The Extortioners

by John Creasey

  Roger saw Helen’s head turn.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said. “How is he?”

  “Who—” began the Matron.

  “Superintendent West of New Scotland Yard,” breathed the porter.

  “No one will tell me, only that he is being operated on and it is very serious,” Helen replied. Her voice was steady and she was dry-eyed but very pale. “Do you know what happened?”

  “I’m on my way to find out,” Roger said. “What can you tell me?”

  “Only that I telephoned him and he promised to come and see you as soon as he could.”

  “Where was he when you spoke to him?”

  “At his office.”

  “He couldn’t have been at a restaurant, or—”

  “Of course not,” interrupted Helen impatiently. “I called him at his office.”

  “On a direct line?”

  “No, through the office exchange. He has no direct—” She broke off with a gasp, as if suddenly realising what Roger was driving at. She leaned back in a tubular steel armchair, staring at him, and for the first time the Matron moved so that Roger could see her. The porter had gone. “You mean, someone may have—have talked about where he was coming?”

  “Yes,” Roger said.

  “Mr. West,” the Matron said at last. “Mrs. Fellowes is already suffering from a great strain. I do hope you won’t make it any worse.”

  “Be sure that I’ll try not to,” Roger replied, and went on to Helen: “Do you know if your husband had a confidante at the office, Mrs. Fellowes?”

  “He wouldn’t confide in anyone – about this,” Helen said. “I’m absolutely certain.”

  She could be wrong, but she was obviously sure she was right and there was no point in asking questions about that.

  “Does Lady Fellowes know?” he inquired. “Yes.”

  “Is anyone with her?”

  “Yes,” answered Helen. “And I shall telephone as soon as there is news.”

  “The moment we have word from the operating theatre, we will tell Mrs. Fellowes,” the Matron put in.

  “And please telephone me – and leave a message if I’m not in my office.” Roger gave her a card as he stood up, turned to the girl and repeated: “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  There were tears in her eyes as she nodded.

  Roger went out, more shaken in a way than when he had gone in; seeing the girl had made the tragedy so much more vivid. And a measure of the responsibility was his. He had asked her to telephone her husband, and Hubert Fellowes had been attacked before he could get to the Yard. Surely the attack had been to stop him; what other possible reason could there be? The car and Jones were waiting for him; the two porters watched from the main doors.

  “Number 181 Threadneedle Street,” Roger ordered. “Do you know the parking place just behind it?”

  “I’ll soon find it,” Jones said.

  In fact it was easy, for two uniformed City policemen with the City crown on their helmets, were on duty by the narrow entry road; until they realised it was a police car, they refused entry. Soon, Roger stepped out into a cobbled courtyard hemmed in by tall buildings. At one side was a heavy motorcycle, with chalk marks alongside it – marks which indicated where the victim of the affair had lain. Several plainclothes men from the City Police were examining some marks on the cobbles, and Venables was with them.

  “Any luck?” Roger asked generally.

  Venables started and one of the others straightened up slowly; he was an inspector and an old acquaintance of Roger’s, a greying man with a very thin face and very thin lips which curved into a surprisingly attractive smile.

  “Your sergeant had us looking for motorcyclists,” he remarked.

  “Find any?” asked Roger, nodding to Venables.

  “Some have been here and we’ve several sets of tyre prints,” the City man replied: “And we’ve found three different passers-by who say they saw two motorcycles go off about the time of the attack.”

  “Sir,” said Venables.

  “Well?”

  “Some prints of Japanese tyres made for Hokki motorcycles were isolated at the Hampstead house this morning,” Venables reported. “So if these prints are the same we may have made a good start.”

  “You concentrate on them,” Roger ordered, and was rewarded by a flash of a smile as he added: “Keep me in touch at the office.” He turned to the City man. “I’ve another job I’d like to do upstairs; can you spare a few minutes?”

  “Of course.” The City man, whose name was Pilkington, moved with him along the narrow road. Neither officer found the situation strange although there was strangeness in it, for the City of London Police covered a small area in the heart of Metropolitan London, and was quite separate from the area covered by the Metropolitan Police; when investigations overlapped, the two forces worked closely together; but here, the Inspector was officially in charge; Roger, though senior in rank, was not able to direct any course of action.

  “What’s on?” asked Pilkington.

  “I think that someone in Hubert Fellowes’s office overheard his conversation with his wife when she asked him to come and see me,” Roger said.

  “And set out to stop him?” Pilkington flashed.

  “Possibly.”

  “Who—”

  “It could be the telephone operator. It could be someone in whom Fellowes confided,” Roger said. “Will you check it?”

  “Like a shot,” agreed Pilkington. “But …” He paused as they reached the front entrance of the building.

  “But what?” asked Roger.

  “If you’re right, and if the attack was made by two motorcyclists, then they were pretty close by to get here in time.”

  “Yes,” agreed Roger. “I don’t know the exact timing yet, and I do know that it seems unlikely. But if you’ll check, I’d like to get along and see someone else in your manor – but someone about whom we’ve been officially consulted.”

  “Sir Jeremy Godden?” asked Pilkington.

  “His secretary.”

  “Old battleaxe,” Pilkington remarked. “I wish you luck. Will you come along to Old Jewry afterwards?”

  “That, or telephone,” Roger said.

  “Look in if you can,” urged Pilkington, which was his way of saying that the City Police would like him to visit their headquarters in person; it was, in its way, a very real compliment.

  Pilkington went into the building. Jones was standing by, and he asked: “Shall I get the car, sir?”

  “I’m going to Godden’s office in Lombard Street,” said Roger, “and I’ll walk, but you get there in the car as soon as you can.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Jones went off, and Roger found himself walking with a stream of people towards Lombard Street. It was difficult to hurry, the crowd was so thick, but as far as he knew there was nothing happening to draw them. Soon, he was able to cut through an alley and another courtyard to the street he wanted, and was close to the Godden office. He found this to be a fairly small but modern building, jammed between much older ones. On the noticeboard by the two lifts was a list of occupants; Godden and Lynch, Commercial Bankers, were on the fifth of seven floors. He stepped out of the lift on to a reception area, where a young woman who was beautifully turned out, sat at a large desk.

  “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

  “I’ve an appointment with Mrs. Spooner,” Roger said. The young woman gave a considered smile.

  “Are you Chief Detective Superintendent West?”

  Roger couldn’t resist saying: “Roger West.”

  “Chief Detective Superintendent Roger West, thank you, sir. I will tell Mrs. Spooner you are here.”

  She turned to an ultra-modern press-button telephone exchange and pressed a button, announced Roger, and then said: “Yes, Mrs. Spooner.” She turned to Roger. “If you will go through the swing doors and turn right, Mrs. Elizabeth Spooner will meet you.”

  She
had grey eyes, which twinkled. Roger’s twinkled back.

  Then he went through the swing doors, wondering what the ‘old battleaxe’ would be like. A long passage, with several doors leading off, was empty until he was halfway along, when a woman turned the far corner and came towards him. She was tall, her grey hair cut in a severe Eton crop, and Roger fancied she would be more at home on the hunting field than in the offices of Godden and Lynch. She approached with a curiously one-sided walk, and he thought ‘battleship, not battleaxe’. Gripping his hand with one considerably larger, she said: “You are very prompt,” in her unmistakable voice, and led him into a room at the far end of the passage: obviously, her office. He had an impression of spaciousness, but before he could take in the room or indeed the woman, she closed the door and went on aggressively: “I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Superintendent, but since you called I’ve been threatened with a violent death if I talk to you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Battleaxe’

  They stood facing each other, a few feet apart.

  The ‘old battleaxe’ now looked exactly what Pilkington had called her. She had a massive jaw and a small, thin mouth. Her skin had the very lined and leathery look of someone well into her sixties. Her nose was broad at base and bridge; broken, probably early in youth; but for her huge but well confined bosom, Roger would have thought she was a man. Her eyes were small and deep set; very bright blue.

  “So you’ve been threatened with violent death if you talk to me,” Roger said, quietly.

  “Yes. Also—”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Roger interrupted.

  “What do you expect me to do?” She didn’t ask him to sit down but stood with an aggressiveness rare in both man and woman; he had no idea what was actually going through her mind but he wasn’t surprised at the effect she had on Pilkington.

  Roger smiled, disarmingly.

  “I expect you to tell me the truth – that Sir Jeremy killed himself because he was being blackmailed, possibly over a woman, not—”

  “How the burning Hades did you know that?” she cried.

  There was satisfaction in having completely taken her off balance; she actually drew back a step. But such satisfaction was unimportant; what mattered was her admission; and in a way he was nearly as badly shaken as Elizabeth Spooner; it had seemed almost incredible that the cause of the third suicide should appear to be identical with the first two.

  He answered: “It seems to be part of a pattern.”

  “To hell with that! Who told you?”

  “Mrs. Spooner,” Roger said stiffly. “I don’t make a habit of lying. If any person told me, you did. This is the third suspected suicide I am investigating, and the other two are said to have had this motivation.”

  “So you took a shot in the dark,” she grumbled.

  “Yes. How long had the affaire been going on?”

  “Ten years,” answered Elizabeth Spooner, not yet mollified. “Sir Jeremy travelled a great deal on business, and his – lady friend – often went with him. They did not meet in London very much. She is abroad now,” the woman added. “She collapsed at the news, and I persuaded her to go and stay with friends.”

  “I see,” Roger said, heavily. He wanted to stick to the main issue, and asked: “And you think he was afraid of divorce and the resultant scandal if the truth came out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he justified in his anxiety?”

  “Probably. You’d better ask his wife.”

  “Were you aware of the extra-marital liaison?”

  “Yes. I was Sir Jeremy’s confidential secretary.” She put just enough emphasis on the word ‘confidential’ to show that she was recovering her spirit.

  “Do you know who was blackmailing him?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the police with the real explanation?”

  “He did not wish me to.”

  “Did he tell you in advance that he was going to kill himself?”

  “No. He left me a letter.”

  “And you respected his dying wish rather than help us find the people who drove him to commit suicide,” Roger said; he made it sound like an accusation.

  “Yes,” she said, flatly. “And I would again.”

  “Where is the letter now?”

  “I destroyed it.”

  “Who threatened you just before I arrived?” Roger demanded, without any change in tone or expression; and she answered in the same way.

  “A man.”

  “Did you recognise the voice?”

  “Yes. The same man had telephoned Sir Jeremy several times.”

  “Could you identify the speaker?”

  “No. But I would recognise the voice at any time.”

  “What exactly did the man say to you?”

  “He said that I would probably have a visit from a Mr. Bloody Handsome West of Scotland Yard, and if I knew what was good for me, I would not give Bloody West any information.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing. I hung up on him.”

  “Are you nervous of what might happen as a result?”

  After a long pause, she answered quietly: “Yes, I am. I don’t want to be knocked about. Do you think he was serious?”

  “Yes,” answered Roger, “although if he knows for certain that you’ve told me all you can, he may not make any attack – he may decide it’s a waste of time.” They hadn’t left Clayton alone after his visit, though, but there was no point in alarming her. A new thought entered his head: neither Clayton nor young Fellows had been actually killed; it was almost as if only their temporary silence mattered.

  “So there have been others,” Elizabeth Spooner breathed, and before Roger could speak, she went on: “What do you want me to do, Mr. West?”

  “I would very much like you to dig far back in your memory, to the time when you first had any reason to suspect that Sir Jeremy was being blackmailed, and write down every related incident which followed. The number of times this particular man telephoned, for instance, any confidences which Sir Jeremy placed in you about the problem. A complete history, in other words.” She gave an almost imperceptible nod before he went on: “And before I leave I would like you to tell me all you can about his wife and family.”

  “He had no family,” she answered at once. “Just his wife – the sister of one of the other partners in the firm. I think he was as much concerned about his brother-in-law as his wife. He would probably have been compelled to leave the firm.” She raised her hands. “I cannot be sure about this but I think so.”

  “Will you do what I ask?” Roger said.

  “Of course.”

  “And telephone my office the moment the man telephones again.”

  “Yes. Do you expect him to?”

  “I expect him to call as soon as I’m gone,” Roger told her, “and I expect him to ask you what you told me.”

  “Shall I tell him?”

  “I think it would be best not to lie,” Roger said, quietly. “From now on, of course, you will have full police protection until we’ve caught this man and any accomplices he may have.”

  She nodded, without comment.

  When Roger left the offices, the perfectly groomed girl at the newest kind of telephone exchange gave him a smile with her lips as well as with her eyes; in her way, she was quite a beauty. He was at street level before he made himself put her out of his mind, for Jones was there, against a background of fast-walking people and slow-moving traffic.

  “The car’s just round the corner, sir.”

  “We’ll go to Old Jewry,” Roger decided. “It’s not far, but I want to talk to City before I get there.” He got through to the City of London Police Headquarters via Scotland Yard’s Information Room and asked simply for protection for Elizabeth Spooner. “I’ll explain when I reach you,” he went on, and then sat back in the car while Jones coped with traffic which was far thicker and smellier than when the
y had first arrived.

  “A lorry got out of control up near Aldgate,” Jones told him. “It’s one-way traffic up near the Pump.”

  “I’ll walk. You get to me as soon as you can,” Roger said. It was not until one was in these narrow streets of the City, where the great banks and insurance companies and many of the commercial houses had their headquarters that one realised how overcrowded the streets were and how, on a still, airless day like this, one breathed in petrol fumes until one coughed and spluttered. Yet when he turned into a side street close to Old Jewry the crowd seemed to vanish and the air was cleaner. There was a public convenience a few yards along, and Roger nipped down the stone steps; few things were more exasperating than to have to rush to the men’s room on arrival at a strange place. The place, nearly a hundred years old, was like a dungeon, but the only odour was strong disinfectant. An old gnome of a man appeared, carrying a bucket.

  “Nice day, sir.”

  “Not too bad at all,” Roger said, not sure whether to prefer the petrol fumes to the carbolic. He ran up the steps.

  A shadow warned him.

  A shadow appeared and then vanished, spherical in shape. He slowed down a little, gripping the cold, iron handrail. Had it been imagination? He neared the top steps. Had anyone been about to come down they would have shown themselves by now. He reached the top and leapt forward, ready to feel a fool if he were wrong.

  Two youths leapt at him, one from the kerb, one from the other side. Had he gone up at a leisurely pace they would have been on him and he would have had no chance, but his swift move forward took them unawares, and for a moment they were face to face, weapons raised high above their heads.

  Roger could swing round, and counter-attack.

  Or he could run hell-for-leather, away from the danger.

  He swung round, and crouched. The pair, wearing crash helmets and goggles, turned towards him, ready to rush into the attack. He leapt, as in a rugby tackle, arms widespread, then closing like a giant pair of calipers about the legs of the two youths. They wore heavy boots, and one got a leg free and kicked, catching Roger on the side of the head, hurting but not putting him out of action. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and hugged three legs, then heaved so that the pair toppled backwards to the edge of the steps. He heaved again. A foot caught him on the ear, stinging, making his head ring, but it was accidental. They began to fall. He hooked their legs from under them and they went down, heads, shoulders, torsos disappearing, leather-booted feet waving. He straightened up, gasping for breath, heard a car engine, then heard the car grind to a standstill.