by John Creasey
‘What was their business?’
‘Well, that’s hard to define,’ said Griselda. ‘They dabbled in a lot of things—bought all kinds of different goods if they were going cheap, and sold them at a profit. Then they let and sold houses, and dealt in land.’
‘Did they deal extensively in land or anything else?’ he asked.
‘Not really. It was a bit of this and a bit of that. They did most of their correspondence themselves, and kept all their own records. Most of the work I did was typing contracts and agreements, and writing sales letters.’
‘Do you know the names of all their clients?’
‘No, but I could probably remember a lot of them, if I put my mind to it.’
‘That’s one thing we’ll want you to do,’ said Roger. ‘Among their visitors, was there anyone whom you would call remarkable?’
She hesitated, for the first time.
‘Well—yes, I suppose there was. I didn’t see many of their callers, they used a little office in the City for interviews—it wasn’t their office, but they had a share in it. The one man in any way remarkable was the fat man you saw the other evening.’
‘Mr Kenneth Alexander,’ murmured Roger.
‘Yes. Have you seen him since?’
‘Once. He called you his niece.’
Griselda made a face. ‘He always did. The man is a beast! I’ve done work for him from time to time, and he was one of my best clients until about six months ago, when he overstepped the mark, and I stopped visiting him.’
‘Where did you visit him?’ asked Roger.
‘In his flat in Putney. 22 Crane Court,’ she added, as Roger held a pencil poised over a pad. ‘Until last night I hadn’t seen him for six months.’
‘Why did you run away from him?’
‘I didn’t—I ran away from you!’
Roger smiled. ‘He timed his visit, knowing you were there, and gave me the impression that he had come to get you away. Do you know why?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Griselda.
‘I see. Was he a friend of Andrew Kelham’s?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Griselda.
‘You’ve never seen him at Kelham’s flat?’
‘No.’
‘Were the Bellews acquainted with Kelham?’
‘They sold him some land in south London,’ said Griselda, ‘but as far as I know they didn’t see him personally. I wrote the letters and prepared the agreement.’
‘Did you work for Andrew Kelham?’
‘Sometimes.’ She coloured. ‘I did some work for him, because I hoped that I would find out something which would prove what a blackguard he is! But I’ve never found anything against him. If I didn’t know what he had done to my father, I should have been completely deceived! He is such a two-faced hypocrite!’
Roger said suddenly: ‘Why did you go to see Anthony Kelham on the evening of his murder?’
Her colour ebbed, and she put a hand to her breast. Chatworth sat quite still, staring at her.
Then she said: ‘I went to try to get some letters from him. Love letters. Andrew Kelham is bad enough, but his son was far worse. The letters weren’t mine. They were written by a friend of mine to whom I introduced him. She is married. He laughed at me, we quarrelled, and I went out. I knew that Iris—my friend,’ she amended hastily, ‘was desperately anxious to get those letters. I imagined her despair if I told her I had failed, so I went back to try again. I found him dead.’ She drew in her breath, and went on slowly. ‘I looked in his pockets. The letters were there and I took them away. I’ll never stop thanking God that I had the presence of mind to do that.’
It was not until the girl had been taken back to the waiting-room that Chatworth made a comment. He was thoughtful, and looked a little reluctant as he said: ‘That gives us another motive against her.’
‘This friend’s husband might have known about them, and chosen to deal with young Kelham himself,’ suggested Roger.
‘H’m, yes. That would upset your pet theory about him being killed in mistake for his father, wouldn’t it?’
‘Theories are made to be upset,’ said Roger, practically. ‘I think it would be safer for her if she were detained on a minor charge, and I think she would understand that if we put it to her. We mustn’t lose sight of the possibility, either, that she is hoodwinking us.’
Roger explained his idea to Griselda and then told a sergeant to lodge her in a ‘cell’ which was really a plainly-furnished room kept for privileged prisoners, before he went to interview the thick-set man. At the start he did better than he expected for the man had already admitted that his name was Newman, after letters addressed to him at the Ealing house had been found in his pockets. When Roger entered his cell, however, he was obstinately silent.
Roger spent three-quarters of an hour trying, and eventually gave it up as hopeless; the man knew that Sloan might die and that he might be charged with murder, but nothing would make him speak.
Roger went to the Ballistics Room. There, bullets fired from the guns taken from Bellew and Newman were compared with that taken out of Anthony Kelham’s body. Roger hardly knew why he was not disappointed when the ballistics expert shrugged his shoulders, and said: ‘You might have the men, but you haven’t got the gun.’
He went back to his office, telephoned the hospital and was told that Sloan was still in the operating theatre. For a while he sat staring moodily at his desk.
Eddie Day came sailing into the office, and started when he saw Roger.
‘Do you happen to know if anyone has been to the Royal White Hostel?’ Roger asked him.
‘Some woman was on the telephone just before you came in,’ said Eddie. ‘She asked for you, and she didn’t half sound in a temper. I told her you’d ring her back.’
‘I’d forgotten about her,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll go and see her right away, tell her that if she comes through again, will you?’
Roger collected a plainclothes man and drove to Buckingham Palace Gate. The fact that he troubled to take a man with him when he knew there were already two watching the place was an indication of his frame of mind. He saw one of his men near the hostel, and pulled up near him.
‘I’ve just telephoned a message for you, sir, about someone who’s just gone in,’ said the man. ‘I think it’s the fat fellow, Alexander, by his description. He’s been in there about a quarter of an hour.’
The door of the hostel was opened by a short, rather dumpy girl. She was smartly dressed, and greeted him with a wide smile.
‘I think the matron wants to see me,’ said Roger. ‘I’m from Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh, yes. She is anxious,’ said the girl. ‘She’s engaged at the moment, but I’m sure that she won’t keep you long.’
‘Who is with her?’ asked Roger.
‘The guardian of one of our girls,’ she said, brightly. ‘We have to assure them that everything is very proper here, of course.’ The girl gave a laugh which was almost a giggle, but still Roger was unsuspecting. She led the way to a door marked: ‘Visitors’ Room’ and flung it open. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she added, and Roger stepped forward.
She pushed him in the back, and he nearly fell. Then she slammed the door, and Roger saw the gigantic figure of Mr Alexander standing behind the door and covering him with a small automatic.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ said Mr Alexander.
Chapter Fifteen
Mr Alexander Discourses
‘In fact,’ said Alexander, in a subdued voice, ‘I felt quite sure that you would come when I was seen to come here. I watched your man hurrying to the telephone, and I must congratulate you on the promptness of your arrival, Inspector. You are most efficient. I could not talk freely in front of my good friend Andy Kelham, and yet I was so anxious to talk to you, Inspector.’
‘You’d better be careful,’ said Roger, ‘or you’ll have a heart attack.’
Alexander beamed.
‘My dear
Inspector, what a shrewd thrust! So you suspected the genuineness of my heart attack—ha-ha! A little capsule of adrenalin as I came down the stairs. Most effective! Now, Inspector, we must not waste time. My late dispatches from the battle-front, as one might say, suggest that you have seen quite enough shooting for one day, and I am sure that you won’t take any risks. Now, Inspector, I will come to the point. When you visited this hostel yesterday morning, you took some papers away.’
‘They were afterwards taken from me,’ said Roger.
‘So I understand. Newman was very quick, I believe. I engaged him to obtain those papers for me, although I must dissociate myself from the methods which he employed. He is a violent, untrustworthy fellow, and I advise you to watch him most closely. I believe that he has exceptional strength in his hands, and has been known to strangle a fellow human being.’ Mr Alexander shivered delicately. ‘I duly received the papers and, to my great sorrow, paid for them in cash. They cost me fifty pounds, Inspector, and I found myself—cheated! The particular paper, which I know was in the possession of Griselda Fayne, was not among those I received. Newman gave me his solemn assurance that they were all he took from you, so you must still have the paper I want, Inspector.’
‘Must I?’ asked Roger, indifferently.
Alexander said: ‘Inspector West, I want you to understand me very clearly. The idea about your child was mine, and I hope you appreciate the finesse. I gave strict instructions—by telephone, while my dear friend Andy was consoling his wife—that the child must not be harmed at first. I hope my instructions were carried out.’
‘They were—and the men who carried them out aren’t your strength now,’ said Roger.
‘Has it never occurred to you, Inspector, that human beings are the most easily replaced of creatures?’ Alexander beamed. ‘Let us return to the subject in which I am most interested—those papers. Have you taken them to Scotland Yard?’
‘You’d better employ some more human beings to find out,’ said Roger, calmly.
‘Is it possible that you did not get them?’ asked Alexander, as if speaking to himself. ‘I wonder if Griselda has been smart enough to outwit me? She is a curious creature—yes—she might have had the wit to understand what was happening, and to have retained those particular papers. If so’ – he drew in his breath – ‘what a distressing mistake has been made!’
‘You should have questioned her before you let me arrest her,’ said Roger.
‘Possibly, possibly! Really, Inspector, you have made me feel quite weak.’ He looked pale, and ran his hand across his forehead. ‘To think that I might have been able to take them from Griselda—it appals me! I—stay there, Inspector! Don’t move! I am watching you!’
Roger, who had straightened up, saw the fat fingers tighten about the gun, and stayed where he was. Yet he thought that for once Alexander was showing his true feelings.
‘Dear me!’ said Alexander, and raised his voice. ‘Ethel!’
Obviously the girl had been standing outside the door, for she came in immediately. This must have been the girl who impersonated Griselda.
‘Ethel,’ said Alexander, in a low-pitched voice, ‘there is reason to believe that Griselda had those papers, after all.’
The girl said viciously: ‘That little—’
‘Hush! The fault was ours, and we must admit it. Is Griselda under arrest, Inspector?’
‘Yes,’ said Roger.
‘I see. Well, there is nothing else for it. You must send for her, West.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll send a postcard.’
Alexander took a step forward, his left hand raised, as if he were going to use violence. ‘Now, understand me. You will make arrangements to get Griselda out of custody and to bring her here You have men outside—you can call to them from the window. Ethel—open the window! Now, West, do as I say. I’ll kill you, if necessary!’
The girl unfastened the catch, drew aside the net curtain and began to push the window up. Roger glanced towards it, and Alexander motioned him forward with the gun. The man’s eyes were narrowed and the gun was pointing towards his chest. It was impossible to see it from outside.
The window was wide open now, and the girl stood aside. Roger threw one glance at the amazing fat man, and then took his hand out of his pocket, holding a handful of silver and copper. He stepped towards the window. Suddenly he flung the coins over his shoulder, and made a rush for the window. The girl backed away in alarm. Roger vaulted through as the coins clattered about the floor. He held his breath, expected a shot and the shock of a bullet in his body. Then he dropped into the area of the semi-basement house, where his head was below the level of the window-sill.
The two men outside stared towards the window as Roger landed on his feet, but could not keep his balance. He went sprawling, and expected Alexander to lean out of the window and shoot him. He scrambled to his feet and pressed close against the wall. He was too breathless to call out, and he could not see his men. He heard a muttered exclamation from the girl, and then to his relief, the window was closed with a bang.
The two men came running towards the gate.
‘Careful!’ cried Roger. ‘Careful!’
Then the front door opened and down the steps, with magnificent disdain, came Alexander. The girl was just behind him. Alexander reached the gate almost simultaneously with the policemen, and simply ran into them, striking out with both arms. He sent one man to the pavement and the other reeling back. Alexander even spared a moment to glance over his shoulder, and take Ethel’s wrist. Then he led the way towards the nearest corner, dragging the girl after him. Neither of the policemen were steady enough to give chase, and Roger reached the gate before either of them started.
Alexander and Ethel disappeared round the corner.
When Roger reached it, he saw a car far down the road and knew that there was not the faintest hope of catching up with it. He stood breathing hard, until the others joined him, both looking scared when they saw his angry expression.
He went back to the house, taking one man with him. It seemed deserted. In the first room beyond the one where the fantastic interview had taken place was a small telephone switchboard and a desk, but otherwise it was empty. Roger was sufficiently familiar with switchboards to put through a call to the Yard and to give warning that Alexander was in the Sloane Square and Victoria neighbourhood. Then he rang off, and was about to go farther along the passage when two girls appeared on the threshold.
‘Who are you?’ asked Roger, abruptly.
They stared at him in surprise, and one said: ‘We live here. Who are you?’
‘Inspector West of New Scotland Yard,’ said Roger. ‘I would like you to stay here, please, until I have finished.’ He went along the passage, looking in all the rooms, but found them empty. Then he reached what was presumably the kitchen door; it was locked. He put his shoulder to it, but the door was too stout. He drew back, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and, selecting a skeleton key, began to pick the lock.
‘Keep an eye on the stairs,’ he said to his companion.
Then the door opened, and he stepped inside.
Three women stared at him, including the matron, whose hair was untidy and no longer in a bun at the back. The others were dressed in white overalls. They were sitting at a table, with scarves tied round their mouths and their arms bound to their sides. Another piece of rope tied them to their chairs.
As soon as he took the gag from the matron’s mouth she began to complain, but he ignored her until he had freed the others, leaving her tied to the chair longest, as a reward for her caustic remarks.
At last he said sharply: ‘How long have you been here?’
‘For hours!’ she exclaimed.
‘That isn’t true,’ said Roger. ‘Why make it worse by exaggeration?’
She looked as if she would start off again, but his expression stopped her, and she admitted that she thought they had been attacked about an hour before, but it might have
been less. She had been giving instructions to the cook for the evening meal, and the maid had gone to open the door, admitting a gross creature who came in with one of the hostel’s residents.
Roger’s eyes brightened.
‘The plump girl?’
‘Yes, Ethel Downy. I always disliked that pert young woman!’
She went on and on; the fat man had held them up with a gun, and Ethel had bound them to the chairs. Roger gathered that Ethel had obtained a vindictive satisfaction out of it, and when he saw the red marks about the woman’s wrists and neck, he was inclined to agree that she had suffered more than the others. The fat man and Ethel had locked them in, she said, and they had heard nothing more.
‘I think you can call yourselves lucky that it was no worse,’ said Roger. ‘Now, I want full information about Ethel Downy, please. It’s of great importance.’
The matron had collected her wits and she led the way to her study. There she opened a drawer in a steel filing cabinet, and took out a manila folder marked ‘Downy, Ethel Mildred’. There was a photograph, several letters of reference from previous landladies, and a brief list of particulars, for which Roger was grateful. Ethel Downy was an orphan whose parents had died many years before. She worked in the offices of the Kelham Financial Trust.
It was nearly eight o’clock before Roger reached the Bell Street house that evening, and it was pitch dark. A man moved towards him from outside the house, and shone a torch into his face. Then he backed away, and apologised.
‘I didn’t see it was you, sir.’ It was one of the Yard men on guard at the house.
‘That’s all right,’ said Roger.
A light was shining behind the curtains of the front room. As he opened the door, light streamed into the passage from the room, and Janet appeared.
‘Oh, your poor nose!’ she said. ‘Supper’s almost ready, I’ll call you in five minutes.’