The Extortioners

by John Creasey

  “I thought you should know about this at once, sir,” Venables said; so it wasn’t Coppell. “Young Kevin Spray has been picked up.”

  “Where?” asked Roger, his interest quickened by a tone in the sergeant’s voice.

  “At Harwich, sir – where he was going on board the morning ferry to The Hague, with his Hokki. He was on the run all right, and”—that note, almost portentous and even ominous, grew deeper in Venables’s tone—“there’s blood on his Hokki motorcycle, although it’s been washed. A few spots were left on the underneath of the mudguards and the petrol tank. The Harwich police want to know whether we’d like them to test for the blood group, or send him to London with the machine and have the job done here.”

  Roger, ever watchful of the feelings of police in the provinces, answered at once; even as he digested this new piece of information.

  “Ask Harwich to do a test, and then send them both back.”

  “They did ask if we’d like to send someone up to fetch the lad,” Venables said.

  “If they can spare a man I’d rather they sent him,” decided Roger, and as he was about to ring off, he thought again of Coppell. “Any word from the Commander?”

  “I gave him your message, sir,” replied Venables. “He asked you to go and see him as soon as you got in. I assured him it would be before lunch.”

  “I’m on my way,” Roger said.

  He rang off on Venables’s “Very good, sir,” surprised at how heavy-hearted he felt, then suddenly exasperated with himself because he had forgotten to ask whether Kevin Spray had been alone. Venables would surely have reported had there been two motorcyclists, however. He nodded, gave the helpful constable a preoccupied smile, and started the engine. The constable held up traffic until he was on the move. He drove with studied concentration, as he always did when he had a great deal to think about; preoccupation could lead to carelessness. Soon, he was back in New Bond Street and heading for Piccadilly, cut across to Pall Mall with the lights favouring him, and was at the Yard in twenty minutes, good going in the rush-hour traffic. He left his car with a detective officer to take to the underground garage beneath the new building, and went up to his floor, glancing into Venables’s office first. The sergeant, who looked tall and somehow clumsy even when sitting down, banged his knee beneath his desk as he started to get up. He winced.

  “Any message from a Mr. Hubert Fellowes?” asked Roger. “No, sir,” answered Venables, giving his knee a surreptitious rub. “But the Commander rang only five minutes ago, sir – he’s getting very anxious to see you.”

  That was probably the understatement of the year!

  “I’ll go along to his office,” Roger said. “If Mr. Fellowes calls, I’ll see him any time – the sooner the better, and I don’t mind missing lunch.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Roger strode along to the Commander’s office, which was at the other end of this passage. He tapped on the door marked Commander, C.I.D., and Coppell roared: “Come in!” Roger opened the door, and was startled to see the Assistant Commissioner, Colonel Frobisher, a newly appointed, lantern-jawed man, sitting by Coppell’s desk.

  “It’s about time,” Coppell said, rasping. “What’s this about Professor Clayton coming to see you here last night?”

  “He came to see any senior officer and I happened to be here,” Roger replied. “Good morning, sir.” He looked at the A.C. who replied in a rather high-pitched voice: “Good morning.”

  “I want you to concentrate on the three suicides,” Coppell said. “Didn’t I make that clear enough?”

  “Yes,” Roger answered. It was no use taking umbrage because Coppell was calling him down in front of another senior official. “And I’m doing so, sir.”

  “The Clayton case?”

  “Commander,” Roger said, “Sir Douglas Fellowes did not commit suicide because he thought he was ill, nor for any political reason. According to his wife, he was being blackmailed because he had a mistress. So was Professor Clayton. The motivation is so similar I think we should consider the possibility that they are associated. I’m quite sure,” he added, as Coppell sat with his mouth agape and his hands gripping the arm of his chair. “I’ve just come from Lady Fellowes, who made her statement in confidence, and her daughter-in-law confirmed it. I am due to see her son, who is believed to know more details, in the next half-hour or so.”

  “Well – I’m – damned!” Coppell gasped, and then he turned to the Colonel and said gustily: “You see? Just as I told you. You think you’ve got Handsome West by the short hairs, and he gets away.”

  The A.C. gave a droll smile as he nodded.

  “I see exactly what you mean. What about the other two suicides, Superintendent? Might they also be to do with the same case?” He was relaxed and somehow reassuring; likeable, too.

  “I don’t yet know, sir.”

  “And Akers may not have killed himself,” Coppell said. He had recovered quickly and was frowning; almost scowling, causing a deep groove between his eyes. “Do you have any other reason for thinking the cases might be connected?”

  “Not positively,” answered Roger, “but Fellowes was in Australia about a year ago, and so was Clayton. More by luck than judgment that I found out, I’m afraid.”

  “We need more of that luck,” observed the Assistant Commissioner. “The article in the Globe caused a great deal of anxiety in high government levels. We need to know exactly what is happening so as to prove conclusively that there is no kind of political motivation.”

  Roger looked at him steadily, vividly mindful of his last question to Lady Fellowes. Coppell also stayed silent, as if sensing that an issue had arisen between the Superintendent and the Assistant Commissioner, and he would be wise to keep out of it. In Roger’s eyes there was a cold, calculating look; he had suddenly become fine-drawn and very intent. The Assistant Commissioner sat upright in a chair with leather padded arms and seat; curiously defensive.

  “What political motivation is suspected?” Roger demanded at last. “What is being kept back from us, sir? If we don’t know everything, our job is much more difficult than it need be. Was Sir Douglas suspected of some kind of double dealing?”

  The Assistant Commissioner replied quietly: “The possibility is considered – no one is suspect.”

  “Possibility of what, sir?”

  “Giving advance information about Britain’s conditions for extending the Common Market to Commonwealth nations,” answered Frobisher. “This possibility is being canvassed – so is the possibility that powerful groups in this country want to get us out at all costs. One way would be creating an issue by demanding entry of the Commonwealth, which Germany and France would certainly not allow. If the man organising such a movement were Sir Douglas Fellowes, then he would be extremely vulnerable to blackmail, and might prefer death to exposure. Are you absolutely sure the real trouble was domestic?”

  “As nearly sure as I can be so far,” Roger answered. “I expect to have convincing proof when I’ve talked to the dead man’s son.”

  “I want to know the moment you’ve talked to him,” declared Coppell, unable to stay silent any longer.

  The Assistant Commissioner simply nodded.

  Hubert Fellowes, at the age of twenty-six, had the knowledge, experience and appearance of a man ten years older, and was far more mature than most young men of his age. Startlingly like his mother, his once jet-black hair was beginning to grey prematurely. He was tall and lean, and moved with rare grace for a man; just as there was something slightly feline about his mother so there was something pantherish about him.

  “Yes, darling,” he said into the telephone to Helen. “I’ll go to see this man West at once.”

  “You can safely tell him everything,” Helen said.

  “He seems to have made a double conquest, you and mother at one swoop,” Hubert remarked with an undertone of laughter. “Don’t worry, pet. I won’t keep anything back. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve seen him.”

>   He rang off, and stood up from his desk.

  He had a small office in an old building near the Stock Exchange, with a desk squeezed into a corner by the window. Six other offices, partitioned off what had been a long, wide passage, were between him and the entrance to this fifth floor, where the old-fashioned plug-in type telephone exchange was manned by the receptionist – this particular one, an over-made-up blonde.

  “Do you know what time you’ll be back, Mr. Fellowes?” she asked.

  “Not until half past three at the earliest,” he said, and went out.

  The car of an old-type open-faced lift passed, going down, and rather than wait for it to return he ran down the stairs. He could go out of the main doors into Threadneedle Street, or by a side door into a narrow alley which led to the private parking area where he kept his motorcycle – a medium sized Raleigh.

  He went along the alley, past old stone walls, on uneven paving stones.

  No one else was in sight; this was a short cut to nowhere except the car park. He reached this area, still without seeing anyone, and headed for the motorcycle. As he cocked a leg over it, two small men appeared from behind a car, and rushed at him.

  He first heard, then saw them, and felt a flare of alarm.

  He tried to withdraw his leg, but the turn-up of his trousers caught in the saddle, and he was helplessly off balance when they reached him. They wore crash helmets and goggles; all he noticed except for this was a tightness at the corners of one man’s lips.

  Each carried a bar of iron.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Help!” But his voice hardly sounded and suddenly the two men were striking at his bare head. Blood spread. He felt agonising pain in his head and in his neck. He tried to cover his head and face with his arms, but two blows seemed to break the bones, and more showered on his head until more blood appeared and he lost consciousness.

  The two men turned and left him, still caught by the handlebars, head on the cobbles, face deathly pale; he hardly seemed to be breathing. Quiet settled on the parking place, broken by the distant sound of traffic and, closer by, the staccato roar of motorcycle engines.

  Roger looked into Venables’s room, but for once the sergeant was not at his desk. He went into his own office, expecting to see the time of an appointment for young Hubert Fellowes on top of a pile; there was none. He frowned. Venables wouldn’t forget, so it could only mean that Fellowes had not called. He glanced at a small electric wall clock which had a very white face; it was nearly twenty to two; much later than he had expected. On the other hand he was impatient because news was so vital.

  Wasn’t it a vital matter to Fellowes’s son, also?

  He decided to wait until two o’clock before checking with Helen, and opened the Akers and the Godden file. There was no longer any doubt; he must probe into the love-life of each man, and mustn’t lose much time. In an ordinary inquiry he would have sent Venables or another sergeant; possibly, an inspector. But he wanted to see this through himself. What kind of response would anyone else have got from Lady Fellowes, for instance?

  Sir Jeremy Godden’s offices were in Lombard Street, not far from young Fellowes. A secretary there might be able to give him some information. He put in a call, and was soon speaking to a woman with a very gruff voice: if she hadn’t called herself Mrs. Spooner he would have thought she was a man.

  “Yes, I was Sir Jeremy’s personal secretary … Yes, if you consider it necessary I can see you this afternoon … Three thirty would be the best time for me … Very well, Mr. West.”

  Roger rang off, with a feeling that he had been put in his place; he smiled faintly, then pulled a copy of an A.A. Tour Book towards him. Akers had an apartment somewhere between London and the small private airfield where he did much of his experimental work. The airfield, in Surrey, was at least an hour’s drive away.

  “No chance of getting out there until everyone’s gone home,” Roger decided. “Shall I go first thing tomorrow, or send Venables?” He had not made up his mind when the outside telephone began to ring, and he lifted it briskly.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a Mrs. Fellowes on the line, sir,” the operator said. “She says she must speak to you.”

  “Put her through,” ordered Roger. Was this a brush-off? Or was Hubert Fellowes already out of his office? These questions came very quickly before Helen Fellowes spoke in an agitated voice.

  “Hubert’s been attacked,” she stated with forced calm.

  “He’s been taken to Charing Cross Hospital. I am going there at once.”

  Almost as a reflex action, Roger said: “I’ll be there nearly as soon as you are.”

  But she rang off so quickly that he wasn’t sure she heard.

  Chapter Ten

  Second Victim

  Suddenly, there were a dozen things to do at once. Ring for Venables, who was out of his office, remember; call Information to check what they knew of the attack; call City Police, who would be in charge of the investigation; tell Coppell. As Information answered, the communicating door opened and Venables appeared, head bent low to avoid the lintel, shoulders rounded, expression on his usually lugubrious face eager.

  “We’ve just heard that Hubert Fellowes was attacked and found in a car park behind Threadneedle Street,” Information said. “Two motorcyclists were seen by one of the City officers to leave only ten minutes before a motorist who went there to park found him.”

  “I’m going first to the hospital, then to the place where it happened,” said Roger. “Will you tell City?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Roger rang off and looked up at his sergeant. “Hubert, the son of Sir Douglas, was to give me some information about his father’s affaire with another woman, and he’s been attacked in a car park behind his office apparently by two motorcyclists. His wife called him at his office and told him to come and see me, so he was being watched, someone at the switchboard gave information away, or he himself told a third party. Take two men to City, ask their help, and find out all you can.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “The office is at—”

  “I know it, sir,” said Venables, who had a genius for knowing what would be wanted of him next.

  “Then get going. I’ll be at Charing Cross Hospital, then the car park, then at Godden’s office in—”

  “Lombard Street, sir?”

  “One day he’ll be too clever for his boots,” Roger growled under his breath, but he nodded and made no comment. As Venables disappeared Roger rang for a car and driver to be downstairs for him; this was no occasion to have parking anxieties. Next he rang Coppell, whose secretary answered.

  “The Commander won’t be back for at least an hour, sir.”

  “Tell him Sir Douglas Fellowes’s son has been attacked and I’m on that job,” Roger said. “I’ll report as soon as I can.” He rang off and then picked up his ‘murder bag’, a box-like case not unlike a doctor’s, which held all he would need at the scene of a crime. The City Police would have this well under control but it was wiser to go prepared for fresh trouble. He felt bothered by some factor he couldn’t place – something he had overlooked, or at least wanted to think about.

  His car, the Rover 3½ litre, was outside the Victoria Street entrance of the Yard, a detective officer standing by it.

  “Afternoon, Jones,” Roger said. “Charing Cross Hospital, and wait for me.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Roger sat back in the car, and for a few moments actually closed his eyes. The pressure had built up so suddenly, as it often did, that he felt as if he had been running, and had come to a standstill. He had a hazy kind of headache and faint nausea in his stomach; only then did he realise that he hadn’t had lunch. He leaned forward.

  “Pull in where you can and get me some fruit – from a barrow boy will do.”

  “No lunch, sir?” Jones didn’t turn his head. “No time,” Roger replied.

  “I know just the place,” declared Jones. He
took a left turn into a narrow street, then into a cul-de-sac, where no cars were parked. At the far end was a café with fruit and sandwiches piled in a narrow window. Jones parked half on the pavement, and got out smartly. In a very few minutes, while Roger sat back and allowed thoughts to drift through his mind, the driver returned with two apples, a pear and some ham sandwiches, all in cellophane bags.

  “Thanks,” Roger said warmly. “How much?”

  “Eight shillings, sir – or forty new pence.”

  Roger paid with what he still thought of as two-shilling pieces, and sat back. The sandwiches were fresh, and enjoyable; he found himself ‘seeing’ those on the tray at Lady Fellowes’s flat. Ah! That was what troubled him; he should have placed a close watch on Lady Fellowes and her daughter-in-law Helen, there was no way of being sure of the motive for the attack on Hubert, no way of being certain his mother and his wife were not in danger.

  Roger sent an order through to the Yard, to have the two women and the flat watched, then sat back to finish his snack. He was trying to stop juice from the pear drooling down his chin as they turned into the forecourt of the hospital, which was tucked away behind St. Martin-in-the Fields. He thrust a sticky handkerchief into his trousers pocket as he entered the hospital. Two young porters were sparring behind the reception desk, but swung towards him immediately, one blond, one black-haired and almost black skinned.

  “Help you, sir?”

  Roger showed his card. “I want to see Mr. Fellowes,” he said.

  “You won’t be able to do that,” the young Jamaican said. “He’s in surgery.”

  “His wife’s with the matron of Accident Ward,” volunteered the other. “Shall I take you up, sir?”

  “Please.”

  Hospitals looked the same, smelled the same; sharply antiseptic. Roger’s mouth felt tacky and dry as he went along with the blond young man. They turned into a small room where Helen Fellowes was sitting with a small sharp featured woman in a blue gown: the Matron.