by Paul Somers
About half-past eight a grey private car drew up near the house and a man got out. I heard him tell the sergeant on the door that he was Ronald Barr and that he’d been telephoned for, and he was allowed in. He looked pretty agitated.
Ten minutes later, Lawson arrived. Lawson was the Record’s chief crime reporter. He was a slim, jaunty little man with a pallid face and an air of having come straight from the Tree of Knowledge. He was a bit disgruntled to-night—it seemed it was his day off and he’d been entertaining a new girl friend at his flat and Hatcher had rung him up at a rather critical moment—but he soon cheered up when I told him what had happened. At the mention of Clara Waugh’s name he gave a low whistle, as though that altered everything. He’d been on the Angel murder case and obviously knew something about her but he didn’t tell me what.
“Well, I’d better get cracking,” he said, in a tone that suggested only a little effort was needed to clean up the whole story. I told him the police weren’t being at all co-operative. “That’s all right, old boy,” he said, “just leave it to me.” He moved with assurance towards the door of forty-two. I stood and watched. Lawson usually got on well with the police and I was always fascinated by his technique. He went confidently up to the sergeant and asked him if Superintendent Bailey was on the case, as though he and the superintendent were the closest of buddies. This time, though, it didn’t work. There were a few brief exchanges, and then Lawson was told to stand back, and when he still hung around the sergeant got nasty and said something about “obstruction.”
After a moment Lawson rejoined me. “Imagine promoting a chap like that!” he said. “Why, he’s practically a half-wit.”
I grinned. “Well, good luck, maestro!” I said. “I’m off.”
I drove into Soho and had something to eat and then went back to the office to see if there’d been any developments. But almost nothing had happened. The whole night staff had been at work trying to get a line on Landon but there’d been nothing helpful in any of the personal files or reference books. He was still no more than a name. The Ford car had had a Buckinghamshire registration, but the ownership couldn’t be established till next morning and perhaps not then if the police clamped down. Someone had been sent to the hospital to talk to the porter, but nothing fresh had emerged except that Mrs. Waugh had seemed just as worried after she’d learned the phone call was a hoax as before. Smee had just failed to catch Ronald Barr before he’d been called to Palmers Road. Lawson was still on the job. That was all.
I went up to the library to refresh my memory on the Angel case. As it turned out, Clara Waugh’s part in it had been very small. On 11th February, which was just over a month ago, she’d been spending the evening with Barr at his flat in Saffron Mews, Chelsea. The flat was one of four, with garages underneath. The couple had been having a few drinks and playing gramophone records. Between records they’d heard sounds of quarrelling in the flat next door, the end one, occupied by a man named Frank Angel. One of the voices had been a woman’s. Then, while a record was playing, they’d heard what had sounded like shots. Barr had switched off, and after a moment they’d gone down to investigate. As they’d reached the mews a woman had rushed past them. Barr had started to go after her but she’d had a car waiting and she’d got away before he could stop her or get the number. Barr had rung Angel’s door-bell and got no answer and he’d then gone back to his own flat and dialled 999. The police had arrived and forced Angel’s door and found him lying dead on the floor of his sitting-room with two revolver bullets in him. Barr hadn’t seen enough of the woman in the darkness to be able to describe her, and to Clara she’d been just a flying figure. In reply to questions at the inquest, Barr had said that he’d noticed several women going up to Angel’s flat at different times, but he’d never liked being pried on himself and he’d deliberately not paid much attention. He’d been on good-neighbourly terms with Angel, and occasionally he and his fiancée had run into him at the local and they’d bought each other drinks and chatted and once at the pub he’d given Angel some advice about buying a car, but he hadn’t been in his confidence at all and knew scarcely anything about him. He thought it most unlikely he’d be able to identify any of the women. That was really all about Barr and Clara. The police, however, had managed to identify one of the women, a wealthy middle-aged widow named Constance Albury, and she’d given some pretty meaty evidence. Under pressure she’d admitted that she’d been keeping Angel as her gigolo for more than a year. She’d been very fond of him, she said, and she’d visited him a number of times and he’d visited her quite often. She didn’t know anything about any other women, but Frank had been such a handsome and fascinating man it wouldn’t surprise her to know there’d been some.
I remembered Lawson’s conclusion on the case—a characteristically slanderous one, but quite possibly true. He’d told us, in his most confident, inside-information manner, that the police were pretty sure it was Mrs. Albury who’d killed Angel. Their view was that she had got to know about the other women, and that she’d called on him in jealous anger and quarrelled with him and shot him. According to her she’d been at her Hampstead home all the evening but she couldn’t prove it—though, equally, the police couldn’t prove she hadn’t. No one had heard her leave home that evening, and the police hadn’t been able to trace a revolver to her or indeed find any evidence that directly incriminated her. Both Barr and Clara had said they couldn’t possibly tell whether the voice they’d heard through the wall was her voice. The weapon had never been found, so the police had had no help from fingerprints. The assumption was that Mrs. Albury had stuffed the gun into her handbag and got rid of it later. Anyway, there hadn’t been enough evidence to bring a charge and the case had been shelved.
There was a certain amount of personal stuff in the cuttings and I looked through it all carefully. Clara was described as an actress, aged 25; Barr as a salesman, aged 33. There were pictures of both of them. The one of Clara was a studio photograph and showed her as a real beauty, with raven-black hair and sultry dark eyes and a full, attractively-shaped mouth. Barr had a strong, rather rugged face, with a square cleft chin. They made a fine-looking pair. Mrs. Albury had been photographed in the street at an unfortunate angle that gave her a sharp-featured and rather unpleasant look. Angel, I saw, had been strikingly handsome, in a debonair, film-star sort of way. He, also, had been 33. He was described as a dress designer—though the evidence at the inquest had made it pretty clear his only successful designs had been on Mrs. Albury.
I sat for a moment or two with the cuttings spread out in front of me, thinking about the case. It would be absurd, I told myself, to look for any connection between the Angel shooting and the Palmers Road affair. It wasn’t as though Clara had played any important part in the Angel case. She’d heard the shots, that was all. It could have happened to anyone. It was almost certainly pure coincidence that she’d been caught up in this fresh trouble so soon afterwards—whatever the trouble might turn out to be.… All the same, I couldn’t help wondering.
Chapter Two
I was on duty at eleven again next morning. I reported to Blair, who as usual was almost buried in a sea of papers. He greeted me most amiably. Thanks to my early arrival at Palmers Road the night before, we’d had a much fuller and more coherent story than any of our competitors, and though I’d done no more than a routine job I was temporarily the blue-eyed boy. I asked Blair if there’d been any developments and he said there hadn’t. Clara Waugh’s house had been besieged by newspapermen all night, but there’d been no statement from anyone. Ronald Barr had left for his own home at one in the morning, with a police escort to keep reporters away from him. A police car had remained on guard in Palmers Road. Lawson had hung on hopefully until four, and was now catching up on his sleep. The agencies had been prevented from finding out the address of the Ford car’s owner by a police “stop” on all information from the registration office.
It was a complete shut-down, and for once even Blair se
emed flummoxed about the next step. Then, at five-past eleven, the picture suddenly changed. The telephone rang on the News Desk. I saw Blair frowning over the receiver. A brief, excited exchange followed with Martin, the Assistant News Editor. Then Blair came bustling into the Reporters’ Room, flushed with tidings. “Curtis,” he said, “will you get right along to the Ministry of Supply? They’re holding a Press conference there at 11.30 on the Palmers Road affair.”
So it was a security matter. I dashed down to the Riley and stepped on the gas and reached the Ministry on the stroke of eleven-thirty. There was already a big crowd of reporters assembled in the waiting-room, but no sign of officialdom, yet I strolled out into the corridor again. A girl was just approaching from the lobby. With a glow of pleasure I saw that it was Mollie Bourne.
Mollie was the star reporter of our greatest rival, the Courier. She was so bright she was almost a galaxy. She enjoyed a very special reputation in Fleet Street, because she had a way of involving herself personally in big stories and then somehow getting into the news instead of just reporting it. I had particular reason to know it, because on more than one occasion she’d involved me too, with highly dramatic consequences for both of us. She was a girl who went all out on hunches—so much so that “Keep your eye on Mollie!” had become a kind of slogan at the Record. I admired her enormously, but my interest wasn’t just professional. She was the most devastatingly attractive girl I’d ever met. She had rich chestnut hair—a wonderful colour—and dark, vivacious eyes, and a figure as satisfying as her looks. We were on fairly close terms, as a result of our adventurous encounters, but I’d have liked them to be much closer. In fact, it was my intention to marry her if I could ever prise her away from her job. I didn’t think she was altogether against the idea as a long-term project, but she was very elusive and not at all to be taken for granted.
She said, “Hallo, Hugh!” and gave me a charming smile. As always, she was immensely self-possessed and exquisitely groomed. She was wearing a sage green suit and a hat so slight that it had probably cost her the earth. On three thousand a year and expenses she could afford it.
I said, “And how’s the Courier’s spoiled darling this morning?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for nearly a week.… Where have you been hiding out?”
“Oh, here and there … I’ve been out of town a lot.”
“I haven’t seen any big scoops in the Courier lately.”
“There hasn’t been much to scoop, has there?”
I grinned. “Our Mr. Hatcher says a good reporter can always find a story.”
“Hatcher! He doesn’t know the difference between a story and a loud bang!”
“All the same, I suspect you’re losing your touch.… I think it’s time you retired on your laurels and got married.”
“I don’t want to retire.”
“Then just get married. I wouldn’t insist on your leaving the Courier right away.”
“That’s big of you.”
“Not at all—I’m easy-going.”
“I can’t think of anything that would be more disastrous.”
“What would be disastrous about it?”
“Everything, I should think. You’d always be pinching my by-lines, for one thing.”
“If I did you could get a divorce—I’m sure that would rate as cruelty!”
“Besides, you’d be bound to be on the night turn when I was on the day turn.”
“At least we could have fun when we met on the stairs.”
“How very uncomfortable!”
“Well,” I said, “you’d better watch out. You’re twenty-four—you may find yourself on the shelf if you’re not careful.”
She smiled. “I dare say someone would reach up for me!”
“Anyway,” I said, “what do you make of this story?”
“It looks rather promising, doesn’t it?”
“You weren’t in Palmers Road last night …?”
“Good heavens, no—I’m not a menial!”
The badinage ended there. Someone called out that we could go in now, and we all trooped into the Board Room. We were greeted by the Ministry’s Public Relations Officer, a former newspaperman named Robson. He was a genial, pipe-smoking man, very friendly and discreet. He waved us to seats round the enormous green baize table. There were several people sitting there already, some of whom we knew and some of whom Robson introduced. One of them was Inspector John Darwin, of the Special Branch. Another was Superintendent Bailey, of the Yard—the policeman Lawson purported to be on confidential terms with. There were also several permanent officials of the Ministry. Clara Waugh was there, sitting on Robson’s right, and beside her, Ronald Barr—presumably to give her moral support. I studied Clara with interest. At close quarters her looks weren’t quite up to the photograph I’d seen—she was too heavily made up and her skin looked a bit coarse for twenty-five—but the bones of her face were lovely. Probably it wasn’t fair to judge her to-day, when she was worried and short of sleep. Barr, I noticed, kept regarding her anxiously. With his broad shoulders and square chin he looked very solid and dependable.
Robson tapped out his pipe and cleared his throat. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you right away what this is about.… Last evening, as most of you know, Mrs. Waugh’s father, Arthur Landon, disappeared from her house in Palmers Road.… After all the secrecy there’s been, you probably won’t be surprised to hear that Mr. Landon is a physicist employed at the Ministry’s Research Establishment at Crede in Buckinghamshire.”
He was right—we weren’t surprised. Something of the kind had been signalled all along. No one looked terribly excited at the news, either. It might turn out to be a wonderful story, but disappearing physicists were no longer the novelty they’d once been.
Robson proceeded to summarise the facts—most of which were already known to us. On the previous day, Landon had been going to have dinner with his daughter at her home. He had left the Crede Establishment at 5.35 p.m., driving his own Ford car. He had been accompanied, as a routine measure, by security officers whose job it was to take care of him. The two cars had reached the house in Palmers Road just after half-past six. A light had been on in the downstairs room and it had been assumed that Mrs. Waugh was there. In fact she had been called away at 6 p.m. by a bogus telephone message about an accident to her father. The security officers, having no notion of this, had stayed parked a few yards from the house, keeping watch. Landon had let himself in with his own key and closed the door behind him, and that was the last that had been seen of him. As a result of information brought by a reporter, the police had broken in at 7.20 p.m. and discovered that the house was empty. A smashed pane of glass in the back door showed that someone had entered during Mrs. Waugh’s absence.
Robson paused for a moment. Then he went on: “What actually happened in the house is still a matter of guesswork, but it seems very likely that the intruder was waiting there when Landon arrived and that he forced him to leave at once by the back way. There were no signs of any struggle or injury in the house, so the supposition is that the intruder had a gun and that he compelled Landon to leave by threatening him with it. It would have been quite possible, of course, to march him in the dark to a waiting car at the end of the path that runs behind the terrace. However, as I say that’s all speculation. The police, under Superintendent Bailey, have been over the whole place, but so far they’ve found nothing to help them. The door knobs, both inside and outside the back door, and also the door key, had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and no useful prints were discovered in the house. The night was dry, and there were no footmarks inside or outside. No witnesses have yet been discovered who heard or saw anything unusual. The whole affair was obviously planned and executed with great skill and precision. We have no idea what has happened to Landon, and we need the maximum co-operation of the Press in seeking information from the public. That’s why it was decided to take the rathe
r unusual step of holding this—er—informal conference, with everyone concerned present. In return for your co-operation, I need hardly say that the Ministry and the police will give you all the help in their power. Before we go any further perhaps you’d like to see the stuff we’ve prepared on Landon.…”
Robson broke off, and there was a buzz of talk while photographs and a full description of the missing man were circulated. The only physicists I’d had anything to do with had all been plump, jolly men who could equally have been shopkeepers or publicans from their appearance, but Landon actually looked like the popular idea of an egghead. He had deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks, a long fine nose, and a thin mouth, so that the general impression was of an ascetic and rather intense man. But none of his features was exaggerated to the point where the face would attract immediate attention or its details linger in the mind. Indeed, the most conspicuous thing about him was a pair of very heavy, dark-rimmed glasses, which we gathered he always wore. I could see no resemblance whatever to Clara. The description said he was 49, had light-brown hair, greying slightly at the temples and sides, was 5 feet 11 inches tall, and lean but muscular. When last seen he had been wearing a dark grey suit, a black overcoat, a soft grey felt hat, black shoes, a white shirt, and a blue-and-grey striped tie. It was the sort of description that would have fitted thousands of professional men.
When we’d glanced through the stuff, Robson called us to order and said, “Well, now you can fire your questions.…”
There were a lot of questions, put by a lot of different reporters. I give them here, just as I took them down, with the answers and the brief comments I made at the time.
To P.R. O.
—Exactly how important was Landon’s work?
—He was engaged on top secret work. All such work is obviously important. I understand the Minister is making a statement in the House this afternoon and I can’t anticipate what he’ll say. But I think I can tell you that Landon’s loss would be a great one. (A nod from Ministry official.)