by John Creasey
“How did the quarrel start?”
“She hadn’t been home five minutes before she asked me if I could lend her a hundred pounds,” said Georgina. “I’ve been putting some money aside, since I discovered how generous Meg was with our joint funds, and she knows that. She said she felt ill and wanted to go away for a holiday, but I could see through it as easily as I can see through that window. She knows where he is, and still wants to help him. What has got into her?”
Roger said: “And it’s out of character?”
“You mean, this screaming violence? Oh, yes. Everything’s out of character. I’ve always told you, haven’t I, that she’s never gone on with any other man? She’s always broken the association. Yet he seems to have taken possession of her, body and soul.
She seems so unreal; it’s almost as if she’s acting a part. If you’d heard the pathetic way she asked me for that money—”
She broke off.
Roger murmured: “She might try again, when she’s cooled down.”
“I suppose so. She won’t get it. She seems ready to do anything for him; doesn’t mind humiliating herself, doesn’t mind what difficulties it makes for her. I warned her that she would find herself in prison if she weren’t careful, and that really started her going.”
“If she wants money for him, she either knows where he is, or has arranged another meeting,” said Roger.
“Yes,” she said. “I can see that, and I’m not a detective.” That was the first flash of humour, suggesting that she was beginning to recover her balance. “Can’t you catch him, and get it over?”
“You might be able to help.”
“Oh, no,” said Georgina. “I’ve interfered too much already.”
“This would be simple. Let her have what money she wants.”
Georgina stared. “What?”
“Let her have the money. She’ll have to take or send it to him. I can have her watched, letters can be opened, she can be followed everywhere—we won’t lose her again now we know that she might try to dodge us. And if she led us to Latimer, then it would all be over bar shouting.”
Georgina didn’t speak.
“Being loyal to your sister doesn’t mean being loyal to Latimer,” Roger said.
“It’s a—mean trick.”
“It’s a possible way of helping her.”
“I suppose it is,” said Georgina. “Perhaps you’re right; but I hate the thought of being a decoy. If she ever found out—”
“She’d live to thank you.”
“I wonder,” said Georgina, heavily. “There are times when I wonder whether I know Meg as well as I thought I did. She certainly isn’t the Meg I’ve always known.” She rubbed her shoulder again, and forced a smile. “I suppose you think I owe you some help.”
“You owe this to yourself.”
“Oh, all right,” said Georgina. “I’ll play. But don’t slip up this time, Mister Detective; I’m getting tired of it—another quarrel like that with Meg, and I think I should fade out from sheer fright. Do you—know—” She hesitated, caught her breath, then went on: “She really meant to—”
She broke off.
Roger said: “She really meant to kill you; she was in a murderous rage all right. Be careful.”
“I’ll be all right now I know what to expect,” said Georgina heavily. “In any case I’m going to give her the money, aren’t I?” Her lips twisted. “And how shall I tell you, if she gets it?”
“I’ll have the flat watched—you won’t necessarily know who’s watching. Give a signal at the window. Something quite simple—go to it with your back against it and raise your hand to your head.”
She laughed.
“Try it out,” said Roger.
She stood up, smiling as if she thought it were foolish, backed slowly to the window, and put a hand to the back of her head in another pose that was beauty itself. In spite of her paleness, her complexion was lovely; and her eyes glowed. He could understand Peel or anyone else falling in love with her.
“Will that do?”
“Fine,” said Roger. “Remember to leave the curtains open, at night.”
Georgina said: “Be careful with her, won’t you? She isn’t herself; it’s a kind of illness.”
“I’ll be careful,” Roger promised.
He went downstairs with Peel, who somehow avoided looking back over his shoulder as Georgina closed the door on them. In the street, Peel rubbed the side of his chin and said ruefully: “It’s a good thing you went in.”
“You weren’t so far away yourself,” said Roger. “I’m giving Georgina a chance to prove that she wants to help.”
“How?” Peel was eager.
Roger explained …
“And I’ll take over part of the job myself. You stay for the rest of the day, I’ll relieve you tonight. We’ll want another man with us, and a car handy.”
Peel said: “Look here, I—”
“Yes?”
“It’s most likely to happen after dark, if it happens. Let me be on the job with you.”
Roger said: “All right.”
Nothing was reported during the day, except that Georgina went out for an hour early in the afternoon, did some shopping, and went straight back. One of her calls was at Lloyds Bank. The others were at the usual shops she dealt with. She had been closely watched, and there was no indication that she had passed on a substantial amount of money to anyone.
Roger took up duty at seven o’clock.
He had plenty to brood over. A peevish Chatworth, whose reproaches about the man’s escape the previous night were worse than his earlier aggressiveness. The evening newspapers kept up the campaign of criticism, one of them stronger than any of the dailies. The avalanche had started to get under the skin of the men at the Yard. Sloan had not yet obtained much information about the Arlens and the Bennetts, except that Raymond Arlen had been highly regarded by his employers, and earned never less than two thousand pounds a year. He had only a hundred or so in the Bank, and certainly lived up to his income.
Peel was already in Middleton Street.
“You take the far end, I’ll take this,” said Roger. “If she comes out, work exactly as you did with Smithson—I’ll trail her on foot; you drive the car to pick me up. And have that radio working overtime; let the Yard know everywhere we go.”
“I’m not going to slip up again,” Peel said. “Think she’ll come?”
They looked up at the lighted and uncurtained window of the front room at the flat. Roger didn’t answer. Now and again a shadow appeared at the window, and once they saw Meg’s back. But an hour passed, and darkness fell, and there was no warning sign.
Roger lit his fourth cigarette.
He was half-way through it when he saw Georgina at the window. She glanced out, then turned round. Her hand went to the back of her head.
Chapter Twenty
Chase
Nothing else happened.
Georgina stayed at the window for several seconds, but did not look round again. Roger, keyed up, waited for the front door to open, and it remained closed. He could see the sidelights of Peel’s car farther along the street; the engine hummed – a sign of expectancy – but still the door remained closed.
Roger strained his ears to catch any sound of a police whistle from the back of the houses; there was none. The men on duty there wouldn’t be sleeping on their jobs. He began to walk towards Number 122, and peered across at it; there was no doubt that the door had been closed.
A clock struck nine, not far away.
Peel switched off the engine of his car, and Roger joined him; the window was down.
“She’s been twenty minutes,” Peel said. “I thought she’d have come running out as soon as she got her hand on the cash.”
“She isn’t going to try the same trick twice,” Roger said. “I think we may have under-estimated Meg. Get on the other side of the road, will you—facing this way?”
He pointed towards a corner, beyond which was the High Street.
Peel didn’t ask questions, but obeyed.
Roger crossed to the other side of the street, and stood a few yards from the front door. Peel’s car was now in its new position; only the rear light and the dark outline of the little car showed. Another car turned into the street, from behind both Roger and Peel, and came along swiftly. Roger was staring at the door, keyed up; as he had been from the moment he had spoken to Peel.
The car squealed to a standstill.
The door of Number 122 opened.
Roger caught a glimpse of a woman at the wheel of the car which had just stopped, and of Meg Sharp, rushing towards the car. He flattened against the side of a house, anxious not to be seen. If he showed himself now, they would never lead him to Latimer.
The door alongside the driver was open. The big woman squeezed herself inside, moving with surprising speed, and slamming the door as the car started off. It hadn’t stopped for thirty seconds. As it moved, Roger sprinted. He could not hear Peel’s car start up, the engine of the other was making too much noise. It reached the corner as Roger sat next to Peel, who sent his car roaring towards the corner.
The first car turned left – into the High Street.
As Peel reached it, a bus was swinging towards them. Peel trod on the accelerator, the car shot forward, and someone on the pavement screamed. The bus driver jammed on his brakes and the bus swerved. A motor-cyclist, coming in the other direction, swung towards the kerb as Peel turned, and mounted it.
Another woman screamed, a policeman appeared in the light of another car, waving wildly.
“Nice work,” Roger said.
Peel slid between two more cars, cutting in dangerously. The women’s small car was close to them now; it was possible that the women knew they had been followed. Peel slackened pace. A car drew alongside, with a policeman standing on the running-board, and it started to cut in.
“C.I.D.,” called Roger.
The policeman stopped, the car swerved out of Peel’s way, and he went on. The first car swung round to the left—as Georgina’s had done before getting into her taxi. It went towards Notting Hill Gate.
Peel had switched on the radio.
Roger grabbed it.
“Chief Inspector West, calling Scotland Yard. Can you hear me?”
“Yard answering. We can hear you.”
“Margaret Sharp is going up Church Street with another woman in black or dark blue Austin 12 saloon car registration number BX 241B. Alert all patrol cars arid all duty forces. Report progress of car back to me. Message ends. Repeat please.”
The repeat came back, letter perfect.
“All right,” Roger said to Peel. “Relax.”
The smaller car passed out of sight; several others were between them and the women now. After the first two minutes there was a call from the Yard. A patrol car had passed the women near the Bayswater Road. Another reported it in the Bayswater Road. There was a silence of several minutes, then came a report that it had turned into Leinster Gardens. Another pause, then several more reports. The car was obviously taking a roundabout route, the driver was trying to make sure that she wasn’t followed.
Peel said: “They can’t dodge this time.”
“Our Meg believes in miracles,” said Roger.
“Recognise the other woman?”
“No, but it wasn’t Georgina.”
Peel grunted. “Think it might have been Mrs. Arlen?”
“I don’t know.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me” said Peel.
“It would me.”
Peel started to ask why, and there was another message from a patrol car near Paddington Station. Roger sat tensely, half expecting to be told that they had gone to the station, trying to remember what trains left about this time; they might have made a wild dive to catch a certain train; there were local as well as long-distance lines from Paddington. Peel was in the street where the car had last been reported, still driving with reckless skill.
“Austin BX 241B now in Edgware Road” came a message.
Roger relaxed. “Not the station, anyhow.”
“I’ve just had a nasty thought,” said Peel.
“What?”
“She might have stopped and let Meg get off; that would fool us.”
“Be cheerful,” said Roger.
But it could have happened.
“Yard calling Chief Inspector West. Austin BX 241B now in Oxford Street, heading towards the City.”
“Soho?” suggested Peel. “He turned up there once, remember. May have a hide-out there.”
“Maybe.”
Peel said: “What makes you doubt if it’s Mrs. Arlen?”
Roger laughed. “She has plenty of money; she wouldn’t need to get a hundred pounds from the Sharps to help her Ralph along.”
“Sorry,” grunted Peel. “I’m not myself.”
“On the other hand, she might just have arranged to go and see her Ralph,” said Roger. “The women could be in the rescue attempt together; but if you can think of anything less likely, I’ll resign.”
“Of course not.”
“Yard calling Chief Inspector West. Austin BX 241B now in Charing Cross Road, seen to turn right into …”
“Soho!” exclaimed Peel.
They were no more than a hundred yards from Charing Cross Road. Peel cut into a side street, taking a chance, made several wide turns, and ran into Dean Street. Fifty yards along another car was pulling into the kerb; it looked about the size of the wanted Austin. A woman got out, and was just visible in the light from a café; she was a massive, dark lump who disappeared into a doorway. The car stopped only just long enough for her to get out.
“Now we’ve got ’em!” crowed Peel.
“Hold it. Chief Inspector West calling. Passenger has left Austin BX 241B in Dean Street. Send patrols to Dean Street, block each end and all side turnings. Detail one patrol car to follow Austin to destination. Can you hear me?”
“Message received.”
Peel pulled into the side of the road about twenty yards from the doorway into which the woman had disappeared. Another police patrol car turned into the street. Peel jumped into the road, to stop it; Roger went along past the small shops, the cafés, the boarded-up debris of what had once been shops. All the doors were closed. He pushed each one. The café light was only a few doors away, and he had seen Meg Sharp against that; she certainly had gone past it. He pushed another door, and it creaked open.
He stopped.
Peel came up.
“Anything?”
“The door was open, she didn’t have time to use a key,” Roger said. “But she may have slammed it and put me off. Anyhow, she’s around here. Have you detailed the others?”
“They’ll seal the place up.” Peel’s voice was deep with satisfaction. “Hunt nearly over, Roger.”
Roger said: “Don’t you be too sure. I wish I had a gun.”
Peel didn’t speak.
They stepped inside the narrow passage which led from the open door. Darkness and silence met them. There was no certainty that this was the right place. They stood and listened, and all they could hear was footsteps approaching outside; there was no sound above, no murmur of voices.
They reached the first landing, and Roger shone his torch. Its light fell upon the only door. It had the name of a firm on it, and there were two Yale locks.
“Better stay here, Jim.”
Peel grunted.
Roger went up the next flight of wooden stairs. They creaked so loudly that it was al
most certain that they would be heard above. He saw a glimmer of light above him, coming from the top or the sides of a door. At the next landing he saw the outline of the door against a slight filtering of light, and then the light went out.
Peel’s whisper floated up.
“Anything?”
Roger didn’t answer. There were fresh sounds, as if men had stepped stealthily into the passage downstairs. Creaking followed; they were coming up, Peel was probably in the lead. Roger tried the handle of the door, but it was locked; his torchlight showed a Yale, and he couldn’t open that with a pick-lock. He could open it if he had the right materials; one of the patrol car men might have some cracksmen’s implements.
Peel breathed almost into his ear.
“This it?”
“Are the other places well watched?”
“We’ve six cars outside, they say.”
“Good.” Roger hesitated, then thumped on the door with the side of his clenched fist. The noise sounded very loud. He heard nothing else, and kicked the door, and then called clearly: “Open hi the name of the law!”
There were moments when the stock phrase was impressive. There had been someone in here; they could certainly hear what he said. If he were wrong in his guess, then the door would be opened.
There was silence.
Roger said: “I think we’re home. One of you go down, check the back of this place, and have it surrounded. Make sure all exits from the street are blocked, too, and remind everyone that he’s probably armed.”
A man went off.
“Come on,” said Roger. “Let’s see how strong you are.”
They put their combined weight against the door, and it groaned and sagged. They heaved again, grunting; there was an explosive crack, and the door swung inwards. Roger pitched forward, Peel flung himself to one side, each expecting a shot; there was none. Light came from another door across the room they’d entered—from a wide gap at one side.
This was a sitting-room; with old armchairs, couches, low tables, cheap wall-paper, a general air of dilapidation and cheapness. Peel switched on the fight, which showed the room in all its tawdry gloom. But they didn’t worry about the tawdriness. Two more men joined them as they reached the other door.