by John Creasey
There was an edge to Harrington’s voice. ‘Who put this idea into your head, Mr Transom? If those policemen –’
‘It has nothing to do with the police. When I knew that you were associating with my daughter I made inquiries. I received positive proof that you are not Harrington. Your name is Duke Conroy.’ Transom was speaking with an obvious effort, and there were long pauses between some of the words. ‘I had documentary proof of this. I was prevailed upon to keep silent because it seemed the wiser course. I never dreamed of this.’
‘Daddy, it isn’t true.’
Harrington said: ‘Who gave you the information?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘For better or worse you’re my father-in-law,’ Harrington said sardonically. ‘I’m not going to be evaded like this. Who was it?’
‘His name –’ began Transom.
Abruptly, without the slightest warning, a crack sounded behind Roger and Mark, the sound of a rifle shot. Something hummed past them. It struck Transom on the side of the head. There was a short, devastating silence before Roger and Mark swung round.
As they turned they caught a glimpse of a man not twenty yards behind them, his face hidden by a slouch hat pulled low.
Roger shouted, and dropped to his knees. Mark followed. A bullet shot over their heads and struck the wall of Yew House. Roger rose to his knees cautiously, hearing movements ahead of him. He saw the man who had now turned away from them; the top of his rifle showed above his head. He was racing towards a thicker belt of trees.
‘Careful, Roger!’
Mark drew an automatic from his pocket as he straightened up. The man’s hat and the top of the rifle continued to show. From somewhere farther to the north came the shrill blast of a police whistle, but it was too far away to offer any direct threat to the rifleman.
Mark fired, aiming low. The bullet lost itself amongst the shrubs, and the man ran on. Mark moved towards a clearer spot, and then caught a glimpse of the other. He fired twice, from the hip, saw the man stagger and sway forward, only to recover and go on running. His speed was reduced, but his recuperative powers were good. He swung round, lowering the gun.
He was no more than twenty yards from Mark, and Roger could not see how the man could miss.
Mark squeezed his trigger again, as the rifle spoke. Its bullet went hopelessly high, while Mark’s hit the rifleman in the chest. The man coughed, then dropped his rifle. As he crumpled up, his face was hidden. They saw only that he was a small man.
He sprawled forward on his face.
Behind Roger and Mark, Harrington came running and close on his heels came Garielle. From the shrubs to the north of the house two policemen broke into sight, running hard but at first purposelessly. Then they saw the others and headed towards them.
From the open window a scream was coming, a high pitched, unremitting scream.
Harrington stopped and said to Garielle: ‘Go to her, Garry.’
Garielle turned and went back to the house.
Mark and Roger were the first to bend over the wounded man, a man who might be dead. Roger went on one knee and removed his hat; and then stared down at an old, lined face, at grey hair, and lips which were working in pain.
An echo of Janet’s voice was in Roger’s ears.
‘He’s rather a dear,’ she had said. ‘He’s rather a dear.’
There he was, coughing now and with his face twisted, the rifle not a yard from him, and the evidence of Roger and Mark to convict him of the attack on Transom if nothing else. It was Petrie, the Prendergasts’ servant.
‘He’s rather a dear,’ Janet had said. ‘He’s rather a dear.’
Lampard’s men couldn’t be blamed for letting this old man go wherever he wished. No one could be blamed but another director of Dreem was dead.
17: One by One
Roger walked slowly from the study at Delaware into the lounge. It was empty, and there was no fire. The darkness of evening spread over the countryside, but the blackout was not drawn, and there was a little light in the big room, although it was full of shadows. From outside there came the sound of birds, settling for the night, and from inside the sharp rattle of curtains being pulled across rails.
Roger stood by the window, looking out, and was there when the door opened and a woman appeared.
‘May may I do the blackout, sir, please?’
‘Yes,’ said Roger. He turned from the window, and caught a glimpse of the sight he had been waiting for; the gleam of car lights coming along the drive. He was on the porch to receive Lampard and Mark, who climbed out of the Guildford Inspector’s car hurriedly.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Mark. ‘The same gun without a doubt. Same markings on the bullets that killed Anderson, Clay, “Smith” and Transom. Petrie was the rifleman, and he’s on what the hospital calls the danger list.’ Mark paused, then added: ‘It’s said he’s never used a gun until he joined the Home Guard.’
Roger nodded, and Lampard stepped through into the hall, taking off his hat.
There was a sense of anti-climax about the arrival, although the news that Petrie was alive was welcome.
‘I’ve been through his papers,’ Roger said. ‘There’s nothing there to indicate why he did it, or that he’s involved with Potter or anyone else. He’s worked for the family for twenty three years. It doesn’t make sense. None of the case makes sense. There’s murder after murder, and nothing we can do to prevent it. We’re within ten yards of him and we let Transom die. We’re no farther on than we were when we started. Or have you been gifted with a vision?’ he demanded sourly.
‘No visions,’ said Mark. ‘No self-reproach either. I haven’t any ideas in the back of my head. If I had, Petrie wouldn’t have worried me. How’s Maisie?’
‘All she says is that she doesn’t believe it,’ Roger reported.
‘Claude’s conscious, but I haven’t told him yet. He’s much better,’ he added, as if he was searching for something good to say, ‘At least we’ve saved his life. Others could be more valuable.’
‘I think we should get to Yew House again,’ Lampard said. ‘Wade has been there alone too long on his own already.’
‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘Mark, you stay here and keep an eye on Maisie and Claude. I don’t feel that anyone’s safe now. You’ll be ‘shooting me next,’ he added, and then suddenly laughed, with a slight easing of his depression. ‘Five more minutes like that and I’ll be asking for a nice safe job as a fighter pilot. Ready, Lampard?’
The telephone bell cut across Lampard’s ‘yes’.
Roger reached it, to hear the bright voice of Inspector Wade.
‘May I speak to Mr Lampard, please?’
‘Hold on.’ Roger put the receiver of the old-type instrument into Lampard’s hand. Wade’s voice crackled without making sense to Roger and Mark, but it did not last for long. Lampard replaced the receiver, and looked round.
‘Widdison and Hauteby have just arrived at Yew House,’ he announced. ‘It’s certainly time we went there.’
It took them twenty minutes to reach Transom’s. Outside Harrington’s car was dwarfed by a Daimler with a chauffeur leaning inelegantly against one corner. He straightened up as the two policemen arrived; but eyed them vacantly.
A servant opened the door.
‘Mr Harrington said, sir, would you please go to Mr Transom’s study?’ There were tears in the woman’s eyes, and she sniffed as she finished.
‘Thank you,’ said Lampard, and led the way upstairs.
Roger had seen little of the big hall and the wide gallery. He had a feeling that he had stepped out of the present into the past, but he paid little attention to the hall or the gallery as he followed Lampard to the room where a sliver of light showed under the door. Lampard tapped, and entered.
Harrington was standing with his back to the fireplace; Hauteby and Widdison were sitting on either side of the fire, while in the background Wade hovered, shiny-faced and smiling. Roger had expected to see Ga
rielle, but she was not there.
‘Hallo,’ said Harrington. ‘I thought you’d be back earlier.’
‘We couldn’t make it,’ said Lampard.
Roger studied Widdison and Hauteby. Widdison looked a much older man than his years, his face was wizened and his eyebrows jutted; the word ‘ogre’ was at least justified by appearance. His face was brick red. His eyes were buried in deep sockets, and his mouth appeared to be shrivelled, so that a set of dentures showed plainly; large, ugly dentures, also revealing his gums.
Hauteby was a dark man, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, black haired. He was dressed immaculately, his hair brushed sleekly from his high, smooth forehead. One of a type, Roger thought, whereas Widdison was certainly unique.
They were the only remaining directors of Dreem, Claude excepted.
‘Your man asked us not to look through any papers,’ Harrington said. ‘We’ve obeyed instructions.’ There was a note of sarcasm in his voice, but he looked tired. ‘Did you get the man identified?’
Widdison leaned forward.
‘That’s right. Who was it?’
‘Petrie, the servant of the Prendergasts,’ Lampard said.
‘Good God!’ gasped Widdison. His voice croaked, there was bewilderment in his expression which looked convincing, ‘Petrie, the old snake! Why, he’s been.’
‘He’s been a servant of the family for many years,’ said Roger. The keenness of his voice made Lampard stare. ‘Not a man one would expect to go suddenly killer-crazy. He’s, certainly killed three people whom he might have believed were parties to murdering the Prendergasts, the family he has served for so long.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Widdison again; it was a blasphemy.
‘Have you any reason for suggesting that?’ Hauteby’s eyes were restless as they looked at Roger.
‘The obvious one,’ Roger said, concealing the fact that the idea had come almost with the words. ‘What other motive could there be?’ The idea had come when he had realized who the rifleman was. He needed time to investigate it more thoroughly, and he came out with it because it would obviously worry both Widdison and Hauteby. ‘What brought you here, gentlemen?’
‘We were told of the murder,’ Hauteby said. ‘We came to offer sympathy and help to Mrs Transom. If Petrie thought we killed his employers . . . but why should he?’
‘You had a meeting here the other night with a Mr Gabriel Potter,’ Roger said. ‘Sir Andrew McFallen was to have been here, but he was killed. I understand that Potter rejected a proposition which you put to him. It is possible that the murders are connected with that proposition. I want to know exactly what it was.’
Widdison croaked: ‘Damned if you will!’
‘Are we to take that as a refusal to co-operate with the police?’ Lampard demanded.
‘Take it as what you like,’ said Widdison. ‘It’s our business. Nothing to do with you or anyone else.’
Roger said: ‘Harrington, when you were talking to me last evening you promised to advise your backer that we wanted to know who had financed you. Have you done that?’
‘Yes,’ said Harrington.
‘Are you prepared to disclose his name?’
‘He refused permission.’
Lampard said: ‘There are limits to the obstruction which we can permit, Mr Harrington. You may have promised not to disclose the name of your backer, but that is unimportant compared with the issues now.’
Harrington looked at him stubbornly.
Widdison and Hauteby turned from Roger to Lampard, as if uncertain from whom to expect the next question. In a detached fashion Roger thought that he had perfected this dual role with Mark, but had not expected Lampard to slip so easily into the habit. It served the purpose of confusing the others, of adding to their uncertainty; and there was nervousness here as well as apprehension. There was nothing normal about the reactions of any of them, Harrington possibly excepted, and Harrington had kept far too many facts to himself.
Hauteby said: ‘I don’t think there is any reason why I shouldn’t tell you, Inspector. Mr Transom backed Harringtons Limited.’
‘What?’
‘Oh no, he didn’t,’ said Harrington. ‘You did.’
Now it was coming out. Lampard had known what to expect. Hauteby and Harrington glared at one another, while Widdison made a clicking noise with his false teeth.
‘You thought it was me, Harrington,’ Hauteby said. ‘You will remember that I told you that I had not sufficient capital myself, but that I thought I could induce someone else to put it up. I did. Transom financed you seventy-five per cent. I did the rest.’
‘But I thought I was poison to him!’
‘So you were,’ said Hauteby. ‘But he was not fool enough to allow personal dislike to interfere with business. After he had thought over your proposition, he saw its possibilities. So did I. Neither of us wanted the other directors to have any share, so Transom put up most of the money, and I supplied the rest.’
Widdison kept clicking his teeth; so far as it was possible for him to look anything but grotesque, he looked angry.
‘All right,’ said Roger. ‘We now know who financed you, Harrington, but we don’t know why you wanted to keep Mr Hauteby’s name out of it.’
‘He made it a condition,’ Harrington said. ‘In any case the process is on the secret list, and I had strict orders from the Ministry of Supply to keep it that way. I was puzzled by the things that were happening, and wanted to sit back and watch them work out. I knew that there were people trying to discredit me, and I thought that it was the family and probably the other Dreem directors. It looked like an effort to get rid of me, and take over the process. That wasn’t an idea I wanted to put up to you, though. I thought the police were there to find the answers, not to be spoon fed. I preferred to look on,’ he added. ‘I might have taken a different view but for my wife. I wanted the marriage kept quiet, too. But there was queer business all along the line, and I intended to find out who was behind it.’ He paused, and put his pipe between his teeth. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he said, ‘I had no other motive.’
‘Hadn’t you, darling?’ asked Garielle.
She came in from the door, which had opened quietly. Her face was pale, but pallor could not rob her blue eyes of their brightness, nor affect the beauty of her movements. She had changed from Air Force blue to lemon-coloured two-piece with a white blouse, frilly at the front.
Harrington said: ‘Garry, you don’t want to –’
‘I do want to,’ interrupted Garielle Harrington. ‘I’m tired of it all, darling. We can’t go on being fools.’ She looked at Roger. ‘Bill was vague and obstructive because I wanted him to be. I told you that we had met by accident for the same reason.’
It was a fact, reflected Roger, that there was no sound in the room but her quiet voice. Every eye was turned towards her, every face held an expression of tense anticipation It was more than the fact that everyone looked towards the speaker, more than the effect of an exceptionally beautiful woman on an audience of men. The inflexion in her voice hinted at revelations, but there was even more to it than that. It was as if Hauteby, Widdison, and Harrington were afraid of what those revelations might be.
Harrington said nothing.
‘I persuaded him to be evasive with his story. I persuaded him to keep you guessing. And I helped him all I could. You see, although I had quarrelled with my father, he was still my father. I thought he might be involved in all the crimes. I knew he was working with the man Potter, and I’d heard of Potter’s reputation. Father was afraid, too. He lived with that kind of fear which dogs a man everywhere, and which he can’t hide no matter how hard he tries. I thought that he was deliberately trying to ruin Bill because of his objections to our association, but I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t try to rationalize my ideas; they were vivid impressions and deep fears. Something was going on underneath the surface, and I did all I could to make sure that you didn’t suspect my father. I thought he would realize that what
ever he was doing would have to stop once the police were in it. It was a case of divided loyalties, Inspector. Bill backed me up. It’s as simple as that.’
She went over to Harrington, and slipped an arm through his. He pressed her to his side, and smiled down with a twisted but reassuring smile. They looked quite homely outlined against the dull red fire.
Lampard broke the silence.
‘You suspected your father of some kind of criminal enterprise, Mrs Harrington. Do you still maintain that you had no idea what it was?’
‘Except that it involved my husband, I knew and I know nothing,’ said Garielle. ‘But I can tell you one thing. Father had some papers hidden in the house.’ She glanced up at a clock fastened to the wall above the mantelpiece, turning her head to do so. ‘I don’t know what they are, but I know that clock can be taken away, and there is a safe behind it. The keys are in amongst those which you took out of father’s pocket, Inspector Lampard.’
18: Documents of Interest
Just as every eye had been turned towards Garielle, they now turned towards the clock. It was an oak-faced, intricately carved example of an early Georgian clock-maker’s art. Its loud ticking could be heard in every comer of the room; the ticks were exaggerated by the tension.
Lampard said: ‘How did you come to know about this?’
‘Mother has just told me,’ said Garielle. ‘It’s time we knew the worst, I think. Or the best.’ For the first time she allowed some feelings to show, and she bit her underlip. Then she took a grip on herself, while Lampard turned to Wade.
‘Where are the keys, Wade?’
‘Here, sir.’ Wade took a small attaché case from the floor at the side of Transom’s desk.
Lampard opened the case, pulled out a piece of dark cloth, unfolded it, and spread the contents of Transom’s pockets on the desk. A leather key-case was amongst them. He picked this up and opened it.
‘Do you know which key, Mrs Harrington?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Hauteby and Widdison were sitting forward in their chairs, staring at Lampard. The tension was almost red hot.