by John Creasey
“Wait for Gibson to deign to report, I suppose,” Evans said tartly.
Another time that attitude would have annoyed Roger; now he ignored it, and said briskly: “He might, but I’d like to make sure that warehouse is properly searched now, and to check on all the vans. I’ll fix the warrant. You lay on the men, will you?”
That was giving Evans a measure of authority, and he brightened immediately.
Roger got the warrant signed by the Assistant Commissioner in ten minutes, and the search had begun in twenty; but there was no sign of Cartwright and none of Gibson anywhere.
When that report came in, Roger pushed his chair back and glowered at the wall. It was almost as if there were a jinx on him, and he could not do the right thing. If Cartwright had been at the warehouse then he, Roger, had probably scared him away when talking to Maddison. If Gibson was in danger—
Nonsense.
Was it?
There was no point in brooding, anyhow, but plenty in checking everything he had left undone. He mustn’t make any more mistakes.
He could have sworn that Maddison had been quite sure that Cartwright had not committed suicide, and there was still no report of a body having been found in the Thames. He hadn’t been out to see Maddison’s wife. That job should have been done before – and he had been wrong to earmark that for himself instead of asking the Surrey police to fix it. It would have to be done quickly now. He could still get there before Maddison got home.
Another thought nagged at him. If he had gone to Maddison’s London premises, would he be missing? Had he sent Gibson into a trap?
Uneasy and glum, Roger looked up as the door opened, and Commander Hardy came in. Hardy was short and very broad, well dressed, quiet-voiced, one of the Yard’s good brains, who had a gift for administration which had put him in his present post, second only to the Assistant Commissioner in the C.I.D. His grey hair was cut short; he had a fresh, scrubbed look. Roger stood up.
“Sit down,” Hardy said casually. “Is anything in about Cartwright?”
“Nothing useful. Gibson’s gone haring off, and hasn’t reported. I don’t know where he is.”
“On to something, if I know Gibson.” That was a reassuringly normal reaction. “Anything found at the warehouse or in those vans?”
“Nothing.”
“The Civil Commissioner’s been beefing,” Hardy confided. “Apparently traffic’s worse than usual today, and we’re making it even worse than the usual rush hour. Can you—”
“I’ve fixed it.”
Hardy grinned. “Anticipated the request, as usual.”
Roger said uneasily: “I’m not feeling so pleased with myself, skipper.” He explained why, and went on: “I’ve got off on the wrong foot, and can’t get back.”
“When you pick Cartwright up, you’ll forget you ever felt like that,” Hardy said briskly. “Do you think he killed these babies?”
“I don’t know yet. He could have. I can’t get any proof that he was out at all on Friday evening – but I can’t prove he didn’t go out about the time the Shaw child was killed, either.”
“At heart you don’t think he did, do you?”
“The explanation looks too easy,” Roger answered. “There’s something about the case that I don’t get. This Maddison baby threat makes it vendetta-ish, too.” He grinned. “I know! I said I couldn’t get anything right.” A telephone rang, almost at his hand, and he picked up the receiver quickly. “West here.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” said Hardy.
“Just had a call from AS Division,” the speaker said on the telephone. “They’ve found the man Lee and his child, but—”
Roger’s eyes lit up.
“Something to make you change your mind?” asked Hardy from the door.
“But what?” asked Roger into the telephone.
“Lee’s got his child up on a roof, and says that he’ll jump down with it if we won’t let him have possession of the child. Mr Ledbetter wants to know if—”
“Tell him I’m on my way; I’ll talk to him by radio,” Roger said, and banged down the receiver as Hardy, startled by the different tone in his voice, looked in again from the open door. Then he grinned. If there was one thing likely to jolt Roger West out of his present mood, it was action: and obviously he was going to get some.
Roger flicked on the radio as he drove out of the Yard, and when Information answered, he said brusquely: “Advise Mr Ledbetter to promise this man anything, anything at all.”
“Right, sir.”
It would take half an hour to get to Ealing Common, Roger realised, and any moment word might come that the father, obviously deranged, had actually carried out his threat. Roger did not need to tell Information to advise him the moment there was any news; they would pick him up on the instant. He could not be sure that rushing to Ealing would help much, but he had to be on the go; action of any kind would quieten his feeling of unease.
Yet it meant putting off the call on Maddison’s wife again. Was that another mistake?
The man named Bert, alone in the packing room for ten minutes, walked quickly towards the storeroom, slipped inside and, with the light switched on, hurried towards the bin where Helen Osborn had been left. When he reached it, he stood staring, smiling, then he eased her bonds. She was unconscious, but alive. He lifted her out of the bin, grunting, and was about to take her towards the dispatch room when Corrissey arrived.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “She could get us twenty years inside! Put her back.”
Bert stood holding the girl, while Corrissey nearly spat at him.
“Put her back! I won’t hurt her. I’ve got to pay her to keep quiet, but that’ll come later. Put her back!”
Bert turned round and did so; and noticed that Corrissey was sweating.
Bingley Court consisted of a block of small flats, not far from Ealing Common. They were fairly modern, and looked squat and unattractive against the bright skyline. The walls were of plain grey cement and the windows were all square and small. Houses in the surrounding streets were old-fashioned and built mostly in terraces, which made the block of flats look even more incongruous.
People were already hurrying there.
Roger saw a fire engine drawing up in the middle of a road which had been cordoned off by the police. A turntable had been run up, and two men were standing on the platform. He hooted at a dozen people thronging the road, and they scattered, to let him pass. A policeman recognised him as he pulled up.
“Park my car for me, will you?” Roger said, as he got out.
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything developed?”
“He’s still up there, sir.”
Roger hurried round the corner, and saw Ledbetter standing and talking with a fireman wearing a steel helmet. Most people were staring up at the roof; there was a noisy cackle of voices. Windows had been flung open up and down the street; men and women were leaning out of them.
Two people were standing at the top of a house opposite Bingley Court holding on to a chimney stack.
Ledbetter saw Roger, and came hurrying.
“Any luck?” Roger asked.
Ledbetter growled: “He’s crazy as a coot. He’s blocked the only way up to the roof, it will take hours to cut a way through, and he says he won’t come down until he sees his wife, and she promises him he can keep the child. Hell of a job,” Ledbetter added, “and God knows what will happen to that kid.”
“We’ve got to get the child down,” Roger said. “Have you promised him—”
“Promised him the earth and the moon,” answered Ledbetter. “He may be crazy over the baby but he’s no fool otherwise. He knows we’ll promise anything, and the moment he’s let us have the child, it won’t mean a thing. He seems to think that if the wife will promise, he’ll be all right.”
Roger said slowly: “She’s been told?”
“No.”
“I’ll go and tell her,” Roger said, “and I’ll
probably bring her here.”
Ledbetter said: “I thought that’s what you’d try. Got Cartwright yet?”
“No.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Ledbetter said. “I’ve been asking myself if Cartwright would have come rushing to the place like he did last night if he had killed that kid. Funny thing, ever since we found that MG of his I’ve been wondering more about it. Chap might be a psycho, but he’d know it. Can’t see him committing suicide. He’d be more likely to take advantage of being mental – these days especially. He knows he’d almost certainly get a guilty but insane verdict, and be looked after in hospital for a few years. I’m beginning to wonder if you were right, after all.”
Roger smiled.
“Best bit of news I’ve had today! Tell Lee that I’ve gone for his wife, won’t you?”
“I’ll broadcast it right away,” Ledbetter promised, and as Roger drove off a minute later, he could hear Ledbetter’s voice going over a police loudspeaker.
He had no doubt that Mrs Lee would come here; but would her husband believe her, if she gave the promise that he wanted? And what could give a man, so distraught as Lee, the faith that he could trust his wife?
Did Maddison’s wife trust him?
Presumably not, if she had gone to the police against his wishes, or even without his knowledge.
“I had to tell the police. I know you said we didn’t want a fuss, but I had to tell them,” Maddison’s wife said. She was looking at her child, asleep in a pram inside the hall of the lovely house at Esher, and then she looked up at her husband, her eyes glistening, and cried: “If anything happened to baby, I would kill myself!”
“But nothing will, my darling,” Maddison soothed. “And I think you were right to do what you did. The police are watching now; he’s doubly safe. There’s nothing to worry about at all.
Chapter Eleven
Rooftop
A middle-aged woman, obviously Mrs Lee’s mother, opened the door to Roger at Ealing. She stood squarely in front of it, as if she were used to barring the path to anyone who wanted to get in, and said flatly: “Mrs Lee has nothing to say, and can see no one.”
“I’m Superintendent West,” Roger said briskly. “We’ve found the baby and want your daughter’s help.”
The woman dropped back.
“You’ve found him?” Her eyes, so cold and hostile a moment before, lit up as with a great blaze of light. She swung round, and Roger grabbed her arm.
“Don’t tell her yet.”
The mother swung round again, a tall woman, heavy-figured but very light on her feet; and now her fine eyes carried a different light: of sharp anxiety.
“He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Perfectly all right,” Roger answered. “Mr Lee has him on the roof of a block of flats, and threatens to throw himself and the child over unless Mrs Lee promises to let him have custody. He won’t listen to the police, and he might carry out his threat. Do you think your daughter is strong enough to face him?”
The mother said in a whisper: “She’ll have to be. Of course she will be.”
Roger followed her upstairs. The carpet deadened the sound of his footsteps, and he realised more clearly than before that this was the house of much wealthier people than Mrs Kindle and her absent husband, more like the Maddisons. The woman with him was breathing very hard, as if a little frightened of the effect that this news would have upon her daughter.
“Charlotte,” she called, as they approached the room where Roger had seen Mrs Lee before. “Mr West thinks that you can help with …”
There was a flurry of footsteps, and the door swung open. Mrs Lee stood looking at him, clutching the door, very pale, eyes glistening, as if she were still in the grip of hysteria. She might well be; and if this new shock set her screaming again, there would be little left to be done. Was there a way to steady her? The mother obviously intended to leave it to him, and that was probably wise. He prayed for the right words.
“Have you found him?” she demanded in a taut voice.
Roger said, very quietly: “Mrs Lee, it rests in your hands whether we can save your child or not.”
She caught her breath; that was all. The wildness was still in her eyes; it would not surprise him if she flung her arms above her head and began to shout and scream when he told her the truth.
“Your husband has the child, and is threatening to kill himself and the child unless you promise to let him have the full custody.”
She gasped: “But I can’t!”
“Charlotte,” her mother began, and then broke off.
“I haven’t any doubt that you will have custody of the child when all this is over,” Roger said, “but there’s only one way to stop your husband from carrying out his threat. That is to make him think you’ll let him have the child. You’ll have to convince him that you mean it, Mrs Lee. Will you come and do that?”
If she broke down now, it would be all over.
“Charlotte,” her mother said again, and stopped; she was much more nuisance than help.
“Where—where are they?” Mrs Lee asked.
“Not far away. On the roof of Bingley Court.”
“On the roof—” Mrs Lee began, and suddenly buried her face in her hands. She was not quite normal, of course; that might be the result of the tension between her and her husband, the result of months and possibly years of strain. Could she get a hold on herself now? And could she carry the task through if once she started?
She raised her head and lowered her hands.
“I’ll come at once,” she said.
On the way, Roger talked a little; enough to tell them both what to expect. The mother sat behind, Mrs Lee by his side. Twice he checked with Information that the situation hadn’t changed. Once, Information said: “There is no report from Mr Gibson, sir.”
That was Roger’s first bad moment since he had been here; he was beginning to feel really worried about Gibson. But there was little more he could do.
“Put another call round to the Divisions and ask them to step up the search for him.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mrs Lee was saying, almost to herself: “I must make him believe me. I must.” Roger was staring straight ahead, and thinking, not of her and the immediate problem, but of Gibson. Had he been in that warehouse? There was little doubt that Edward Maddison had known something about Cartwright’s movements, and was sure that he had not committed suicide. Had Gibson got on to Cartwright through Maddison? Maddison was certainly worth following up; his type often broke down completely if they were pressed hard enough. He ought to have kept his mind clear for that particular job, Roger thought, not come tearing along here to make a hero of himself. What made him think he was the only man at the Yard who could handle this Lee job? The truth was, he had been side-tracked because a baby was involved. It was almost an obsession to make sure that no more died of violence.
“Shake out of it!” he told himself.
“… must make him believe me,” Mrs Lee was saying. Then in a louder voice: “How long will it be? Why aren’t you hurrying?”
“In less than five minutes we’ll be there,” Roger assured her. He must get his mind off Gibson and the other job; now that he was here, he must try to help this woman.
“How long have you been separated from your husband, Mrs Lee?”
“About—about six months.”
So they parted two months after the child had been born.
“Are you sueing for divorce?”
“Yes,” Mrs Lee answered, in a muffled voice.
“Why?”
“I really don’t see—” began the mother.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Mrs Lee said. “Harry was—well, there was a girl at the office. He said that he would give her up, but he didn’t. I couldn’t stand thinking that he was with her, while I was at home with the baby; I simply couldn’t stand it.”
“No woman could be expected to stand it,” interpolated the mother.
Roger stopped as they reached the corner. A policeman leaned forward and opened the door and helped Mrs Lee out. Immediately, she broke into a run. Roger got out quickly and ran after her, but policemen were blocking her path; she couldn’t go far. Roger caught her arm. The older woman was a long way behind, and would not find it easy to catch up.
“What we have to do,” Roger said, “is to go up on a turntable and talk to your husband. Do heights worry you?”
“No.” Mrs Lee was peering upwards desperately, hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband and the child, but there was no hope of doing that from here. They reached the fire escape; the turntable was being lowered and another one had been brought up, so that there were two of them. Mrs Lee kept staring upwards; she did everything she was told without speaking but without loss of a moment. Soon, she and Roger were standing on a turntable and being raised, very slowly. The street fell away beneath them, the people in it getting smaller and smaller. There was a hush, as if everyone below was holding his breath. The grey-white surface of the building was very near them. Faces appeared at many of the windows and eyes were glistening or shining. Roger stood with his arm round the woman’s waist, knowing that she hardly realised where she was; the only thing that mattered for her was to see her child. They went up and up even more slowly, and the people below looked like midgets now.
A voice on a loudspeaker boomed. “Mr Lee, your wife is on her way up to you. Can you hear us?”
There was no answer.
Now Roger could see the guttering. In a few seconds, they would be raised above the level of the roof and would see the man. Mrs Lee was quivering slightly, partly because she was holding herself very still. A breeze blew a lock of hair across her eyes, and she shifted it with a jerky movement.