by John Creasey
“No,” she said. Pauline Weston smiled faintly. She spoke well, seemed to be of good family, appeared to be frank and in no way hostile – perhaps slightly amused. “I bought this brooch from Charles, Chief Inspector.”
“Really? How much for?”
“One hundred and five pounds.”
“May I see it?” asked Roger.
She took it off and gave it to him. She seemed quite unconcerned. Her poise might be assured, but seemed to Roger to come from good breeding.
“Thanks.” He examined the brooch by the window, where the light made the diamonds scintillate; vivid colours flashed from the tiny facets. It was worth at least four hundred pounds. Roger couldn’t be sure that it was stolen; but PC Allenby had been shot, and Babbington was dead; this wasn’t the time for half measures. “Didn’t it occur to you that this might be stolen property, Miss Weston?”
“It did not,” she said. She was still quite cool, but he thought that there was a sharper gleam of interest in her eyes. “How do you know?”
“It’s probably part of a haul stolen several weeks ago. Other pieces from it were found at Prescott’s rooms,” Roger said. “How long have you had this?”
“About a month.”
“I’ll give you a receipt for it,” Roger promised, “and take it away with me. When did you last see Charles Mortimer?”
“Two nights ago.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Pauline Weston declared.
Roger didn’t say much more. The girl raised no protest about him taking the brooch, went with him to the front door, and closed it on him.
He went noisily down the stairs, but didn’t go out of the house. He waited for a moment, then tiptoed up the stairs again. He could have forced the lock in a few seconds, but there were limits to a policeman’s privileges. He knelt down, and pushed the letterbox open.
“Charles, don’t be a fool,” the girl was saying; “I tell you he’ll come round at once. He’s got the brooch … Yes, he’s by himself at the moment … Well, I’ve warned you,” she said.
She rang off.
Roger went downstairs on tiptoe, and into the street. He hadn’t turned towards the corner when a taxi swung round it; a moment later it stopped, and Brammer got out.
He grinned crookedly when he saw Roger.
“Who’ve you been to see?”
“You tell me,” said Roger.
He hurried towards a Yard man who was at the corner. They met a few yards from Roger’s car.
“Follow Pauline Weston everywhere, and be careful,” Roger said. “If she goes off in a car or taxi, ’phone the Yard at once.”
“Right, sir.”
Roger slid into his car, picked up the radio-telephone, and spoke to the Yard. Everything went smoothly, easily.
“Detective-Inspector Sloan, please … Hallo, Bill; listen. Pauline Weston has just warned Charles Mortimer that we’ve been questioning her. Mortimer’s one of the lads who’s been around with Ruth Linder. He might cut and run for it. As soon as we know he’s out of his flat, we want to search it—but we’re going to lie low until he goes. Watch the flat, but take no action.”
“What’s the idea?” Sloan asked.
“If he’s on the run and Ruth Linder is in any way responsible for it, he might go to see her, and he might go straight away. I’m going to her flat, and I’ll watch from the car. Have the Division warned and ask them to watch the Mile End Road shop. If Ruth should turn up, radio me.”
“Right,” said Sloan, “but aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What’s that?”
“Ruth is being watched by Jackson, the new boy from the uniformed branch.”
“If she leaves before I get there, he’ll be gone too,” Roger said.
He rang off, and drove straight to the block of flats near Park Lane. These were in Willington Place, a large white block, with large windows and small balconies outside most of them.
Almost the first man he saw was Jackson, the ‘new boy’; so Ruth Linder was at home.
Roger drove past, catching the watching detective’s eye, and drove round the corner.
Jackson came up.
“If Ruth comes out, don’t follow her, follow me,” Roger said. “And if I go into the building, give me a quarter of an hour, then come and see what’s doing.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson was a clean-limbed, dark-haired, enthusiastic twenty-five; a man to like.
He moved away.
Roger manoeuvred the car so that he could see the entrance to the flats, and waited.
Five minutes later, Ruth Linder appeared at the entrance, a taxi turned into the far end of Willington Place and drew up. The woman got in, and the cab started off again.
Roger followed.
It wasn’t long before he knew that they were heading for the East End.
Chapter Eight
About Face
Traffic was thick, and the cab in front of Roger was skilfully driven, squeezing between towering buses and huge lorries, nipping past traffic lights. Roger kept pace with it until they were on the other side of Piccadilly Circus; then a bus which cut across him hid the taxi from him. He didn’t pick it up again.
He pulled into the side of the road, and flicked on the radio. He didn’t see Jackson, but thought nothing of that.
“… yes, sir,” a man at the Yard told him, “Charles Mortimer left his flat five minutes after you telephoned, and he’s being followed. The last report we had was that he’d reached Fleet Street.”
“Keep broadcasting his movements,” Roger said.
He didn’t switch off, but put the receiver on the seat by him, and listened as he started off through the traffic again. He couldn’t hear plainly. In every traffic block or chance to slow down, he picked it up.
“… Mortimer passing St Paul’s in green MG sports car.”
“… Mortimer at the Bank of England.”
“… Mortimer passing Aldgate Station.”
There was no longer any reasonable doubt that he was heading for the Mile End Road. Had Ruth Linder come along here, too? There were several taxis, but none with the number of hers.
Roger saw plain-clothes men from the Division patrolling the road opposite the shop. He slowed down near it. There was no taxi, but a green MG car stood outside.
Men across the road recognised Roger, and nodded; one man came hurrying.
“Mortimer’s been in there for ten minutes, sir. Ruth Linder’s only just arrived.”
“Good.”
“Going in, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Be careful.”
“Yes,” said Roger, “I’ll be careful.”
The warning was a trifle, but it meant a lot. Three months ago the Divisional man wouldn’t have thought of saying that; danger wouldn’t have occurred to him. He was a hefty fellow, and wouldn’t lack physical courage.
Roger looked round.
He still didn’t see young Jackson. That began to worry him. Jackson might be able to hide from Ruth Linder, but there was no need to hide while she was in the shop, and he should have shown himself.
“Want anything, sir?” the Divisional man asked.
“One of my chaps ought to be behind me,” Roger said. “Tall, dark-haired and young—keep an eye open for him.”
“I will.”
Roger went briskly towards the shop.
He hadn’t a gun; and he was very conscious of defying Chatworth. He couldn’t argue against carrying guns as a principle and yet carry one all the time; but he felt as if he were a sitting bird. Theory and practice were in sharp conflict again.
The windows of the shop were very different from the days of Old Benny. Instead of a mass of junk, seldom taken out, tidied or dusted, they were dressed brightly enough to compete with any jeweller’s shop. Some of the stock looked good. Half of one window was taken up with china, the other half with silver plate and bric-abrac. Everything had a polished,
well-cared-for look.
Roger opened the door.
The interior of the shop, which had been gloomy in the old days, was now bright. Two fluorescent strip lights on at the far end accounted for that. The bell at the door clanged, and Roger was hardly inside before a young man stepped out of a room at the back. He was tall, well dressed, in dark clothes, handsome in his dark way. He came hurrying, rubbing his pale hands together, his flabby face wreathed in smiles.
“Why, Mr West, what a pleasure!” This was Sol Klein. He didn’t exactly lisp, but got very near it. “How are you, Mr West?”
“I’m fine. Is Ruth here?”
“Why, yes, Mr West, but what would you want with Ruth? She—”
“Listen, Sol,” Roger said; “this isn’t a game. Go and tell her and Mortimer that I want to see them. Tell them that the shop is watched back and front, and that it won’t pay either of them to get up to funny business.”
“Really, Mr West,” Sol said earnestly, “I don’t understand you.” He looked anxious and puzzled, but he kept smiling; he was always anxious to please and to satisfy. “She’s with the boy, yes; but I don’t see why you should expect trouble.”
“Go and tell them, will you?”
“Well, all right, all right,” Sol said. “Of course I will.”
He hurried along the shop and up the narrow staircase.
Roger recalled that night when he had come here to see Old Benny as voices came from the room on the right at the head of the stairs. Sol Klein went up them two at a time. His legs were long, and he had an athlete’s ease of movement in spite of being overweight.
“Ruth, just a minute—”
“You get to hell out of here!” That was the youth, Mortimer. “This is between me and Ruth.”
“Don’t be silly,” Sol rebuked him. It wasn’t quite ‘thilly’. “Ruth, Mr West—Chief Inspector West—is downstairs. He says he wants to see you, and that the place is watched back and front.”
Mortimer said: “What the devil is this?”
“Nothing you need worry about, Charles,” said Ruth Linder.
Her voice startled Roger. It was deeper, fuller – a fine, carrying voice, much more attractive than he had known it before.
“I’m not so sure—”
“You can be sure.”
“You mustn’t keep Mr West waiting too long,” Sol said agitatedly.
“Bring him up, Sol.”
“All right, my dear, all right.”
Sol turned, and saw Roger at the foot of the stairs. He smiled brightly, and beckoned.
Roger went up slowly.
“Did you or didn’t you know that brooch was stolen?” Charles Mortimer demanded in a tense voice.
“Of course I didn’t,” said Ruth. “In fact I don’t think it was. The police do make mistakes, Charles. Don’t they, Mr West?”
She must have heard Roger enter, for she was facing the youth and the window and didn’t see him. Now she turned and smiled.
Undoubtedly she was lovely. She wore much more makeup – or a more expert makeup. Her hair was beautifully set. Her dress was green, with simple perfection of line. Her figure was a dream. Her hat probably cost a fortune, and yet her poise was the thing which puzzled Roger most. She seemed to come from a different world – the world of Pauline Weston.
“We have been known to slip up,” Roger said.
Smiling, she looked delightful; there was not the slightest sign of hostility in her manner.
“And you even admit the possibility!—you see, Charles, the police aren’t necessarily ogres. Are you sure that the brooch you took from Pauline Weston was stolen, Mr West?”
“No. I haven’t had it checked yet.”
“When you have, I’m sure you’ll find that it was honestly come by. Charles—I mean Mr Mortimer—bought it from me, and gave it to Miss Weston. He was most upset when it was suggested that it was stolen.” Ruth moved to a small table in a corner, and picked up cigarettes. “Won’t you smoke, Mr West?”
Roger took a cigarette. “Thanks.”
Mortimer waved the box away. He was a tall, dark-haired youth, not bad looking, rather intense; as if he had been keyed up for a long time. Judging from his clothes, he had all the money he needed.
“You’ve no right to go round saying that people have stolen goods in their possession.”
“That’s the last thing I’d do,” Roger said. “If Miss Weston had been a little more patient, I’d have told her as soon as I knew the truth about the brooch. She didn’t object to me taking it away, you know.”
“Why the hell did you need to worry her?”
“She knew the man Prescott—he was murdered, and he had stolen jewellery in his possession,” Roger said formally. “Is it all right with you if we do our job?”
“Don’t you go about frightening girls who—” Mortimer broke off.
“Did you know Prescott?” Roger asked.
“Supposing I did.”
“Did you?”
“We’d met.”
“Where?”
“What the devil has that got to do with you?”
“Charles, you’d be wise to answer Mr West’s questions,” Ruth Linder interrupted. Her voice was honey sweet, and she smiled faintly at Roger. Her eyes were glowing, as if this amused her but she didn’t want to let the boy realise it. “The police never ask questions unless they’ve a good reason. Do you, Mr. West?”
“We like to think we’ve a reason.”
“Where did you meet Roy Prescott?” Ruth asked the youngster.
Mortimer growled: “Don’t be silly, you know.”
“And I don’t mind who else does, Charles.” She gave a little laugh. “They met at my flat, Mr West. I throw a party every now and again, and a friend brought Roy Prescott along to see me. Charles happened to be there at the same time. All quite innocent, you see.”
“I see,” said Roger. “Let me get this all straight, Mr Mortimer. Miss Weston telephoned to tell you that I had inquired about the brooch which you sold to her, and you came here to find out why Miss Linder had sold you a brooch which might be stolen. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Mortimer growled.
“If it wasn’t, I’ll have the brooch returned to Miss Weston within an hour or two,” Roger said. “Now I want a word with Miss Linder alone, please.”
Mortimer glowered. Mortimer was very young, and seemed to be very angry. “All right,” he growled, and went to the door. “Sorry if I made a fool of myself, Ruth.”
“Oh, it wasn’t you who made a fool of yourself,” Ruth said sweetly.
Roger grinned.
Mortimer reached the door and was going out, when Roger called: “Oh, one small thing. How much did you pay for that brooch, Mr Mortimer?”
“That’s my business.”
“Tell him, Charles,” urged Ruth.
“Eighty pounds,” Mortimer said abruptly. “So I didn’t exactly make an extortionate profit, did I?”
He stalked out of the room, and they heard him go down the stairs. A moment later, Sol Klein spoke to him.
Roger stubbed out his cigarette.
Ruth Linder sat on the arm of an easy chair. Her pose was really superb. She looked younger, carefree. The feeling that he’d once had, that the vitality had been drained out of her, was gone completely. She sat still, in that graceful pose, yet managed to convey an impression of great vivacity.
Roger had never felt so convinced that he was being fooled.
He took the brooch out of his pocket, and the diamonds scintillated. He carried it to the girl, and held it in front of her eyes.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she said lightly.
“It’s worth two hundred pounds, even in the trade.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Why did you sell it to Mortimer for eighty pounds? That’s if you bought it legitimately.”
“I rather like the boy.”
“Listen, Ruth,” Roger said, and took out his own cigarettes. “I
don’t want to be difficult. I don’t dislike you personally. But I warned you what would happen if you started dealing in stolen goods. Where did you get this brooch from?”
“Sol bought it,” Ruth said, and laughter lurked in her eyes. “A wholesale and manufacturing jeweller was going out of business, and Sol was able to take a lot of his stock at very low prices. So I passed the benefit on to my friends. Sol will have the receipt and everything else; you made a mistake about it being stolen. A deliberate mistake, I imagine.” Her eyes mocked him as she moved from the chair to the window. “I run a completely honest business, Chief Inspector. You’re only wasting the valuable time of your men having them watch me. I should have thought you’d much more important work to do.”
“Ruth,” said Roger.
“Yes, Chief Inspector?”
“You can be too smart—much too smart. But you can’t be too careful.”
He went towards the door.
She seemed to watch him with eyes which danced with silent laughter. She followed him downstairs and into the shop. Roger opened the door as a taxi pulled up.
Brammer got out.
Roger lit another cigarette, and waited.
“An expensive day in taxis,” he observed.
“The Courier spares no expense, Handsome!”
Brammer gave his crooked smile, but that faded as he turned to Ruth. There was loathing in his eyes. The girl obviously realised it; her hazel eyes went dull.
“Ruth,” Brammer said very softly. “Keep your claws off Pauline Weston. Understand? Keep your nasty little boyfriends away from her.” He glanced at Roger. “Pauline and I are getting along fine. Ruth doesn’t like to think I should have fun. You’re witness that I’ve warned her off.”
He turned and stalked off.
Chapter Nine
Warnings
Roger let Brammer’s taxi go before he went outside. The hatred between Brammer and Ruth was really something; he was almost persuaded that Ruth would try to hurt Brammer through the girl. Pauline Weston … She was too young for Brammer, surely – although she had a certain maturity, a gravity which in some ways matched Brammer’s.