by John Creasey
“Is there a general call out for Hokki owners?” he demanded.
“Nationwide,” the Inspector-in-Charge answered. “It came from the Commander himself, and all regional and provincial forces are co-operating.”
“Thanks,” Roger said, and rang off. Thank God for Coppell! What did all the people involved have in common – what did Ida Spray know, for instance, which had made the other side want her dead? Lord, he hadn’t seen her yet and she had been down in a waiting-room for ages. He went to the communicating door and found Venables in his shirtsleeves, looking sweaty hot as he banged a typewriter with astounding speed. He jumped at the sound of Roger’s voice.
“Sir.”
“Is Mrs. Spooner here yet?”
“In Waiting-room 3, sir. Mrs. Spray’s next door.”
“I’m going down straightaway. If I’m not back when Kevin Spray arrives, let me know he’s here and keep him in your office.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Has any of the prisoners talked?”
“Not a solitary word,” Venables answered. “They’re being pulled into police stations all over the country. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” How he knew it!
“Won’t be room to hold them all. There’s over a hundred from London University alone.”
“There’ll be room,” Roger said. “What are you hammering away at?”
“My report on what happened this morning at the Corner House, sir – I never like to get behind if can help it.”
“You don’t have to tell me, David.” It was seldom that he used the other’s Christian name. “What do I know that I don’t realise?”
“About this case, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Something in your subconscious I daresay, sir. I—ah—I—er—I have been wondering what all the victims might have in common,” went on Venables, gathering both speed and courage when Roger waited for him to continue. “I did come across one thing but I expect you’ve thought about it.”
“I haven’t turned up a thing,” Roger said. “Let’s have it.”
“Really, sir?”
“And don’t stand there thinking how clever you are!”
“No, sir! Well, sir. It – well, it couldn’t have anything to do with the case, sir, could it, but – well – ” For the love of Mike let it come, Roger almost pleaded. “Well, you have all travelled, sir.”
“What?”
“Travelled. Gone places – especially in the Far East and the Antipodes, come to think of it. Sir Douglas Fellowes was in New Zealand and Australia, Sir Jeremy Godden in Tokyo which isn’t far from Australia, Mr. Akers was always flying all over the world, and he did some test flying for a new Australian aircraft only ten days ago, Mrs. Spray’s been to Australia, hasn’t she, and so has Professor Clayton, and—er—ah—well, sir, you and Mrs. West had a trip to Africa, and you did have some long side trips.” Venables gulped, and then made himself go on: “I expect it’s sheer coincidence, but someone might think you were following in their footsteps, so to speak, mightn’t they?”
“David,” Roger said, huskily, “check everything you know about all the victims. Where they’ve been, when, and for what ostensible reason, in the past six months.”
“Oh, I’ve got that done, sir,” said Venables, “but – hang it, I threw the notes in the wastepaper basket! I hope to heaven—” He stooped down, missed the edge of his desk by a fraction, and then cried out in triumph: “It hasn’t been emptied, it’s here somewhere! I’ll have it typed out again by the time you get back. But one thing’s certain – all the others have been to Australia within the past year.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Three Women
Roger said to Venables: “I may call in for it. And get some copies done – up to a dozen.” He turned back to his own office, his heart beating like a trip hammer, and with a twist of nausea in his stomach. He pulled the internal telephone towards him and dialled a number opposite the entry: Commander, Uniform. A woman answered on the instant.
“Commander McReady’s office.”
“If the Commander is there I would like a word with him,” Roger said. “This is Chief Superintendent West, C.I.D.”
“One moment, Mr. West,” Her voice faded but did not die until a man’s, with a faint Scottish burr, replaced it.
McReady, of Uniform, was known as one of the most efficient men at the Yard, one who had every job at his fingertips; and his job was to have men available to help with crowd control, traffic, a great variety of things which were only indirectly the concern of the C.I.D.
“You’ve given us quite a job this morning,” he said. “How many of these Hokki Braves do you think we’ll pick up?”
“About a hundred in the university area, sir,” Roger answered. “But with luck we won’t have to hold many for long. Can you give me some information about the Annual Conference of the Anthropologists or whatever they’re called, at the British Museum?”
“Not strictly speaking at the museum,” replied McReady, going on with a laugh in his voice: “The Old Fossils meet in the Halls, close by the museum. In fact there’s an entrance from the main museum building to the Halls themselves. Why?”
“What time do their sessions begin?”
“Ten o’clock, and they are prompt. There are usually a number of committee meetings which will be starting about now. They—” McReady caught his breath and stopped, while Roger thought: Old Fossils. “Chief Superintendent,” McReady went on in a much less relaxed voice, “Professor Clayton was to have attended the conference. Have you any reason to believe the attack on him was concerned with that?”
“I’ve the beginning of an idea that it might have been,” Roger said. “He was to have delivered an important paper.”
“It’s still on the agenda,” said McReady.
“They can’t hope that he’ll be well enough to read it!” Roger gasped.
“According to the word I had with the museum security chaps last night, they think someone will read it for him,” McReady said. “Mrs. Clayton apparently knows where it is. They’re very punctilious, and run their meetings better than most. West—”
“He could have been attacked to prevent him from reading the paper,” Roger said. “How many men will you have there, sir?”
“One inside, part of the time. Two outside, when the sessions begin and end. Many of the delegates stay in Bloomsbury hotels, and walk, it isn’t exactly a major problem. But there’s a lot of traffic about the university about the same time.”
“I want to send several men along to mix with the crowd going in, and to slip one or two into the meeting hall. I’ll be most grateful for your help.”
“No need to be. I’ll see that my chaps are alerted to expect yours.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“But West, do you seriously expect trouble?”
“I think there’s enough to warrant our being extremely careful. Have you any idea who they think will read the paper?”
“They don’t appear to have named anyone.”
“Who would be likely to know?”
“The Chairman and the Secretary of the Conference,” McReady said. “Give me a moment and I’ll let you have the telephone number at the Halls.” There was a murmur of voices before he came back: “Bloomsbury 81751.”
“Thanks,” Roger said, and then with even greater warmth: “Very many thanks indeed, sir!” He rang off on McReady’s: “I hope you’ve got something,” and almost immediately put in a call through the operator to the Halls. He waited for the call to come through, looking at the electric clock on the wall. It was twenty past nine. How long was he going to have to wait? Should he go to the waiting-rooms, and take it there? He was half out of his seat when the telephone bell rang and a man with a deep, gruff voice announced: “This is Professor Considine, of the Anthropological Society Conference.”
“Good morning, Professor,” Roger said. “This is Chief Superintendent West of Sco
tland Yard.”
“Indeed,” said Considine, as if he doubted it.
“I’ve been told you may have Professor Clayton’s paper read this morning,” Roger said. “Can you confirm that, and tell me who is to read it, please?”
There was a long and unexpected silence, until the other man replied: “Most certainly not. How do I know you are a police officer? This is a confidential matter and I shall certainly give no information over the telephone.”
Roger had time to collect himself as the man was talking, and in his most matter-of-fact voice, he suggested: “Will you call New Scotland Yard, sir – you’ll find the number listed – and ask for Chief Superintendent West? That way you can be quite sure you are talking to a police officer.”
“I have no desire to impart this information to the police from whom it would almost certainly leak to the newspapers. Professor Clayton had a report of the greatest significance to make, in confidence.”
“Professor Considine,” protested Roger, “this could be a matter of great urgency.”
The Professor hung up on him.
Roger put his own receiver back, almost unbelievingly. It was now half past nine, there was so little time. He could ring McReady again, or—
The communicating door opened, and Venables appeared; not a triumphant Venables with the list in his hands but a troubled Venables who had something to say which he knew Roger would not like. He held on to the door jamb, as if for support.
“Well?” Roger demanded.
“Kevin Spray won’t be here at ten o’clock,” Venables announced.
“Why? Has anything happened—”
“He’s not hurt, sir – he’s been picked up in Paris. He slipped our men in London and crossed the Channel wearing a false beard and moustache last night, and was picked up at the Gare du Nord when he thought he was safe and had discarded the disguise. By a bit of luck one of our chaps was on the train, he’d gone over to see the Sûreté Nationale about that big art theft from Chelsea, and recognised him. He just telephoned, sir.”
“Ask the Paris police to hold him. We’ll send for him this morning.”
“I’ve already—yes, sir.”
“Have you heard from the men watching Professor Clayton’s house?” asked Roger.
“Not this morning, sir.”
“Check at once. Tell them I want to know if Mrs. Clayton leaves, and I want her followed if she does. Then telephone the Chief of Security at the British Museum and find out if he can tell us when and by whom Professor Clayton’s paper is going to be read. Let me know at once whatever the answer. I’m going down to see Mrs. Spooner and Mrs. Spray, then going to Hampstead where I want to talk to Mrs. Clayton, and I’ve an eleven o’clock rendezvous with Lady Fellowes at the Whitestone Pond, Hampstead.”
“You’ll never do it all, sir!”
“And find out how Kevin Spray got across the Channel.”
“We know he picked up the train from Dunquerque, the overnight ferry train—”
“And we know he didn’t have time to catch the train from Victoria,” Roger said. He was already at the door. “One other thing: If the Commander or the Assistant Commissioner want me, you don’t know where I am. You know who I’m going to see, but haven’t any idea of my itinerary. All understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Venables said, meekly.
Roger went out like the wind. Everything went right for a few moments; a lift was at his landing, open and empty, and it took him to the second floor, where an elderly uniformed officer was waiting.
“Which room is Mrs. Spooner in?” Roger asked.
“Room 3, sir.”
“Thanks. Alone?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
Roger had a glimpse of the ‘battleaxe’ through the one way window. She was spilling over on either side of an arm chair, and her mouth drooped open; she appeared to be sleeping the sleep of exhaustion; and of the righteous. She didn’t stir as Roger went in, saying to the orderly: “Tell Mrs. Spray I’ll be with her in a few minutes, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
On a table by the side of the chair was a large envelope, open; and on it were two words: Superintendent West. He opened it, and began to read the report. Sir Jeremy Godden’s affaire was of long standing; this report gave the dates, the name of the woman concerned, whose name was Cassidy; Jane Cassidy; where she lived, how often Godden had visited her. Never had there been a more confidential secretary than Elizabeth Spooner, who stirred, and began to snore gently.
“Mrs. Spooner!” Roger raised his voice but went on reading. Three months ago Godden had gone to Tokyo, Australia and New Zealand to visit associated banks. J.C. flew to Sydney, N.S.W., two days after J. G. left Heathrow. So, Godden had taken his lady love on a business trip, just as Clayton had. He called again: “Mrs. Spooner!” The snoring stopped, and he knew she was awake but ignored that for a few moments. Jane Cassidy had come home two days ahead of Godden, they had been very careful. He had been away in all for five weeks, until seven weeks ago; early in March.
A paragraph, underlined, seemed to jump out at Roger. It read:
The first threat, the first blackmail, was on March 17th, a telephone call to the office. I listened in on the extension, as always unless specifically instructed not to. A man with a young-sounding, rather anxious voice demanded ten thousand pounds, and threatened, if he didn’t get it, to send Godden’s wife a list of the hotels and motels where he had stayed with his mistress during his trip.
Roger looked up, to find the deep-set eyes studying him.
“And Sir Jeremy paid up,” he remarked. “To the first threat, I mean.”
“He was too busy and too involved to do anything else,” she answered.
“And there were—” he counted swiftly. “Seven blackmail demands in all?”
“Yes.”
“He paid each time – a total of forty thousand pounds.”
“Yes.”
“Why, Mrs. Spooner?”
“You know why,” she replied, sharply. “He was afraid that a domestic scandal would force an investigation into his business affairs, and he had borrowed substantially from the bank, without authorisation from his fellow directors.”
“Do you know why?”
“He invested the money and was confident there would be a substantial return, but he did not think his co-directors would approve of the investment – there was some degree of risk. He was always more ready to take risks than were any of the others.”
“Finally, there was a demand for another ten thousand pounds. He couldn’t find more money, you say.”
“No,” Elizabeth Spooner answered. “He simply couldn’t go on. His private resources were exhausted.”
“So you say in this quite remarkable report,” returned Roger, but there was a dry note in his voice. “Rather than have the whole story come out, he killed himself.”
“Yes. I have made that very clear.”
“Was there any other reason?” asked Roger. “Had he reason to believe that the risk he had taken was too great, and he could never repay his unlawful borrowing?”
“All I know is that he said he couldn’t go on,” she replied. “I have told you everything I know.” There was defiance in her eyes, and Roger thought: Yes, you’ve told me all you know but not all you guess and suspect.
There was no time to force that issue with her, and he stood up briskly. “You’ve been very good and I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Would you like a car to take you home?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I will walk until I get a taxi.” The last person who had refused a police car lift from Roger had been Kevin Spray. He did not force this point, either, but as he moved to open the door, he asked: “Did Sir Jeremy see Professor Clayton or Sir Douglas Fellowes in Australia?”
She stood absolutely still, and her cheeks turned crimson, for a moment her breathing became swift and shallow. Then, she retorted in a weak voice: “I was not there, so how could I know?”
“Perhaps y
ou would know whether he met Norman Akers?”
Roger asked in his mildest voice. “And you can confirm my belief that there was no other woman in Sir Jeremy’s life, that he committed suicide for some quite different reason, knowing you would lie for him when he was dead as you so often did when he was alive.” This time the colour faded from her cheeks and for a moment he thought she was going to fall. But he did not want that kind of crisis, so he went on gently: “Mrs. Spooner, I strongly advise you to add the answers to those questions and other information to your report. Would you prefer to do that here, or at home?”
She stood, unsteady and uncertain. He needed more time but there wasn’t more, so he went out ahead of her, and as the elderly sergeant came up, he said: “If Mrs. Spooner leaves, I want her followed. If she stays, don’t disturb her.” He strode along to the next doorway and opened it so suddenly that he startled Ida Spray, who was looking through a magazine. She also looked tired, but compared with the massive Mrs. Spooner, she was petite and most attractive.
“Sorry I kept you,” Roger said, “and forgive me if I don’t stay too long. I want—”
“Is there any news of Kevin?” she demanded.
“He left the country last night,” Roger answered, brusquely.
“Kevin did!” She looked as if she could not believe it; and was appalled.
“I’m afraid so,” said Roger; it would do no good to be too impatient, so he made himself speak slowly. “When in Australia last year, did you and Professor Clayton meet Sir Douglas Fellowes, or Sir Jeremy Godden, or Norman Akers, the test pilot and aeronautical engineer?”
She was as dumbfounded as Elizabeth Spooner; he had no doubt at all that Clayton had met the others, for she stood with her mouth drooping open and her hands raised in front of her bosom. Roger pushed his fingers through his hair, gave her a few moments to recover her poise, and then asked:
“Do you know why they met? What they discussed? It could be of vital importance, Mrs. Spray.”
She gulped, hesitated, closed her eyes, and then suddenly opened them again and spoke with unexpected vigour. She gave the impression of being a woman of great courage and willpower.