if he could ask for nothing more. The big Jamaican, standing below, stretched up his long arms to help Roger down, while Rachel, kneeling before the leaping flames, looked as if she herself was burning with anger.

  In the fireplace was a heap of grey ash and badly charred paper, A few pale brown pieces were on one side, plucked from the embers by Davis and a policeman. Rachel del Monde stood by defiantly, while Medlake moved about the office, his hands clasped together, his face set, but looking strikingly handsome.

  “Your men had no right at all to force their way into this room. No right at all.”

  “Miss del Monde was seen to be destroying documents which might have proved material evidence in the investigation,” Roger said stonily. He fingered the yellowed pieces, selected two, and picked them up. “Here are some line drawings which may be relevant, sir.”

  “I don’t for one moment believe they are,” Medlake said. Roger swung round to the girl.

  “What were you burning, Miss del Monde?”

  “Paper.”

  “What paper?”

  “Waste paper.”

  “Is it customary for you to burn your waste paper in that grate?”

  “If it contains confidential information, yes.”

  “Such as drawings of the kind sent to such people as Cecil Chayter and Michael Leep?” Roger asked roughly.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Miss del Monde,” Roger said, “we shall need to discuss this with you again very soon. Please don’t leave London without informing me or my office in advance.”

  She still didn’t speak.

  “Miss del Monde has no intention of leaving London,” Medlake declared.

  “Then my request won’t inconvenience her, sir, will it?” Roger said. “Do you still insist on a search-warrant?”

  “Oh, do what you please!”

  “Thank you, sir. Then I will have the search started at once.” Roger nodded curtly and went out, followed by Sergeant Davis and another man, carrying the charred paper in a cardboard box. The Yard men had arrived to search the house, but were waiting for the warrant – and with them was Waldo Kane, smiling with satisfaction.

  “At least we didn’t lose any time,” Roger said. “I want the study and the office searched for drawings or cartoons, lists of names of released murderers, or anything which might indicate a specific interest in the murderers who have been released in the past six months – and particularly anything to do with a man named Joe Mason.”

  “The one you caught,” Kane remarked, “Think he was planted for your especial benefit, sir?”

  Roger smothered a grin.

  “Tell me your conclusions after you’ve seen Sir Solomon and Miss del Monde,” he said. “Had Mason reached the Yard when you got there?”

  “Just arrived, sir.”

  “Good.” Roger took the wheel of his car, and tried out the pedals; his left leg was very tender but if he drove with care it should he serviceable. He pulled up the leg of his trousers and surveyed the damage gloomily.

  “That’s not going to be much fun,” he muttered.

  At the Yard, he called in at the First Aid Room and had the wound dressed; there was no need for further treatment, but an elderly nurse advised him to rest the leg for a few days. He promised to do this as soon as he could, and limped out of the room to the lift, then along to his office. It was empty, but before he readied his desk the communicating door opened and Frisby appeared, obviously anxious.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’ll survive,” said Roger. “I want to see Joe Mason, in here.”

  Frisby actually moistened his lips with a nervousness rare in him.

  “What’s all that about?” demanded Roger.

  “You won’t be able to see Mason yet,” answered Frisby, in a subdued voice. “He’s been rushed to hospital, sir, with a suspected fracture of the neck. According to the doctor, it’s a miracle that he’s alive.”

  After a long, tense pause, Roger limped round his desk, dropped into his chair, and said gruffly: “And if he dies, I killed him.” After a pause, he went on: “If the Commander’s in his office, I’d like to see him.”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s on his way to see you,” said Frisby. “His assistant just telephoned me. He’s heard you’ve injured your leg, and—”

  Before Frisby could finish, the door opened and Coppell came in. He looked extremely angry.

  Chapter Twelve

  Missing

  “What’s this about your leg?” Coppell demanded.

  “Nothing serious, sir,” Roger answered.

  “The way I heard it, you were already half-way to the grave.”

  “Not me, sir,” Roger said. “That’s Mason.”

  The door closed on Frisby, who must have hated to see himself cut off from what was about to be said. Roger braced himself to take the thunderbolts he sensed were imminent; he had seen Coppell annoyed, but never as angry as he was now.

  “Could that damage to Mason have been done after you pushed him down the stairs?” Coppell demanded.

  “Who told you I’d pushed him?”

  “Medlake did.”

  Roger thought: so he’s not so dumb. “No, sir,” he said. “There’s no reason at all to think Mason could have been injured after the fall. I examined him myself, and thought he could safely be taken away.”

  “Examine his neck?”

  “No.”

  “Hmph. How’d it happen?”

  “I took the only course I could to stop him from escaping after he’d made a brutal attack on—” Roger hesitated.

  “Why hesitate?” Coppell barked.

  “I’m not so sure now that there was a brutal attack, it could all have been faked, but I didn’t think so at the time.”

  “What will you do if Mason dies?”

  Roger said, formally: “Isn’t it a question of what you’ll do, sir?”

  “It’s a question of what the newspapers and Sir Solomon Medlake’s followers push the Home Office into telling me to do,” growled Coppell. “My God, do they expect us to use kid gloves with the baskets?”

  Roger’s heart leapt.

  “That’s done me a world of good, sir!”

  Coppell grunted. “Better have the whole story in a report with all possible details, you’ll need it later,” he said. He sat down on a corner of Roger’s desk. “Yes, I’ve had Medlake on the blower. He accuses you of rudeness, breaking police regulations, assault and uttering threats.”

  “All true technically except possibly the rudeness,” Roger said.

  “What happened?”

  Roger reported quietly, acutely conscious of Coppell’s slackening tension and the increased pain and throbbing of his leg; he wondered whether the bandage was too tight. As he finished, he picked up the cardboard box of paper and handed them across the desk.

  “… She was burning something, I suspect the drawings we’re after. The paper is of the kind used for drawings, the lines similar in colour and thickness to those already in our possession. We might prove that these were copies of the same drawings – copies which Miss del Monde was bent on destroying once she realised I was serious about the search-warrant. Half a moment, sir.” He lifted the telephone connected to Frisby’s office, and Frisby answered at once. “Find out if there’s a lab report on the weapon which Joe Mason used. If there is, I want it.”

  “Right away,” Frisby said. His voice rose urgen
tly. “Don’t ring off, sir! There’s something else in.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Frisby didn’t need telling who was here.

  “I don’t think it should,” Frisby said. “I fancy the Commander ought to hear about it right away—after you, that is.”

  Roger hesitated for a split second, aware of both Coppell’s intent gaze and Frisby’s sense of urgency. Here was a chance to give Frisby a break, by letting him tell his news direct to the Commander.

  “Come in and tell us about it,” Roger said, and rang off. He sensed Coppell’s disapproval but pretended not to notice it. “Frisby has an urgent report you’ll want to hear about.”

  “I hope it’s worth hearing,” growled Coppell. “What’s this about a laboratory report?”

  Before Roger could answer, there was a tap at the communicating door, and Frisby came in, diffidently. He had smoothed down his wispy hair, straightened his tie, brushed the collar and shoulders of his jacket; Roger had never seen him so obviously anxious to impress. He walked erectly, and spoke directly to Coppell.

  “Good afternoon, Commander.”

  “All right, Frisby, what is it?”

  “Seven of the eleven released murderers who live in the London district are missing, sir,” Frisby announced, and stood silent, almost at attention, while the significance of the statement he had blurted out so baldly gradually began to dawn on Roger; suddenly it filled him with consternation.

  “Missing?” he echoed.

  “What do you mean, missing?” demanded Coppell, as if he were only just beginning to grasp the significance of the statement.

  “They’ve disappeared from their homes,” Frisby declared, almost desperately. “It’s a fact, sir. Some have been gone for several days. It looks to me as if all seven were driven away – hounded, if you see what I mean, sir. We’ve checked closely. They’d all been sent those drawings for weeks before they vanished. Each of the seven just walked out from where they were living, and didn’t come back. Seven, sir.”

  As Frisby was talking, Roger stretched out for the telephone. Coppell was so intent on the story that he did not seem to hear or notice Roger, who flipped open a file with his left hand, until he came to a list of the names and addresses of all the released murderers. A man said: “Information.”

  “Superintendent West here,” said Roger. “I want a special twenty-four-hour watch kept on the following people, wherever possible, and on all the following addresses, starting from now. Got that?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  “James Arthur Boyden …” Roger began.

  Coppell muttered: “Shutting the stable door.” He was obviously badly shaken.

  “Is this the list we’ve been working on for Mr. Frisby?” Information wanted to know.

  “Yes.”

  “We have the complete list, sir.”

  “Right. Don’t lose a moment at any address,” Roger said. “And I want to know if there is any kind of trouble with any of the individuals.”

  “We’ll see to it, sir.”

  “Right,” Roger said again, and rang off. His leg was still throbbing and his head aching, but his mind was crystal clear. He felt again the driving sense of urgency which had touched him when he had first seen Joe Mason. Now he felt sick at the thought that Mason was seriously hurt. It would be only a matter of time before Jeremiah Taylor’s Abolitionists, the fanatical pure-in-hearts and inevitable busy-bodies began to talk of police brutality and prejudice against the released men.

  Coppell was saying to Frisby: “Where did these reports come from?”

  “A Detective Officer Kane,” Frisby said.

  “Don’t think I know him.”

  “He’s from S.W. Division,” Roger said. “Sees this as his big chance.”

  “He’s on his way here, should arrive at any moment,” interpolated Frisby, and then he almost exploded: “My God, does that man move!” Frisby turned to the small map of London with all the Divisions clearly defined. “Like me to mark this, sir?”

  Normally, Roger would have marked the map himself, but he did not relish the idea of getting to his feet, so he nodded. Frisby opened a small box on the mantelpiece and took out some red-headed pins. Coppell looked gloomily down at Roger,

  “Seven missing can’t be coincidence.”

  “Not a chance of it,” Roger agreed.

  “Why didn’t we get on to this before?”

  “That’s something I mean to find out.” Already Roger boggled at the thought of what this could mean: of the inevitable crash of sensation once the newspapers got the story. Frisby was stabbing into the map, and saying clearly: “Golders Green … Tottenham … West Ham … Clapham … Old Kent Road … Whitechapel … Aldgate … Bethnal Green … Another in Bethnal Green … Fulham … Ealing … See how fast Kane moved, sir?”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Coppell.

  “These are the places where the released murderers lived. Detective Officer Kane contacted them all before telephoning his final report, but he sent in two preliminary ones.” Frisby’s usual calm was more ruffled than Roger had ever known it.

  “What I can’t understand is why we didn’t get a hint sooner,” Coppell complained, “Seven is a hell of a lot.”

  As he spoke, there was a sound in the next room, and an exclamation which could have meant anything. Frisby moved quickly to the communicating door and opened it an inch. The room beyond was cut off from Roger’s line of vision, “Kane!” Frisby said sharply.

  “Thought you’d gone,” Kane said almost resentfully. “Is Handsome in?”

  Frisby said with great precision: “Superintendent West and the Commander are waiting for details of your report.”

  “The Command—!” Kane broke off.

  “Why don’t you two stop muttering?” Coppell growled. “Come on in … Now. What happened, Kane?”

  A sudden and totally unexpected encounter with the Commander was enough to shake any man, and Roger realised that this would test not only Kane’s self-confidence but his quick-wittedness. There was hardly a pause before he came in smartly, his expression eager and very young. He looked Coppell straight in the eyes.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I have some notes for my report, if you would find them helpful.”

  “Tell us what happened, Get on with it.”

  “I visited the home of the first man on the list of released murderers, sir – James Arthur Boyden, at Golders Green, the one nearest Cecil Chayter, whom I had already been watching on Mr. West’s instructions. Boyden lived with his sister, a semi-invalid who was worried because her brother hadn’t been home for three days. He had received four drawings – like these, sir.” Kane took a packet from his pocket and with a certain neatness extracted two drawings, one of which he handed to Coppell, the other to Roger.

  Roger saw a strongly drawn picture of a bath-tub, and a woman being pushed under the water in it; Boyden had been convicted of murdering his wife in a bath. One enormous hand was pressing down on the woman’s head and her face showed clearly, distorted with terror.

  “The artist is bloody clever,” Coppell remarked. “Go on.”

  “I then went to John Wilberforce’s place at Tottenham, sir, and saw Wilberforce, who is bedridden. His wife told me he had received no drawings. I next visited Alec Bull, who lives over a shop in Aldgate. He had had six. He was last seen four days ago. He lives with a woman who says the drawings were driving him off his head, and he had subsequently threatened to do away with himself.”

  “Why the devil didn’t she report it?” Coppell growled.

  “I would say that her fear of the police is fairly deep-rooted, and that she would suffer anything rather than approach them,” Kane said quietly. “But I thought this second disappearance was rather more than coincidental, and worth watching, so I reported by telephone to Mr. Frisby. I then visited seven more of the men on the list, and found two missing. So I telephoned the local Divisions to get them to check the other addresses of released murderers, rather than
delay the investigation by doing it alone. They reported another three missing, making seven in all. When I informed Mr. Frisby he told me to get back here as soon as I could. So I dropped everything, and came.”

  “What would you have done if you hadn’t dropped everything?” demanded Coppell.

  “Checked on them all in person,” answered Kane promptly. “Mind if I make a suggestion, sir?”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “The listed men ought to be closely watched,” said Kane. “We need to know all there is to know about them – whether they’ve any other friends, such as Mr. Jeremiah Taylor, for instance. He is the one who goes to see them all and offers the hand of friendship, a golden handshake more often than not.”

  “We all know about Taylor. Mr. West has arranged surveillance.” Coppell moved slowly towards the door, eyeing Kane, then glancing at Roger. “Let me see a report as soon as it’s ready. Handle the whole job as you think best.”

  “What about the Press?” asked Roger.

  “What about them?”

  “I think it would be better to tell them the whole story, rather than let them, find it out. Once they get it, they’ll go to town.”

  “And they might as well go our way,” Coppell observed. “All right.” He nodded to Frisby and Kane, and it was Kane who moved quickly across to open the door and close it on him with a: “Good afternoon, sir,”

  Before he could turn round, one of Roger’s telephone bells rang, and at the same instant there was a tap at the door. Kane reopened it smartly, as Roger said: “West.”

  “A Mr. Cartwright of the Daily Globe would like a word with you, sir.”

  “Tell him I’m in conference,” Roger said. It would be folly to give one newspaper a start on the others, the co-operation of them all was urgently needed in this affair. He rang off, and looked up at a tubby man in a white smock who had just come in, Coppell towering behind him,