by John Creasey
‘Commander,’ said Superintendent Trannion icily, ‘if we have a report for you by four o’clock this afternoon it will be because the circumstances make it possible, not because the Home Secretary is displeased. Goodbye, sir.’
He rang off.
He must have been aware of the way all the others were staring at him, but he seemed more preoccupied with what had just been said, and his expression and the corrugations on his brow were positively thunderous.
‘Matthew,’ O’Malley said, ‘I take my hat off to you.’
‘Eh? Oh. Thank you. But really, the Commander should know better than to try to panic me into making decisions. Do they really think we must jump to a governmental command? That would make us a police state – very little better anyhow.’ Trannion placed a clenched fist on the table, but his expression gradually softened, and when he spoke again it was in a much calmer voice. ‘Now gentlemen – we need to allow our subconscious minds to work. Can we get lunch sent up here, Birdy, or should we go across to your canteen?’
‘Neither,’ Birdy Partridge answered. ‘There’s a private hotel round the corner and they’re fixing lunch for us. Can’t have a private room, but the dining-room is big enough to talk without the danger of being overheard.’
‘Do us good to talk about something else,’ declared Trannion. ‘I trust the food will be passable.’
‘The landlady makes the best steak pudding in London,’ boasted Birdy.
‘Then you should have more of it,’ retorted Trannion. ‘You might get a little more flesh on your bones!’
There was a general laugh.
‘They’ve a licence for beer and wines, no hard liquor,’ Partridge said with a look of apology at the others.
‘Wine at noon maketh the mind dull,’ declared Trannion, ‘and I don’t drink anyhow, so it couldn’t be better.’ He managed to put them into a good frame of mind, which stayed throughout a lunch of steak and kidney pudding, followed by lemon meringue pie and a cheese board which would have done credit to any restaurant in London. They lingered only for a few minutes over coffee, and were back at the oval table by two o’clock.
Immediately, the mood changed, even though Trannion asked drily: ‘Well, how have our sub-consciouses been working?’
Partridge said: ‘We can’t possibly tell West.’
‘Why the devil not?’ demanded O’Malley.
‘Because if he’s guilty he’ll be warned.’
‘Or cover himself completely,’ observed Trannion. ‘Surely all these things go without saying. If West – if any man in such circumstances – were given the slightest warning that he was suspected, then we would lose all advantage of surprise.’
‘You could tell in a moment if he were lying,’ O’Malley said.
‘No, Pat,’ reasoned Trannion. ‘If he is such a practised deceiver as to be both running with the hare and with the hounds, then he certainly won’t give himself away when asked a direct question. You are fooling yourself if you think he would.’
‘I happen to think he’s an honest man,’ O’Malley declared defiantly.
‘Of all the men at the Yard, not excluding ourselves, I think I trust West more than anyone but—’ Trannion shrugged as he looked apologetically at O’Malley. ‘I think the others are right, Pat. It seemed a good idea, but I don’t think it is, really. So we have a vote of four-to-one that we should point out this scar to the Commander and tell him that we think West should be investigated.’
Calk and Spettlebury nodded and Partridge said clearly: ‘Yes.’
Trannion looked at O’Malley appealingly, and put all the pleading he could into his voice.
‘Won’t you make it unanimous, Pat?’
‘No. I won’t.’
‘After all, it’s only a recommendation.’
‘I put in a minority report,’ interrupted O’Malley, the stubborn look on his face matching the gravity of Trannion’s, ‘that we talk to West before this accusation is made. And that’s final.’ He leaned back in his chair arid thrust his hands deep in his pockets.
‘Then the four-to-one recommendation stands,’ said Trannion. He looked about him with a rather elaborate display of assumed surprise. ‘You would like me to present it, wouldn’t you? – but my goodness, we haven’t yet decided whether it’s to be written or oral.’
‘Oral,’ Spettlebury said.
‘Agreed,’ said Calk.
‘Only way,’ asserted Partridge.
‘Tell you one thing.’ O’Malley perked up; he was never in low spirits for long, and now his eyes had a merry gleam. ‘If we make it a written report each of us will have to read and approve and sign. It could take a heck of a long time to prepare. I once knew a man, he was one of the best conmen I ever put inside, who could argue for an hour about where to put a comma. How about writing the report, Matt, and we could hold it over until the morning? Easy.’
‘Pat,’ Calk reproved, ‘this isn’t a joke.’
‘You’re telling me that it’s not a joke to accuse Handsome of—’
No one is accusing Handsome of anything,’ interrupted Trannion, in his most reasoning voice. ‘And you know that the Commander wouldn’t stand for that. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t wait until four o’clock, though, and keep him waiting for a while.’
‘No.’ Spettlebury was surprisingly sharp. ‘We’ve decided what to do. Let’s do it. I move Matthew to be our spokesman.’
‘Remember it’s a minority report.’ O’Malley was resentful again.
‘I will tell the Commander exactly what you think as well as speak for the others. Thank you for the confidence you have reposed in me.’ Trannion pushed his chair back and stood up, looking more like an Old Testament prophet than ever. ‘Would you like to meet again after I’ve seen the Commander?’
‘Just let us know,’ Partridge said, and almost under his breath he muttered: ‘I wish to God I hadn’t noticed that scar.’
No one else spoke.
Trannion, whose divisional headquarters was only a mile away, telephoned for a car, and was the last but one to leave. When at last his car arrived, he asked Partridge: ‘Will you tell Coppell to expect me in about half-an-hour?’
‘Yes,’ Partridge promised, through a scowl; and then he asked in a troubled voice: ‘You don’t think there can possibly be any truth in this, do you?’
‘Whatever we think personally, we have to make sure,’ Trannion said in his most pontifical way. ‘Where is West, do you know?’
Partridge muttered: ‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Having a day off with wife. Gone to a matinee, I think, and then going out to dinner.’ He rubbed his bony chin, while Trannion watched as if commanding him to go on: ‘Goes around town a lot more with her than he used to.’
‘Indeed,’ said Trannion, as if the announcement had great significance.
‘Yes, he—well, one of his sons emigrated to Australia, and the other’s making a name for himself in television – researching, I think they call it, and directing. What I mean is, Handsome doesn’t have the expenses he used to have, and his wife was always at him to take her out more. I mean – he can afford it, in the circumstances, even out of his salary.’
‘If that question arises I shall put the point of view to the Commander,’ Trannion promised, solemnly; and then he turned and got into his car.
At that very moment Roger was sitting back in the Dress Circle of the Adelphi Theatre, roaring with laughter. Janet, his wife, was laughing too, though not quite so hilariously. The matinee audience seemed about equally divided between those who were laughing their heads off, and those who found nothing remotely funny in the antics on the stage. This was a revival of a Tom Walls and Ralph Lynn farce.
Now and again Janet glanced at her husband.
He was taking life much more easily than she could remember, and the Yard was not working him anything like as hard as it had once done. As far as she was concerned, he could stay in the Police Force forever if there were no pre
ssures worse than the present ones; that is, if he could take her to the theatre occasionally and they could dine out without being interrupted by an emergency call from the Yard.
One of the actors, wearing a shirt and socks, made a sudden dive under the bed; the door opened and his wife came in, leading another man by the hand. Those who found this funny simply raised the roof, those who found it flat and dull stared glumly.
‘And remember, dearest,’ the wife said earnestly, ‘if you hear the slightest noise, just dive under the bed.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Roger West said a few moments later, ‘I don’t know why I find it so funny, but I do. I—oh, lorrrrrd!’ He doubled up again.
It was five o’clock when they left the theatre, Roger a tall, powerful man who was startlingly good-looking; better looking, many women said, now that he had matured, than when he had been younger. Hardly a woman in the foyer or in the street outside failed to look at him. Janet, knowing this well, knowing that in the trendy talk of the day her Roger could be called a sex symbol, was fully aware and completely untroubled. She was a head shorter than he was, as dark as he was fair, with the sparkling eyes and slim figure a woman fifteen years younger might well have envied.
‘Shall we go and get some tea somewhere near?’ Roger asked.
‘Darling, I feel extravagant,’ Janet said. ‘Let’s get a taxi and go to the Dorchester. They still serve the nicest tea in London.’
‘Then the Dorchester it shall be,’ Roger decided, and raised a hand for a passing cab.
A uniformed policeman saw, recognised and heard him.
A plain-clothes detective sergeant, there about a hotel theft nearby, saw, recognised and heard him.
Both men used almost the same phrase to themselves.
‘Handsome’s living it up, these days.’
Chief Detective Superintendent Trannion and Commander Coppell made a striking contrast. Trannion, austere, ascetic; Coppell, big, heavy-shouldered, nearly ugly, with a pock-marked and swarthy complexion where Trannion’s was fresh and wholesome-looking. Coppell was now sitting behind a big square-topped desk in a room in New Scotland Yard, while Trannion sat at ease opposite him. There was in both men a mood of ‘I’m as good as the next’, and this showed in their expressions, as Coppell listened, stirring occasionally in his swivel chair, obviously exerting all his self-control not to interrupt. And he succeeded, not saying a word until Trannion stated: ‘Four of us thought we should come straight to you, sir. One was of the opinion that we ought to see West first.’
‘Who was that?’ demanded Coppell in a deep, rough voice.
‘Is that relevant, sir?’
‘Like hell it’s relevant. Anyone who would warn West mustn’t be allowed to get within a hundred yards of him. Was it O’Malley?’
‘Yes,’ Trannion answered reluctantly.
‘Did anyone else show any particular sympathy for West? And I mean sympathy.’
‘No,’ answered Trannion with great deliberation. ‘Everyone was shocked and found it hard to believe the evidence could really mean what it appeared to mean but there was no—’ He hesitated before going on: ‘I don’t think ‘sympathy’ is the word which applies here, sir. I think four of us admitted feeling suspicion, no matter how reluctantly, and O’Malley refused to. But even he said that it had to be checked out.’
‘Nice of him,’ growled Coppell. ‘Talked to anyone else?’
‘About this, sir?’
‘What the hell do you think I mean?’
Trannion sat back in his chair and did not answer immediately. His expression was bleak and his lips, set firmly, actually quivered. His gaze did not shift from Coppell’s, who was glowering and whose eyes seemed buried deep in their sockets. The silence dragged on, the most surprising thing about it being that Coppell allowed it to last so long.
At last, Trannion placed his hands on the arm of his chair, and rose to his feet.
‘Commander Coppell,’ he said, ‘I am from this moment resigning from the Metropolitan Police Force. In my written resignation which I shall send to the Assistant Commissioner and the Commissioner, I shall state that in thirty years of service to the Force I have never been submitted to such intolerable rudeness as in the past few minutes. I am not a young or inexperienced man who can be frightened by bullying or will submit to any form of tyranny.’
He bowed, stiffly, and turned to the door. He could not know that Coppell had never been so astounded in his life, and had actually opened the door before Coppell called out in a grating voice: ‘Come back – please.’ He seemed to choke. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you.’
Chapter Three
Orders
Chief superintendent matthew Trannion seemed to hesitate, as if doubtful whether he should accept the apology and turn back. Coppell sat with his fingers gripping his chair-arms like vices. He looked as if he could spring up from his chair and leap at Trannion.
The silvery-haired man closed the door, slowly, and turned round. They eyed each other as if aware of each other for the first time, and then Coppell said: ‘We’d better start again.’
Trannion sat down, saying: ‘That is the wisest thing to do, sir.’
‘We know the situation up to the time you finished the report and outlined the attitudes of the other four officers. Do you think any of them would talk about the case?’
‘I would be extremely surprised, sir,’ Trannion said. ‘I most certainly would not.’
‘Did they go back to their Divisions?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was there any other evidence, beyond the scar, submitted at the meeting?’
‘No.’
‘How many had actually seen that scar on West’s chin?’
‘Only Partridge, sir – the others hadn’t noticed it.’
‘Well, the quicker we check whether it exists, the better,’ Coppell said. ‘Who would know?’ He did not wait for an answer but said: ‘It might be in his dossier. We don’t want any alarm about this but we’ll need his dossier if he’s being considered for promotion.’ He hesitated, and then went on: ‘I’ll check it myself. Where is West, do you know?’
‘Having the day off, sir.’
‘Humph. All right. I may need you again tonight.’
‘I am at your disposal, sir. In fact I would like to spend some time with Fingerprints and Ballistics about some cases we’ve had lately – I’ll be in one place or the other.’
Coppell nodded: ‘Right.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Trannion, and went out.
For some moments Coppell stared at the door; then he began to glower, but suddenly be broke into a guffaw of laughter, thinking: I didn’t know the old goat had it in him. He snorted two or three times as he pulled his telephone towards him and called the Secretary’s Department, where staff records were kept. The man at the other end raised no demur when he asked for Roger West’s file to be sent along at once. That would mean in about fifteen minutes’ time. He made a few salient notes about what Trannion had told him and then telephoned the Assistant Commissioner for Crime.
‘I’m sorry but he won’t be back today,’ a secretary told him.
‘I’ll call him in the morning,’ Coppell said, glad that she couldn’t see his broad grin, for this meant that he would have to talk to the Commissioner himself, for he could not allow the matter to wait overnight, and he had little time for the A.C. Moreover the Commissioner, Sir Jacob Trevillion, knew West, for they had once come into conflict much as he had, just now, with Trannion. Trevillion was a big, bluff, bucolic man, ex-navy with an Admiral’s rank, capable of putting the fear of God into ninety-nine men out of a hundred. Even now as he called him on the inter-office telephone, Coppell felt a little apprehensive – and the apprehension leapt sky-high when Trevillion himself barked: ‘Commissioner!’
‘This is Coppell, sir, Commander—’
‘What is it, Coppell?’
‘I would very much like to come and discuss an important matter with you.’
&nbs
p; ‘Why me? Where’s Mr Renfrew?’
‘He’s not in, sir.’
‘And this is vital?’
‘I think you’ll agree that it is, sir.’
Trevillion said something which sounded like: ‘Better be,’ and then called out to his secretary: ‘Mavis! What time are the Scott-Gordons due … Well, give ’em a drink, tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can … Coppell?’ Coppell was treated to the full blast of the Admiral’s bridge voice. ‘I’ll come to you, right away.’
He rang off before Coppell could make any comment.
He sat back for a moment, eased his collar, then sprang up and went to his washroom, washed his hands and face and combed his thick and wiry black hair, then wondered whether he should offer Trevillion a drink. He decided that this was a serious occasion, and drinks might give it too social and frivolous a touch. A tap at the door startled him and he called ‘come in’. It was the messenger from the Secretary’s Department with West’s file.
‘Put it on the desk,’ growled Coppell.
‘If you would just sign the receipt for it, sir.’
Coppell signed a slip of paper and thrust it back into the man’s hand, then, as the door closed, pulled the file towards him. As always, photographs were kept in a pocket stuck on the inside of the stiff manilla folder, and he was taking these out when footsteps thumped along the passage and, without even a perfunctory tap, Sir Jacob Trevillion opened the door. Coppell saw a big, heavy-jowled man, almost aggressively healthy. Energy, and a harmless irascibility, seemed to spark from him.
‘Thank you for coming, sir.’ Coppell pushed a chair into position.
‘Hope it won’t take long,’ said the Commissioner, facing Coppell and looking at him intently. ‘I’ve two guests.’ He snorted. ‘Guests! Two friends of the Home Secretary’s whose fool of a son lost a fortune at Black’s two or three nights ago and they say he was robbed. Coppell, answer me this.’
‘If I can.’
‘I don’t ask questions a man can’t answer,’ Trevillion growled; but there was a glint of humour in his eyes. ‘Do you feel like throwing your hand in when I pressure you on something you’re already doing your damnedest on?’