by John Creasey
Roger went up to Mark’s room.
The whole atmosphere of the cottage had changed since the morning. The happiness which had ruled was gone, and it was remarkable that Paula talked in exaggerated whispers, rarely raising her voice. Janet was subdued, and Mark stayed in his room most of the time. Roger was puzzled by the way his friend reacted, but relieved when he saw a crooked smile on Mark’s face as he entered the room.
‘Well, Mister Policeman,’ Mark said. ‘Take a pew. Now, what’s the official verdict?’
‘Postponed,’ said Roger.
‘I suppose that’s inevitable.’ Mark took out his cigarette case and tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. ‘Y’know, Roger, if you try from now until Christmas you’ll never convince me that Marion took that map.’
‘I don’t propose to try, yet.’
‘I thought that was where you’d start from,’ said Mark. ‘It is the obvious starting point, old man. I’ve been trying to think of another, although I’m damned if I can. Anyhow, if you’ve an open mind I’m glad. What are you going to do now?’
‘I’m going back to town with Chatsworth and Sloan,’ said Roger. ‘Janet’s staying here, and I’d like you to keep an eye on her.’ He paused. ‘Will you?’
‘I shall also look for Marion,’ said Mark.
‘I’d taken that for granted,’ said Roger. He punched Mark’s shoulder, and added: ‘Now if I don’t get off the Old Man will start creating, and he’s in a touchy mood as it is. If you get any line at all, don’t investigate on your own account, but phone me right away. All right?’
‘Fair’s fair,’ said Mark, and shrugged. ‘Look after yourself.’
A gloomy parting, thought Roger, and yet not a surprising one. Clearly Mark was very worried indeed lest Riordon had exerted his sinister influence over the girl.
So, thought Roger, am I.
It was nearly eight o’clock that evening when Roger walked up the stairs to his office at the Yard. He shared it with four other Chief Inspectors, and wondered whether any of them would be there. They would have hurried away at the slightest chance of an evening off, although leisure had become a rarity for the police; there was not enough staff to cope with London’s crime.
Sitting at a light oak desk near the window was a portly, heavily-built man with a preoccupied expression on a perky face. He wore a light grey suit which fitted badly, and sported a red-spotted tie. His chin receded a little and his forehead slanted, so that his rather pointed and large nose looked like the apex of a wide-based triangle. Casual acquaintances frequently rated Chief Inspector Eddie Day as a man of no consequence, and few found it easy to believe that he was a Chief Inspector at the Yard. Yet his opinions on forged treasury notes and false coins was not only respected; it was revered. Eddie spent his life unravelling the mysteries of forgeries, and the complications and difficulties which ensued gave him a worried, almost harassed manner. His pet aversion was the calligraphic ‘expert’. He had no regard for their judgement on handwriting unless they were prepared to corroborate his testimony, and had little enthusiasm then.
He did not look round when the door opened, but continued to stare into the large, bare courtyard, with an elbow on the desk and his hand supporting his chin.
‘Fast asleep?’ asked Roger.
‘Eh?’ Day turned abruptly, his elbow slipping. ‘Why, Handsome, I didn’t expect to see you! How are you, old son, how are you?’ Eddie pushed his chair back, rose, and proffered a warm hand. ‘Not much the worse for wear, eh?’ Gravely he examined the patch of plaster, and shook his head. ‘You do get into trouble don’t you? One of these days you’ll get your pretty face spoiled, and what will your wife say then?’ He beamed widely, showing prominent but very white teeth. ‘Seriously, old boy, how are you?’
‘About as I look,’ said Roger. ‘How’s business?’
‘Not very good,’ said Eddie, shaking his hand and transforming his smile into a frown. ‘Not very good at all, Handsome. It’s a bad time for slush, all people seem to forge these days are football pool coupons and raffle tickets. And there’s no depth about that kind of thing. No body, if you see what I mean.’ He sat down, as Roger went to his own desk and frowned at a pile of buff-coloured papers upon it. A great deal had accumulated, mostly work which had nothing to do with the Riordon affair and which he would have preferred to leave alone. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said absently.
‘I ought to tell you that Chambers has been messing about at your desk,’ said Eddie. ‘The AC put him in charge and he went through your stuff for anything about the Riordon business. Didn’t get much, as far as I could see. I say, old man’ – Eddie looked at once eager and reluctant – ‘the AC’s been raising hell ever since you went. You haven’t seen him yet, have you? Three times I heard him say that he wanted you to go straight to his office when you came back. You haven’t been putting your foot in it, have you?’
Roger looked up with a grin. ‘That squib’s damp, Eddie.’
‘You mean you’ve seen him?’
‘And I remain alive and unmolested,’ said Roger. ‘Eddie, I’d hate to be rude, but I’ve a lot to do.’
‘Oh, all right, all right,’ said Eddie aggrievedly. ‘I only thought I’d warn you. Well, I may as well go home. Cheer-i-bye.’
He collected a bowler hat and an umbrella, and went out, Roger saying ‘Good night’ absently.
For the next half-hour he ran through reports on various minor cases, most of which had been dealt with in his absence. There was little of importance, although the account of the Court proceedings after a raid on a nightclub made him scowl: the owner and the staff had deserved twelve months inside, but had escaped with a fine. Either the magistrate had felt extremely lenient or the case had been badly presented. He discovered that the victim of hay fever, Chambers, had guided it through the Court and shrugged his shoulders. Five people were out of jail because a man had a severe bout of hay fever.
The routine jobs finished, Roger picked up a manilla folder marked ‘Riordon’, and then made himself familiar with various reports which had come in, but of which Chatsworth had mentioned only a few. There was little outstanding, except the name and address of the woman whose body had been found in the river near the Albert Bridge, and whom he had been going to see when he had been attacked.
There was also a photograph of her.
Roger studied that first. A good-looking woman, he judged, not in her first youth; the photograph betrayed the obvious care with which she had made herself up, and defeated its own object of trying to present an ageless likeness. Thin eyebrows, obviously plucked, a rather short nose, and well-shaped lips with the underlip a little fuller than the upper. Good-looking nevertheless, and her eyes seemed to laugh at him.
The caption typed on a slip of paper and pasted to the back of the photograph read:
Mrs Leo. Clayton. Wife Lt. Commander Clayton R.N. (Submarines)
‘Just another of them,’ he thought glumly. ‘Not much difference from the rest.’
From the report he learned that Clayton was at sea, and had been out of England for nearly eighteen months, serving on a Far East station. He was thirty-nine, his wife two years younger. They were wealthy, and on either side related to well-known families. Ideal victims for Riordon, for they would be anxious to avoid scandal at all cost.
Roger’s lips set tightly.
Another man highly placed in secret circles would receive a shock that might break him up. Roger wondered how long it had been since Clayton had heard from his wife, then found a note that she had been missing for six weeks.
Roger finished reading the file, then looked through the report of the three CID men who had gone to Morgan’s assistance. Chatsworth had told the story of Michison, Morris and Bennett fully, and there was little to add. Riordon had gone to see each of them, and the evidence that he had actually entered their office
s seemed quite conclusive. The verbatim reports of conversations with the men themselves, and their denials that Riordon had been in to see them, were interesting because in each case the man had been very emphatic.
‘I’ll see ‘em myself,’ Roger decided, and picked up the telephone, asking for Sloan. When the sergeant answered, Roger said: ‘Sloan, do you know the addresses, private and business, of Michison, Morris and Bennett?’
‘There’s a note of them in my file,’ said Sloan.
‘Get in touch with them, and make appointments for me tonight, will you?’ asked Roger. ‘And have you the name of the harmonica player who performed on the radio the other day?’
‘Yes, sir. Reginald Bright. He’s in the RAF. I’ve his number and station here somewhere.’
‘Find out the most convenient time for me to see him, will you?’ asked Roger.
The air of the Warsaw Concerto kept running through his mind. He recalled vividly the effect it had had upon him when he had heard it on the radio after waking up out of a deep sleep in the orchard of the cottage. He could not rid himself of the conviction that the artiste who had played it over the air was the same as Riordon’s faithful watchdog.
‘But if he’s in the RAF he can’t be,’ said Roger, ‘and that’s that.’
Chatsworth telephoned to say that there was nothing waiting for him that needed discussing that night, and that he was going to his flat. He wanted Roger to come to see him first thing in the morning. Roger gave the necessary assurance, and then Sloan rang through. ‘I’ve made the appointments, sir,’ he said. ‘Michison at nine-fifteen, Morris at ten o’clock, and Bennett at ten forty-five.’
‘Did you have any trouble?’ asked Roger.
‘None of them seemed surprised,’ said Sloan.
‘We’ll have to get going if we’re to fit them all in.’
‘You want me to come with you?’
‘Yes. You’ll be home late, too.’
Five minutes later he climbed into a ten horsepower car, at the wheel of which Sloan was already sitting, and was told that Michison would be at his flat, only a few blocks away from Broadcasting House. The others would also be at their private residence, both flats within a reasonable distance of Oxford Street and Portland Place.
‘Convenient,’ mused Roger. ‘We have some luck.’
The approach to the flat of Lionel Michison was anything but impressive. The outside of the house, in a narrow by-street, was grey and dirty, and the door needed painting badly. So did most of London, reflected Roger idly. He relaxed, knowing that he might need to work himself up to a considerable pitch of energy and mental alertness before the night was out, and preferring to take it easy when he could.
Narrow stairs, shadowy in spite of the daylight, landing windows half-blacked out, drab coconut matting on the stairs, all gave an unpleasant, dreary impression of the house. He had not expected to find Michison in such surroundings. That was probably foolish; he knew that BBC officials were not what they sometimes appeared to be to the general public – denizens of a strange, glittering world. But Lionel Michison’s voice, familiar to millions, had with it a hint of well-being, carried a faint aura of comfort and culture; Roger had always imagined him to live in a residence as modern as the BBC itseThe flat was at the top of the house, and only one door led from the small, square landing. There was enough light for them to see the bell, and Sloan pressed it. In the shadows, Sloan looked a comfortable, reassuring fellow, a useful man for any emergency.
After a short pause the door opened. Roger was surprised to see a maid in cap and apron, and to catch a glimpse of a small lounge hall furnished on modern lines and striking exactly the impression he had conceived of Michison.
‘Is Mr Michison in?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. Are you Inspector West?’
‘That’s right,’ said Roger.
‘He would like you to wait just a few minutes, sir,’ said the woman. She was middle-aged, neatly dressed, prim in appearance and in voice. ‘He won’t keep you long.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Roger. The maid walked from the lounge, after asking them to sit down, and disappeared. A door, painted black with red lines running about it, closed without a sound; several others led from the hall. The carpet was red, its pile luxurious. There were some black-and-white cartoons on the wall, originals by well-known artists and all caricatures of star performers over the air.
They waited for perhaps five minutes before a door opened.
Prior to that they heard the soft strains of music, probably from a radio, coming from one of the rooms. With the opening of the door the strains grew louder. No one appeared, and the door might have been opened by some hidden mechanism. Roger stared towards it, and Sloan followed his gaze. The piece, coming so softly and gently, was Brahms’ Lullaby, yet it had the effect of putting them at a tension, and was enough to make Roger clench his hands.
Slowly the music faded. No one appeared in the open doorway, but then a fresh tune began, distant at first but fast growing louder and unmistakable. It was the reedy note of a harmonica; and it was the Warsaw Concerto.
‘I don’t like this,’ muttered Sloan.
‘I hardly expected you to,’ said the voice from behind the open door.
They recognised the voice above the swelling volume of the music: it was Riordon’s. Roger backed swiftly towards the landing door; it was a spontaneous movement, as was that of his hand towards his right side pocket. He did not feel inside, for Riordon stepped into sight; tall, menacing, staring at them with a ferocious smile as if knowing that he could destroy them, and looking forward to the task.
‘The door is locked on the outside,’ he said. ‘I have arranged it. Very good of you to come to see me, West. I knew I would have the pleasure of meeting you again soon. And Sloan as well! I am having a most successful evening.’
He stopped, and stood staring at them.
Surprises from Riordon
There was no doubt about it, thought Roger, this man had the ability to frighten. He had only to be himself and he succeeded in creating fear, thus gaining an immediate advantage over anyone who saw him. It was absurd and there was no real cause for it: to let the man gain ascendancy was to play into his hands.
Roger fought against the insidious influence, and did not look away from the pale grey eyes. Sloan seemed to have disappeared; certainly Roger was not aware of his presence; the issue was between himself and Riordon.
‘Be matter-of-fact,’ he said urgently to himself. ‘Matter-of-fact, that’s all.’
‘Come in,’ said Riordon. ‘Both of you.’
With an effort, Roger said: ‘That’s why we came.’
‘Oh no,’ said Riordon. ‘You came to see Michison, as I knew you would. Poor Michison has served his purpose, you needn’t worry at all about him. The deluded British public will not have to listen to his affected voice again. I’m sure that soothes you.’
Roger said: ‘I rather liked his voice.’
‘What a pretty little tea table tittle-tattler you make,’ sneered Riordon. ‘But it’s no use, West. I know you’re shaking in your shoes, and so would I if I were in your position.’ He laughed. ‘I said come in! Don’t try to turn and run. You’d never get away.’
Roger said: ‘Try the front door, Sloan.’
There was no response and no movement, but the grin on Riordon’s face grew more menacing. Roger found it hard to force himself to look away from the man, but he did so to see why Sloan had not obeyed: the possibility that the sergeant was fascinated by Riordon, affected like a rabbit under the eye of a stoat, was the first thing to enter his mind.
‘Come in,’ repeated Riordon thinly.
With a palpable effort Roger looked away, towards the spot where Sloan had been standing. There was no sign of the sergeant: the man had completely disappeared.
/> He felt cold as he realised that, tried to reassure himself, knowing that somehow Sloan had been taken out of the lounge hall and that the soft pile of the carpet had muffled the sound. But it was uncanny that there had been no intimation of the other’s movement. He licked his lips, but did not look at Riordon immediately; he stepped to the landing door and tried the handle. There was no key in the lock, but when he turned the handle the door would not open.
‘I don’t lie,’ said Riordon softly.
Roger swung round and almost knocked into the man, who was standing close by his side. Again that uncanny silence of movement had been demonstrated, enough to frighten him by itself. Damn it, he was not frightened, this was just a man, a human being.
Riordon felt his pockets; Roger did nothing to stop him. It was a quick frisk, and Riordon gave the impression that he was used to the process. His smile widened when he stood back and said: ‘So you don’t carry a gun, West.’
Roger said slowly: ‘Only on dangerous jobs.’
‘What do you mean?’ flashed Riordon sharply.
There was the man’s weakness: everyone who had come in contact with him said how vain he was. Riordon’s overwhelming vanity, his touchiness when anything was said or done to suggest that he was not supreme in everything he touched. To anger him might prove dangerous, but to placate him would be madness.
Roger smiled. To his relief he found the smile came without too much effort; now that the first shock of the encounter was over he felt much more himself. He thrust a hand in his pocket and said: ‘I have to get special permission to carry firearms, and it’s only granted when the suspect is likely to be too dangerous to handle without them. I don’t rate you so high.’
He walked towards the door, Riordon moving by his side, and heard the man’s sharp intake of breath. As he entered the room beyond he heard the last bars of the Concerto, and then a faint rasping noise which first startled and then amused him: there was a radiogram in one corner of the room; the lid was raised and a record was spinning round and round upon the base.