by John Creasey
The man’s story was simple and straightforward.
At seven o’clock he had been coasting along Putney High Street on his way to the West End, when a man and woman walking along the street had hailed him. He described the man as a ‘hefty-looking fellow’; the woman, of course, was Griselda. The man had got out at Chelsea Town Hall, given the Bell Street address and paid him with a couple of pound notes, telling him to keep the change. The taxi-driver thought it funny but, as far as he knew, there was nothing the matter with the other passenger, and he had been astonished when he had seen her asleep.
‘Did you hear her speak when the man got out?’ asked Roger.
‘I can’t say as ’ow I remembers it,’ said the cabby, a middle-aged man who looked apprehensive. ‘I didn’t give it a thought, that’s the truth. There wasn’t no reason why I should, was there?’
‘No, you’ve no need to worry,’ said Roger. ‘Have you still got the notes?’
‘O’ course I have.’
‘Swop them for two of mine, will you?’ said Roger, and the cabby agreed. He seemed anxious to be off, but before he went Roger took the name of his garage, put through a telephone call, and made sure that the man’s credentials were in order. He warned him that he might be called to give evidence, and, as the fellow was going off and he was slipping the notes into an envelope, he saw the doctor come in at the front door.
‘I not only want to know how she is and what’s the matter with her,’ said Roger, leading the way upstairs, ‘but I want to get a statement from her as quickly as possible. I think she’s been drugged, but I can’t go any further than that.’
‘I’ll look after her,’ said the doctor, and went into Janet’s room where Griselda still lay with her eyes closed, and her cheeks ashy pale.
Roger and Mark went downstairs.
Roger called the Yard and then inquired for Superintendent Abbot – which remarkable officer always seemed to be on duty. ‘It’s West here,’ said Roger. ‘Miss Fayne is back at my house—and I think it’s time we had the ports and airfields watched.’
‘They are being watched,’ said Abbot, coldly.
‘Oh,’ said Roger, feeling foolish. ‘That’s quick work. Is there any news in this morning?’
‘None fresh,’ said Abbot. ‘How is the woman?’
Roger told him, promised to telephone again as soon as he had the doctor’s report, and returned thoughtfully to the kitchen. Mark had made tea, and took a tray up. The doctor was coming out of the room.
‘Like a cup?’ asked Mark, hospitably.
‘Er—no, thank you, I—well, perhaps I will,’ said the doctor. He smoothed his hair as Mark led the way into the spare room. ‘I can’t make up my mind what she has been given,’ he said. ‘I’ve found the puncture—’
‘A hypo, was it?’ asked Roger.
‘Yes, and judging from the slight inflammation, recently used,’ said the doctor. ‘It is undoubtedly a narcotic. I don’t think it will be serious, but she is in a very heavy sleep and it may be some hours before she comes round. I don’t think I would advise any injection to try to bring her round before she comes out of the coma,’ he added, ‘but if you’re worried I should get another opinion. There are a lot of new narcotic preparations,’ he added, ‘I can’t keep pace with them. Quite the best London man on narcotics is Sir Randolph Merlin, of course, but then you probably know that as well as I do.’
Roger stared at him, unblinking. One moment he was filled with confusion and uncertainty, facing a bewildering number of pieces of a puzzle which made no composite picture; and then some of the pieces fell into place, and he saw what had been hidden before.
‘Mrs Kelham’s doctor!’ exclaimed Mark.
‘The quicker I see Merlin the better,’ said Roger, taking up his tea quickly. He took too much at a gulp, and winced. ‘By jingo, that was hot! It’s all right, doctor,’ he added with a smile, ‘I haven’t taken leave of my senses, and you’ve been a wonderful help. Mark, be a good fellow and telephone Merlin for me, and make sure that he doesn’t leave his house until I’ve seen him. Oh, and give Abbot a call and tell him what we know so far, will you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mark, ‘What about breakfast?’
‘I’ll get some later,’ said Roger.
He was ten minutes later than he need have been, because Scoopy took hold of his tie and was so fascinated with it that he and Janet chuckled in delight, while the infant tugged at it.
He was at Harley Street a little after half past eight.
A manservant opened the door, and Roger was shown into a long, bare waiting-room, in which the main piece of furniture was a polished table running the whole length of the room, and stacked at both ends with glossy magazines. The manservant returned after a few minutes.
‘Sir Randolph can see you now, sir.’
‘Thanks,’ said Roger.
The specialist, whom he had met before and who had often given evidence in drug cases, was a tall, white-haired man with a surprisingly rubicund face and a manner more in keeping with a Regency dandy than a twentieth-century physician. His morning coat and striped trousers were a perfect fit, and he had the grand manner. He waved Roger to a chair in his surgery, crossed his legs, and put one delicate, white hand on a glass-topped desk. He offered cigarettes, and put his own in a long, ivory holder, before he said: ‘I am very glad to be able to be of further assistance to the police, my dear Inspector. You have only to command me. I am sure you realise that.’
Roger said: ‘What drug does Mrs Kelham take, Sir Randolph?’
Had he been less intent, he would have been amused at the change in Merlin’s expression. He knew that if he had gone about the questioning in a more formal way, Merlin might have fallen back on professional etiquette and either refused to answer, or else declared that he must have Kelham’s authority before he even discussed his patient. Now his expression gave him away; he was undoubtedly treating Mrs Kelham for drugs.
He accepted the fait accompli gracefully.
‘If I now deny that she has ever taken drugs, Inspector, you will probably accuse me of lying. She has not had a relapse, I hope.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Roger. ‘I hope you won’t make it difficult for me, a great deal depends on what I can learn from you.’ He did not drink that Merlin would tell him the name of the drug at this juncture, so he added: ‘Have you been treating her for very long?’
‘Some three years,’ said Merlin. ‘You know, Inspector, I will gladly give you all the information at my disposal, but I must have a word with her husband first. I believe that he has been hurt.’
‘He has, but how did you know?’
‘His secretary told me,’ said Merlin. ‘He telephoned me from Newbury the other evening, and also asked me to make sure that you did not worry Mrs Kelham too much. When he mentioned you by name, I knew that he had no need for his concern.’
Roger thought: ‘So that’s what Blair was up to when he hurried away at Poplars.’ He smiled, and said aloud: ‘I think Kelham is well enough to answer questions, but I hope you will answer one or two first. Does the drug induce long periods of sleep amounting to a state of coma?’
‘Some drugs do,’ said Merlin, blandly.
‘Is it self-administered?’ asked Roger, bluntly.
‘I have every reason to think so,’ said Merlin, ‘or I would have advised Mr Kelham to inform the police.’
‘Your point!’ said Roger, smiling, and calling on a little blarney. ‘Now, sir, you are probably the greatest living specialist in narcotic drugs. There is a girl suffering from such a drug now, and she is asleep at my house. I’d be very glad if you will come along and see her, as an early diagnosis is extremely urgent. Will you?’
‘It rather disturbs my programme for the morning,’ said Merlin, looking at his watch. ‘I can squeeze in a very short visit, perhaps, if you do not live too far from here.’
‘I’m at Chelsea, and I’ve a taxi waiting,’ said Roger.
Twenty-five minut
es later, Sir Randolph Merlin came out of Griselda’s room, and looked Roger squarely in the eye.
‘I do not think there is the slightest need for alarm, but it may be days before she comes round. I think she has been given a strong injection of laudanum, so it is nothing very novel. I think she should have a nurse, and we may have to give her artificial feeding once or twice before she comes round.’
Roger said: ‘Isn’t there any hope of getting her to talk today?’
‘I don’t advise it,’ said Merlin.
Roger looked disappointed, and under cover of that put another question calculated to take the specialist off his guard.
‘Could it be the same drug that is used on Mrs Kelham?’
Merlin put his head on one side, and said with a smile: ‘You are a very persistent young man! I will gladly give you more information when I have Mr Kelham’s permission. You will find me at my surgery after eleven o’clock, and until just before one. May I take your taxi again?’
Roger laughed, and went with him to the door.
He had no doubt that it was the same drug, and his relief at the report was not greatly tempered by the fact that Griselda would be able to tell him nothing for several days. Kelham was well enough to be questioned, and the time had come to be heavy-handed with him if he were obdurate.
He did not go to Kelham’s flat immediately, however, but went to Cannon Row, where Guy Bellew was being detained. Bellew was now thoroughly frightened. The sergeant in charge said that he refused to eat his food, and when Roger saw the man’s unsteady hand, he felt more hopeful than ever; Bellew was in no condition to withstand a shock, and then sharp questioning. Roger spoke with deliberate cruelty: ‘Well, Bellew, I’ve some news for you.’
‘W-what is it—’ asked the long-chinned man. ‘I—I can’t tell you anything, Inspector, I was led away by—’
‘I know all about your being led away,’ said Roger, gruffly. ‘Your brother has been murdered by Alexander.’
‘M-m-murdered!’ stammered Bellew. ‘B-by—’
‘By Alexander,’ said Roger, roughly. ‘Perhaps you think that the man is worth defending now.’
Bellew said: ‘I—I hate the man! I’ve always hated him! He—he tried to make me kill Kelham. I refused, so he sent me with Newman. I was driven to it, I tell you, I was driven to it! I—’
Then Bellew broke off, and stared at Roger’s back; for it had dawned upon Roger with devastating force that on Alexander’s orders Mortimer Bellew had attacked Kelham and left him for dead, but that Alexander now knew that he was alive.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Park Lane Flat
In the passage outside Kelham’s flat a maid, with her back towards him, was running a noisy vacuum cleaner over the carpet. There were no other people about. He hurried past her, and rang the bell at the front door, his heart thumping unpleasantly.
Gardener opened the door.
‘Why, hallo, sir,’ he said, beaming. ‘I wondered when you would look us up again.’
‘Did you?’ asked Roger, drawing a breath of relief. He went in, and Gardener eyed him affectionately. ‘How are things?’ asked Roger.
‘Oh, perfectly all right, sir,’ said Gardener. ‘I take turns with Sergeant Wills, and we have at least one other man on duty all day. The nurse comes in every few hours, but there isn’t much the matter with Mr Kelham, he’ll be as right as nine pence in a few days!’
‘Good!’ said Roger. ‘Do you know the nurse?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. She’s often done work for us, there’s no need to worry about her. I give you my word,’ went on Gardener, earnestly. ‘I won’t slip up again, sir. No one crosses the threshold unless we know them in person. There was a man here not long ago, and he really got mad when I wouldn’t admit him. I did think of following him, sir, but that would have meant leaving Kelham, and I thought I’d better not.’ Gardener smiled, reminiscently. ‘He looked a bit of a bounder to me, sir, and talked rather like Alexander—you know, in the same rather flamboyant way. Oh, it wasn’t Alexander,’ went on Gardener with a grin. ‘I wouldn’t make any mistake about that, you needn’t worry! He said he was a doctor. He wasn’t the regular doctor, and so I just said I was sorry, and—’
Roger said: ‘Did he give his name?’
‘No,’ said Gardener.
‘Was he tall, well dressed, with white hair and a very red face?’
‘Well I’m jiggered!’ said Gardner, ‘that’s him to a T!’
‘Then his name was Sir Randolph Merlin,’ said Roger, with a faint smile, ‘and I don’t think he will be very pleased with you for refusing him admission!’ He laughed at Gardener’s obvious dismay. ‘Don’t worry, you couldn’t have been expected to recognise him, and he should have given his name. If he comes again, you can admit him—but neither he nor anyone else may be left alone with Mr Kelham. That’s an order.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Gardener.
‘Mind you do. I think I’ll have a word with Mr Kelham,’ went on Roger, and stepped towards the bedroom, the door of which was closed.
He tapped and entered on Kelham’s ‘Come in.’
Kelham was sitting up in bed, with a breakfast-tray at his side. His head was swathed in bandages, and only one eye was visible, but there were no scars on his cheeks or chin, and he smiled when he recognised Roger, and motioned to a chair.
‘Come in, Inspector! I wondered when you were going to favour me with another visit! And I want to thank you,’ he added as Roger sat down, ‘for letting me come back here. It is much better than a nursing home or hospital, and your men serve a double purpose—they prevent newspaper representatives from bothering me.’
‘I’m glad they’re making themselves useful,’ said Roger.
‘They are very considerate,’ said Kelham. ‘Of course I know that on the pretext of guarding me they are really detaining me on your behalf, but just at the moment I am too tired to worry much about that. In fact I am anxious only about my wife. Blair should have come to tell me how she is by now.’
‘Blair had an accident and broke his arm,’ said Roger. ‘He’s not seriously hurt, but he’s in hospital. Mrs. Kelham is quite well, however. I saw her only yesterday afternoon.’
‘I see,’ said Kelham. ‘You are taking further advantage of my incapacitation to make a thorough job, Inspector! I have only one regret,’ he added, good-humouredly, ‘and that is that you won’t be perfectly frank with me. I have told you that I am extremely anxious to help in every way I can. and I must admit that I find it a little trying to be suspected of the murder of my own son!’
‘You are suspected of no such thing,’ said Roger, ‘out all necessary inquiries have to be made.’ He knew that Kelham was probing, trying to find out the real reason for his interest, and he did not propose to give anything away. ‘There is a matter about which I do want your help, though.’
‘Name it,’ said Kelham.
‘Sir Randolph Merlin is naturally reluctant to tell me what drug your wife—’
He broke off, for Kelham’s whole expression altered. He sat upright, his hands clenched, his lips set tightly, and the anger in his one visible eye was remarkably like that which Alexander had shown. For the first time there was a likeness between the half-brothers.
‘She is simply ill!’ snapped Kelham. ‘There is no question of a drug!’
‘Oh,’ said Roger, thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry you feel like that about it. No one need know, apart from the police, and I shall have to find out somehow. If Merlin tells me, that will save me the need for arranging for other doctors to examine Mrs Kelham. I thought you would prefer that.’
Kelham said: ‘I tell you that she is not drugged!’
‘Unfortunately, I know that she is,’ said Roger.
As he stared at the man, the whine of the vacuum cleaner sounded from the hall. It startled him, and made Kelham look towards the door. The man was still worked up, and his hands were clenching and unclenching. At that moment Roger felt that he was v
ery near the truth; he did not think that Kelham would break down easily, but he was quite sure that he knew that his wife was suffering from some form of drug poisoning, and that it was connected with the mystery which surrounded him.
‘Can’t you stop that noise?’ snapped Kelham. ‘Every morning that blasted din is in my ears. Tell them to stop it!’
‘It won’t last long,’ demurred Roger.
‘Stop it, I tell you!’ Kelham shouted.
He had gone to pieces very suddenly, and Roger shrugged his shoulders, stood up and went to the door. The vacuum cleaner was being run along the carpet near it, and the door banged against the machine. He could not make himself heard above the noise so he tapped the maid on the shoulder.
She switched off, and turned round.
Before Roger recognised her, before he dreamed of the truth, she kicked him viciously in the pit of the stomach. He saw it coming and just managed to evade the full force of the kick, but it sent him off his balance, and she rushed past him into the bedroom. Gardener, sitting by the wall, jumped up in alarm, but Roger recovered before the maid reached the door, and swung round.
The maid was Ethel Downy!
From her white dress she had snatched a gun; he could see it in her hand as she rushed at Kelham, who drew back in the bed, his face blanched. It all happened very swiftly; the woman had not yet levelled the gun, and Roger leapt desperately towards her, snatching at a chair as he went. He pushed the chair along the carpet. It touched the back of her legs, and made her lose her balance as she fired. The roar of the shot was deafening. The bullet passed Kelham’s face and buried itself in the wall, and before Roger could stop her, the woman had swung round and levelled the gun at him.
He flung himself forward.
He felt the wind of the bullet as he closed with her. He gripped her right wrist and twisted it so that she screamed with pain, and the automatic dropped to the carpet. She was not beaten even then, but tried to get herself free and struck and kicked wildly at him. Her fingers clawed his face, and he felt a sharp pain as one nail touched the tip of his nose, re-opening the wound. Then Gardener passed him, and boxed her ears so soundly that she swayed from side to side, all the fight knocked out of her.