by John Creasey
Faith was looking at him as if she was no longer quite so sure of herself.
“I assure you that my memory is quite reliable,” she said.
“I’m sure it is, but I’m not so proud of mine. Have you got all those written down?”
“Yes.” She handed him the sheet of paper; the details were typed without blemish. Instead of drawing back into her chair, she leaned on the edge of it, towards him. Today she wore a pale green linen dress with a round neck, and as she leaned forward the neckline drooped forward. It was impossible for Roger not to see that she wore that kind of brassiere which supported the lower but not the top part of her breasts, and in a swift, quite compulsive glance he saw how beautifully shaped they were, saw too the smooth white skin, the shadow between. He looked up and into her eyes; she was smiling quite naturally.
“After all,” she said, “I was told to seduce you, wasn’t I?”
“After all,” Roger retorted with an effort, “your uncle wasn’t to know that half the wicked women I have to deal with think they’re experts in seduction.”
Her expression changed and she drew back instinctively; he expected her to jump up, or at least move her chair back, was prepared for something like the outburst he had suffered from Rebecca Bradshaw only a few hours earlier. Faith’s eyes were narrowed, and her lips pressed tightly together, and it seemed a long time before she spoke; but once speaking she relaxed, and the smile returned to curve her lips and warm her eyes.
“Handsome, I think I would really love to get to know you. You’re quite the man of steel. Can you tell me why you’re so anxious to find out where Jim Nightingale has been?” When Roger didn’t answer at once, she went on, “I don’t mind admitting failure to myself, but I should hate my uncle to think that I failed so utterly.”
Roger laughed. “I don’t think it would surprise him. He knows a lot about policemen. I can tell you, off the record. It has to be off the record.”
“I promise.”
“Van der Lunn has been to these cities, too, and sometimes his visits have coincided with Nightingale’s. Interesting, isn’t it? I read through Nightingale’s reports, but tell me something else.”
“If I can.”
Roger picked up a cream slice with a small fork, placed it on a plate, and tried to cut it; cream and jam filling oozed out. He ate a little, watching the girl all the time, and when he was halfway through the slice, he asked, “Why was Nightingale assigned to this particular case?”
“He was sacrificed on the altar of the Great God News.”
“What made this case such big news?”
“I wonder if my uncle would want me to tell you that,” mused Faith, and after a pause she went on, “I don’t think he would mind.”
She took a tiny handkerchief from a pocket just below the waist of her dress, leaned forward again, and gently wiped Roger’s lips.
“If you prove to be a messy eater I may have to change my mind about getting to know you. There have been some indications that South Africa has been short of foreign exchange, and my uncle wondered whether this smuggling was being condoned by the Government, and whether foreign currency was being earned as a result of it. Anything which might be a slap in the face for the Nationalist Government always was food and drink to him, but he would have to be absolutely sure of his facts before printing anything.”
“And he hasn’t printed anything?”
“I must put you on the free list for The Globe,” Faith said. “No, he hasn’t printed anything. Jim Nightingale was following up every angle, remember. As I’ve pointed out several times, he is a very good newspaperman. In fact, I think he’s one of the very best, and Fleet Street seems to share that opinion.”
“Meaning?” asked Roger.
“Think,” urged Faith.
In spite of himself, Roger laughed. “If such a brilliant newspaperman couldn’t find anything to print in support of this theory, there wasn’t likely to be much support or justification.”
“Clever boy,” mocked Faith.
“Yes, aren’t I?” Quite suddenly, and taking her by surprise, Roger got to his feet. He gathered up all the papers and tucked them into his briefcase, talking as he did so. “Well, I must be off, cream cakes or not. I’ve at least two conferences before I can go home tonight. Thank your uncle for me, won’t you?”
“Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Of course,” said Roger. She was leaning back in her chair, looking as chaste and modest as a girl could. He bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “For everything.”
He wrinkled his nose at her, and then went to the door, opening it before she was out of her chair. He turned round to see what the effect was on her; he wasn’t quite sure. She was biting her under-lip, but her eyes seemed to be laughing at him.
“Goodbye,” he said, and went out.
As he went down in the lift, as he stepped into Fleet Street, chock-a-block with traffic in the evening rush hour, as he sat back in the police car and was driven slowly and frustratingly back to the Yard, he kept seeing a mental picture of Faith Soames. One word kept recurring to him, not now and again but time after time: the word was: ‘desirable.’
Klemm, McKay, Jameson, and Gorlay were waiting for him in his office, and the two CIs seemed almost smug. When he saw what they had done, he conceded that smugness was almost justified. The questions to the police, airport police, and airline companies were reduced to the absolute minimum. Each question was phrased so that the recipient could answer quickly and simply. No one was going to find this a red-tape job. The one to the police forces read:
1. Have you been requested to investigate the loss of any parcels of diamonds of any kind in the past twelve months?
If so, please state:
2. How many such requests have there been?
3. From which country was each parcel consigned?
4. Were they shipped by:
(a) Air
(b) Sea
(c) Rail
5. Who requested the investigation?
6. What was the estimated value of each packet?
7. Did you recover the diamonds?
8. Were the thieves caught? If so, please name them.
9. Can you name any suspects, confidentially?
10. If more than one case, have you reason to believe the same people were involved?
11. If known, please state insurance company affected.
12. Have you any reason to suspect that diamonds have been lost by firms which acquired them unlawfully?
The questions to the other authorities were as succinct. Roger wished Hardy was in his office, so that he could vet them, but he wasn’t, and Roger did not hold anything back. He made a few minor changes, then gave the word to have them mailed.
“Add twenty-four hours to the normal time needed for delivery, and then start telephoning,” he ordered. “The first dozen replies will give us an indication of how things are going.”
Once the rush was over, it was surprising how flat the situation seemed. He tied up all the loose ends, spoke to du Toit twice, and spent a session with the Embassy’s Commercial Attaché. Hardy, still benign, approved what he had done. No reports of interest came in, but there seemed reason for hope – until the Hampshire police reported that both men and the motor scooter had flown from Hurn Airport to Cherbourg the previous evening. They might now be anywhere in Europe – or they might be flying to any part of the world.
After this had been reported to the team, quite suddenly Roger was alone in his office with Jameson.
He sensed that the South African had stayed behind for a purpose. Roger had a strange thought: that a lot of people would look at Jameson and feel that he was the perfect specimen of his race, just as Faith Soames seemed the per
fect specimen of physical womanhood.
“There is a matter I have to report to you personally,” Jameson said.
Roger sat up. “What is it?”
“It is to do with Mr Nightingale.”
Every thought but of Nightingale faded from Roger’s mind as he waited.
“Mr Nightingale has been arrested in Pretoria and is being questioned at police headquarters in connection with the diamond smuggling,” Jameson announced. “Nothing has been said to the Press, and nothing will be said until you have advised Pretoria what you think should be released. It appears that Mr Nightingale presented a false passport at the Johannesburg Airport, hence his detention. His subsequent arrest was due to the fact that industrial diamonds were found in his baggage.”
14
ORDER FROM HARDY
Roger could picture old Soames, sitting back, so sure of Nightingale’s integrity. He could picture Faith, equally sure, almost laughing at him for suggesting that the reporter might be involved. This news from Pretoria was not conclusive but it would shock Soames, and would mean that Nightingale’s activities would have to be closely checked. He sat back, looking up at Jameson, who gave the impression that he so often did; that he was anxious for approval of his action, and perhaps a little fearful of having done the wrong thing.
Roger rubbed the back of his head, and began to smile.
“I’ll have to check with the AC, but I should say this news wants releasing at once – and it ought to be a scoop for The Globe.” He leaned forward and picked up the receiver and asked, “See if you can get me Mr Hardy at his home, will you?”
As he replaced the receiver, he waved to an upright chair with a padded seat. Jameson sat down.
“What would you advise?” Roger asked him.
“The same as you, Mr West. I am never happy when news is held back. The wrong motives are too often imputed.”
“And we have enough problems dealing with the right ones,” Roger remarked drily. He pulled the graphs and the questionnaires towards him, looked through them again, and went on, “I don’t think we’ve missed much, but it will be a couple of days before we get the information we’ve asked for. If I had my way I’d send a man to every capital, then we’d get what we want in a few days.”
“Is there any hope of doing that?” asked Jameson.
“Not the slightest.”
“Mr West, there is one thing I would like to suggest,” said Jameson. “I have already mentioned it to Mr du Toit, without committing anyone to any particular course of action. I think you should go to Pretoria and see Nightingale, as well as study the situation from South Africa. Some aspects of it may show up in a new light. I can believe that it would be impossible to send a man to every city, but do you think there is any chance of you going to my country?”
Roger looked at him very intently.
“Is this your suggestion? Or du Toit’s?”
“It is like many things – a suggestion from me with which he is in full agreement,” said Jameson. He gave his diffident smile. “He particularly asked me to find out what you would think personally if such a suggestion was made. Would you object, sir?”
Roger grinned. “I’d jump at the chance – and even if I didn’t I’d have to go wherever I was told.”
The idea already had an attractive look about it, and he remembered Hardy’s ‘Was that a hint?’ which suggested that even early this morning, long before the news of Nightingale’s arrest, the possibility had been in the Assistant Commissioner’s mind.
The telephone bell rang.
“That’ll be Hardy.”
He snatched off the receiver, and the operator said, “I’m sorry, Mr West, but Mr Hardy isn’t at home. Nor is Mrs Hardy. They are at some function, and are not expected back until after midnight. I think it might be possible to find out where they are, if you would like me to.”
“No,” decided Roger. “Have a message left asking Mr Hardy to ring me at my home whatever time he gets back, will you? . . . thanks . . . and call my wife and say I’ll be home in about half an hour. She—hold on a moment.”
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked across at Jameson. “Would you like to come home with me and talk the case out over a meal?”
“I am most grateful, but I cannot,” said Jameson.
“Another time . . . just give my wife that message,” Roger said to the girl, and rang off. He stood up, walked to the window and looked out on to the river. He remembered crossing the bridge last night, and seeing the lights reflected in just the same way as now. He turned again as Jameson stood up. “I’ll call Soames of The Globe and tell him, but I won’t release the story generally until I’ve had a word with Mr Hardy. Will that suit your people?”
“I am sure it will,” approved Jameson. “What time will you be able to work on this case tomorrow, Mr West?”
“Let’s say ten o’clock.”
“I will be here, or I will send a message. Goodnight.” Jameson went out, backing from the door and closing it quietly. Everything he did was quiet and deliberate.
Roger squatted on the side of the desk and asked the operator for The Globe. He wondered if Faith would answer him, and as the thought entered his mind his heart began to beat faster than usual, and the very fact made him angry. There were a lot of noises on the line – this was one of the busiest times for a newspaper which was just going to bed.
“Mr Soames’ office.” Whoever it was, it wasn’t the old man’s niece.
“Ask him to speak to me at once,” Roger said. “This is Superintendent West . . . hallo, Mr Soames . . . Yes, she looked after me very well, thanks . . . yes, it’s still off the record, but I have something else you can use if you want to. It won’t be released for some time to the other newspapers, not in time to use in the morning’s editions, anyhow. Ready?”
“Ready for some catch,” Soames said. “You don’t hand out scoops for nothing.”
So he had no idea of what was to come.
Roger wished he could be in the office to see the old man’s face as the story was told. Instead, he had to guess the way the thick lips tightened, just as they did when Soames moved and his joints hurt him. The silence lasted for a long time, so the shock effect was probably very great.
At last, the response came.
In a harsh voice which sounded as if it was some distance from the mouthpiece, Soames said, “They say they found diamonds in Nightingale’s baggage?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if they did, or whether they’re lying.”
“If the Pretoria police tell me that they found diamonds in his baggage, then I believe them,” Roger said flatly. “There’s no point in evading the issue. If they say he was travelling with a false passport, I believe that too. Did he often use a false passport?”
Soames didn’t answer.
Roger said gruffly, “If he did and you knew about it, you were asking for trouble. I haven’t been able to talk to Hardy yet – that’s why I haven’t released this. Pretoria’s left it to us. All they ask for is simultaneous release. That’s fair enough.”
“Yes.” Soames still sounded a long way from the mouthpiece; it would be easy to believe that he was too shocked to grasp all the implications of the situation. But in fact he wasn’t, for he went on, “I’ll send someone out to Pretoria to talk to them and to interview Nightingale. You can tell your fine friends that if they don’t let us talk to him we’ll make a bigger song and dance than they’ve heard for a long time.”
“Soames,” Roger said, “why don’t you accept the fact that one of your employees acting on your behalf and with your knowledge has got himself into serious trouble? What you want from Pretoria are concessions, and if you write or say anything to put their backs up you can’t blame them if they turn nasty. Will you use the story in the morning?”
“I’ll print it,” Soames growled. “I won’t make much comment. Thanks for all you’ve done. I appreciate it.”
When he rang off, it was easy to imagine him dropping back into his chair, grunting, staring under his bushy brows at the wall in front of him.
Nothing else came in.
Roger went downstairs, and found his car without anything parked within yards of it. Two or three men said goodnight and he nodded mechanically, for he was so preoccupied about the new situation and the possibility that he would be sent to South Africa. Between now and the time Hardy was told about this, he had to make up his own mind whether he thought it would be the right thing to do; it would be right only if it seemed likely to bring the inquiry to a quicker end.
Nightingale was a key witness; obviously it was essential to talk to the newspaperman, and equally Pretoria couldn’t be expected to release a suspect against whom there was so much evidence.
Roger drove out on to the Embankment and past the Houses of Parliament, along the Embankment at Millbank. There was very little traffic, nothing remotely like the nightmare of the morning, and he was home in ten minutes. Richard’s battered green MG stood outside the house, but the garage entrance was clear. Roger drove in, but didn’t close the doors; Richard would do that – or Scoop, if he didn’t walk dreamily past without noticing they were open. Roger went round the back way, and heard Richard’s deep, very pleasant voice, saying something which he couldn’t catch. Janet laughed. Richard made some retort and Janet’s laughter became deeper.