Under Attack

by Edward Marston

  ‘It almost happened in that Salvation Army murder,’ recalled the commissioner. ‘The victim had been using someone else’s name as a cover. Had Marmion not stepped in quickly to expose the deception, we could all have had red faces.’ He gasped as he felt a stab of pain and grunted. ‘I do apologise.’

  ‘The person who should apologise is the demented man who shot you in the chest,’ said Chatfield, sympathetically. ‘Most people in your position might have considered retirement but you soldiered on bravely.’

  ‘When it comes, the pain is sharp but I get long periods of remission.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Five years earlier, Sir Edward had opened his front door to be confronted by a wild-eyed man who fired three shots at him. Albert Bowes had no personal animus against the commissioner. He simply saw him as the personification of law and order. Bowes had recently been refused a licence to drive a mechanical carriage because of an earlier conviction for being drunk and disorderly. By way of protest against the decision, Bowes had tried to kill the commissioner. It was only because of Sir Edward’s personal plea for mercy that the man’s life sentence was reduced to fifteen years. Every time he felt the searing pain, it was as if a bullet was piercing his chest.

  ‘You showed real compassion,’ said Chatfield.

  ‘The man was not in his right mind.’

  ‘That’s no excuse in my book, Sir Edward.’

  ‘The moment has passed now,’ said the commissioner, taking his hand away from his chest and breathing more easily. ‘What else did Marmion and Keedy report?’

  ‘They’re still gathering information. Keedy called in here after taking Mr Donohoe’s son to the morgue.’

  ‘Where’s Marmion?’

  ‘He’s currently talking to the manager of the Devonian Hotel.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t try to stay there,’ said the other with a dry laugh. ‘An inspector’s salary is woefully inadequate at a place like the Devonian. I’ll be interested to hear what he makes of it.’

  Patrick Armitage was a short, sleek, compact man in his forties with an air of self-importance tempered by the need to serve others. As manager of the Devonian Hotel, he occupied a privileged position, meeting some of the wealthiest and most important people in the city and seeing to their needs with smiling readiness. He was a very handsome man and, Marmion suspected, would take advantage of the fact when off duty. Alone with him in an office that was uniquely tidy, the inspector listened to the manager’s description of Gilbert Donohoe.

  ‘He was a model guest in every way, Inspector, and we’ll miss him sorely. It was always a pleasure to have him staying here. He was exceptionally kind to my staff. That’s not always the case, alas. And you tell me that he’s been killed?’ He brought both hands to his face in a gesture of despair. ‘Why? What possible reason could anyone have to do such a thing to a gentleman like Mr Donohoe?’

  ‘It’s one of many mysteries.’

  ‘He was such a generous person.’

  ‘His wife stayed here occasionally, I gather,’ said Marmion.

  ‘Yes, it was a joy to have them both here. Music was their mutual passion. We have a grand piano in the dining room and Mrs Donohoe sometimes asked for permission to play it. She has real talent.’

  ‘I know, Mr Armitage. We’ve heard her.’

  ‘As a couple, they seemed so happy together.’

  ‘How long was he intending to stay here this time?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the manager, ‘for a week at least.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you report him missing? He disappeared from here for three days. Your housekeeping staff would have noticed that his room had not been used.’

  Piqued by the implied criticism, Armitage drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘It was not unusual,’ he explained. ‘When Mr Donohoe made a reservation, he didn’t always stay here for the entire duration. He often disappeared for a day or so, asking for his room to be kept. We simply complied with his wishes.’

  ‘Why pay for a hotel room that he didn’t use?’

  ‘It wasn’t my place to ask such a question, Inspector.’

  ‘But you must have been curious.’

  ‘My job is to manage the hotel, not to pry into the lives of our guests.’

  ‘I’d like to see the room, if I may.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Armitage, moving to the door. ‘I have a master key.’

  He conducted Marmion to the lift near the reception desk, passing several members of the staff as they did so. They ascended to the third floor. When they reached the room, the manager first unlocked it then stood back so that the inspector could step into it first. Marmion was taken aback by the size and opulence of the suite. The room comprised a writing desk, a sofa, two armchairs and a low table. Off it was the bedroom, an equally luxurious area with a large bed, two substantial wardrobes and a dressing table. The bathroom was next door. To stay the night in such a suite, any guest would incur a substantial charge, so leaving it unoccupied for days seemed perverse.

  ‘If he expected to be here for a week,’ said Marmion, ‘he’d surely have brought some luggage.’

  ‘Mr Donohoe always travelled with a large suitcase and an attaché case.’

  After looking around the room, Marmion opened the wardrobes in turn. Both were empty. He even glanced into the bathroom but saw nothing left behind by the man who’d reserved the room. It was as if Donohoe had never been there.

  ‘I’d like to know the exact time and day that he left here,’ said Marmion.

  ‘We can easily establish the day, Inspector, but the exact time will be more elusive. Mr Donohoe didn’t check out at reception because, technically, he was still paying for this room. He liked to come and go as he wished.’

  ‘That’s rather odd, isn’t it?’

  Armitage’s smile was almost saturnine.

  ‘If truth be told, sir,’ he said, ‘Mr Donohoe was a rather odd person.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  War had made Ellen Marmion an even more assiduous reader. She had always liked to borrow library books but, forced to spend so much time alone, she tried to avoid boredom by taking out a succession of romantic novels in an attempt to fend off reality. She was deep into a poignant story of forbidden love between a young nun and a Roman Catholic priest when she heard a key being inserted in the front door. Seconds later, her daughter walked into the room. Ellen leapt up.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you, Alice,’ she said before noticing the bag she was carrying. ‘Are you going to stay the night?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘It’s an absolute treat. I thought I’d be all alone this evening.’

  ‘Have you heard from Daddy?’

  ‘He rang a while ago to warn me not to wait up for him. He and Joe have had to go to Richmond for some reason. Anyway,’ she went on, embracing Alice warmly, ‘put your bag down and I’ll make a pot of tea.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve had nothing to eat or drink since I left work.’

  ‘You must be famished. Let’s see what I can rustle up in the kitchen.’

  They went off together and traded gossip until the tea was made and they were sitting down with a plate of sandwiches each. As Alice ate away gratefully, her mother kept a close eye on her.

  ‘Has something happened with Joe?’ she asked, tentatively.

  ‘No, Mummy.’

  ‘You’re different – that’s why I ask.’

  ‘Different in what way?’

  ‘Well, you’ve been coming here regularly to spend time with me because you know how much I’m worrying about Paul. And you’ve been a tower of strength. But I don’t think that’s why you came this evening, is it?’ Alice shook her head. ‘When you’re good and ready, tell me what it is.’

  There was a lengthy wait. Alice got through two sandwiches and most of the tea before she was ready to confide in her mother, and even then she needed to be prompted.

  ‘When did you
last see him?’

  ‘It was almost a week ago. We had less than half an hour together.’

  ‘When did you see him properly?’

  ‘It must be the best part of a fortnight, Mummy. He’s so busy – though I don’t need to tell you that because Daddy’s the same. I went out for a meal with Joe. That’s getting to be a very rare event.’

  ‘Is that the problem – not seeing him when you want to?’

  Alice was resigned. ‘That’s always going to be a problem,’ she said. ‘He has a job that demands him to be very flexible with his time. I accept that. Emergencies happen at all times of the day and someone has to respond to them. No, Mummy,’ she continued, pouring herself more tea, ‘I can’t complain about something that’s not really Joe’s fault. What upset me is something that is his fault. To save time, you’d better read this.’

  Taking a letter from her handbag, she handed it to her mother. Pursing her lips, Ellen unfolded the two pages and read them slowly. She was clearly distressed by what Alice had written. When she looked up, her eyes were pools of sympathy.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is Joe’s fault.’

  ‘Did you ever have this trouble with Daddy?’

  ‘No, dear, the problem I had was getting my parents to accept him. When they finally did, there was no chance for him to drag his feet. My father insisted that he agreed to a date for the wedding. He was terribly old-fashioned,’ said Ellen. ‘When your father first asked for my hand in marriage, Daddy actually demanded to know if his intentions were honourable. Your father would feel embarrassed to do something like that. Apart from anything else, he’s known Joe for years.’

  ‘Does he ever talk about him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Does Daddy ever wonder when Joe is going to commit himself fully?’

  ‘It’s on his mind, Alice. He never says anything but I can tell he worries about it. I’ve told you before about that promise he made when we got married. If ever we had a daughter, he vowed, he’d never be as strict with her as my father had been with me. That’s why we’ve never interfered in your private life.’

  ‘He’d like to have interfered, Mummy. When Joe and I first got together, Daddy didn’t approve at all. It was so obvious. Yet he didn’t say anything and I’m very thankful for that.’

  After glancing at the letter again, Ellen handed it back to her daughter.

  ‘Are you going to send it to Joe?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s one of the reasons I came here, to be honest. Would reading that letter make things better between us or would it … do the opposite? I just don’t know. What would you do in my position?’

  It was late evening and all the light had been sucked out of the sky. As they sat in the rear of the police car, Marmion and Keedy were in darkness. The vehicle couldn’t compete with the Rolls-Royce in which they’d travelled with Adrian Donohoe but it was vastly preferable to another jolting train journey. Keedy described his second visit that day to the morgue.

  ‘It was weird,’ he said. ‘He hardly looked at his father’s body.’

  ‘Was that out of indifference or queasiness?’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t queasy. Adrian Donohoe showed no discomfort at all. His face was motionless. It was all over in seconds. After a mere glance, he gave a nod then walked out. It was so … what’s the word?’

  ‘Perfunctory?’

  ‘That might be it. He didn’t speak until we were well clear of the place. Then he asked about his father’s effects and when the inquest will be.’

  ‘Where did he go after that?’

  ‘He took a taxi to the Devonian Hotel – like father, like son.’

  ‘He must have arrived just after I’d left.’

  ‘How did you get on there, Harv?’

  ‘It was a real eye-opener.’

  He described what he’d learnt from the manager and drew a gasp of disbelief from Keedy. To a man like him with a limited income, the notion of someone reserving a room in an exclusive hotel then not actually sleeping in it was an act of madness. He was interested in Marmion’s assessment of the manager.

  ‘I found him too smarmy and self-regarding. He’s one of those men who enjoy keeping secrets. I fancy that he knew far more about Donohoe’s time in London than he was prepared to say.’

  ‘How did he respond to the news?’

  ‘Armitage behaved as if he was hearing about the murder of a close friend. He was either deeply moved or a very good actor. A minute later, he was talking calmly about Donohoe as if he’d already known about his death.’

  ‘Do you think he could be party to it in some way?’

  ‘It’s far too early to say that. He puzzles me. It’s your turn to tackle him next time. I’d like to know what you make of Armitage.’ He smiled. ‘I thought he looked a bit like a penguin in that frock coat of his but he’s obviously adored by the female members of his staff. Every time we walked past one of them, she beamed at him.’

  ‘We could do with more of that kind of thing at the Yard.’

  ‘You always get an adoring smile from Chat,’ teased Marmion. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Even when he’s happy, Chat scowls at you. That’s all he did when I saw him earlier on. Oh, by the way,’ he went on, ‘I did pick up one snippet of information. The commissioner is giving a higher priority to juvenile crime.’

  ‘And so he should. It’s on the increase.’

  ‘He’s looking for someone who knows the area and can get close to the gangs. Do you know who Chat suggested?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Constable Burge.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. He’s full of promise, they say.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘he’s bright, hard-working and ambitious. I had a natter with him over a pint once. All that Cliff Burge could talk about was investigating homicides. I told him he had to earn his spurs first. If he gets this new job, he may well have the chance to do just that.’

  Clifford Burge stayed in the Mermaid Tavern longer than he’d intended. Everitt White had drifted off eventually but Leslie Burge had insisted on celebrating what he viewed as a signal success.

  ‘Keep telling you, Les,’ said his brother. ‘Haven’t got the job yet and I may never get it. Hate to tempt fate like this.’

  ‘One more pint, Cliff – go on.’

  Though he raised his hands in protest, Burge succumbed in the end. It was half an hour before the two of them rolled out of the pub. Since their parents had died years ago, Leslie, as the elder brother, had inherited their little terraced house and lived there with his wife and children. Burge had lodgings in Shoreditch but – lulled into a feeling of certainty by the drink – he decided to familiarise himself with the streets of Stepney in readiness for his forthcoming work there. Before they split up, Leslie was dismissive.

  ‘Kids will be kids,’ he said, tolerantly. ‘We were the same, Cliff.’

  ‘We didn’t throw bricks through people’s windows or stab each other. That’s what some of these gangs are doing.’

  ‘They’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘But they’ll do far too much damage before they do so,’ said Burge. ‘When the gangs have a scrap, they don’t use fists like we did. They got knives, hammers and other weapons. Big problem, Les.’

  His brother slapped him on the back. ‘Then you go and sort ’em out.’

  After shaking hands, they went off in opposite directions. Burge walked along narrow, dimly lit streets that he’d known during his childhood. Most of the families there were far too large for the cramped, malodorous tenements and overcrowding led to all kinds of tensions. Having grown up amid poverty and desperation, Burge felt sad that, in the last twenty years, there’d been no visible improvement in the lives of the local people. The same evils still existed. In removing so many men of fighting age from the area, the government had added greatly to its problems. Despite the hour, the place was full of noise. Apart from the many blazing rows Burg
e could hear behind closed doors, or glimpse through windows with tattered curtains, there was the sound of revelry from the pubs he passed. Lost in a drunken stupor, a man was clinging to a lamp post and singing the national anthem. Somebody was shovelling gravel off a handcart and into a wheelbarrow. A busker was trying to play a violin under a gas lamp. Dogs were barking and cats were hissing at each other. It was a normal night in Stepney. Hardly a street was silent and empty.

  When he turned a corner, Burge could see a dim outline of someone at the far end. Halfway along, he heard a yell behind him and swung round to see a diminutive figure waving his arms. The distraction was successful. Before Burge realised what was happening, a boy sprinted up behind him, grabbed his hat and ran off. He and his friend laughed derisively at him. Burge was not sure whether the theft or the mockery hurt the more. Taking to his heels, he charged after the two boys and ordered them to stop. They immediately bolted. Handicapped by the amount of beer he’d consumed, he nevertheless kept up a fast enough pace to close the gap. What he didn’t know was that the thieves had been hoping he would chase them. It was all part of their plan.

  Reaching a lane, they sped off down it with Burge on their heels. The more he shouted at them, the more they laughed and sneered. Making a final effort to catch them, Burge got within yards of them but his progress then came to a halt. As he came level with a rickety garden shed, the boy perched on top of it poured a large bucket of water over him and soaked him to the skin. The sheer surprise of it made him stop dead and shake himself. The boy on the shed, meanwhile, hopped nimbly to the ground and ran off to join his two friends. Ridicule echoed the length of the lane.

  Sodden and enraged, Burge had learnt a lesson. The gangs didn’t indulge in horseplay as he and his brother had once done. They sought victims to humiliate. He was one of them.

  Seen in ghostly silhouette, the mansion was daunting. It stood in its own grounds and commanded a view of Richmond Park. Thanks to Adrian Donohoe, who’d supplied the name and the telephone number, Marmion had rung Norris Sprake to pass on the news that his former business partner had been murdered. Sprake had immediately volunteered to come to Scotland Yard but Marmion preferred to see him in his home to get a fuller picture of the sort of life he lived. Getting out of the car, Keedy stared at the looming edifice in front of him.