by John Creasey
‘Now I wonder what his trouble is,’ he mused. ‘He certainly didn’t sound himself. What did he say, now? she must take the Reading–Newbury road. Now that is peculiar, most peculiar. If he wants to see her at Kelham’s house, what difference does it make which road she takes?’ He played with the tufts of hair at the side of his head. ‘She must take the Reading–Newbury road. I wonder why he emphasised that “must”? He sounded very tense, too, very tense.’
Suddenly, he reached for the telephone and snapped: ‘Operator, get me Stratton, near Newbury, 85—and hurry.’
He replaced the receiver and sat staring at the telephone, then suddenly pressed a bell. A sergeant came in, and Chat-worth said: ‘Ask Superintendent Abbot to come here at once, please.’ As soon as the door closed he picked up the receiver again and asked whether he had to wait all day for the call to Stratton, and when he had finished harrying the operator, the door opened and Superintendent Abbot sidled into the office.
Abbot was a tall, austere-looking man who never seemed to open a door in normal fashion, but always pushed it slowly open and seemed to creep in. He was an efficient, painstaking officer with a good record, but because of his cold, unfriendly manner he was given most of the unpleasant jobs at the Yard, such as carrying news of reprimands; he was probably the least popular officer in the Force.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Abbot.
‘Oh, Abbot, sit down. I’ve just had a peculiar call from West. He wants Griselda Fayne to be taken under escort to Kelham’s Newbury house, and he has specified the route she is to take. There was something odd about the way he talked, almost’ – Chatworth hesitated, and then said with a flash of inspiration: ‘almost as if he were acting under pressure.’
‘That isn’t like West, sir.’
‘That’s exactly the point,’ said Chatworth. ‘It wasn’t a bit like West. We know this man Alexander is at liberty, and he’s not what we might call orthodox at all. We also know that he wants information from Griselda Fayne. I think—just a minute,’ he broke off, for the telephone rang. ‘Hello—thanks. Hello?’ A woman’s voice answered him. ‘Is that Mr Kelham’s residence? … I think a Mr Mark Lessing is there. Ask him to speak to me, please … my name is Chatworth.’
There was a long pause, before Mark came on the line; and Mark was in no very good humour.
‘Did you have to ring through here?’ he demanded. ‘I think I’m getting something from Mrs K. and—’
‘Is West there?’ demanded Chatworth, abruptly.
‘Why, no,’ said Mark, surprised. ‘He left an hour ago, he must be on the outskirts of London by now. He took Blair with him. Why, what’s the trouble?’
‘I don’t quite know,’ said Chatworth. ‘Listen carefully, Lessing, there’s a good fellow. Griselda Fayne, you know about her, might turn up in about an hour and a half. If West comes back before she arrives, ask him to ring me at once. Is that clear? Thank you, Lessing, thank you, you’re being a great help. Goodbye!’
He rang off again, and looked at Abbot thoughtfully.
‘Most peculiar, Abbot. Something happened to make West change his mind about coming back here after he left Kelham’s house. That suggests that he met something or someone on the road, doesn’t it? Have two cars got ready for a journey at once, will you, and go down in one yourself—have Griselda Fayne released and send your man Martin and another sergeant with her. You follow with one or two men, and perhaps you’d better travel armed. I don’t like firearms, but we can’t be too careful in this business. Before you leave, come and see me again, but don’t be too long.’ He nodded dismissal, and then followed Abbot out of the office and went along to Roger’s room, where three inspectors were clearing up at the end of the afternoon’s work. Eddie Day jumped to his feet, and greeted the Assistant Commissioner with a broad smile.
‘Anything I can do for you, sir?’
‘I don’t know,’ growled Chatworth. ‘Has West had any reports in during the last hour or two?’
Day hurried to Roger’s desk and took a number of buff-coloured envelopes out of the ‘In’ tray; there were several memos also. ‘Here they are, sir!’
Most of the reports were routine ones to do with the Kelham case – fingerprints, odd information about the movements of people implicated, a detailed survey of Ethel Downy’s work with the Kelham Financial Trust, more particulars of Griselda Fayne, going back to the time when her father was alive, and – as instructive as anything – reports which showed that young Kelham’s reputation with women had been a very unpleasant one. There was also a statement that a Mrs Iris Lesley, whose husband had just returned from the Middle East, was known to be a close friend of Griselda’s, and lived at Ealing.
The telephone on Roger’s desk rang.
‘Hallo, Chief Inspector Day speaking … No, Inspector West is not here, but I will take a message—’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Chatworth.
Eddie looked aggrieved as the telephone was snatched out of his grasp, and he stood watching. The other CI’s went out.
‘Well, what is it?’ said Chatworth.
An impersonal voice greeted him.
‘I am speaking from the Maidenhead Police Station with a message as requested for Chief Inspector West. A small Morris car, 8 horse-power, passed through Maidenhead at half past one today, believed to be the car about which Inspector West was asking information. The car was later reported to be involved in an accident with a Hillman, number 2BX12, five miles on the Reading side of Newbury. Is any further information required, please?’
‘Yes,’ said Chatworth, ‘what about passengers?’
‘Both cars were deserted, sir. It is believed that the occupants were injured and taken for medical assistance, and efforts are being made to trace them. Can you give any information about the name and appearance of the occupants, please.’
‘Yes,’ said Chatworth, and then amended hastily: ‘No, not yet. I’ll telephone you later.’ He replaced the receiver and looked intently at Eddie Day. ‘Well, well! Day, what’s the number of West’s car?’
Eddie drew in a deep breath, gripped his hands, and then the number came from him explosively: ‘2BX12, sir!’
‘Thank you, Day! An admirable memory. Thank you!’
Chatworth bustled out of the office, leaving Eddie looking after him with a beatific expression on his plain face.
Chatworth found Abbot waiting for him in his own office, and beamed at him.
‘Abbot, we’re getting on! West has been involved in a car crash, but he didn’t tell me anything about it. Not a word about it! Now there’s no doubt that there’s something very funny afoot. Cancel the car you were going down in. I’ll drive you down.’
‘Do you think it’s wise to get personally involved—’ began Abbot.
‘I don’t care whether it’s wise or not,’ said Chatworth. ‘I’m coming!’ He lifted the telephone, and said to the operator: ‘Call my flat and tell my man to telephone Lady FitzGeorge that I will not be able to put in an appearance this evening, I have been detained.’ He rang off, and rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘Cunning fellow, West! Not by as much as a word did he warn me, but I couldn’t mistake it, I just couldn’t mistake his warning. Abbot, I wouldn’t be surprised if we get that fellow Alexander after this, and once we’ve got him we certainly won’t let him go! Is Griselda Fayne ready?’
‘She’s already in the car, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Chatworth. ‘We’ll leave ten minutes after her, and catch up the other side of Staines. Tell her driver not to go too fast!’
Chapter Twenty
The Clash With Alexander
Mr Alexander hummed to himself as he waited for a signal from the road. He was standing on the hillock overlooking the road, some two hundred yards away from the farm-house where Roger was detained. Alexander still looked tired, but he also looked as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and now and again his humming took on a lilting gaiety.
Several cars passe
d along the road in each direction, and then there was a lull. From the hedge two men rolled a heavy barrel, which they stood on end in the middle of the road, and into the top they stuck a red flag. One man stood on either side of the barrel, and when a car came along it stopped and the two men went forward. Alexander watched tensely until the car reversed into a gateway and then began to go back. It was not Griselda, but a driver who had been warned that the road ahead was blocked because of an accident, and who had been told the best way to make a detour. Exactly the same thing was happening farther along the road, to keep this particular stretch clear. It had already been done once, earlier in the afternoon; the road had been blocked until an AA scout had wanted to see the scene of the accident and had duly advised the police of the two cars. Now the AA scout was off duty and Alexander believed that he would get away with this second piece of effrontery.
A second car came in sight.
‘Now I wonder,’ said Alexander, aloud. ‘A black saloon—that’s black—two men and the girl—there she is!’ As he uttered the last words he put binoculars to his eyes, and then took them away and clapped his hands resonantly. His hopes were vindicated, for the car was allowed to pass. A little farther along the road, at the bend which had been fatal to Roger, there would be a hold-up, and if things went well Griselda would be at the farm-house within a quarter of an hour.
Alexander hurried back to the house.
In the yard stood a gleaming dark blue Packard, ready for the next journey. It was pointing along a secondary road which led away from Newbury, and Alexander had no fear of being caught once he started off with Griselda.
He entered the farm-house, and went upstairs to the study.
‘Now we won’t be long!’ he boomed to Roger, who looked round from the bureau. ‘Cheer up, Inspector! As I have told you I am a man of my word. In less than a quarter of an hour you will be released.’ He chuckled. ‘If you watch from this window you will probably see Griselda Fayne in a very few minutes!’
He gave a mock salute, and went out, leaving the door ajar and the man still on guard outside it. Roger, his heart beating uncomfortably fast, went to the window and looked out. He saw the gleaming Packard and Alexander standing by it. He made a mental note of the number of the Packard, and he noticed other things. The car was dark blue, and it had a mascot on the radiator cap, a rearing horse. He could see a corner of the upholstery; it was dark red. One of the windows was cracked in the top left-hand corner.
Suddenly he heard a voice. He watched closely, and he saw two men and Griselda approaching the house. Griselda was walking steadily, and her shoulders were squared, but there was no doubt that she was frightened. On one side of her was a farm labourer, on the other was Mortimer Bellew, who looked a little nervous.
Alexander bounded towards them.
‘Splendid, splendid!’ he boomed. ‘My dear, how delighted I am to see you! I have freed you from the miserable attentions of the police force, and I hope your gratitude is as profound as it should be! Bellew! Fetch the other car. Griselda, climb into the Packard—you see how comfortable I am going to make you!’
Griselda stood still, facing him squarely.
‘Why have you done this?’
‘My dear child, this is no time for irrelevant questions,’ said Alexander. ‘Get inside! Edwards! Lock the door on the Inspector, and come down at once!’
‘The Inspector!’ exclaimed Griselda.
Alexander laughed.
‘Your bête noire, my child! No less a person than Inspector West was persuaded to assist me in this little ruse.’ He looked up at the window, but Roger was invisible from the grounds. ‘I shall keep my word, she shall not be hurt!’ boomed Alexander. ‘Griselda, do get in!’
The door was locked on Roger. It seemed pointless to climb from the window, for there was a sheer drop to the flagged yard below, and there were no window-sills or convenient drain-pipes. He watched Griselda climb into the car. Two men sat in the back with her and Mortimer Bellew climbed in next to Alexander. As the engine of the Packard started up, Roger heard another car engine, and a small dilapidated Austin came into sight. In a few seconds the Packard was halfway along the lane leading to the farm-house and Edwards, who had been on guard until a few minutes before, was getting into the second car. Other men joined him, and the Austin followed in the wake of the Packard. After what seemed a long time the two engines faded.
In desperation, Roger pushed the window up, and looked out. There was an outbuilding farther along the house, on to which he could drop quite easily from a window a few yards away. Then he glanced up, and saw that the guttering of the roof was almost within reach. He lost no more time, but climbed out cautiously. The window-sill was a narrow one, and it was difficult for him to keep his balance, but by gripping the window-frame until the last moment he managed to stand upright and to grip the guttering. He tested it, and it seemed solid. He got a grip with his other hand, and then began to pull himself up.
There was a sudden rending sound, and he dropped with sickening speed, his legs dangling. His heart seemed to turn over. He pictured himself hitting the flagged courtyard, but he held on grimly – and his fall was stopped. He looked up, to see that the guttering had come away for no more than six inches, and he could get back into the room if necessary.
Then he saw that the piece of guttering which had come loose was several feet long. If it were fastened securely at the point where it still held to the edge of the roof, and could be eased downwards gently, he would be able to drop to the courtyard. He took his arm away from the wall. The guttering sagged a little farther, and then stopped. He put his foot against the wall and tugged with his hands. The guttering came farther down. He hung there for what seemed a long time, until suddenly the guttering sagged again, and he thought that it would come away altogether, but it still held fast near the roof and he was no more than three feet from the ground.
He let go, and kept his balance when he landed.
There was a graze at the side of his hand, which was bleeding freely, and a tear in his sleeve, but these were his only injuries. He stood quite still, looking towards the hillock and the road along which the car had gone. The hillock was the best place for him to go; from it he could see where the nearest house was, and from the house he might be able to telephone. He started off at a smart pace, but suddenly the quiet of the countryside was broken by a powerful voice: ‘Stop, there! Stop!’
‘Great Scott!’ gasped Roger, and swung round. ‘That’s Chatworth!’
Then he saw Chatworth coming over the brow of the little ridge in the copse. Beside him was the tall figure of Abbot, and behind them came two other men, who ran forward as he turned to face them. They were close enough to recognise him, and he saw Chatworth’s astonished face.
‘West! Upon my soul, West!’
‘Get a car! cried Roger. ‘I—no, get back to the road. Come on!’ he cried, and took Chatworth’s arm and swung him round. ‘They haven’t been gone five minutes, we might pick them up!’
‘You go on,’ said Chatworth, after a moment of trying to run over the uneven ground. ‘You go on, West!’ He was gasping for breath.
Roger gave him a quick description of the cars and then raced to Chatworth’s Humber, confounding the delay inevitable while he turned it round.
Abbot and two others joined him. He caught a glimpse of Chatworth’s bold head in the copse before he started off. It took less than five minutes to reach the cross-roads, and coming towards them was an AA scout on a noisy motorcycle combination. Roger drew up with a screech of brakes, and shouted: ‘Have, you seen a Packard?’
‘A what?’ The man stopped and cut off his engine.
‘A Packard!’
‘Not on this road, lately!’
‘Thanks!’ cried Roger, and swung round the bend and along the narrow road. The road twisted and turned and there were tall hedges on either side. Abbot sat tight-lipped, obviously nervous. Roger, seeing in this a chance to redeem himself, took wild risks
but escaped disaster. Soon the road widened and the hedges were lower, giving him better visibility. He drove at over sixty miles an hour, scanning the undulating countryside ahead of him. The sun was shining, and he thought he saw it glistening on the roof of a car not more than two miles ahead. He went even faster, and Abbot grunted but did not protest. Roger thought that he was gaining, and then he saw something behind the glistening roof of the car; it was the dilapidated Austin.
‘We’ll make it!’ he muttered.
They were on a rise, and the road wound about the country in front of them, making both the cars clearly visible. He did not think that Alexander would realise that he was being followed. When the two cars disappeared behind a leafy hedge, however, he slowed down for die first time since leaving the AA scout – and as he turned the corner, he saw the Austin pulled up across the road. It had been there for some minutes, for none of its occupants were in sight.
‘Be careful!’ exclaimed Abbot.
‘We can make it,’ Roger said, and snapped over his shoulder: ‘Jump out, you two. There are three or four men from that car nearby.’
As he squeezed past the Austin, his wing scraped noisily and some paint came off. The two men opened the back door and immediately he was past the obstacle they jumped down. Roger, knowing that the Packard could have gained half a mile in that time, trod more heavily on the accelerator, and heard Abbot grunt again.
Then a halt sign warned him of a major road ahead.
He could hear the rumble of heavy traffic, and slowed down. A small convoy of army lorries passed, and every moment he lost irritated Roger, but he dared not take the chance of slipping across the road between the lorries.
‘We’ve had it,’ he said, bitterly, as he moved off again.