Murder, London--South Africa

by John Creasey

  “I know,” Roger interjected.

  “So you should. Well, Nightingale must crack it, to prove he’s the man he thinks he is. I left him to find his diamond smuggler, while I put another man on to the Van der Lunn story. I took this chap off next morning because there was no lead. I can let you see his notes, if you like.”

  “I’d like to see them very much,” Roger said.

  Soames leaned forward, shifted some proofs and a newspaper from a heap, and disclosed an old-fashioned interoffice speaking-box. He flicked up a lever.

  “Yes, Mr Soames?” said the girl in the outer office.

  “Got those notes from Bennett?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl. Bring ‘em in.”

  “Yes. Mr Soames—”

  “Well?”

  “You said you did not want to be interrupted, but Mr Ossenden has been trying to get you. I said you were out of the office, but would call him the moment you got back.”

  “Oh, did you.” Soames seemed to glower. “Get him for me, and put him through into the boardroom, I’ll take the call there. Bring those notes in to Mr West here and give him any help he needs, especially the background on Nightingale’s disappearance. Nothing in from Nightingale, #is there?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Soames grunted, flicked the lever down, pushed his chair back, and glowered at the wall above Roger’s head. Ossenden was the Chairman of The Globe’s directors, the only man who could tell Soames what to do, and it seemed obvious that one of the periodic clashes between the two men was reaching a climax. Soames stared down at Roger, but was hardly aware of him. He gripped the arms of the chair more tightly, and stood up. Only then was the truth about this big and powerful man revealed; he was crippled by osteoarthritis, and could not stand upright. He had to lean against the desk as he moved, and with an almost savage gesture he snatched at a heavy walking stick hooked on to a knob at the back of his chair.

  “Why can’t I come back in five minutes?” Roger asked, and wondered whether Soames’ fierce pride would make him resent reference to his infirmity.

  Soames flashed a grin which bared his big, slightly-discoloured teeth and a gleam or two of gold fillings.

  “Because what I have to say must not be heard out there, and I’m not used to keeping my voice down when I want to speak my mind.” He stumped off, using a small door in a corner away from the door to the secretary’s office, thrust it back with the ferrule of his stick and pushed again as it swung into him before he had got through. It closed behind him. Roger could hear the thump of the stick, and for those few seconds thought only of the editor, and his brave spirit and his infirmity. Then he moved to his chair and sat down, thinking over everything that had been said, and the coincidental thread of the industrial diamonds.

  Was that simply conscience?

  There was a tap at the door and the girl came in, carrying some manila folders. She had a grace of movement which matched the rest of her. Her hair was on the dark side of gold, waved but not curly; just right. She had honey-coloured eyes, and Roger realised that it was their colour which made her so unusual.

  Roger asked, “Is the arthritis getting any worse?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “It’s agony for him to move. It hurts to see him, doesn’t it?”

  “When I first knew him, he played cricket as well as tennis and soccer.”

  “So he did when I first knew him,” the girl replied. She smiled at Roger’s surprised expression. “Yes, I’ve known him all my life. He’s my uncle. I call him Mr Soames because we decided that it was the best thing to do in the office. Everybody here knows the relationship, of course, but we don’t have to throw it in their faces.”

  “I suppose not,” said Roger drily. He drew a deep breath. “Let me have a look at those notes, will you?”

  The girl opened the folder out on the desk in front of him. He continued to sit while she stood close to him; very close to him. He did not actually wish that she wouldn’t, but he was a little too aware of her, unable to concentrate as much as he knew he should. She pointed to one or two notes written in a sprawling hand; her fingers were long and shapely, and she used natural varnish on nicely-shaped nails.

  “You see, Bennett telephoned all the usual places. Then he went to South Africa House – he saw a detective named Jameson – and afterwards to the hotel where ‘Lewis’ had booked in, but there was no trace of him. He went to the offices of the Afra Mining Company at a quarter past eleven that morning – Tuesday. They simply said that Mr Van der Lunn hadn’t arrived and they assumed he had been delayed in South Africa.” The girl had a way of talking that was curiously like Soames’ – direct, economical, straight to the point. “Here are the notes made of Mr Bennett’s conversation with Mr Soames, too.”

  Roger scanned through these; they added nothing to what Soames had told him.

  “May I have copies?” he asked.

  The girl selected a large envelope from the file.

  “Mr Soames thought you might like photostat copies, so they’re all in here.”

  Roger laughed. “Thanks.”

  He opened the envelope and glanced through the contents, mechanically checking that everything was there. “How freely may you talk?”

  She had moved away a little; not far, but noticeably. She looked down on him, smiling, almost laughing. At him? He wondered how old she was. Older than he had first thought, probably in her late twenties, although she might be only twenty-four or five. She was rather slender-bosomed, and yet the pale brown dress with its piping of dark green was most provocatively cut.

  “I shall know where to stop,” she assured him. “I really am my uncle’s niece! What would you like to know?”

  “What success did Nightingale have on the diamond smuggling job?” asked Roger. “Did he suspect anyone? Had he any contacts in the ring? That kind of thing.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “If he looked like cracking the ring, then it’s conceivable the ring found a way to stop him.”

  “Do you know Nightingale?” enquired the girl.

  “Slightly.”

  “Then you may not know him well enough to be sure that only one thing would stop him, Mr West. Either he’s still working on the investigation or he’s dead – or at least incapacitated.” She spoke as if there could be no possibility of doubt. “But surely you’re more interested in Bennett’s report about the man who called himself Lewis.”

  When Roger didn’t answer, she went on, “You don’t seriously think that the two cases might be connected, do you?”

  Before Roger could answer, thudding sounds came from the next room. As the girl drew back from him, the inner door was thrust open, and Soames appeared, wielding his thick walking stick like a rapier, to keep the door back. He was grinning, obviously with satisfaction.

  “Faith, go along and tell Comp we’ll run the first leader. He can scrap the other piece of nonsense.” Soames moved to his chair, hooked the stick behind, and supported himself on his powerful arms until he could drop into it. He grunted; the sound was almost a wince. He looked up at Roger tight-lipped, but apart from pain there was the fiery glint of triumph in his eyes. “Did Faith give you everything you asked for?”

  “Yes,” said Roger. “But she didn’t tell me everything I wanted to know – whether Nightingale thought he was close to the truth about the smuggling, for instance. Was he?”

  “He certainly thought so.”

  “Won’t you be more specific?” Roger asked.

  After a long pause, Soames shifted forward until he rested his thick forearms on the desk; muscles bulged inside the sleeves of his jacket.

  “I’d like to make a condition, and ask for the first chance of the Van der Lunn story when you can release it, but I’ll leave that to your natural sense
of justice.” There was a derisive note in his voice. “Yes, he thought he was near the end of the hunt. He believed that the ringleader of a powerful smuggling organisation was on Monday’s plane. Whether he was right or wrong we shan’t know until he reports.”

  Roger said, “If he reports. Talking of reporting . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “When are you going to report him missing?”

  “Meaning, do we want you to look for him?”

  “Yes.”

  Soames hesitated, and then the fierce grin flashed again. This time he seemed to be even more amused than he had before, as if this was a great joke.

  “We’ll report him missing any time you’ll agree to treat it as secret.”

  Roger chuckled.

  “As from now,” he promised. He stood up, leaned across the desk to shake hands, and went on, “If you hear anything from or about Nightingale you’ll let me know at once, won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks. And how about letting me have photostat copies of the reports on his case, too?”

  “The copies are in a thick envelope on Faith’s desk. She’ll give them to you as you go out.” Again there was that quick, powerful handshake. “Let me know if you find Van der Lunn, won’t you?”

  5

  THE SEARCH

  Roger turned into his office at New Scotland Yard just before seven o’clock, took off his jacket and hung it on a peg of the hat-stand, lifted his telephone and said, “Get my wife, will you?” rang off and rounded the desk and opened the files. He had already studied them in the car on the way from Fleet Street, and knew most of the information off by heart; he was checking how much he still had to impress on his memory. He was halfway through when his telephone bell rang.

  He stretched out for it, and said, “Guess who this is?”

  “West, I hope,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

  Roger nearly dropped the telephone, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be extra cautious; it was usual for the operator to put him straight through to Janet, his wife.

  “West,” Roger confirmed.

  “How far have you got with the Van der Lunn investigation?”

  “I’ve just come up from Information. A picture of Van der Lunn, who seems to have been travelling under a false passport, in the name of Paul Lewis, is going out to all London Divisions and other police forces tonight, for spot checking,” Roger said. “We want to make sure that his body hasn’t been found and isn’t in some morgue. I’ve been to London Airport, and unless Klemm or Jameson—”

  “Jameson?”

  “A man seconded to the job from South Africa House.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Unless they’ve discovered something, and there’s no report on my desk, I don’t know any more about what happened to Van der Lunn than I did when I started. I do know that there’s some doubt as to whether it was really Van der Lunn. There’s even some doubt whether he really left South Africa. If it was him, then he was either ill or feigning, or else under some kind of pressure.”

  “How did you get on at South Africa House?”

  “As well as they hoped, I think.”

  Hardy actually chuckled.

  “Stay with this job all the time,” he said. “Tell Janet that you won’t know what home is like for the next few days.”

  Janet would probably say that would be nothing new, but this wasn’t the moment to find out whether Hardy would think that funny. Roger rang off, pencilled a note, and heard footsteps in the passage. As they drew nearer the door, his telephone bell rang again. This time he was more cautious.

  “West speaking.”

  “Very formal tonight, Mr West, aren’t you?” This was Janet; and Janet nearly always made him feel good. As he sat back, he had a momentary glimpse of Soames’ niece, Faith, but it was gone in a flash, and he hardly noticed it.

  “Hallo, darling,” Janet went on. “I know what you’re going to tell me. You’re going to be late.”

  “Late-ish, anyhow,” Roger said. “What kind of day has it been?”

  “When you start asking that kind of question you’re going to be very late,” said Janet resignedly. “Just average, dear – Martin’s up in his room with a fellow art student, female, talking earnestly about abstracts and modernism and all the rest. Richard telephoned to say he’ll be late too, and not to get any supper ready for him.”

  “Girlfriend?” enquired Roger.

  “I shouldn’t think so, but he may be fooling me.”

  “Now would any of your family do that?” asked Roger. There was a tap at the door, but he didn’t answer. “Sweet, I must go. I’ll make it just as soon as I can, but I might possibly be called out of London. Don’t be too surprised if I am.”

  “From this moment on, I’m expecting it,” Janet declared. “I can’t expect to have lunch and sleep with you on the same day, can I? Roger!”

  “Now what?”

  “Did you know you were going to be out tonight? Is that why you took me to lunch?”

  “It would have been a good idea, but I didn’t even give it a thought,” Roger said. “When I get round to practising small deceits on you, I’ll warn you in advance. Jan, I’ve two chaps almost breaking the door down. I must go. See you.”

  He rang off, and paused, and reflected, and then called, “Come in.”

  As the door opened he was thinking of Janet, and the fact that he seemed to be making these calls more and more often; that he was getting home later and later more often, too.

  First Klemm and then Jameson came in, and as the reflections passed, Roger slid back to the Van der Lunn problem almost without thinking. He waved to chairs, and they sat down; it was obvious from their expressions that they had no good news to report. Klemm looked hot and rather dejected, like a dishevelled and out of temper Spaniard. Jameson was fresh and as immaculate as he had been in the office.

  “Nothing,” Klemm said.

  “I’ve got a lot of enquiries going out now,” said Roger. “We may hear something during the night or tomorrow morning. Meanwhile . . .” He told them the story of Nightingale’s disappearance, and what Nightingale had been doing, watching Jameson all the time he spoke. Jameson had a gift for showing no expression, but there was a look about him, a tension at his lips, which suggested to Roger that he was probably holding his thoughts on leash.

  Now, Roger said, “How much do you know about this diamond stealing, Lieutenant?”

  “I know it has been going on,” answered Jameson. “It is not uncommon, you understand. Many parcels of diamonds which are consigned quite legally from Kimberley to the world’s capitals are intercepted and stolen. That is always a matter for the national police to handle. We have reason to believe that smuggling diamonds out of the Union is on the increase. We at South Africa House have not been asked to act, although we have been informed. We hear indirectly that diamonds so smuggled are sold overseas, and often stolen back from the purchasers! Perhaps a kind of rough justice.”

  When Roger didn’t comment, Jameson went on, “Are you suggesting, sir, that these matters could be connected with Mr Van der Lunn’s disappearance?”

  “Yes, obviously.”

  “To suspect Mr Van der Lunn of any part in smuggling is quite impossible,” Jameson said. “But—”

  “Is it really?” Roger interrupted.

  “I find it so.”

  “How often does he come to London?”

  Jameson answered very slowly in that rather husky and attractive voice, “Perhaps once in three months, perhaps a little more often at certain times. He has so many business interests. But Mr West—” He broke off.

  “I’ve a file from The Globe here giving all of Nightingale’s findings and his opinions about the diamond troubles,” Roger said. “And
we’ve been working on the case – here’s our file, as well as a copy of the file the airport police have kept. Will you go through these, check the dates when diamonds consigned to English firms have failed to reach their destination, and when they have actually been found on passengers or aircraft. Then check with the dates on which Mr Van der Lunn has come to London?”

  After a long pause, Jameson said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Is this my job, too?” asked Klemm, almost gloomily.

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I take an hour off first, sir? I can slip over and see my wife and the nippers,” said Klemm. He lived in Lambeth, across the Thames.

  “An hour won’t make any difference,” Roger agreed. “Can you use an hour, Lieutenant?”

  Jameson said, “I have no one expecting me, sir. If I could have the use of a desk somewhere, and these reports, I could begin the comparison.”

  “Fix a desk,” Roger said to Klemm.

  The two men went out, taking the files, Jameson still looking doubtful; perhaps it would be more true to say that he was looking worried. Roger pulled a pad towards him and jotted down notes of what he had already done, and what he thought now needed doing. He spent longer at this than he expected. He double-checked everything he had discovered at Soames’ office, and kept thinking about the possibility that Nightingale had been murdered. There was the ‘coincidence’ of the two disappearances, too; it was almost impossible for him to believe that. It was curious that Jameson had been so emphatic about Van der Lunn being above suspicion, equally curious that he had not mentioned an obvious possibility – that Van der Lunn might have been kidnapped because of something he had discovered about the traffic in diamonds.

  When Klemm and Jameson had finished the analysis, there should be a much clearer picture of the case, and they should be through by half past nine or ten, which gave Roger a couple of hours.

  He knew what he ought to do: telephone for a car and a driver and go home – to Chelsea, ten minutes drive away, and spend an hour there. Janet would be happy to get supper for him, and he would be able to relax at home much better than he could here. Then he faced a fact which in its way was unpalatable: he was losing the ability to relax anywhere. That tied up with his objection to the way Gorlay had talked, and later to Hardy’s manner. He was too tense. He did not know of any special reason for it, but there must be one. It was worth looking for. He felt compelled to stay close to his desk in case reports arrived, and yet he knew that such reports would reach him almost as quickly if he were home.