Triumph For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  “Passing through?” the man asked at last.

  “Yes and no,” said Mark, and told his prepared lie. “I’m looking for a house.”

  “Not the only one,” said the little man. “Shocking, the shortage is. Large or small?”

  “Medium.”

  “Don’t know of one.” The little man shook his head. “Might have more luck in Reading, but I doubt it.”

  “I’m looking for a place in the country,” Mark explained, “and I thought I’d stay here for a night or two. You have a room, I suppose?”

  “Could do it,” conceded the little man. “We’ve got several rooms, if it comes to that. Show you the best one after lunch.”

  He became positively garrulous when they left the dining-room, and was soon chatting about Laleham Outage; Mark’s errand had reminded him of it. The cottage had changed hands some months before, but no one had come to live there. Oh, yes, it was furnished. It was a crying shame that people bought houses and left them empty, while others had nowhere to live. The cottage was just over there—he pointed out of a front bedroom window— as a matter of fact, it had five bedrooms and three rooms downstairs, as well as a couple of acres. Some cottage!

  The house was built halfway up a bleak hill, and about half a mile away. Beyond the building, the hill was wooded, and at one side was a dark patch of shrubs.

  “I know what it’s like, because I had a look round when it was up for sale,” explained the little innkeeper. “Six thousand five hundred—I’d rather keep my money in the bank! Well, how does this room suit you?”

  “I think I’m going to like it,” said Mark.

  The weather cleared in the middle of the afternoon, and he went to look at Raeburn’s new place. No one was about. The grounds were well kept and the ornamental garden trim and well stocked. The house was attractive from the outside, mainly Elizabethan, but one or two recent alterations had been made.

  On a wide lawn, in the front garden, stood a summer- house, and Mark strolled toward it. From its window he could see the house and the long drive; he could not want a better place in which to conceal himself.

  “It’ll do me for tonight,” he decided, and drove back to The King’s Arms. He was determined to succeed down here, whatever it cost; the Brighton fiasco rankled.

  Just before dark, he took the car rugs to the summer- house, and made sure that the cottage was still unoccupied. He went back to the inn for dinner, which was as good as lunch had been, deciding to begin his vigil immediately afterward. He walked to the summer-house, and settled down.

  By nine o’clock he was cold and cramped. To get warm, be strode about the lawn, looking down on the village and its few lights, and, farther away, toward the myriad yellow dots, the lights of Reading. The wind had strengthened, and cut right through him.

  “I wonder how long I need stay?” he asked himself.

  If anyone arrived at the house, lights would go on, and he would be able to see them from his room window. He decided to end the vigil at midnight, had another brisk walk to get warm, and returned to the summer-house.

  At half past eleven, he heard a car approaching. He got up, and went to the window. The headlights were shining on the house, and, as the car turned into the drive, shone toward him. Mark ducked. The light passed him, bathing die house in its glare. He could not see clearly, but felt sure there were two people in the car.

  “Raeburn and his Eve, perhaps.” He felt the sharp edge of excitement. “I—no, it isn’t!”

  Two men appeared in die headlights, and Mark saw something pass between them; the car was a taxi, and there was only one passenger. It was a man, who stood on the porch as the taxi turned for the return journey, and Mark recognised him immediately from photographs.

  It was Tenby.

  Tenby opened the front door and went inside; a light blazed out from the hall. The front door closed, and other lights went on, first at the front, and then at the sides. Mark could see the man moving about.

  He ventured out of the summer-house, but could neither hear nor see anyone near. He approached the cottage cautiously, and saw Tenby in a front room with a bottle and a gl^ss by his side.

  Tenby got up, yawning. He opened a box of chocolates, popped one into his mouth, picked up the box, and went out of the room, switching off the light. His footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs.

  Mark hurried back to the village, and telephoned Roger, at home.

  * * * * *

  “Couldn’t be better,” Roger said. “We’d lost him. . . . Stay in your room, or the hotel, until we’re in touch. We’ll be watching, but may not show ourselves until tomorrow.”

  “Right,” Mark said, and went back and treated himself to a double Scotch.

  He was in his room next evening, looking out of the window, when a small car stopped outside the garage.

  The driver, small, square-shouldered, vaguely familiar, got out to look for an attendant. He had a heavy black beard and moustache, and was wearing a cloth cap and a tweed coat, so obviously theatrical that it seemed absurd.

  The garage attendant appeared, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “And what can I do for you, sir?”

  “Petrol and oil,” said the bearded man, brusquely.

  Mark stood watching, trying to place his voice, watched him pay the attendant, get back into the car, and drive toward Laleham Cottage. He went past the gateway, turned right at the top of a hill just beyond the cottage, and disappeared behind a copse of beech. Mark heard the gears change. Then the sound of the engine faded.

  For a while nothing happened, and no one appeared. Mark began to wonder whether Roger had been right to tell him to stay here, when he saw the theatrical-looking man hurry across a patch of grass, and disappear again behind some dark shrubs. Mark could see his hat bobbing up and, down, as if he were trying to reach the cottage without being seen.

  A car came along the village High Street, making little sound; Mark first saw it out of the corner of his eye. He drew in a sharp breath as he recognised Raeburn’s Silver Wraith, with a woman at the wheel; no one was with her.

  “And Eve makes three,” Mark murmured. “Now I’ll make four.”

  He hurried downstairs, putting on his coat as he went. His car was standing in the yard. The self-starter did not work at the first push, and he growled at it; promptly the engine hummed. As he turned into the road, he could think only of one thing: the bearded man’s furtive approach and its possible significance. He might be intent only on hearing what passed between Eve and Tenby, but did the girl know that Tenby was there?

  Mark saw one of two men who had been in the hotel for lunch, near the entrance to the cottage grounds; the man was concealed from the house by trees. Mark waved to him casually, and drove on in the direction taken by the bearded man. The little car was parked off the road near the corpse. He pulled up a few yards farther along, jumped out, and hurried across the open ground where he had seen the man. It seemed a long way to the cottage, and his heart was thumping. He could not see his quarry, but as he reached the drive and peered through the bushes, he saw Eve standing at the front door, which had just been opened, and heard her exclaim: “You!”

  “Well, wot a pleasure,” Tenby said, in a high-pitched voice. “Wot a pleasure it is, Evie. I never thought I’d see you ‘ere. What’s the game?”

  “What are you doing here?” Eve demanded, shrilly.

  “I’ve been invited,” Tenby answered, grandly. “My wealthy friends decided I was socially okay, but I didn’t know anyone else was coming.”

  They went in.

  Mark crept round to the back of the cottage, and tried the back door; it was not locked. He stepped inside, keeping a sharp look out for the bearded man. He saw the marks made by damp shoes on the oil cloth, and went into a narrow passage which presumably led from the kitchen to the front of the house. He passed a door which he thought was closed.

  He was about to go into the hall, when a hand shot out from the door, without any warning, and clutched hi
s throat, stifling a cry. He caught a glimpse of the man with the black beard; then a sharp blow caught him behind the ear, and he felt his senses swimming.

  The bearded man broke his fall, left him lying on the floor, and opened the door wider.

  Tenby had been talking shrilly all the time, and now his voice was clear; Mark could just hear him! “It’s a trap, that’s what it is, a trap. Don’t ask me who they want to trap, the ruddy swine!”

  “What—what are you going to do?” asked Eve, in a scared voice.

  “I’m going to ring Raeburn, that’s what.” There were quick footsteps as he crossed the hall, and the bearded man crept toward it. Tenby banged the receiver up and down, and Mark, trying to get up without attracting attention, sensed the desperate anxiety in the man’s voice as he cried: “For Gawd’s sake, answer me!”

  “Is—is it working?” asked Eve.

  “It’s nothing but a bloody trap!” cried Tenby. “ ‘Ere, I’m getting out. I never trusted the swine. I even kept me case packed. Get out of my way.”

  “Don’t leave me alone!” There was terror in Eve’s voice. “Tenby, don’t—”

  Mark heard a thud, as if Tenby had pushed her against the wall. Then the front door slammed. ,ark tried to get up again, but the pain in his head was agonising, and he dared not make a noise.

  The bearded man crept forward, out of his sight.

  Then Mark, trying again, saw Roger West stepping silently along the passage. Roger glanced at him, winked, and put a finger to his lips.

  In the hall, Eve was pulling at the front door, the bearded man was creeping up on her, and Roger waited, out of sight, ready to move on the instant.

  Eve was pulling at the front door, terrified now that Tenby had gone. She saw and heard nothing behind her, but the man with the beard crept toward her, holding a scarf stretched out. He moved suddenly, dropped it over her head, and pulled tightly.

  Her cry was strangled to silence. The scarf dropped to her neck, and the bearded man began to pull it tighter, unaware that anyone else was at the door.

  “Not quick enough, Warrender,” Roger observed, mildly. “And not fast enough, either.”

  Roger moved very fast indeed, and as the man with the theatrical heard swung round, he ran into Roger’s fist, and sagged back against the wall.

  Roger bent over Eve, untied the scarf, and said: “Now take it easy, Evie, you’ll be all right. And even if we can’t pin murder on to him, Warrender will get ten years in jail for attacking you.”

  “Warrender!” the girl exclaimed.

  “Plus beard,” Roger explained, easily. “Ten years for attempted murder,” he said, “and we’ll probably make the capital charge stick, Warrender.” He leaned forward, and tugged at the black beard; it sagged loose, with a soft tearing sound. “Mark!” he called, and turned to see Mark coming unsteadily into the hall. “Look after Eve, will you?”

  “So you had to do it yourself,” Mark said, weakly.

  “I took the tailers off Warrender, and he thought he’d been clever enough to evade them,” Roger explained. “He didn’t realise we were reporting his progress by radio every few miles, or that we were waiting here for him. You must have given him a bit of a shock.”

  Warrender just stood there, like a man damned.

  “I don’t pretend to know all the answers yet,” said Roger to Turnbull, “but we’re getting on, Warren. Eve either can’t or won’t talk, Warrender won’t, and Tenby’s pretending to be half asleep, but they’ll all talk when the time comes. It’s clear that Warrender planned to kill Eve, and to frame Tenby. He would probably have killed Mark, too, and let Tenby take the rap for that as well, if he’d got away with it. Taking the tabs off him was a good move.”

  “Seen the AC?” asked Turnbull. “He ought to have a billet-doux ready for the Home Secretary.”

  “Give me a chance, I haven’t been back twenty minutes,” said Roger. “I want a talk with Raeburn before I see Chatworth, anyhow.”

  He was going through reports on his desk when a superintendent looked in.

  “Oh, West,” he said, “the Assistant Commissioner would like to see you.” He paused, and then delivered his bombshell: “Mr Paul Raeburn is with him.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  RAEBURN MAKES A STATEMENT

  CHATWORTH WAS sitting behind his desk, puffing at a small cigar. Raeburn was in one of the tubular steel armchairs, his hat, gloves and stick on the floor by his side, his ankles crossed. His expression was one of complete assurance, and he smiled affably as Roger entered, but made no attempt to rise.

  “Ah, West,” said Chatworth. He paused as Roger, schooling himself to show no emotion, approached the desk. “Mr Raeburn has come to make a statement.”

  “Has he, sir?”

  “It’s one which, I hope, will help to clear up the misunderstanding between us,” Raeburn said, urbanely. “As I have told Sir Archibald, I have been very worried about your attitude, Chief Inspector. Only now do I realise that you had very good reason for being suspicious of my actions.”

  “Oh,” said Roger, blankly.

  Chatworth said: “Sit down, West.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Roger said, as he sat down. His mind was beginning to work, searching for the trick behind this bold move.

  “I hope that I’m in time to make sure that nothing more goes wrong.” Raeburn said. “I’ve had a very great shock, Chief Inspector. A man whom I trusted implicitly has betrayed me.” He smiled faintly. “I’m afraid this sounds rather dramatic, but it is the simple truth.”

  Was he positive that Warrender would not talk? Could he be? Or was he preparing his defence against betrayal?

  “I think I ought to tell you that when I first met War- render, he actually swindled me out of several hundred pounds,” Raeburn said, very carefully, “I caught him, and he pleaded for another chance. I gave it to him. I believe in trying to help lame dogs over stiles, Chief Inspector. Since then, he has always worked competently for me, and I believed loyally. I had almost forgotten the curious nature of our first meeting until this shocking discovery.”

  “I see,” said Roger, heavily.

  “During the past few days, I have been worried by telephone calls and messages from a man named Tenby,” Raeburn went on. “Tenby is a man whom Warrender employed for several jobs in connection with my greyhound racing tracks, when I first opened them. I had met him, although I hardly remembered him. The messages were all very much alike; he threatened me with some disastrous disclosure. What the disclosure was he didn’t say, and I certainly couldn’t guess. The man actually came to see me yesterday afternoon, Chief Inspector.”

  “Did he?” asked Roger, and thought helplessly that this man had genius—a genius for evil distortion.

  Chatworth sat impassive.

  “Yes, Tenby came to see me,” Raeburn repeated. “Warrender was present, and obviously Tenby was not at his ease. It transpired that he hoped to blackmail me because—” he paused, and leaned forward impressively— “because Eve Franklin did not see the accident when Halliwell was killed. Tenby had forced her to say that she had, as part of his scheme of blackmail.”

  This was really brilliant: a smooth answer to every charge, even before it was made, but could he be sure of Warrender?

  “When I realised that there was reason to doubt the truth of the evidence, I was well able to understand your attitude,” said Raeburn, spreading his hands. “It was a complete surprise to me to discover that Eve had committed perjury. You know that I fell in love with her— that we were married yesterday. This news shocked me beyond words. It was difficult to believe, yet Tenby convinced me of its truth. I at once began to make inquiries. My wife does not admit that she lied to save me, but I gather from her manner that she is troubled. Consequently, I arranged for her to visit a cottage I own near Reading, promising to join her there later. I thought that, during a quiet week-end, I would be more likely to learn the truth.

  “I am quite sure of this,” Raeburn went on, lea
ning forward again. “If she did commit perjury, it was under someone’s influence. This man Tenby first introduced her to Warrender. I believe that Tenby found a way to dominate Eve, and to make her come forward as she did. My faith in my wife is absolutely unshaken.”

  Melville would talk to Warrender and to Eve, of course; certainly, Raeburn must be absolutely sure of himself— unless this was a bluff to out-do all bluffs.

  Chatworth asked, like a cigar-smoking Buddha: “What inquiries did you make?”

  “I asked my housekeeper, Mrs Beesley, to find out what she could,” Raeburn told him. “She knew Warrender before I met him, and has never been so confident of his loyalty as I have.” Raeburn sighed, just enough to suggest that he was still suffering from the shock of betrayal. “You see, gentlemen, I read of the brutal attack on the Brown woman the other evening. I remembered the sup-posedly accidental death of Tony Brown. I knew—who could fail to know?—that, in your mind, all these things would be connected. I hoped that I would be able to show that there was no connection, but I’m afraid that there was.”

  He paused for effect.

  He appeared slightly disappointed at the stony reception of his news; he glanced from Roger to Chatworth and back again, and for the first time he showed some signs of disquiet. When he went on, it was in a harder voice.

  “I am afraid that Warrender was behind these vicious crimes which were committed partly to cover up the fact that he had persuaded my wife to commit perjury, partly to be able to blackmail me at a later date. It seems evident to me now that my wife’s ex-fiance, Tony Brown, knew of that. Did you ever suspect that he was murdered, gentle- men?”

  Roger felt sick.

  “It did occur to us,” Chatworth said, heavily.

  “I am afraid it is true, too.” Raeburn stood up and began to pace the room. “There is another thing. Tenby accused me of luring him to Aldgate the other evening, so that he would be framed—I quote him—for the attack on die policeman Peel. I accused Warrender of this. He denied it, of course, but there was no doubt that Warrender was gravely troubled by Tenby’s visit, and by my suspicions. Mrs Beesley, Mr Melville, and I were talking about it most of the night.”