by John Creasey
‘No, of course not!’ said Blair angrily. ‘If that’s the yarn they’ve told you, you can ignore it. Andy Kelham treats everyone with the utmost fairness—no one has any possible cause for complaint against him.’
‘Oh,’ said Roger, his little scheme stillborn. He had hoped to frighten Blair into making some kind of admission, but instead he saw only a burning sincerity; Blair believed all that he said of his employer, although it was so different from Griselda’s opinion. He went on, thoughtfully: ‘I don’t want to call you a liar, Blair, but others besides the Bellews have good reason to hate Kelham, including’ – he paused, and then uttered the name with great deliberation – ‘Griselda Fayne.’
‘What?’ cried Blair, and then went on quickly: ‘Now look here, West, I don’t know how you’ve got hold of this story, but you can take it from me that you’re wrong. Griselda didn’t like some of the things Andy did, but she had a great respect and admiration for Andy. Ask her yourself, and she’ll tell you.’
Roger rubbed his chin.
‘And really, there’s no need to think that I can tell you more,’ went on Blair. ‘Why do you keep laying traps for me? Kelham was a great friend to Griselda, and wanted her to become one of the family—I’ve told you that before. If Anthony had been anything like him—’ he broke off.
‘So you didn’t like his son,’ said Roger, thoughtfully.
‘No, I didn’t!’ snapped Blair. ‘You can think it’s because of Griselda if you wish. I had no personal grudge against him, except that I hated the thought that Griselda might marry him one day, but there were plenty of people who disliked Anthony Kelham!’
‘You didn’t tell me anything of this the other evening,’ said Roger. ‘In fact you gave me a very different impression.’
‘Well, supposing I did?’ said Blair. ‘He’s dead now, and I saw no point in raking up a lot of muck. It was bad enough for Andy as it was. I suppose I shouldn’t have told you this,’ he added. ‘You’ve a motive against me, now. Not that I killed him,’ he added, and Roger thought that he was rapidly becoming distraught. ‘Nor did Griselda, she—where is she, West?’
‘Under arrest,’ said Roger.
‘I suppose that was inevitable,’ said Blair, ‘but take my word for it, West, you’ve got to find someone else. Griselda didn’t kill him.’
‘We’ll find out who did,’ said Roger, taking out cigarettes. Blair accepted one. ‘Now,’ went on Roger, as he put his case away, ‘what about this man Alexander?’
Blair said: ‘He’s a friend of Andy’s.’
‘Mrs Kelham thought he exerted an evil influence,’ Roger reminded him.
‘I know, but—well, she isn’t quite herself, surely you saw that.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘I’ve met him a number of times,’ said Blair. ‘I didn’t have much time for him, but he’s a very shrewd business man, there’s no mistake about that, and Andy Kelham is first and last a business man. Look here, West, aren’t we wasting time talking about Alexander?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Roger. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Oh, weeks ago. At the Park Lane flat. What difference does that make?’ Blair looked at his watch. ‘Good Lord, it’s nearly four o’clock! Will you have some tea? Excuse me!’ He turned and hurried through the doorway leading to the domestic quarters, leaving Roger standing and staring after him.
From outside there came a short, sharp note on the horn of his car. He turned towards the door, opened it, and saw Mark standing by the car, looking both bored and aggrieved.
‘Forgotten me?’ asked Mark.
‘No. You’d better come in.’ As Mark joined him in the porch, Roger went on: ‘This is the queerest show. Mrs Kelham is beautiful and nearly simple. She doesn’t know about the murder nor the attack on Kelham, and Blair looked murderous when he thought I was going to tell her. Mrs Kelham has a strong dislike of Alexander, by the way.’
‘And who can blame her?’ demanded Mark.
‘I want to find out why,’ said Roger. ‘I’m going to take Blair away, and I’d like you to stay and try to find out why Alexander is so unpopular. I think you’ll find that she’s easy to handle. You’ll win her sympathy if you say how much you admire her husband, how tired he is looking, and that you’ll do all you can to persuade him to rest. Is that all clear?’
Blair raised no objection to going back to London, but insisted on obtaining a further assurance that Mrs Kelham would not be told the truth. Mark, declaring that he had friends in Newbury, left the car in the centre of the town, and Roger drove on in silence, with Blair at his side.
They had been driving for half an hour before Blair spoke.
‘Who told you that Griselda didn’t like Andy?’ Roger shot him a quick glance. ‘She told me herself.’
‘Oh,’ said Blair. ‘I—I suppose I’m not really surprised. West, do you seriously think that she shot Tony, thinking him to be his father?’
‘I’m reserving judgement and trying not to form conclusions,’ said Roger, ‘and I am a policeman, and not at liberty to talk freely. I’ve been more frank with you than I should have been,’ he added. ‘I hope you’ll remember that. I—’
He broke off, and stared at a small car which was being driven towards him. There was something familiar about it, and as it drew nearer, he thought he recognised the Morris car in which Newman and the Bellews had got away from Buckingham Palace Gate. The Morris passed, and he caught a glimpse of the driver, who was alone. It was Mortimer Bellew.
Roger suddenly accelerated and swung into a side turning, sending Blair heavily against the door. Roger braked sharply, went into reverse, and backed into the main road, so that he could follow the little car. Blair was still recovering from the sudden jolt, and clutching the handle of the door.
The road ahead was empty; the little car had disappeared round a bend. Roger trod heavily on the accelerator, and in a few minutes caught a glimpse of his quarry driving along a tree-lined stretch of road. Had he chosen, he could have caught up with Mortimer Bellew, and he did not think he would have any difficulty in effecting an arrest, but he was chiefly anxious to find out where the man was going.
‘What has come over you?’ demanded Blair, aggrievedly.
‘That’s the fellow who attacked Kelham,’ said Roger. ‘I don’t want you to interfere except in emergency.’ He saw the car disappear round another bend and, remembering that there were cross-roads just ahead of it, accelerated again.
He swung round the corner.
‘Look out!’ cried Blair.
The Morris was pulled up in the middle of the road, and Mortimer Bellew was hurrying away from it, towards the hedge. Roger wrenched the wheel to the left, where there was more room than on the other side, but it was too late to avoid a crash. He trod on the brakes, but the collision came with a sickening jolt and he was flung forward against the wheel, all the breath knocked out of his body. His head struck the windscreen, but he did not lose consciousness. The little car was pushed several yards along the road, and the rending sound of bending metal and the screaming of locked brakes broke the quiet of the evening.
Chapter Eighteen
Mr Alexander Again
Dazed and gasping for breath, Roger straightened up. He saw Blair sprawled forward against the windscreen, unconscious. The glass had cracked but not splintered. The front of his car and the back of the little one were hopelessly intermingled. When he tried to open the door, he could not. He pushed at it wildly, without getting any result, and then leaned back and managed to open the back door.
At last he stumbled into the road, and stood upright, breathing deeply and feeling sore in every limb.
There was no sign of Bellew, and there was no other traffic. He thought that if a car came at any speed round the bend there would be an even worse crash, but it was impossible to move the cars on his own. He decided that it would be better to get to the corner and wave a warning rather than to try to get Blair out and risk a c
rash while they were both in danger. He had little doubt that Bellew knew he had been recognised, and had decided to get away on foot.
As he turned the corner, a man was hurrying along the road towards him, a roughly dressed countryman.
‘I thought I heard a crash.’
‘You did,’ said Roger, ‘and a nasty one. Will you stand here for ten minutes, and warn any cars which come along?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’ The man looked alarmed. ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘I hope not,’ said Roger.
He hurried back to Blair, and was relieved to see that the man was recovering consciousness. The door on Blair’s side opened without difficulty, and Roger helped him out. It suddenly occurred to him that he did not remember having passed the countryman on the road as he was driving. The nearest by-road was a mile or more back, and unless the man had walked across fields, he must have been waiting near there.
‘I—I’m all right,’ muttered Blair, leaning against the hedge. ‘I’m—all right, I tell you.’
‘Stay here for a couple of minutes,’ said Roger.
As he spoke, he heard a car approaching, and heard the countryman call out.
Blair’s right arm was hanging limply by his side; from the elbow downwards it seemed to be bent at a peculiar angle; he thought that it was broken.
‘I think—’ began Roger.
‘Why, what a remarkable coincidence!’ exclaimed a man from behind him. ‘What an astonishingly small world it is, Inspector! My dear sir, how are you? Not hurt, I trust.’
Roger swung round, putting his hand to his pocket for his gun; but he did not get that far, for Alexander had a small automatic in his right hand, and was pointing it towards him. By Alexander’s side was the countryman, grinning widely, and at the top of the hedge there appeared the rather startled face of Mortimer Bellew.
‘Really, Inspector, you look quite vindictive!’ said Alexander. ‘In view of your remarkable escape, you should be feeling most grateful to the winds of chance! Bellew, stop looking like a frightened rabbit, and come down and help to move those cars!’ Bellew climbed over the hedge, and Alexander went on: ‘Not you, Inspector, you mustn’t tire yourself, you really mustn’t. Turn around.’
Slowly, helplessly, Roger turned round.
‘Walk along the road and turn into the copse through the first gate,’ said Alexander. ‘I shall be close behind you, and if you show the slightest inclination to run, I shall shoot you without compunction.’
Roger walked on slowly. He had forgotten his aches and pains in the new danger. The temptation to break into a run was almost overwhelming, but he kept on a steady course and reached the gate, which led into a thick copse.
Just in sight beyond the copse, only its roof visible because it was in a dip in the ground, was a farm-house. As he drew nearer he saw the cluster of outbuildings about it.
The man leading the way stopped at the front door of the stone-built farm-house.
‘Go inside, West,’ said Alexander. ‘Upstairs.’ The wide, stone-flagged hall was gloomy and dark. The stairs were wide and the treads shallow. There was a bend halfway up them, and Roger, glancing over the side, weighed up the chances of jumping over the banisters and getting behind Alexander. At last they reached a door which the man in front opened. Roger went in.
The room was furnished in such a fashion that, in spite of the oppressing thought on his mind, Roger was startled. It might have been lifted out of a London flat. The furniture was expensive, there was a thick carpet, and the walls were painted a deep yellow. Books lined one of the walls, near the wide, leaded-paned windows. The whole room gave an impression of luxury and culture which he somehow failed to associate with Alexander, who followed him into the room, and said: ‘Sit down in that chair by the bureau.’
Roger sat down. Alexander stepped to the window, still keeping his gun in his hand. The door remained open, and one of Alexander’s men stood outside it, watchfully.
‘Now, West,’ said Alexander, ‘we have had more than enough of this folly. I could have shot you dead at the hostel. I could have shot you in the road. I have had ample opportunity to kill you, but I have no wish to commit murder unnecessarily. Moreover, you can be of assistance to me. West, it is necessary for me to talk with Griselda Fayne. I do not think that it will be necessary for me to injure her, and I am prepared to give you my word that at the end of twenty-four hours she will be returned to you unharmed. I will make a further offer to you, West. You want the murderer of Anthony Kelham. I will name the murderer and give you all the evidence you need for a conviction, and I will also help you to clear up the whole mystery. Now that Kelham is dead, it will not matter.’
Roger hoped that he had not shown the surprise which ran through him. Only a few hours before he had been astonished at Mrs Kelham’s ignorance about the death of her son, but that was insignificant compared with Alexander’s belief that Kelham was dead.
Roger said: ‘How do you expect me to arrange it?’
‘It will be quite simple. If you telephone Scotland Yard—there is a telephone in front of you—and arrange for one or two of your men to bring Griselda to Kelham’s house at Newbury, no one will question your instructions. I know that you are held in high regard at Scotland Yard, and the very fact that she is to have an escort will kill suspicion. When she is on the way there, I will apprehend her. I have done it with you; I can do it with her.’
‘Supposing I refuse?’ asked Roger.
Alexander said: ‘I shall kill you out of hand. Make no mistake about it.’ He paused, and then added heavily; ‘West, lift up the blotting-pad in front of you.’ When Roger stared at him, he added harshly: ‘Lift it up!’
Slowly, Roger moved the pad.
He winced at what he saw. There was a snapshot of Janet and Martin taken recently, the child in his mother’s arms. It must have been stolen from Bell Street.
Roger looked up at him.
His face was set. The hatred he felt for this man showed in his eyes, hiding his agony of mind. Alexander opened his mouth to speak again, but uttered no word as he returned Roger’s gaze. The room was very quiet, but outside the clatter of the tractor-driven plough shattered the quiet of the afternoon, and seemed to hammer into Roger’s brain.
‘I will telephone my office,’ Roger said.
Chapter Nineteen
Sir Guy Chatworth’s Opinion
He spoke to the operator at Scotland Yard in a harsh clipped voice.
‘This is Chief Inspector West. Put me through to the Assistant Commissioner at once, please.’
‘Hold on, sir.’
‘Would not one of the other men do?’ asked Alexander, in a penetrating whisper.
Roger looked up at him. ‘No,’ he said, and looked back at the telephone and the photograph of Janet which was now resting against it. He felt physically cold and numbed. He saw no alternative to this abject surrender, but the arguments for and against no longer occupied his mind. He was very close to despair; the whole code of his life was wrecked, he had never faced so great a crisis. All thought had left him except the awful, all-pervading realization that he had failed both himself and his colleagues. He knew that the photograph had tipped the scales; without it he would have risked defiance.
There were sundry noises on the telephone, and Roger could hear snatches of a distant conversation. He wondered if he had been cut off, and then, in the midst of his thoughts, came Chatworth’s hearty voice.
‘Hallo, West, where are you speaking from?’
‘Newbury, sir,’ said Roger. ‘—I—’
‘Speak up, man! What’s the matter with you, West? You don’t sound a bit like yourself.’
‘I don’t sound a bit like myself’, thought Roger, and his grip tightened on the telephone. Alexander could not know that Chatworth was already puzzled. For the first time he felt a surge of hope, and he had to fight against revealing that in his voice.
‘I don’t want to be overheard,’ he said. ‘I have just come from Andrew Kel
ham’s house and there is likely to be trouble there unless I get back quickly. I can handle it all right, though. I think I’m very near the end of it, sir.’
Alexander loomed over him, tight-lipped; this was not the conversation which he had expected.
‘Do you?’ asked Chatworth, and he still sounded puzzled.
‘Yes, sir. I shall be able to find out for certain when I have had a talk with Griselda Fayne. I think the best thing would be to send her down here, under escort. She must take the Reading—Newbury road. Will you arrange that, sir?’
‘You’re being very mysterious,’ said Chatworth.
‘I would explain more fully if I had the time,’ said Roger, ‘but I haven’t a moment to spare. Will you do it?’
‘Oh, all right,’ growled Chatworth.
‘Thank you, sir. I will report again just as soon as I can,’ said Roger. ‘Goodbye.’
He replaced the receiver, and sat staring in front of him. In the photograph the curve of Janet’s lips seemed to grow deeper, and he had an absurd fancy that the child smiled. His forehead was beaded with sweat and the palms of his hands were moist. The bleakness of the first few minutes was passing, and he no longer felt the same overwhelming sense of shame. Chatworth might read between the lines of that conversation, might take some steps to prevent the worst from happening. He saw a possibility, a vague one perhaps, but nevertheless there, of finding out why Alexander wanted to talk to Griselda so urgently.
Sir Guy Chatworth prided himself that he knew his men thoroughly. He had a high opinion of Roger West, and had come to the conclusion that Roger’s recent show of short temper had been excusable and that his own attitude could not have been better calculated to anger him. Roger was labouring under a great strain, and the threat to his wife and child increased it. Because of that, Chatworth had prepared himself to be most amiable when Roger was put through on the telephone, but when he replaced the receiver he sat staring at it thoughtfully.