by John Creasey
Roger smiled.
“I’m an official from the Home Office, of course.”
“Don’t believe it for a moment,” said Colonel Hull. “Not for a moment.”
He was short, fresh-faced, alert, with a very slight squint.
“But I do.” The man named Brash spoke for the first time, but he had been staring at Roger intently. “You’re Superintendent Roger West of Scotland Yard, aren’t you? Which of us has qualified for your interest, Mr West?”
Roger held his smile, but it became set. He tried desperately to think of a good, quick answer but could not, and he was about to admit his identity when two things happened simultaneously.
“There is a continuing interest in the Hubble estate, Mr Brash, as you know well,” said Dr Courtways.
“Got you, by God! Got you!” bellowed Colonel Hull. He threw back his head and roared with laughter; it was almost possible to imagine a maniacal note in the sound.
The man on the couch jumped up and began to walk about, talking to himself; as he drew nearer, Roger heard him quoting, “The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children until the third and fourth generation. What did my forebears do? The sins of the fathers . . .”
“So you’re still on about the Hubble case,” said Mr Brash; he had not looked away from Roger for a moment. “Twenty million pounds and no one sure enough to know what to do with it. What are you trying to prove? The State’s right to a private fortune? Doesn’t this infernal government take enough away from us? Here am I, certified insane, but my lawyers still have to pay surtax on my behalf. Infamous. Don’t you agree?”
“You know that Mr West isn’t allowed to discuss politics, being a policeman,” Dr Courtways remarked.
“You don’t have to be a politician to know this government’s no good,” said Brash, acidly.
“Surely you’re permitted to have your opinions,” said Lady Marshall. Her lips curved back over small, pointed teeth, and Roger had the impression of a cat waiting to pounce.
“Oh, yes, I’ve opinions,” Roger said. “I find it wiser not to talk about them, though.” Then he ventured, “I’m never sure that I want to talk politics with a beautiful woman.”
“My, my! The gallant detective!” But the glow in the violet eyes showed that she was pleased. “Why do men always assume that attractive women have no mind? Except on one particular subject, my mind is perfectly sound.”
“Dr Courtways,” said Mrs Lidbetter, unexpectedly, “I think you’d better take Mr West away before we feel we want to keep him with us.”
Roger laughed.
They all laughed, Colonel Hull quite naturally this time.
But when he was sitting at the wheel of his car outside the beautiful house, Roger did not feel at all like laughing. It was several years since he had come in contact with the problem which Dr Courtways was trying to cope with, but he remembered how normal so many unbalanced people were. It was hard to believe that a woman so rational and so attractive as Lady Marshall, could be insane.
Yet he knew that she was.
What had gone on inside Sir David’s mind when, after marrying a woman of such beauty, he had discovered the truth about her?
And how quick-witted Dr Doris Courtways had proved to be. The Hubble case had been going on and on for twenty-five years, and made a perfectly valid excuse for him to be visiting the nursing home.
He was not back at the Yard until after six o’clock.
On his desk was a recorded telephone message from Chelsea Division. It said simply:
Sir David Marshall flying Wednesday morning to New York en route to Miami.
‘Miami!’ Roger exclaimed aloud.
He got the file out again, studied it, and left it on his desk for action the following day. He spent the evening at home, watching television, but deeply preoccupied.
The next morning he checked with Dr Courtways that there had been no further anonymous letters, then sent the original with the envelope for examination for prints, infrared photography and close scrutiny by a handwriting expert.
Next, he confirmed that Marshall was, in fact, going to Miami, that Ward had already gone on business to Milan, and that Henrietta Lyle still lived in a small flat of her own, and led, as far as anyone could judge, an exemplary life. Feeling uneasy about Marshall’s sudden decision to fly to Miami, he telephoned a friend in the Commonwealth Relations Office and asked what work Marshall was doing.
“He’s studying some documents which seem to imply that two newly emergent Commonwealth nations are planning a coup against each other,” he was told. “One seems to be receiving Russian aid, the other American. If the documents were made public it could cause a lot of trouble – and possibly lead to civil war in one of the emergent nations.”
“I’d like to know what he takes with him,” Roger told himself, and he telephoned the London Airport Police, who in turn had a word with Customs; an excuse would be found to go through Marshall’s baggage very carefully before he took off.
But in spite of all these things, Roger felt that it was an inconclusive, unsatisfactory day.
Henrietta Lyle did not leave Number 5 until nearly ten o’clock that night. She had worked through the evening with only a brief break for a light supper, and David had concentrated continuously on the work he was doing. As she drove off she saw him at the window, a hand raised. The light was behind him and she could not really see his face. She realised with a sharp pang that it would be three weeks at least before she saw him again, and as his plane left at nine-thirty the following morning there would be little time for talking. Only once or twice had he touched, and then lightly, on the relationship between them, and she felt almost disturbed. Then she laughed at herself. He was forcing himself to behave exactly as she wanted him to and she still wasn’t satisfied!
He was looking very tired.
The holiday would do him good.
She reached her apartment. It seemed very bare tonight, and very ordinary, cold, not so much in temperature as in atmosphere. Oh, she was absurd! But to lose both David and Gerry at the same time was a bit hard. She did her usual chores and turned on the television for the late news, but had hardly settled down to watch it when the telephone rang.
‘David,’ she thought, and stretched a hand for the receiver.
“Hallo?”
“Can Miss Henrietta Lyle take a personal call from Milan, Italy, please?”
“Milan!” exclaimed Henrietta; then added quickly, “Yes. This is she.”
I can’t be difficult with Gerry now, she told herself. She had thought hardly at all about him during the day, there had been so little time, but now the method of their parting came back vividly. The one certain thing about Gerry was that he never gave up. Someone obviously not English was speaking, then, suddenly, she heard Gerry’s voice.
“Hallo, Hetty!”
“Gerry! How lovely. But you shouldn’t have called from Italy!”
“To be sure I was forgiven I’d have called from Timbuctoo,” he told her. “And to be sure you can’t have an absolutely uninterrupted spell with that boss of yours, I shall call you at least once a day! Seriously, I hated myself last night.”
“No more than I hated you for a few minutes,” Henrietta admitted, half-laughingly. “But don’t telephone, there’s no need – David’s going to Miami to visit his cousin – and to have a few weeks rest.”
“You mean you’re there alone?” cried Gerry. “And to think I’ve chosen these two weeks to be away!” After a moment’s pause, he added, “I wonder what he’s up to? There’s some dark motive behind—no! Hetty, don’t ring off, please don’t ring off!”
“But Gerry, it’s so expensive. It’ll cost you a fortune.”
“Worth every penny,” said Gerry firmly. His voice was so clear, he might have been in the next room. He made n
o further mention of David, but spoke amusingly of the flight to Milan, his fellow passengers, his hotel. Yet when at last she did put down the receiver the phrase which lingered on her mind was, ‘I wonder what he’s up to? There’s some dark motive behind—’
It was nonsense, of course. Wasn’t it?
11
THE MURDER
The next morning Roger got up in a mood which he did not understand, for there was no reason for it. He had a sense of dissatisfaction with himself, with his sons, and with Janet. The others were quick to notice it.
“Case going sour on you, Dad?” asked Martin-called-Scoop at breakfast.
Roger glowered at him.
“Jolly nice morning!” exclaimed Richard-called-Fish, brightly. “Just the morning for a flip in a Tiger Moth – if only I had the money for a Tiger Moth!”
“Think yourself lucky you can afford to have flying lessons,” said Roger tartly.
“Or unlucky,” said Janet, pouring out coffee. “Why on earth you ever gave him permission to fly I’ll never know. Every time he goes up I worry in case he never comes down.”
“That’s one thing you can be sure of,” said Martin, straight-faced. “If he goes up, he’ll come down all right.”
Janet caught her breath, but before Roger could comment, Scoop said contritely, “Sorry, Mum. Only a joke.”
Roger studied them while eating. Martin, not tall but broad-shouldered, and handsome despite a nose broken boxing in his schooldays, always seemed happy with life; but nothing ever went really right for him, and Roger knew that inwardly he was seriously troubled. Richard, the livelier of the two, was in some ways doing better than was good for him. Roger saw the anxious way in which Janet looked at them both. He ought, soon, to make time to discuss Martin’s future with the boy, but in his present mood he would probably do more harm than good. Then he saw Janet looking at him, pointedly, and that exasperated him, chiefly because he felt at fault.
“What are you doing this evening, Scoop?” he asked.
“Night classes and girlfriend,” his son answered promptly.
“Which is easier to cut?”
“Night classes!” said Martin mischievously. “But why do you want to know?”
“Your father wants a talk with you,” Janet said severely.
“The one you warned me would be bound to come some day?” asked Martin, just a little more sarcastically than Roger liked.
“You’ve a lot of things coming to you one day,” he said drily. “Tonight, nine-thirty, here – without girlfriend, Scoop.”
“Right, Dad,” said Martin, a hint of contrition in his manner.
“Anything you can do for me at the same time?” enquired Richard airily. He did not mean it rudely, Roger knew; the boy was always anxious to help Martin to fight his battles, and no doubt he could see a battle of sorts forthcoming.
“No thanks,” said Roger. “I’ll deal with you separately.”
He glanced at the clock in the rather old-fashioned, shabby kitchen. “Hey, I must be off!”
He half-wished Janet would not follow him into the hall, but she did, as always. He took his hat off a peg on the hallstand, and said lightly, “Keep reminding me – I’d hate to be late tonight.”
“I’d hate you to be, too,” said Janet. “So would Scoop. Roger.”
“Hm-hm.” He was on edge to get off.
“Are you worried?”
“Er—no. No. Do I seem to be?”
“Much more than usual,” she told him. “Preoccupied might be the better word.” She put her face forward for a kiss. “Is anything going to stop us from getting away?”
“Oh, I don’t think so for a minute!”
“Because if it is, don’t worry,” Janet said. “I’d rather not have a holiday this year than feel you had to leave a case that mattered to you.”
On that instant, Roger’s mood changed completely. Putting an affectionate arm round her shoulders, he held her for a moment, as if reluctant to let her go.
“And when you’re reminding me about Scoop and nine-thirty, remind me how lucky I am,” he said.
She was waving from the door when he drove off.
In an unbelievably happier mood he drove through the thick of the morning traffic along Kings Road and then through Victoria, reached the Yard a little after half past nine, and was humming to himself as he walked along to his office. There was no new job for him, simply old ones to check over, and by ten o’clock he had finished another skimming of the Marshall case. Nothing useful had been found on the anonymous letter, no further information had come in from the Commonwealth Office. Marshall had caught his plane, but no report had come in from Customs; had there been anything in his luggage open to suspicion, he would surely have been stopped. This time Roger took a much closer look at a photograph of Lady Marshall; compared with the real woman it looked flat and almost dull. It was those unusual violet eyes that gave such life to her face, he thought.
Making a conscious effort, he began to check the details of a diamond robbery case for the Old Bailey; the next moment his telephone rang.
He lifted the receiver. “West speaking.”
“Come and see me at once.” It was Coppell, and the Commander’s tone suggested he was in the worst of possible moods. “And get a team ready – you’ve got to go out to Richmond pretty damned quick. Lady Marshall’s been murdered.”
Roger sat at his desk, absolutely unmoving, for perhaps sixty seconds. Then, slowly, the self-discipline of the policeman asserted itself. Richmond: he must talk to the Superintendent-in-charge, Jim Callen. They would have the essential facilities at the Division, but for this he needed Yard experts, those men with just that little something which made them outstanding. Wilderson, for fingerprints; Larson for photograph; Sloan for general investigation. He’d better telephone Sloan straight away.
Sloan, still at Chief Inspector’s rank, had a desk in an office occupied by four other CI’s. Would he be there? wondered Roger.
“Sloan here,” came a voice, a few seconds later.
“Bill,” said Roger. “I want Wilderson, Larson, and you ready for Richmond in fifteen minutes, with the best second men for each one of the team you can get.”
“Right, sir.”
“Who do you know at Richmond?”
“Montmorency,” said Sloan.
“Talk to him, tell him we’re coming over about the death of Lady Marshall.”
“My God!” exclaimed Sloan.
“Tell him I’ll talk to Superintendent Callen as soon as I’m through with the Commander.”
“Right.”
As Roger replaced the receiver, the telephone bell rang again.
“Hallo, Handsome – remember me?” a man said.
“I might if I knew who you were,” Roger said, trying not to sound impatient.
“Jim Johnson, of the London Airport Police. But I can tell you’re in a hurry,” Johnson went on in a different tone. “Sir David Marshall’s baggage was all clear.”
“Did you see him yourself?” asked Roger.
“I stood by.”
“What did he seem like?”
“Battered, but normal enough,” Johnson told him.
“Thanks a lot,” said Roger appreciatively. “I’ll be out to see you soon.”
Once again the telephone bell rang as soon as he replaced the receiver. This time, not surprisingly, it was Coppell.
“When the hell are you coming?” he rasped.
“I’m on my way, sir.”
Coppell thumped the receiver down. Roger went straight out of the office and banged into another Superintendent, who promptly buttonholed him.
“Hi, Handsome. Heard the latest about Wilson?”
“If I wait for it you’ll have heard the latest about me,�
�� said Roger, and freed himself.
When at last he was at the door of Coppell’s office, and tapped, he heard Coppell’s voice but no summons. He opened the door. Coppell, speaking on the telephone, waved him in without pausing in what he was saying.
“Well, we can’t work miracles . . . yes, West’s in charge . . . no, I can’t handle it myself, sir, and he knows more about the case than anybody . . . yes, sir, right away.”
Coppell rang off.
“Does Marshall know?” he demanded.
“I haven’t enquired yet.” Roger paused, then added flatly, “He’s on his way to America, by air.”
“Why the hell wasn’t I informed?” exclaimed Coppell.
“It was in my written report, sir,” Roger said mildly.
Coppell grunted.
“Find out if his secretary knows anything.” He picked up the telephone again. “Get me Sir David Marshall, Number 5 . . . what’s the name of that street, West?”
“Glebe Crescent.”
“Glebe Crescent, Chelsea . . . tell anyone who answers that Superintendent West wants him.” He banged down the receiver. “That was the Assistant Commissioner – he wants action. You’ll be in the doghouse if you don’t solve this one without wasting time. I—”
“I don’t waste time,” Roger said quietly. “And I won’t get results any quicker if the VIP’s are breathing down my neck. I’ve been in touch with London Airport – had Customs look over Marshall’s baggage in case he was taking any confidential documents with him. Johnson of the Airport said there was nothing.”
“They won’t want to know how bright you are,” grunted Coppell, “they’ll want the killer.”
Roger ignored this.
“Do the Press know, yet?” he asked.
“Not as far as I know, and the Courtways woman promised she wouldn’t say anything until we get out there. I’d better—” Coppell broke off as his telephone rang, picked up the receiver, then banged it down again. “No answer from Marshall’s place. That Lyle girl hasn’t gone off, too, has she?”