by John Creasey
When the ambulance had gone, and the prisoners from Forest Ley had been taken off, Roger and Appleby, with an Epping Superintendent, met Jim Stone in the library at the back of the house.
“Yes, I’ll tell you all I can now,” Stone said, still gruffly. “It goes back a long way, but I’ll make it short. My father was as honest as they come, but he died when I was a kid. My mother married Cockell, who made a fortune out of war-time profiteering, and handling stolen goods. When I realized it, I walked out on them. When he died, my mother tried to make peace, but I’d married Mabel by then, and my mother didn’t like her. She wanted me to leave her.” Stone paused, as if to control his voice. “Cockells’ shares were owned by a syndicate at that time, I thought my mother had been bought out, but in fact she retained a controlling interest. She said she didn’t. Her original job had been managing the hostel— before she married Cockell—and it seemed natural that she should take that on again.
“She wanted me to go into Cockells, and I wouldn’t. She thought it was because of Mabel. You kept asking if anyone had reason to want my wife dead, and the true answer was, yes—my mother had.
“But I couldn’t be sure,” Stone continued, heavily.
“After I bought that little shop in Whitechapel, I started investigating, and soon recognised Fats as a man who had worked with my father. I found out that he lived at the hostel. By that time I was beginning to fear the truth—that my mother had planned Mabel’s murder. Did—did she?”
“I’m afraid she did,” Roger answered quietly. “We picked Slessor up, and he’s made a full statement. Your mother wanted Endicott dead because he was blackmailing her. She gave him the job of killing your wife first, and then had him killed because he could have given the whole game away.”
Stone said: “Yes. Yes, I know. It was the shells I found at Endicott’s place which told me. My stepfather had always called my mother Shell, and shells had been used as an identification sign among the criminals who worked for him. But I didn’t know she was involved,” Stone went on. “I was afraid that she was, but didn’t know for certain. I just had to try to find out for myself.”
It was a little after eight o’clock that night when Roger got back to the Yard. He found Hardy still at his desk, looking tired, but brisk enough and immaculate.
“Evening, Handsome,” he said with unusual affability. “Very nice job.”
“In its way,” Roger said.
“Twenty-six men arrested at the Lambeth hostel,” said Hardy, “and several of them have broken down now they know they haven’t a chance. They worked at Cockell’s shops normally, went out on these special jobs, and did exactly what you always believed. Two of them say that some were being trained for bigger jobs—banks, wage snatches, that kind of thing.”
Roger said: “It had to grow. You couldn’t organise a thing like that and not extend the range—it had to start losing efficiency or increase it, and Shell Cockell had the organising mind.”
“Where is she?”
“Across at Cannon Row,” Roger said. “She hasn’t said a word, but Slessor can’t stop talking. Fats and a man named Rawson are the same. Not that they’ve got anything more to tell us; once we’d made sure it was Mrs. Cockell, the rest looked after itself.” He dropped on to the arm of a chair. “Any news about Owen?”
“The operation is taking place now.”
Roger said: “There’s a man we need badly, but Appleby doubts whether he’ll be fit enough to come back on the force, even if he lives. If ever there was a case for the George Medal, this is it. He drove his machine full force into the air raid shelter to block the approach to it. If he hadn’t, we might have lost out.” Roger pushed his hand through his hair, and forced a laugh. “Well, we didn’t lose anybody. You don’t need a formal report now, do you?”
“Just wanted to hear that you were all right,” said Hardy. “You go home. By the way, where’s this Endicott woman?”
Roger said, half smiling: “Dr. Appleby took her under his wing. She’s at his place. Best thing for her.” He stood up, and said: “Good night, Commander,” and walked slowly back to his own office, looked round, then went out.
He reached home a little after nine o’clock. The boys were in front of a television set, watching a thriller, while Janet was doing some ironing, and looking at the picture from time to time. Roger said: “I’ll go into the front room and have a drink.” He turned round, but Martin leaned forward, switched off the television, and said:
“We don’t really want that.”
“Of course we don’t,” agreed Richard, and they looked eagerly at their father. “How did it go, Dad?”
“Most of it, very well,” replied Roger. “The rest—well, I’ll know in the morning.”
In fact he knew as early as half past six, when the telephone bell rang. He turned over in bed to pluck up the receiver, felt Janet start, and heard Appleby say:
“Handsome, you can stop worrying.”
“Owen?”
“Yes. They got the bullet out. He’ll survive, unless he has real bad luck. I’ve told this young woman here, and she can’t stop crying.”
“She will,” said Roger, softly. “She will.”
Ruth did stop crying six months later, when Owen came out of hospital, and married her. Owen had already resigned from the force, for Jim Stone had inherited his mother’s shares and had given him a block in Cockell’s Limited. He was already plunging himself into the business.
By then Mrs. Cockell, Slessor and Fats had been hanged.
By then, too, Owen had been cited for the George Medal.
Roger West would never forget the adoration in Ruth Owen’s eyes when she looked up at her husband after they had come away from the investiture.
THE END