Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London

by Margaret de Rohan

  ‘Chief Inspector Scott? Good afternoon, mon ami. Yes, thank you, I had a good trip to London. But now we have another development in the case. How soon can you get a police car to the family home in south-east London?’

  ‘Immediately – if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is! Max is alone and there seems to be a man watching the house from across the street.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Haven’t one yet. Hold the line, please.’

  Meanwhile, Megan was asking, ‘what does this man look like, Max? Can you see him?’

  ‘Yes, I’m upstairs in Mum and Dad’s bedroom peeking through the curtains.’

  ‘Tell me what he’s doing now and what he looks like.’

  Philippe whispered, ‘keep him talking until the police car gets there.’ Megan nodded.

  ‘So,’ she said, as casually as she could though her heart was racing, ‘give me a full description, just like a proper policeman would.’

  ‘Okay,’ Max sounded a little calmer now. ‘He’s tall. Taller than Dad, and he’s younger too. Maybe, he’s thirty-five, or forty. And he’s fairly good-looking.’

  ‘What’s he wearing?’

  ‘He’s got black trousers, a black shirt, and a long black coat, that looks kind of old-fashioned. And there’s something big and shiny hanging around his neck, but I can’t see what it is. Oh, and he’s carrying a black sports bag.’

  ‘Well done, Max, that’s a great description.’ She looked at Philippe and he nodded: he was repeating this description down the line to Chief Inspector Scott.

  ‘Oh, now he’s crossing the street! I think he’s going to ring our bell.’

  ‘Is the door locked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Max, rush downstairs as fast as you can. Go into the kitchen and close the door to the hall. A police car is on the way to you. If he rings the bell, let Inky out so she can run up to the door, but you stay put. I’m sure her barking will scare him off!’

  ‘Okay, Granny.’

  From the other end of the line she could hear Max running downstairs. But she could also hear the bell being rung: next came the sound of Inky’s loud barking, and then the welcome sound of the siren heralded the approach of the police car. ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘Can you hear it Max? The police are almost there.’

  ‘Yes, Granny; he’s stopped ringing the bell now. I think he’s gone.’

  The local police saw the man running off in the opposite direction as their patrol car entered from Half Moon Lane.

  ‘There he is,’ the policeman exclaimed. ‘Black clothes, black hair, black… everything! That’s our man – step on it, Rob, we’ve got him now!’

  As the car accelerated they watched him running down the street on the same side of the road as they were.

  ‘Gotcha!’ cried the second policeman. Then he hesitated, and said, ‘Where’d he go?’

  ‘Around the corner, maybe?’

  ‘Don’t be daft – he was nowhere near the corner.’

  ‘Well, he’s not anywhere in sight now.’

  Later that afternoon, when they were summoned to Scotland Yard to give their report on the incident, they both said the same thing.

  ‘Chief Inspector Scott, it was the weirdest thing. One moment he was there and then – poof! – he was gone.’

  ‘He’d jumped over a fence?’

  ‘No way. We had a visual on him the whole time. One moment he was there, and the next minute he had disappeared.’

  ‘That’s not possible lads!’ Chief Inspector Scott thundered. ‘Do you realise how crazy that sounds?’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ replied Mike Barrett, the more senior policeman, speaking on his colleague’s behalf as well as his own. ‘But that’s what happened.’

  ‘It must have been a trick of the light,’ Andy Gillespie said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Mike replied, although he sounded far from convinced.

  ‘What else could it blasted well have been?’

  ‘I don’t know, Chief Inspector, but I tell you this. I’m forty-five years old and I’ve never, ever seen anything like this before in my life. And that’s a fact!’

  After the south London cops had left, Chief Inspector Scott turned to Andy Gillespie, and said, ‘What are we dealing with here, do you think? Is it the paranormal, or some kind of cheap conjuring trick?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, guv. I reckon it’s one of those times when you pays your money and you makes your choice.’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah: I’ll have none of this mumbo-jumbo stuff on my watch. It was a con trick. That’s the story, and we’ll both blasted well stick to it. Capisce?’

  ‘Capisce, boss,’ Sergeant Gillespie reluctantly agreed.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  However, much to the frustration of the local police, and Patrick Evremond, who also kept watch, The Recruiter did not visit the Evremond home that night. Patrick was there because he feared that a police slip-up might allow his sister’s persecutor to slip through their net. He believed he was well-hidden in the shadows of the front garden of the house opposite, but the police knew that someone was there. So did Chief Inspector Scott after the local police contacted him to ask what they should do next.

  ‘I think there’s a good chance that it’s young Patrick Evremond,’ he said. ‘So just keep an eye on him, but let him be for now. He’s a good lad: he just trying to protect Genevieve, but he knows better than to get in the way if anything unexpected happens.’

  In fact no one entered, or left the Evremond house that night. No one until 10 pm, that is.

  ‘Hello, who’s she?’ one of the local policemen asked as the front door opened and the figure of a woman was highlighted in the door-way. She closed the door quietly, looked around carefully, then walked quickly down the path towards the front gate.

  ‘Search me,’ replied his partner. ‘But best to get on the phone again to see what Chief Inspector Scott thinks about it.’

  ‘What if he’s already in bed? He won’t be best pleased if we wake him up.’

  ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take. And he did say that he wanted to be advised if anything happened, no matter what the time.’

  ‘Okay, fair enough.’

  But Clive Scott was not in bed asleep, although he was in his PJs. Nor was he annoyed at being disturbed. ‘Well done, lads. Get one of the other patrol cars to continue the observation while one of you follows her on foot,’ Clive Scott said, ‘discreetly, of course. Don’t spook her. I trust you’re using unmarked cars?’

  ‘Yes, of course we are, sir.’

  ‘Good. Let me know where she goes and what she does no matter what time it is. Understood?’

  ‘Okay, sir – will do.’

  An hour later Clive Scott’s phoned rang again. ‘Well? Where is she now?’

  ‘You’ll never guess, sir.’

  ‘I don’t blasted-well want to guess; that’s why I asked you!’

  ‘Sorry sir. She went to an address in Whitechapel, not far from the area where you-know-who did you-know-what.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the phone line. ‘Are we talking Jack the Ripper territory, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you’ve got it in one. The house was smack bang in the middle of his favourite hunting ground.’

  There was another intake of breath. ‘How did she get there?’

  ‘She walked to East Dulwich station, which was a fairly long way, then caught the train to Liverpool Street, and afterwards took a taxi. Young Conroy did well to keep up with her, but somehow he managed.’

  ‘If he was in uniform the game’s up by now!’

  ‘No, he was wearing his usual clobber: jeans, windbreaker and baseball cap. We’re training him for undercover work in the local clubs.’

  ‘Well done again, lads. Tell Conroy to keep watch for the next two hours then get someone to relieve him so he can go off duty. I want the house kept under observation all night. Understood?’

  ‘Yes sir,
understood – will do.’

  ‘Now give me the address and I’ll get the City of London police to check it out first thing in the morning. Do we know who the woman is?’ Clive Scott asked, as he quickly wrote down the Whitechapel address.

  ‘Not really. Best bet seems to be she’s one of the girl’s nurses, although her behaviour was definitely suspicious. Or, at the very least, she was being ultra-cautious. Do you want me to ask Patrick Evremond?’

  ‘Yes, why not: then at least he’ll know then that we know he’s there. Tell him Clive Scott said he’s to go back to wherever he’s staying by midnight at the latest. Stress that it’s important that he’s fresh in the morning when he visits his sister. Remind him that I want him at the house by 9.30 am, but that he should keep out of sight until I signal him. And impress on him that we’ve got everything under control. Is all that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But keep on your toes; we don’t know what time the suspect might show up.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’

  Ten minutes later Clive Scott’s phone rang again.

  ‘It’s Tom Moore, sir.’

  ‘Okay, Sergeant, spill the beans.’

  ‘Patrick didn’t know the woman, but he sure got one hell of a fright when we pounced to ask if he did,’ Tom Moore chuckled. ‘He really hadn’t realised that we’d spotted him. I think he might go home quite soon now: probably he’s suffered what you might call a… er… ’

  ‘Let me guess; a clothing… er… embarrassment of some kind?’

  ‘Yes, I reckon he’ll need a change of underwear, and sharpish!’

  ‘You guys ought to know better,’ Clive Scott laughed, ‘the poor kid must have been scared witless. How long did it take him to stop shaking?’

  ‘A good few minutes, I reckon, sir.’

  ‘Well, that will do him no harm. He needed to be reminded that this is a dangerous situation to be involved in. Now goodnight, Sergeant: anything else happens, you’ll have to use your best judgement and deal with it yourself. I’m off to my bed.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  At 9.15 the next morning, the two Met officers, Chief Inspector Scott and Sergeant Gillespie, arrived at the Evremond home to find that Patrick was already there: lurking with intent, as Clive Scott said when he greeted him, before repeating that he should to keep out of sight until they called him. Also with the Scotland Yard officers was Mark Lucas, a genial police doctor with many years of experience, who would examine Genevieve, and take a blood sample from her when the time came.

  To say that James Evremond was annoyed at finding himself arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to defraud (passing dud £20 notes), would be an understatement. He stood on his front doorstep and he huffed, he puffed, then threatened to blow Scotland Yard’s house down, by lodging a law suit against them for a huge amount of damages, on the basis of false arrest, defamation (of character), or police harassment. Any, or all, of those legal options, he shouted at them, would be at his disposal once he had seen his lawyer.

  When he saw that Clive Scott remained completely unmoved by these threats, he tried a different approach. He would be happy to cooperate with Scotland Yard, he said, but that would have to be later, because he couldn’t leave his house: his daughter was seriously ill, and one of her nurses was on holiday and the other one had not yet returned from her night off.

  At that stage, Clive Scott played his trump card. He signalled to Deirdre Wilson, a young red-haired woman, who had been discreetly keeping out of the way while Evremond shouted and fumed at the police officers. Chief Inspector Scott brought her forward, and introduced her as a nursing sister specialising in intensive care work, who would take care of his daughter during his absence. This left Evremond without a leg to stand on, figuratively speaking.

  So then he asked if he might say goodbye to his daughter, and Clive Scott said he could, but only if he was accompanied by Andy Gillespie, while Clive himself kept his size 13 shoe firmly wedged in the front door, so that the door could not be slammed in their faces.

  After five minutes, or so, he and Andy reappeared, but Clive Scott had not expected what happened next. As he removed his foot from the doorway so that James Evremond and Andy could pass, Evremond turned quickly and pulled the door shut behind them. Now he was triumphant! If they wanted to get into the house they would either need a search warrant, he said, or his permission, which he would not be prepared to give.

  At that point Chief Inspector Scott sighed deeply (in the style of Chief Inspector Maigret!) and played his ace card, which he had hoped to keep up his sleeve for much longer: he called Patrick Evremond.

  When James Evremond saw his son his attitude completely changed. He went pale, his shoulders drooped, and he gave up the fight, although he glared at his son as their paths crossed. But neither of them spoke a word. Like father, like son, Andy Gillespie thought. But well done to Patrick who, although obviously upset, managed to hold himself together.

  As James Evremond was bundled into a squad car and driven off to Scotland Yard at top speed, Clive Scott asked Patrick, in formal police-speak terms, if they had his permission to enter and search his family home, in the absence of a search warrant. He replied that they did, and handed the chief inspector the front door key.

  Then the eight of them: the two Met policemen, three uniformed officers from the local force, the police doctor, the intensive care nurse, and Patrick Evremond, entered the Dulwich mansion. The moment he was inside, Patrick raced straight up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He stopped when he reached the landing, and peeked into his sister’s room. He took one look at her: sitting quietly and patiently in the armchair next to her bed, his uncomplaining little sister, the image of their mother, but now so frail and ill, that he was unable to speak. At that moment Genevieve looked up, and when their eyes met, she smiled and held out her arms to him, and Patrick ran forward, falling to his knees in front of her chair, with his head resting on her lap. And there, while she gently stroked his hair, he sobbed until it seemed that his heart must surely break in two.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘Shall we go upstairs too, so I can examine the patient?’ Dr Lucas asked, as he watched Patrick bound up the stairs.

  ‘No, Mark, not yet: let’s be kind to them and give them ten minutes to themselves. Why don’t you and Deirdre find yourselves a comfortable chair each while I get these lads organised,’ he said, gesturing in the direction of the south London police officers.

  ‘Right-O, just give us a shout when you want us to go to work.’

  With the medical team sorted, Clive Scott turned his attention on the uniformed officers. His instructions were very detailed and specific: firstly, he reminded them that they had no search warrant, which meant that their legal position was rather uncertain. ‘Be aware that we are pretty much in uncharted waters here, lads’ was the way he put it, and because of this there was to be no “rough-house stuff”. In other words, no locked door, cabinet or drawer that they might come across was to be forced open. If they encountered such an obstacle they were to let either he or Andy Gillespie know immediately. Secondly, everything was to be left exactly the way they’d found it. Thirdly, they must wear forensic gloves at all times, and nothing – ‘repeat, nothing’ – was to be removed without his permission.

  ‘Understood, lads?’ he asked after he had read them his version of the infamous Riot Act,7 and the officers nodded. ‘Good. Now off you go, and mind you do a thorough search – I’ll be prowling somewhere around the place, so if you need me just shout.’

  Within a short while, one of the officers had come across just such an obstacle. It was a door, obviously leading to the basement, which was firmly, and substantially, locked.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Chief Inspector Scott, calmly extracting a large bunch of master-keys from his pocket. ‘I’m sure one or other of these will do the trick’. And he was right. ‘Why would the basement door be locked, when all the other cupboards, including Evremond’s wri
ting desk, are not?’ Andy Gillespie puzzled.

  ‘That, Andy, is what we are about to find out,’ his boss replied. ‘Wait,’ he said to the officers who were about to charge down the basement stairs like bulls in a china shop, ‘you lads get yourselves a nice hot coffee from somewhere. Andy and I will do the honours with this search. And one of you is to stay on guard outside the front door. I want no one in or out without my permission. Capisce?’ The officers nodded again.

  ‘Right, Andy, let’s get on with it,’ the chief inspector said as the officers left. ‘And put your damn gloves on!’

  The basement was clean, neat and orderly, like the rest of the house, but in one corner they found something surprising: three medium-sized cardboard boxes, sealed up tightly, with Chinese characters written on them.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said the chief inspector, ‘what have we here? How’s your Chinese, Andy?’

  ‘About the same as yours, boss. But I reckon you don’t have to be a genius to work out that the words written all over in large letters might just mean something like explosives or danger.’

  ‘And I reckon you might be right, old son. Do you have your trusty Swiss army knife about your person anywhere?’

  ‘Never leave home without it, guv.’

  ‘Then get to work and open one of these blasted boxes!’

  And when the box was opened, they had another surprise. Stacked in neat bundles were what looked to be nothing more than sparklers, the kind that were often used for Guy Fawkes’ night, or children’s birthday parties.

  ‘Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff for this old tat, guv?’ asked Andy Gillespie.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out – and pronto,’ his boss said.

  So the uniformed officers were brought back into service to lug the boxes upstairs, but not before the chief inspector had stuck large “Evidence” stickers all over them. Then the boxes were taken off for examination by the Scotland Yard laboratory. And, when they were, it would be found that these were very different from the usual celebration sparklers, even though they looked much the same, if larger than usual. These sparklers were not meant for children’s parties: these sparklers were absolutely lethal.