by John Creasey
Aunt Martha gave her most gentle, beguiling smile.
“Good-morning, Superintendent.”
“Why don’t you go and write a nice article advising all the mothers of babes in arms to put their heads in gas ovens?” Roger asked.
“I’d rather write one telling them that you’ve caught Cartwright,” retorted Aunt Martha.
Roger grinned. “Well, don’t blame me if you’re wasting your time.” He winked at Spendlove so that the Globe man alone could see it, and felt sure that Spendlove would realise that it had more significance than just a wink. “Nice story you did,” he said, to the man. “Perhaps your editor’s less of a sadist.” He nodded to a uniformed constable standing in the doorway of the house, and went in. This was large, airy, and well-furnished.
“Where’s Mr Ledbetter?”
“First floor, sir,” the constable told him.
Roger hurried upstairs, listening intently, hearing a murmur of voices, and then a sharp exclamation in a woman’s voice. Several doors led from the large landing and one was ajar. Inside were Ledbetter, Gibson, a plain-clothes officer and a woman of about the same age as Anne Kindle; perhaps a year or so older.
Perhaps twenty years older, for she looked as if she had aged overnight. There was a haggard expression in her eyes, her mouth was taut, her bottom lip kept quivering. She was standing in a wide bay window, hands moving, legs twitching, glancing right and left. Here was tragedy, stark and inescapable.
The woman saw him come in, and exclaimed as if newly frightened: “Who’s this?”
“Superintendent West of Scotland Yard, Mrs Lee,” Ledbetter said. He looked fresh and perky; perhaps he’d had a good night’s sleep too. He nodded to Roger and went on: “Mrs Lee is afraid that her husband is responsible for—”
“I know it’s him – who else would do a thing like this?” demanded the woman shrilly. “What’s the use of standing there and saying you think this or you think that? Why don’t you try to find my baby? Why haven’t you been to my husband’s flat? Why—”
“We have, Mrs Lee,” Ledbetter managed to say.
“Then where’s my baby? Where—” The woman broke off, as if she knew the answer to that only too well but did not want to have to admit it. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sore-looking, and she seemed unbearably nervous and edgy; she simply couldn’t keep still. “You’ve got to find Thomas. You’ve got to. My husband said he’d rather see him dead than with me, and he meant it; if you knew my husband you’d know that he meant it. He wasn’t sane, that’s why I had to leave him. He simply wasn’t sane, and there’s no telling what he’ll do.” She caught her breath. “Why don’t you go and find my baby?”
Roger asked: “What’s been fixed, Superintendent?”
“Nothing yet. We’re trying to find out if anyone saw who broke into the house during the night, or if anyone heard or saw a car,” Ledbetter answered. “Mrs Lee put the baby to bed at half-past ten last night, after its late feed, and there was no sign of it this morning at eight o’clock.”
“I thought Thomas was sleeping on,” Mrs Lee interrupted shrilly. “Usually he wakes me at six o’clock and I’m tired to death. I was only too glad of an extra hour. I couldn’t believe he’d slept so late, but I didn’t go right into him; if he was still asleep it seemed a pity to disturb him. And then when I went to the room he wasn’t there!”
She began to beat her hands against her forehead.
Roger said to Gibson: “Go and talk to the Yard, and have a general call put out for the husband – ports, airfields, stations, everything.” Gibson nodded and went off, and Roger waited for the woman to stop beating herself; he doubted whether she had heard what he had said. Did all women react like this? He knew they didn’t; he remembered a time when there had been fear that one of his own boys had been taken away and killed. Janet had gone silent, and in a way that had been worse than this kind of outburst.
“I’ve been telling Mrs Lee that we’ll do everything we can,” Ledbetter said, “and that she needn’t worry.”
“But he said he’d rather see Thomas dead!” screeched Mrs Lee.
“You’ll find that he didn’t mean it,” Ledbetter tried to persuade her. “Now, if you’ll tell us where we’re likely to find your husband, if he’s not at home—”
“I don’t know! All I want is my baby back!”
She wouldn’t be much good until she had been given a sedative, and she would certainly fight against taking one. It would probably be better for a policewoman to talk to her, and try to ease her out of this hysteria. The policewoman came in, and then there was a flurry of sound downstairs, a woman’s voice, and then a cry from Mrs Lee, who flung herself towards the door and went running down the stairs.
Ledbetter grimaced.
“That’s her mother,” he declared. “This is her parents’ place. The father’s in a nursing home, the mother’s been staying near him. Hell of a job, but this really does look cut and dried. I needn’t have brought you over.”
Roger said: “Glad you did. Anything at all to make it look like Cartwright now?”
“Not a thing. When I was woken up at home and told a baby was missing, I blew my top,” Ledbetter said. “But soon after I got here, I realised that this wasn’t the same kind of job. What gets into a man to steal his own wife’s baby from her like this?”
Roger said: “We’d all like to know. Nothing to do but look for Lee, is there?”
“No.”
“Did you know that Cartwright’s car had been found in the Thames at Chiswick?”
“Good God!” exclaimed Ledbetter. “Has he killed himself?”
“Could be,” agreed Roger, and drove off, glad that the Lee case had not taken more time.
The car had been pulled out of the river by ropes and a winch. The Land Rover, on which the winch was placed, was still at hand, with a shirt-sleeved driver smoking a cigarette which drooped from the corner of his mouth. He looked rather like a gypsy, with a dark skin, very curly hair and bright, dark brown eyes. A dozen police had gathered, and there was the inevitable crowd of onlookers, who had heard what had happened and found their way across the fields. The Thames was wide just here. Almost opposite was the Mortlake Brewery, and in front of that was the tow-path, deserted and not even remindful of the teeming crowds which gathered there on Boat Race Day. The river was sparkling in the sunlight, the young leaves of the nearby trees seemed fresh and friendly, the whole place had an atmosphere of summer picnics and a promise of night’s passion.
The Chiswick Divisional police were spread over the meadows, obviously tracing the way the car had come. A chief inspector, Greenways, was an elderly man whom Roger knew well; grey-haired, sleek, almost smooth. He shook hands.
“Just inside the hour,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Glad I could make it. Found anything?”
“Only what you can see. If it had been a saloon car we’d have found the body in it, but this way – well, he might have pushed it over, although we don’t think it was pushed; it looked as if it was driven until the last moment. The gear was in neutral. If he were in it, he could have been washed away, or he could have swum to safety. Damned unsatisfactory.”
“What makes you say it looks as if it was driven?”
“Come and see,” Greenways invited.
Heavy rain two days ago had made the bank of the river muddy, and there were bare patches on the grass near the water. The tracks of the tyres of the MG were clear; so were tracks, ten yards away, where it had been dragged out of the river. The first track looked fairly even. Roger knew that if a man, or even two or three men, had pushed it, while one had guided the wheel, there would have been spots where the wheels caught against lumps of grass, and skidded slightly, or else slid over the patch just in front or behind the lump. The front tracks would have been a little irregular, too; it was impossible to guide a car absolutely straight while walking alongside it. Two minutes was enough to let Roger say: “Not much doubt about it, it was driven in.”
“Can’t imagine him driving it in and then trying to get out, can you?” asked Greenaways. “I’d say he was in a pretty hysterical frame of mind. Not much doubt he killed that baby, realised what he’d done, and did himself in.”
Greenways would not say this to a junior, or to the Press, but obviously he believed it, and to argue would be to invite scepticism, and perhaps a kind of resentment. Roger said: “Could be, but I’d like to find the body. Started dragging any likely places?”
“I’ve laid it on,” answered Greenways, “but you’d better get the River boys busy on this; the body probably floated downstream. It was about ebb tide at midnight, so it could be anywhere between here and Greenwich. Running pretty fast, too; we were flooded here last week.”
“Can see you were,” said Roger.
Questions were building themselves up in his mind. If Cartwright wanted to make it look as if he were dead, this was exactly how he would try. If he were as good an actor as Ledbetter thought, then he might have done it. But what would follow? Unless the murder of the baby had been carefully premeditated, he couldn’t have made plans to escape; and he had a lot to leave behind. A useful sum in capital and another in a share of the family business.
“No sign of anyone else’s prints,” Greenways said. “I’ve been over it. Most of the prints were gone, but a few on the steering wheel and the gear lever hand showed up plainly enough. Nothing at all to suggest that anyone but Cartwright drove this here – we got his dabs from Mrs Kindle’s place.” The Divisional man’s manner suggested that he thought Roger was in some doubt.
“Looks cut and dried,” Roger conceded. “Have you found anything in the car?”
“Haven’t looked – we do what you Yard VIP’s tell us.”
Roger grinned.
“When it suits you!” He moved to the car, and with Greenways looked in the dashboard pocket, the door pockets, and the boot; anywhere they might find articles of interest. There were the usual odds and ends: an A.A. book, a map-reader, matches, keys, cigarettes, dusters, a small screwdriver, two half-finished packets of fruit lozenges; no names, nothing to help the police at all.
“Tell you what,” said Roger. “I’m going to leave all the rest to you.” He grinned again. “Let me have a copy of all reports at the Yard, won’t you?”
“Glad to do your work for you, Handsome!” Greenways turned, and then frowned. “Oh, Gawd, look who’s here. Does it matter if he gets the story?”
Spendlove was wobbling towards them on a bicycle; so he had obviously checked where he was likely to find Roger. He looked big and ungainly on the bicycle, and unexpectedly it occurred to Roger that he was an ugly man, although he had never thought that before. He had a big nose, once broken and pushed a little to one side. He was smiling when he pulled up.
“Did anyone tell you that Greenways hates me?”
“Who’s surprised?” asked Roger.
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Greenways.
“Soulless types, you coppers,” Spendlove said. “So you’ve found Cartwright’s car but not Cartwright himself. Mind if I take a few details?”
“I’m on my way,” Roger said. “If it’s all right with Superintendent Greenways, it’s all right with me.” He shook hands with Greenways, and then strode across the meadows towards his car, which was parked with several other police cars in a side road leading from Chiswick High Street.
It had been urgent enough to find Cartwright before; it was vital now.
The most likely people to know where he might be, if he were still alive, were the members of the firm of Maddison Brothers. Ah! They were importers and exporters of carpets, remember, and would have a great deal of work at the London Docks. Cartwright was likely to be able to find his way about the docks, then.
Roger got into his car, watched by two boys of about thirteen, who looked as if they should be at school. They irritated him, but before driving off he flicked on the radio and called the Yard. The two boys edged nearer, obviously to try to hear what he said: he kept his voice low.
“West here … I’m on my way to Maddison Brothers, the carpet firm … Ask the River Division to keep a sharp look-out for the body of Roy Cartwright, or any of his clothes,” Roger said. “You’ve got the description.”
The boys were pressing very close; if the Yard asked him to repeat that, they would be bound to hear. He waved them away, but they ignored him. He saw how their eyes glistened, sensed their excitement.
“Message understood, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Roger, and switched off. “Now, you two—”
The smaller of the pair asked, explosively: “You are Superintendent West of the Yard, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Could we have your autograph, sir, please?”
Roger was startled into a laugh, signed a small autograph album and a scrap of paper, and drove off. Then he sobered. This pair had been babes in arms once; mothers had been anxious, frightened, fearful for them. As Janet had, over their boys.
He was wondering what Cartwright’s uncle would be like when a flash came for him over the radio. He answered, hoping that this was news of Cartwright.
It was the Yard’s Information Office.
“Special message for you, sir,” the caller announced. “A Mrs Edward Maddison reported a threat to her infant son last night. She is the wife of Mr Edward Maddison, of Esher, Surrey, and the senior member of the firm of Maddison Brothers. I understand you are on your way to see Maddisons now, and thought you should know this at once.”
“You couldn’t have been more right,” Roger said fervently.
That gave him more than he wanted to think about.
It was nearly half-past twelve when he found a parking place near the premises of Maddison Brothers. Offices, showrooms and storerooms were in the same building, and some beautiful carpets were draped in the window; one was marked at over six hundred pounds, almost enough money to furnish a whole house. Roger stepped inside, and a frail, silvery-haired man, the type who might well have spent a lifetime in the service of the firm, asked him courteously: “You’re not a newspaper reporter, sir, are you? Mr Edward has refused to see any more gentlemen of the Press.”
“I’m from Scotland Yard,” Roger said. The old man took his card, and asked him to wait in the small office with one window overlooking a carpet showroom. Most of those on show were Persian, but Roger saw an archway with the word Indian over it, and another marked: North African. He pressed close to the window, saw that the archways led to other rooms, each differently marked, and saw half a dozen people were moving about. There was a curiously subdued atmosphere here, almost one of reverence.
Then the door through which the old man had gone was thrust open. A man who would have been noticeable in any circumstances stepped through. He was exceptionally tall, probably six feet six, was somewhere in the early fifties, and was startlingly good-looking. A monocle, affectation on many, seemed right for him. He wore a dark grey suit, white shirt and pearl-grey tie with a single pearl pin in it. He actually looked down at Roger, as he said: “Mr West?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to—”
“There is nothing I can tell you about my nephew, nothing at all,” the tall man asserted. “And as I am extremely busy, I must ask you to excuse me.”
There was nothing he could tell the police about the threat to his infant son, either, it seemed.
Chapter Seven
Edward Maddison
This was how things often went, Roger knew; blank, blank, blank, and then a break. The only question was whether to try to force the issue now, or whether to let the handsome Maddison believe that he had carried the day, and work on the white-haired man; a simple matter of tactics. The arrogance in Edward Maddison’s manner was unmistakable; he was used to being obeyed without delay or question. Already he was preparing to speak again.
Roger said: “May I have two minutes with you in private, please?”
“I have already to
ld you—”
“This is a very important matter, Mr Maddison, and one that you should know about.”
The silvery-haired man was by the counter, hands by his side, eyes darting to and fro; there was a kind of slyness about him. Maddison looked as if he would like to push Roger aside, but something in Roger’s manner obviously impressed him, for he turned abruptly, and said: “I have no desire to appear discourteous, but I am in the middle of a board meeting, and have some important overseas customers due to lunch with me in half an hour. It is quite preposterous to think that my nephew could be in any way connected with this murder. I hope that there is no doubt in your mind about that.”
He turned, thrust open the door, and led the way up a flight of oak steps. The whole place had the appearance of prosperity. They reached a landing, which opened out into more showrooms, beautifully lighted, and with carpets spread out, or draped, almost as if they were precious things.
A sleek, slender American woman with beautiful legs was standing in the middle of one carpet, and her husband was sitting in a chair, ankles crossed, hat on his lap. The woman was saying: “What do you think, dear?”
Edward Maddison pushed open a door marked: Private. This led to a passage, and there were several doors on the right. He opened the second, and led the way into a small but beautifully appointed office, with a Persian carpet on the floor which seemed to purr, panelled walls, and small but equally beautiful carpets draped on the walls. The desk seemed to merge with the walnut panelling, and was intricately carved; it reminded Roger of an old Arab door.
Maddison said: “Now, Mr West, what is this private matter?”
Roger answered quite flatly, watching the grey eyes with much more intentness than Maddison probably realised.
“We have reason to believe that your nephew committed suicide last night, sir.”
He had the satisfaction of making Maddison move back a pace; of seeing the finely chiselled lips part; and of seeing the gleam in those cold eyes, which might almost be one of satisfaction. If it were, there followed a masterly piece of dissimulation. Maddison’s expression changed on the instant into one of dismay and alarm. He raised one hand, as if to fend off evil tidings. If it was an act, it was slightly over-acted; but then the man was slightly larger than life in every way, and probably his everyday behaviour would seem stagey to many people. He kept quite still, staring at Roger as if trying to discredit what he had said, and when he spoke it was in a very slow, low-pitched voice, which declared that he did not intend to be driven into a panic.