‘So he went sick and got pushed up to the Scrubs hospital, I suppose, sir?’ Luke could not help making a leap in the story, but his eyes were bright with interest.
Oates remained unruffled. He was studying his own notes on the back of the police slips.
‘You’re under-estimating him, Charles, my boy,’ he said. ‘I thought you might. He went sick, but in a most ingenious way. Three years ago he developed a – where is it? Oh, I see, a compulsive neurosis concerning the number thirteen.’ He lifted his eyes, caught sight of Luke’s expression, and laughed outright. ‘I know. It was so hopeless, so damned silly and forlorn as a lead-swing that in the end he got clean away with it. His performance appears to have been amazing. Apart from his “little trouble” he became a model prisoner, and for the first year, year mind you, it got him exactly nowhere. He did the thing not only thoroughly but progressively. He went sick on the thirteenth of every month, and later on the twenty-seventh. Thirteen letters in twenty-seventh. When he found his cell number added up to thirteen he starved himself until they moved him. He was always polite and apologetic, and also, as far as anyone could see, puzzled. He explained he knew he was being silly, but said he couldn’t help it. Of course, the idea spread – you know how it does in a prison – and there were signs of mass hysteria developing. Then the M.O.s got interested. It’s a well-known buzz-bug, I understand.’ He looked at Campion inquiringly.
‘I have heard of it.’
Luke’s mobile lips moved soundlessly. He would appear to have remarked, ‘Cawdblimeah!’
Meanwhile the Assistant Commissioner went on placidly. ‘It took him another eighteen months to get himself moved up to the Scrubs, where they’ve got a psychiatry unit. There he came up against the experts, but by that time, of course, the thing was pretty well genuine. Anyhow, they kept him, and he was so docile and intelligent that they seem to have made a sort of pet of him. Sir Conrad had nothing to do with the unit, of course, but he’d got a favourite pupil who was the Consultant attached to it, and one day last month he went down there to see him and was taken round the exhibits. Havoc took his fancy and nothing would satisfy him until he’d got the man up to Wimpole Street to try out a new American machine he’d got over, a thing called an “Association Motor Apparatus”.’
Luke’s glance turned to the man in the horn-rimmed spectacles and his brows rose inquiringly. Mr Campion, embarrassed to find himself considered an expert on a subject so highly suspect among his friends, nodded once more.
‘I see the Chief Inspector thinks that either we’re barmy or he is,’ Oates observed without malice. ‘I’m just giving you the facts. Sir Conrad got his own way in the end – they have a lot of pull, these fellows. Havoc was sent up to him in a cab just after six this afternoon. Two warders went with him, as decreed in the regulations, but one stayed in the hall downstairs and Havoc was not handcuffed to the other. For a time the second warder stayed in the consulting room, but Havoc appeared so eager to help and yet so oppressed by his presence that old Belfry at last persuaded the chap to sit outside the door. The rest of the story is just what you’d think. The doors in those houses are mahogany and very nearly sound-proof. By the time the wretched warder got nervous and made up his mind to take a look, it was all over. Belfry was lying on the floor, the window was open, Havoc had vanished.’
Campion frowned. ‘Are you absolutely serious when you suggest that the thing had been planned so long?’
‘I take my oath on it,’ said Oates, ‘and it wouldn’t surprise me if he had timed the attempt for November just on the off-chance of a fog like this.’
Charlie Luke threw away his incredulity with a generous gesture; indeed he appeared to wash his hands of it literally.
‘I suppose he has a sort of way with him, sir?’ he suggested at last, favouring the two of them with the most winning of smiles. Unconsciously he had arched his lean stomach and might have been about to burst into musical comedy song. He had donned frank, open-hearted charm like a garment.
Oates regarded him with gloomy interest. ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing like that.’
Luke gave it up. ‘I’d like to see him.’
Oates hesitated. He looked a kindly man of vast experience.
‘I should like to see him dead,’ he said at last, and in his mouth the words were simple and convincing.
Mr Campion was aware of a faint uneasiness between his shoulder-blades, and Luke, his sophistication pierced, was briefly blank-eyed and uncomfortable.
In the pause an apologetic sergeant came in quietly to whisper an inquiry. Luke glanced past him through the open doorway of the C.I.D. Room, where a grim-faced young man, dressed with all the careful casualness of the modern clerk, stood clutching his raincoat and folded evening paper. He was waiting before a desk, looking over his shoulder at the sergeant’s back, and his savage resentment, together with the dull courage with which he was controlling it, were as vivid as if he had displayed them on a banner.
‘Who?’ When lowered, Luke’s voice was inclined to set the walls vibrating. ‘Duds Morrison’s brother-in-law? No. No need for me to see him. What? Oh, the newspapers? Well, we’ll do anything we can. Publicity can’t be helped. One of those things.’ He waved his subordinate away and the door closed, but Duds Morrison and the problems he had left behind him had returned to them.
‘Respectable relatives?’ said old Oates with interest. ‘Funny how many of ’em have ’em. His sister’s going to have a baby, I suppose? They always are.’ He felt for his pipe. ‘Well, Luke, I think we’ve got on a bit, you know. Havoc is somewhere in this puzzle of yours, I think you can be sure of that. Havoc was the man Duds feared, but I don’t see how he killed him. In fact he couldn’t have done in the time, even if he’d known where to find him, which is unlikely.’
Luke said nothing and Campion, who was beginning to know him, recognized the shoot of his underlip. Despite his veneration for Oates, at that moment Charles Luke did not altogether believe in Jack Havoc.
The immediate development, therefore, gained considerably in drama. Police stations are as human as any other places of business, and, when it came, the wave of outrage spread through the new Crumb Street building in the same electric way in which it was later to spread through every newspaper office in the country. It began with a flurry of words in the outer hall, where the heavy sergeant who read the society journals in his spare time listened to a hatless, collarless elderly gentleman who had come bursting in on him, half inarticulate with shock and horror. From there it spread over the house phones and down the concrete corridors, gathering in speed and intensity until it culminated in Luke’s little office a few seconds after Oates had finished speaking. The actual message arrived over the telephone on the clerk’s desk in the corner, but afterwards not one of those three men, who knew more about giving evidence than anyone in London, could have sworn on oath that it had not been shouted in their ears.
A nasty job just down the street at Holloway and Butler’s, sir, thirty-seven Grove Road. Someone broke in the front and rifled the office on the ground floor. Old Creasey, the caretaker, who was in the basement at the back talking to one of our own men, young Coleman, must have heard something, so they went up, leaving the bedridden old woman behind. They’re all dead, sir, the woman as well. Knifed. Blood everywhere, the witness says. He’s Mr Hammond, an elderly employee of the firm’s who lives alone in the attics. He took his time getting downstairs, which was wise of him. Whoever did it got clean away through the little bit of a garden at the back which leads to Pump Path.
In the split second before the Chief Inspector went smoothly into action, ordering calls to the fingerprint department, the divisional surgeon, the photographers, the forensic laboratory, and all the other units which make up the machinery of detection, Campion caught a picture of him which he never forgot. Detective Coleman had been one of Luke’s white hopes. He had liked the boy for his eagerness and had taken a great deal of trouble with him. The present assignment had been in t
he nature of a personal pat on the head for him.
He did not speak as he heard of his death but a grunt escaped him, a sound of rage, and he stood momentarily arrested, one long hand outstretched, warding off realization. No great actor ever expressed the instant of tragedy more vividly or with greater economy. To see him was like glimpsing a flame, an epitome of grief’s impact. Yet he was sublimely unaware of any self-betrayal and as he snapped out the orders his voice was clear and impersonal.
Meanwhile, Mr Campion’s own response to the news was of interest. ‘Holloway and Butler were Elginbrodde’s solicitors,’ he said. ‘Meg mentioned it the other day. In fact, I went down there for her and had a word with the senior partner, a Mr Frederick Smith. We were trying to get a better photograph of Martin, but they couldn’t help.’ His eyes met Luke’s own. ‘Elginbrodde’s jacket, Elginbrodde’s solicitor – ?’
‘And Elginbrodde’s successor, by God!’ said Luke, startled into impiety. ‘There’s still no sign of Levett.’
Oates had moved out into the C.I.D. Room, where the first reports from the detectives who had raced to the scene of the new crime were just coming in. Now he stepped back for a moment. There was colour in his sallow cheeks and his eyes were bleak.
‘All three victims have clean, expert wounds,’ he said briefly. ‘Over the collar-bone, into the jugular. Schooled professional stuff. Victim taken utterly by surprise in each case. Notify the Flying Squad for me, Luke. Tell Bob Wallis he’s wasting his time hunting for contacts. This is where Havoc has been.’
CHAPTER 5
Brother Doll
—
MEANWHILE, EARLIER THAT afternoon, by the time Geoffrey Levett had accosted Duds Morrison some thirty yards up the dark street from the police station, and had persuaded him into The Feathers by the simple process of gripping his elbow and thrusting him through the door, one great anxiety was safely off his mind. This man, whoever he was, had never been married to Meg.
From Geoffrey’s point of view the whole afternoon had been a nightmare and the last two hours of it very nearly unbearable. He was not an experienced shadower and was by nature rather a participator in than an observer of events. Nor had he realized before that he was capable of such jealousy. This discovery embarrassed him, putting a foreign restriction on his actions and introducing him to the misery of indecision. Acting on impulse he had paid off the cab and had followed Meg at a distance, because he wanted to see for himself the man who was threatening his happiness, but for a reason which he refused to pursue, he would rather have died than let her know it.
The result was that he found himself hanging about outside the dreary Crumb Street police station, like a boy outside a rival’s window, terrified of being seen. He had no idea what was happening inside, and was tortured not only by curiosity but by anxiety lest the business was not being handled intelligently. But above all he wanted to make sure for himself that Elginbrodde had not returned from the dead.
Therefore, by the time Duds stepped swiftly out of the police station and set off up the pavement, Geoffrey was in the mood for reckless action.
He hurried after the man, hampered by passers-by, slipping upon the greasy stones, and caught up with him at last just as Duds himself was cornered by a woman with a load of parcels and driven up against the windows of a shop. Geoffrey took him by the elbow.
‘Listen – ’
The man made a futile effort to escape, found it hopeless, and began to whine.
‘You can’t do this, you can’t do this to me. I’ve been on the carpet all the afternoon and they’ve let me go. The rozzers have let me go.’
The sound of the voice, the slang, the whole attitude of the man, poured soothingly over his captor. Relief produced its own reaction and his grip tightened.
‘Splendid. Now perhaps I can help you. I want to talk to you anyway. Come on.’
The bray of a street band starting up not far behind them seemed to devitalize Duds. He shuddered, struggled half-heartedly, and gave in.
Geoffrey pushed him on down the street and into the doorway of the first hostelry they reached. The little bar parlour was deserted and dim with fog, and the noise in it was considerable. A radio was relaying a noisy adventure play on the other side of the glass screen which divided the room from the saloon next door; the woman behind the bar was talking relentlessly to someone who was presumably listening to her; and from the street the cacophony of the band came ever nearer.
Geoffrey fixed the stranger’s dull black eyes with his own.
‘Listen to me,’ he said distinctly. ‘Get it well into your head from the outset. This may be worth your while.’
It was an approach which he had used with varying degrees of subtlety to a great many people in his time, and had seldom known it to fail. He noted the flicker of interest, faint but unmistakable, with rising satisfaction. The tenseness in the arm he held slackened, and the stranger stood more firmly on his heels.
As the talking woman moved along the bar towards them, Geoffrey gave her an order hurriedly. She served them without wavering for a moment in her harangue to the unseen radio listener. Levett drew out his wallet and pencil, still keeping an eye on his captive, who watched him with the apprehension of the cornered. He was licking his lower lip, however, and had come a step nearer.
By now the street band was immediately outside the door and the noise was so great they could not hear themselves speak. Levett scribbled on the back of an envelope and handed it to Duds, who took it dubiously and read it. When he raised his eyes, Levett had taken a bank note from his case and appeared to be studying it. After a while he looked up.
Duds remained interested and after a further pause Geoffrey handed him the money. The band passed by.
‘The rest when you come to see me.’
Duds regarded him sulkily. ‘What do you want?’
‘Only the story.’
‘Newspaper?’ All his terror had returned and he made a movement towards the door, but there something seemed to check him although there was nothing to see. He glanced back uncertainly. Geoffrey was shaking his head violently. The abominable band had returned and until it repassed the door he was forced to be silent.
‘No,’ he said, when speech was at last possible. ‘Nothing like that. It’s purely for my own personal information. Surely you can understand that?’
To his astonishment, it was clear Duds could not. There was greed in the pale face fighting a losing battle with fear, but no comprehension whatever.
Geoffrey was bewildered. As far as he could see, his name, which he had written on the envelope, had not registered on the stranger at all. The explanation occurred to him, bringing with it a return of all his former alarm. He took hold of the coat sleeve once more.
‘Who employs you?’ His anxiety made him over-eager and he saw the white face grow wooden.
‘No one. I’m unemployed. I told the rozzers so. I’m an actor. I’m not working.’
‘I don’t mean that. I only want to know one thing, and make no mistake. I’ll pay for it. Who instructed you to get your photograph taken in the street?’
The man’s leap for freedom took him by surprise. Duds jerked his sleeve out of his grip and flung himself at the frosted glass panel of the swing-door as if he were pitching himself into water. A draught of freezing air broke over the parlour like a shower of spray. Geoffrey slammed down a ten-shilling note and shot after him, leaving the woman behind the bar gaping, too astonished, for once, to speak.
He was on Duds’ heels but the street had darkened considerably since the shops had put up their shutters, and for a second he thought he had lost him in the fog. But almost at once he reappeared, running back, this time almost into his arms. Geoffrey stepped forward, but Duds saw him in time and swerved, darting into an unsuspected opening between the houses.
It did not dawn upon Geoffrey that some other enemy must have turned his quarry. He merely saw his man and went blindly after him into the alley, led by the sound of his f
lying footsteps, hollow and panic-stricken in the narrow way.
The noise behind him did not register on his mind for several seconds. He was closing on Duds, who had slowed as the path turned, and his hands were within inches of his coat before he became aware that they were both being overtaken. A rush of lightly shod feet, accompanied by the heavy chink of something which sounded like harness, bore down upon them both and an instant later a violent blow on his shoulder sent him reeling past Duds and against the wall.
Then a tide of men swept over the two of them, pinning them close in the dark. At first there were no voices, no words, only heavy breathing, the slither of soft feet on the stones, and once more the clink of metal.
Very close to his shoulder Duds whimpered. It was a shred of a sound, high with fear.
‘Where’s the Gaffer, Duds?’
The faces were so close that the question came warm out of the icy mist. It seemed to Geoffrey, spread-eagled against the wall, that the inquiry came from many lips. Urgency was there, and menace, but they were muted, controlled, kept just under the surface. ‘Where’s the Gaffer? Where’s the Gaffer?’
‘Inside.’ The words arrived explosively. ‘Parkhurst. Been there years.’
‘Liar. You always was a liar, Duds.’ The blow which followed the statement passed so close to Geoffrey’s own face that he felt its wind, and the sound it made as it touched flesh made his own wince.
He felt Duds sliding down slowly at his side. He struggled to get an arm up to shield his head, but at that moment the crowd yielded to pressure from behind as army boots thudded down the passage. Geoffrey was carried forward some yards away from the figure on the ground. Panic swept over him and he struck out, swearing savagely and loudly in the darkness. Instantly he was seized and lifted bodily off his feet. A hand found his mouth, almost dragging his chin from his face, and something hard and round hit him above the ear so that blackness denser than the fog descended upon him and he fell.
The Tiger In the Smoke Page 9