by John Creasey
“I—I really don’t know. Unless—”
“Yes?”
“My club, or – perhaps the Savoy, or—”
“Much too public,” Roger said, “but I would very much like to see you. Do you know Hampstead well?”
“Very well.”
“I have to be there about eleven o’clock. Can you be at the Whitestone Pond by Jack Straw’s Castle?”
“Oh, yes,” Lady Fellowes answered. “Yes!” She sounded breathless with gratitude. “Eleven o’clock at Whitestone Pond at Hampstead Heath, then!”
“Thank you,” Roger said. “Forgive me now, but I’m in a wild hurry.” He rang off and looked up as Venables came in. “Has Mrs. Spooner—”
“She said she stayed up half the night finishing her report,” Venables replied, “and I suggested that she should bring it straight here, to you.”
“When?”
“She expects to arrive about ten o’clock.”
“Do fine,” Roger said, and the inter-office telephone began to ring again. “Come on,” he urged, “let it ring. You come and tell me all about Ida Spray and anything else on the way to the Commander’s office.”
“He’s been after you since eight o’clock,” Venables said, breathlessly.
“And it’s now eight thirty, so I haven’t been snuggling abed,” Roger said as they swung into the passage. “Have any of the Hokki Braves talked?”
“No, sir.”
“Where’s Kevin Spray?”
“We lost him, sir.”
“He’d better turn up at ten o’clock or somebody’s head will roll,” Roger growled. “When?”
“Last night.”
“Did he give our chaps the slip?”
“Yes, sir. Someone came after him with a motorcycle, must have been watching, and he went off on the pillion.”
“Right.” They were halfway to Coppell’s office, taking long strides. “Were all the men who attacked Mrs. Spray Hokki Braves?”
“They all had membership cards, sir.”
“Cards?”
“A piece of rawhide leather, sir, with the letters H.B. burned on it in Japanese-style characters.
“Branded,” Roger said. “How many Hokki camps are there in the country?”
“The latest total known according to Hokki distributors is four hundred and seventy-one, sir.”
“And how many at the universities?”
“All except Cambridge and one or two red-bricks – forty-one.”
“Any more drugs found?”
“No, sir, but there’s one good thing. We’ve found where those cement balls are made.”
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Roger. “Where?”
“In an old builder’s yard in Kennington,” Venables answered. “There’s an old mould there from a small cement factory that was dismantled and demolished a few months ago. The moulds were made for cement wall decoration. And there are some motorcycle tracks in the yard.”
“Have it watched,” urged Roger, and gripped Venables’s arm. “Get back to the office and be at the end of a telephone. Better have someone else in there with you, in case you need a messenger.”
“I will, sir!”
They were within a few feet of Coppell’s door when it opened and Coppell strode out, glowering, and saying over his shoulder: “I’ll get him here if I have to drag him by the scruff of the neck!” Then he missed a step as Roger froze to attention; they came within inches of colliding. Venables turned, and fled. Roger put on his most formal smile, and said: “Good morning, sir.”
“About time,” Coppell growled. He pushed the door back into his office and over his shoulder Roger could see the Assistant Commissioner, Colonel Frobisher, who had a settled-in look. What had brought both Frobisher and the Commander in so early? And what had put Coppell in such a mood.
“Good morning, Superintendent,” the Assistant Commissioner said. He looked very tired; lean and fit but with red rimmed eyes which had dark shadows under them.
“Good morning, sir.”
Coppell closed the door, and it slammed; it had never before occurred to Roger that there was anything in common between the Commander and Venables, but he had a sudden thought: that much of Coppell’s attitude might be due to a basic insecurity; that was certainly Venables’s main problem.
What the blazes was he thinking about ‘insecurity’ for?
“Handsome,” Coppell growled, “we’ve been taken for a ride. We’ve been led by the nose to these Hokki Braves, or whatever they call themselves, so that we wouldn’t see what was really going on. Did you realise that?”
“No,” Roger said, “but I’ve considered the possibility, sir. I’d got as far as being sure these motorcyclists were being used to make us concentrate on the wrong lead, though. There are nearly five hundred clubs in the country, with an average membership of fifty, say twenty-five thousand riders. It wouldn’t make sense that we had twenty-five thousand incipient or active criminals in the organisation for direct blackmailing unless it were on a stupendous scale. So, I’ve wondered what alternative there could be: possibly that they are being used to keep us busy and away from the main causes of the crimes.”
“D’you know what for?” growled Coppell.
“No,” answered Roger. “I only know that Fellowes, Godden and Akers were driven to suicide, but the more I hear the more I doubt whether one of them would have killed himself rather than tell his wife. This is hindsight, sir – after getting to know Lady Fellowes and studying reports about the attitudes of the other men’s wives. The motivation seemed convincing at first sight, but less so now. But there could still be a common factor and we have a visit to Australia as a possibility. I’m now assuming that Professor Clayton and Hubert Fellowes were attacked for the same reason as the others committed suicide, and that an early morning attempt today on the life of Mrs. Spray, Clayton’s mistress, as well as the attacks on me, are all for the same reason, too.”
“What reason?” roared Coppell.
“I don’t like guessing but it could be to prevent us from talking about what we know or suspect,” answered Roger.
“Ah,” intervened Frobisher, speaking for the first time, “what is it that you know in common with these people, Superintendent?” He held up a long, thin hand to stop Coppell from interrupting, as he went on: “The Home Secretary, in common with other members of the Cabinet, is gravely concerned. I have spent most of the night in conferences and discussions. We have received anonymous information which is most disturbing. These reports imply that there will be a widespread series of raids on banks and post offices today – today,” he repeated with almost sinister emphasis. “The information further implies that you have wrongly led us to believe that these Hokki Braves should be given priority, and that the police forces throughout the country will be distracted by the motorcyclists while other men, not remotely concerned with the motorcyclists, will carry out the raids.
“Further, Chief Superintendent, our information is that you have reason to suspect this. If you have, why haven’t you informed the Commander?”
The Assistant Commissioner’s voice was as sharp and cold as the cutting edge of a carving knife, but Coppell was staring at Roger with a strange and completely unfamiliar expression in his eyes. It was as if he were pleading with Roger not only to deny the accusation but to justify his denial.
Chapter Eighteen
Accusation
The Assistant Commissioner’s face seemed to grow longer; his jaw more lantern; the mouth smaller; the eyes, accusing. And for a few moments he was all Roger could see; he was oblivious of Coppell and of the room; the bright blue sky and the reflection from something bright, outside. He felt quite sure that the man took this seriously; was already more than half convinced that the reports were right; that he, Chief Detective Superintendent Roger West, was betraying the trust he had earned over the years.
At first, he felt anger, even fury, welling up inside him. That did not last long, for the absurdity of t
he charge – and in effect it was a charge – began to strike home. It was absurd both against the background of this particular case and against his record at the Yard.
He began to smile.
Anger reflected in the Assistant Commissioner’s eyes, but the harder he considered the situation the funnier it seemed and the smile grew almost into a grin. He considered what to say, knowing only that he must get his word in first; and as the other’s lips began to move, as if he were going to speak again, he said in a casual voice which had a hint of laughter in it: “So that’s what they’ve been up to!”
“Explain yourself,” demanded the Assistant Commissioner, coldly.
“Well, sir, I don’t know of a single thing that has made me dangerous to anybody, but the obvious reason for these people to try to kill me was to silence me. I couldn’t think why, but there had to be a reason, and that bothered me badly. Now, I think I can see what they’ve been up to. They’ve made a good job of making it appear that I do know something, or you wouldn’t be so disturbed, sir. Where did the information come from?”
“Most reliable sources,” the Assistant Commissioner replied sharply.
“But who, sir?”
“I don’t propose to vouchsafe—” began Frobisher.
“Bloody unfair,” growled Coppell, not glaring but looking nervous. “Accuse a man of West’s calibre and then refuse to say who’s been framing – accusing him.” He averted his gaze and muttered again under his breath: “That’s bloody unfair in my book.”
It was not the first time that Coppell, who was such a difficult man to deal with, was often a bully, utterly unreasonable, far too demanding, had taken Roger’s side in a conflict with the V.I.P.s. Roger warmed to him; but the frosty expression in the Assistant Commissioner’s eyes did nothing to suggest that he had even begun to thaw.
“This information was confidential.”
“Fascinating,” interrupted Roger. “Almost the first word I heard in this case was ‘confidential’. It doesn’t really matter whether you name your informant, sir – no case could possibly be proved against me. The charge is utterly false. But there is a lot of evidence that the criminals involved are working against time. If they could kill, or even get me removed from the case for a few days, apparently, it would help them.” He pushed back his chair and banged a clenched fist into the palm of his hand. “But how? And why?”
“I do not find this very convincing,” the Assistant Commissioner declared. “A display of histrionics is hardly an answer to the suggestion implied in my information.”
Roger looked at him and said: “No, I suppose not, sir.
I would like to ask whether you have any evidence to support your charges?”
“No charge has been made,” Frobisher retorted. “But in view of the information lodged with me I do not think it advisable that you should continue in your investigations until I am fully satisfied that the information is false. I wish you to hand the assignment over to another officer, Chief Superintendent. Commander, will you make the necessary arrangements?”
To Roger, it was like a blow in the face and a kick in the stomach at the same time: he felt sick. Until that moment he had thought Frobisher was deliberately pushing to make him talk if in fact he was keeping information, but there was now no doubt at all: Frobisher wanted him off the case. He watched the new Assistant Commissioner with great intentness, while Coppell breathed very heavily, as if he could find no words to combat this.
“At once,” Frobisher ordered.
Coppell drew in a great heaving breath, stood up from his chair, and said hoarsely: “No, I won’t.”
“What?”
“I won’t take West off this case unless you can give me some evidence that he’s unlawfully involved,” Coppell declared stubbornly. “I don’t think it’s right and I don’t think it will get results. Handsome—” He drew in another deep breath, but seemed to be less worried by the stand he was taking. “Are you sure you don’t know why they want you off the case so urgently?”
“No,” Roger said. “I’m not sure – but I’m not absolutely sure of anything. I want to talk to—”
“Commander,” interrupted the Assistant Commissioner, “I do not wish to use my authority to suspend you as well—”
“You haven’t got any such authority,” Coppell interrupted. “There’s only one man who has, and that’s the Commissioner.”
“He is out of town. His authority is vested in me, and—”
Coppell said, heavily: “Colonel Frobisher, you’re new to the Yard and you don’t know how we work. I believe in West, and if West is taken off the case over my head, my resignation goes with it, whether the Commissioner gives the order or you go to the Home Secretary because the Commissioner’s away. Is that what you want?” He glowered, at last as authoritative with Frobisher as with any man under him. “If you want us both out on our necks, I would need a Home Office order signed by the Home Secretary himself.”
“Then that is exactly what I shall get.” Frobisher pulled his chair back. “You will be ill-advised to take any action until I return.” He turned towards the door, and opened it.
Coppell watched him go, and then wiped the back of his thick, red neck.
“I don’t know where the hell this is going to end,” he growled. “I hope to God you know what you’re doing. If you don’t, he’ll probably have both our heads. Do you know?”
“I know what I want to do,” Roger said.
“What’s that?”
“Have every owner of a Hokki motorcycle who is also a member of the Hokki Braves questioned by their local police,” Roger said. “I don’t know what is being planned but we can’t rule out the possibility that the members of this club are in it as deep as they can go. And we can’t rule out the possibility that approaching the suicides as if they had the same motivation is causing the trouble.”
“But—” began Coppell.
“Commander,” Roger said. “Kevin Spray is supposed to come and see me again at ten o’clock. Lady Fellowes has asked me to meet her at eleven o’clock. Mrs. Spooner, Sir Jeremy Godden’s secretary, is also due to come and see me in the next hour. I’ve hardly time to breathe.”
Coppell stood massive and menacing behind his desk.
“If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be able to do a damned thing,” he said.
“And if the A.C. gets that authority to override you, sir, neither of us will.” Roger threw up his hands. “I simply haven’t time to tell you how grateful I am, how—”
“Get to hell out of here,” rasped Coppell. “And don’t come and see me again until you know what it’s all about. I’ll see to those Hokki owners.”
What I need, thought Roger, is time; and time is the one thing I haven’t got.
He walked back to his office, slowly for him: it was a little after nine, and almost incredible that so much could have happened in half an hour. He could just hear Venables, who was presumably on the telephone. He went to his window and looked out, disappointed by grey roofs, by the fact that he didn’t get a glimpse of the Thames and Westminster Bridge. What an odd thing the mind was; it was three years since they had left the old building and he had momentarily forgotten that: the crisis had jolted him so badly.
He stood absolutely still, willing his mind to work.
There must be a key to this; there was always a key; once he had it he would be able to open the door and see everything beyond. Was the key really in his hand? Or had he come into the affair too late? At times he thought he had sparked off the action but – had he? It had started with Akers, and he hadn’t even got round to seeing the aeronautical engineer’s wife yet. Godden had killed himself two weeks ago, but Fellowes only two days ago. So he himself hadn’t begun a thing. It was conceivable that when he had talked to Professor Clayton he had started the wheels humming, but Clayton had come to him, he hadn’t gone to Clayton. The first person he had gone to see was Ida Spray.
Odd name: Spray. Was it her real name?
What common factor could there be? Apart from the infidelity, which was hardly a rarity among men. Look for the common factors. One: three men had committed suicide. But only three – Clayton hadn’t, nor had young Fellowes; so the suicides were not common factors in all cases. Look again. What did the three men who had died by their own hand have in common with those who had been attacked? List them: Sir Douglas Fellowes, Sir Jeremy Godden, Norman Akers, Professor Clayton, Hubert Fellowes and he, Roger West. Should one count threats? If so, then young and pretty Helen Fellowes must be added to the list.
He, Roger, had absolutely nothing in common with the others, so could he forget this general approach?
Or did he in fact share some knowledge, without realising it? Was shared knowledge which someone wanted to keep secret the common factor? If so, what did he know that the others could have known?
Silly question! How could he possibly tell?
Remember, it might be staring me in the face, he thought. And don’t forget that a very strong attempt has been made to discredit me. They, whoever they are, could not kill or put me out of action, so they tried to discredit me. They did a damned good job, too. Frobisher doesn’t trust me as far as he can see me, only Coppell gave me breathing space. Whoever thought the day would come again when I would bless the name of Coppell?
Aloud, he gasped: “My God!”
A simple truth which he had missed, or the significance of which had not dawned on him, now came with thumping force. For the information which had so affected Frobisher must have come from somewhere very high up in the Government or Civil Service. Frobisher was utterly convinced. He was getting most of his briefs from the Home Office, the Ministry which controlled all Home Affairs. Was there someone highly placed in the Home Office who wanted to discredit him, Roger?
They couldn’t hope to discredit him for long, so they must have a short-term purpose in mind. Something was going to happen quickly, and possibly today. He moved for the first time since taking up his stance by the window, went to the inter-office telephone and called Information.