by John Creasey
He broke off, abruptly, and turned away. His gaze rested on a coloured photograph on the wall, the portrait of a young man very like him.
‘I’ll come in with you,’ added Kelham, abruptly.
‘Don’t you think you’d better stay here?’ asked Blair.
He broke off as Kelham shook his head and led the way to the hall again. A sergeant, Mellor, was waiting in the hall with the other detective-officer, and Willis came in from the sitting room; Kelham ignored the men and went to a closed door. The key was in the lock, and he turned it. He seemed to brace himself as he stepped inside, then stood aside for Roger.
Roger had rarely seen anything so uncanny. The large, flat-topped desk was placed in a position similar to that of the bureau in the other room, and Anthony Kelham was sitting at it, in a natural pose. His face was hidden, and from the angle he looked exactly like his father. One hand was flat on the desk, and his body was propped up by his other hand which gripped the edge.
He wore a light grey suit, and there was a small hole on the left front, the edges stained a brownish-red. His long dark hair fell over his forehead. When Roger touched his wrist it felt cold and stiff.
He turned. ‘Was this exactly as you found him?’
‘Exactly,’ said Kelham. ‘I noticed nothing unusual, and called out to him as I opened the door. Only when he failed to move or respond did I grow alarmed. I needed only a glance to see that he was dead. I felt his pulse; his wrist was already getting cold.’
‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘Have you any idea who killed him, Mr Kelham?’
‘I have not!’
‘Do you know whether he had enemies?’
‘To my knowledge he had none.’
‘Who else knew that he was likely to be here this evening?’
‘As far as I know, no one,’ said Kelham. ‘It wasn’t until this morning that I heard he was coming here—he planned to spend Easter with his mother at our Newbury house, and I was going to join them for the weekend. He said that he had to come to London for the day and would spend the night here. I don’t recall mentioning the fact that he was due to anyone except Blair.’
‘I told no one,’ Blair said, a trifle too quickly Roger thought.
‘Do you know what brought your son here?’ asked Roger.
‘You had better read this,’ Kelham said.
He handed Roger the note, crumpled at one corner, which he had held in his hand all the time. It was short and uninformative, written on Brasenose College paper in a poor hand, and it read:
Dear Andy,
Here’s a pleasant surprise for you! I have to do one or two things in London tomorrow, and I doubt whether I shall be finished in time to get to Newbury tomorrow night, so expect me at five o’clock or thereabouts. All news when I see you, not that there’s much!
Tony
‘Thank you,’ said Roger. ‘I don’t think there is any need for you to stay unless you have to, Mr Kelham. I can go into details later with Mr Blair, and the police surgeon will be here in a few minutes.’
‘Is there any reason why I should not stay?’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ said Roger.
‘Then I will.’
During the next twenty minutes a dozen photographs were taken of the body from different angles, while Roger and Sergeant Mellor looked about the room. Roger did not examine the body until the doctor arrived. Dr Howard Winter was a youthful, clean-limbed man with an eager manner. Efficiency and a coldly inquisitive approach to cadavers were his chief characteristics.
He and Roger approached the body together. Before the brief inspection was over, Kelham changed his mind and went out of the room. Blair hovered near the door.
‘There’s not much doubt about what happened to him,’ said Winter. ‘Good shooting with a heavy-calibre revolver, eh? I think you’ll find that death was instantaneous. I needn’t stay any longer, need I?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Roger. ‘Mellor, ring for the ambulance, will you, and warn the morgue at Cannon Row.’ As the sergeant went out, Roger stepped to the door, and nearly trod on Blair’s toe. ‘Sorry,’ he said perfunctorily.
He closed the door of the library, and got a smear of fingerprint powder on his hand, but photographs of the handle and of most of the furniture which had revealed prints had already been taken. Blair stood behind him in the passage. Roger opened the door slowly. It made no sound, and just cleared the thick carpet. When it was halfway open, there was a clear view of the desk and the dead man; a bullet fired from the waist would be on a level with the wound. He looked at the window, which was placed rather high. Two of the top panes were open, but he could see no way in which a bullet from there could hit a man at the desk.
Blair said, abruptly: ‘It must have come from the door.’
‘We take nothing for granted,’ said Roger. ‘Does Mr Kelham have to stay here?’
‘Of course! He uses this as his office!’
‘He won’t be able to use this room in peace for a few days,’ said Roger. ‘It would be much more convenient if he were to move to a hotel, or to another flat—convenient for him, I mean. We can manage. Ask him, will you?’
While Blair was gone, Mellor came in and reported that there were no signs that the front door had been forced, and there were no scratches round the keyhole. Roger checked up on that, and spent five minutes looking at the other doors. A sergeant, Ling, came in to say that no one appeared to have seen Anthony Kelham arrive, nor heard the shot. By then the ambulance was at the gate. The manager of the block of flats was most anxious that the body should be taken out the back way, and Roger was amenable. He went into the sitting-room to see Kelham as the body was being removed.
Kelham was saying: ‘If the police think it better then we can move. Don’t be obstructive, Blair!’
‘I was only thinking of your convenience,’ Blair said stiffly. ‘All your papers are here.’
‘The police won’t object to us moving some filing cabinets,’ said Kelham, testily. ‘Will you, Inspector?’
‘Not after we’ve looked through them,’ said Roger, ‘to make sure they haven’t been disturbed.’
‘Why is that necessary?’ demanded Blair.
Kelham swung on his secretary.
‘I have had more than enough of your interference! Murder has been committed here, can’t you get that into your head? The police will have to search thoroughly, will have to go through anything and everything. We shall afford them every possible assistance.’ He looked at Roger, and his voice grew calmer. ‘You must forgive me, Inspector, my nerves have been badly shaken. You won’t mind if my secretary is here while you search?’
‘Not at all,’ said Roger.
‘Thank you. I am making arrangements to go into a hotel for a few days.’
If Kelham had any reason to be afraid of the police, his acting was superb. It was probable that any incriminating papers had been removed before the police had arrived, of course. It was even possible that Kelham and Blair were putting up an act to deceive him. He would have considered that more likely but for Kelham’s behaviour when he had first arrived. The man was more composed now, but his eyes had a glassy look, and his hands were clenched.
‘There is one thing, Inspector. I would like to leave London forthwith, to see my wife. I can return tomorrow. She is not well, and cannot travel.’
That will be all right,’ said Roger.
‘Thank you. Now, Blair. You fully understand that I wish for the utmost cooperation with the police in every way.’
‘Yes,’ said Blair, and added with an effort: ‘What about your packing?’
‘I will do it.’
‘Oh, both of you can do it,’ said Roger. ‘I won’t need to start on the cabinets yet.’ He left them as they went into the bedroom, and spoke quietly to Sergeant Mellor. ‘Have you got plenty of money in your pocket?’
‘I’ve a pound or two,’ said Mellor. ‘Why?’
‘Kelham’s going out, and I want you to follow him.’
Roger took out his own wallet, and extracted three pound notes, all he had with him. ‘Borrow as much as you can from the others. As soon as you know his address for the night, telephone the Yard.’
‘Right-ho, sir,’ said Mellor. ‘I won’t lose him!’
‘You’d better not,’ said Roger. ‘He’s supposed to be heading for his country home—Poplars, Stratton, near Newbury. Have you got that?’
‘Poplars, Stratton, near Newbury,’ repeated Mellor.
‘That’s it. Scram!’ Roger turned away and Mellor hurried downstairs.
Kelham had been gone ten minutes, and Roger began to look through the papers in the cabinet, when there was a ring at the front-door bell. A plainclothes man went to answer it, while Blair looked and muttered: ‘I wonder who that is?’
Roger made no comment; the time for finding out why Blair was so jumpy would come later. He was revelling in this opportunity to study papers which had seemed quite inaccessible only a few hours before. Most of the papers appeared to be contracts, invoices and general correspondence, all connected with building or some branch of it. Blair glanced over his shoulder from time to time, and Roger could not put his mind to the job in hand while a man’s voice alternated with a girl’s in the hall.
Suddenly Blair swung round and hurried to the door.
Roger stood up and followed him.
Looking past Blair he could see a girl in a gaily-coloured mackintosh from which water was dripping. She wore a hood of the same material, and a fringe of damp fair hair showed at the sides of the hood. Roger saw her wide-open eyes, blue and bright as she looked in bewilderment towards Blair.
‘Charles!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is the matter? What are these men doing here?’
She turned her gaze towards Roger, and demanded: ‘Who are you?’
‘I—’ began Roger.
‘He’s dead!’ cried Blair. ‘Tony’s dead. He’s been murdered!’
Chapter Three
Griselda
Alarm, dismay and perhaps a tinge of surprise showed on her pretty face, but she was not greatly astonished: that was the first thing he realised.
‘Are you a policeman?’ she asked, in a low voice.
‘Yes,’ Roger gave her his card, but she hardly glanced at it.
‘Is Tony—is Mr Anthony Kelham dead?’
‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ said Roger.
‘Tony,’ she said, and added: ‘Poor, poor Tony!’ She looked away from him, at Blair, who stood by a chair glaring at Roger, and seemed to have gone completely to pieces. ‘Does—does Andy know?’
‘Mr Kelham knows,’ said Roger.
‘I’m glad of that,’ said the girl, and then added: ‘I suppose you want to know who I am. My name is Fayne, Griselda Fayne, and—and Tony and I were old friends.’ She looked at Charles Blair, and Roger thought that she was rather contemptuous. ‘I knew—’
‘Why did you have to come?’ cried Blair. ‘Why on earth did you think Tony might be here, you knew he was going to Newbury. He—’
‘But he told me that he’d be here,’ said Griselda.
‘He couldn’t have done!’ exclaimed Blair, wildly, ‘he couldn’t have done. Griselda, for heaven’s sake, you—’ He broke off.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, ‘I didn’t kill Tony.’ She looked at Roger. ‘That must sound a curious thing to say, Inspector—’ a quick glance at the card followed, and she added: ‘West. It isn’t really. Tony and I have been on extremely bad terms, but we made it up on the telephone last night.’
‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘Do you come here often, Miss Fayne?’
‘Well, quite often,’ said Griselda.
‘Have you a key?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not a member of the family.’ She shot a glance at Blair, as if that remark was intended for a dig at him. ‘It—it all seems so unreal,’ she went on, ‘I don’t think I really believe it.’ There was an uneasy pause. ‘Well—can I see Andy?’ she asked at last.
‘He’s gone to Newbury,’ said Blair.
‘Oh, of course, he would. Poor Mrs Kelham.’
Roger was curious about her use of Kelham’s Christian name and the more formal ‘Mrs Kelham’.
‘I shall want to ask you one or two questions later, Miss Fayne,’ he said, formally.
‘Is that necessary?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen Tony for weeks, and—but I suppose you know your business. I am at the Royal White Hostel, Buckingham Palace Gate. Charles, can I do anything for you?’
‘No,’ said Blair.
‘You needn’t be so ungracious about it,’ said Griselda, turning on her heel. ‘Please let me know as soon as Andy comes back, I must see him. Good night, Inspector.’
‘We’d better get on with the job,’ Roger said when she had gone.
Blair’s agitation increased, but Roger pretended not to notice it, or his frequent glances towards the library door. After twenty minutes of unrewarded toil, Roger turned towards the door.
‘I won’t be a minute,’ he said, and strode out without looking round, conscious of Blair’s gaze. He went out, leaving the door ajar, and beckoned the detective officer, a heavily built man, who was still looking for fingerprints. He put his other hand to his lips, and the man tiptoed across the outer room as Roger flung the door wide open and re-entered swiftly.
Blair had some papers in his hand.
Quick as a flash, he thrust his hand into his pocket and rushed towards Roger, swinging his free arm wildly. Roger gripped his forearm and pulled his hand out of his pocket.
Several letters fell to the floor.
‘You’re a foolish fellow. Blair,’ said Roger. ‘Pick up those letters,’ he added to the other man. ‘I’ll look after Mr Blair.’
He retained his grip, but Blair made no effort to break away, and stood staring at the letters as if hypnotised. Roger ignored the letters and pulled him towards the cabinet, saying tartly: ‘I can’t spend all night on this job!’
Blair gasped: ‘Aren’t you going to—’ his voice trailed off, while Roger released him and took out another file of papers. It was marked: Estimate – Bristol. There was nothing likely to interest him in it, and he was fairly certain that the only papers which did hold interest for him were the letters on the desk. He did learn, however, that Kelham had an interest in several of the largest firms of building contractors, in brickyards and in subsidiary companies. There was hardly a part of the country affected by the slum-clearance programme in which he was not concerned. It was a mammoth enterprise.
He did no more than scan the documents; there was no justification for doing more. It was after nine o’clock before he had finished, however, and he was feeling hungry.
It was Blair who broke the long silence.
‘Look here, how long do you intend to stay here?’ he demanded, with exasperation. ‘It’s late for dinner, and I’m hungry!’
Roger looked at him calmly.
‘I’m afraid there isn’t time to break off yet, Mr Blair, as there are one or two questions I wish to ask you. I think it would be better for you to come along with me to Scotland Yard.’
Blair cried: ‘That won’t be necessary, will it? I’ll tell you whatever I can, I want to help, I—’ he broke off, and then added: ‘Damn you, give me a cigarette!’
Roger shrugged his shoulders, took out his case and, as Blair took a cigarette with trembling fingers, said quietly: ‘You told Miss Fayne that Anthony Kelham would be here tonight. Whom else did you tell?’
‘How—how did you know?’
Your efforts to make her keep quiet about it were obvious,’ said Roger, gratified at a successful shot in the dark. ‘Whom else have you told?’
‘No one!’
‘Then she must have told someone,’ Roger said.
‘Don’t be a fool!’
‘Well, she either told someone else who came here and killed Tony Kelham, or else she killed him herself,’ said Roger.
‘That’s utter nonsense!’ snapped Blair.
; ‘On her own admission, she had quarrelled with him.’
‘I tell you they’d made the quarrel up!’
‘I’ve only her word and yours for that,’ said Roger. ‘There’s every reason to disbelieve her.’ He was bluffing again, and again it worked.
Blair drew in a searing breath.
‘I tell you you’re wrong! She and Tony were engaged, until a few months ago, then they had a quarrel and broke it off. There’s nothing unusual in that, is there?’ Blair was speaking quickly, the words seemed forced from him. ‘Griselda lost her temper, she—’
He broke off, and then cried: ‘There’s no need to start a scandal among Griselda’s friends is there? She—she once nearly shot him. They’d quarrelled, and Tony said something pretty beastly. Gris-Griselda nearly always carries a gun, and—well, anyone might have lost their temper. You can’t blame her!’ He drew in his breath, and then went on in a low-pitched, almost despairing voice.
It had happened at a small private party at the flat. Griselda and Tony Kelham had been on bad terms for some weeks, but Kelham was anxious to bring them together again, and had invited her without telling his son. Tony and Griselda had met in the library, each taken by surprise. The door had been open and several people had seen them. They had exchanged a few inaudible words, and then Tony Kelham had raised his voice and said, for everyone to hear, that she was the daughter of a criminal lunatic and ought to be shut up herself.
Blair said: ‘I—I saw and heard it all, West, so did a dozen others. She—she went ashen, and stood looking at him for a moment, and then she—she snatched the gun out of her bag and fired at him. I was nearest. I saw what she was doing and rushed in, and the bullet went wide. We hushed it up, of course. Tony would never have been such a beast had he not been drunk.’
‘I see,’ said Roger slowly. ‘Was the accusation about her father justified?’
‘Yes. Her father died at Broadmoor. You’ll be able to find out all about him in your records. But I tell you Griselda and Tony made it up. He tried to even that evening, he sobered up pretty quickly. She wouldn’t listen, and went off, but he kept writing to her and telephoning her, and yesterday she agreed to let bygones be bygones. That’s the gospel truth, West. Mr Kelham was always anxious to—to see them on good terms, he wanted them to marry. Naturally, I helped him.’ The last words were barely audible.