by John Creasey
“Stand over by the window, Mr. West,” said Pickerell.
‘’ I hope you realise that you’re committing a criminal offence,’’ Roger said, sharply.
The man smiled. “Am I? Perhaps not the first, and I know how far I can go.” The thought seemed to amuse him, for his full lips curved. “And you are no longer a policeman with authority, Mr. West; I have heard of your discomfiture.”
“Oh,” said Roger, and softly: “You learned very quickly, didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t do to lose time,” said Pickerell. “We won’t waste any now, either. Let me sum up the situation. You think that by exerting enough pressure you can get Miss Randall to clear you of suspicions of paying money into your account at the Mid-Union Bank. You think that by so doing you can regain your position at Scotland Yard and use the forces of law and order to attack me. Think again, Mr. West!”
Roger said nothing; the girl stood by the desk, her troubled eyes narrowed and looking at Roger intently. She drummed the fingers of her right hand on the corner, making the diamond ring scintillate.
“Think again,” repeated Pickerell, softly. “Miss Randall was the actual messenger, yes, but someone gave her the money. She might be persuaded to say that it was you – in fact I think I can rely on her to do that. Can’t I, Lois?”
The girl said nothing.
“Can’t I?” insisted Pickerell, sternly. “After all, my dear, you have so much at stake. Nothing will happen to you, although West obviously thinks that you are in some danger. You would be, if you could go free and say what you liked, but I know you will obey instructions now, as you have in the past. Won’t you?” His voice grew silky.
“I—” began the girl, and then turned away, exclaiming:
“Damn you, yes!”
Pickerell smiled. “You see, West? If you tell your friends what you have discovered, or pretend to do any such thing, when Lois is questioned she will tell them exactly what they want to know. You will be charged then – I hardly know how you have succeeded in remaining free for so long – but if you want to retain that freedom, be discreet about this little conversation. Do you understand?”
Roger leaned back against the wall, not speaking.
“I see that you do,” said Pickerell. “Now, West, there is another question and I insist on an answer. If you refuse one I shall arrange for Miss Randall to tell her story whatever you do. You are in a most unfortunate position, aren’t you? Now – how did you come to find this address?”
Roger said: “You were traced here.”
“Yes, yes, but how?”
“Your foolish habit of slipping messages into coat pockets betrayed you,” said Roger. “The taxi-driver was traced and all the offices here and in the adjoining buildings were searched. Your voice is unmistakable.”
“Now don’t lie to me,” said Pickerell; “you didn’t hear my voice until after you had identified Lois.”
“I tried that gambit with all girls on the premises who might have passed for my wife,” Roger said, plausibly. “Pickerell, there is a powerful organisation at the Yard and you won’t get away with this. Your gun won’t help you, if you use it you will simply make the position worse for yourself.”
“Perhaps,” said Pickerell, “but you are not a fool, West, you will not take the risk of Lois committing perjury since you will suffer so much in consequence. Are you sure that is the way you discovered this office?”
“Yes,” lied Roger, shortly.
“I see.” The man seemed relieved. “Now, will you be sensible and go away? I suggest a long holiday in the country. You need not be too conscientious and—” he paused before going on as if delighted with a new idea, “and I think I can assure you that when I have finished my work you will have nothing to worry about. You need not be afraid, the truth can be told afterwards and you will be back at your desk without a stain on your character. Take the wise course, I beg you.”
Roger said: “You’ve made one mistake, Pickerell.”
“Bluff will not—”
“It’s nothing to do with bluff,” said Roger. “You’ve assumed that I heard your conversation with Miss Randall. I didn’t, but someone else did. My evidence might not carry but the evidence of two people will and when Miss Randall realises that her evidence will be rebutted she’ll see that the only way out is to tell the truth.”
The man’s face was expressionless.
“You are lying, West.”
“Please yourself,” said Roger, shrugging, and raised his voice. “Pep, are you there? Be careful, he’s armed.”
“I’ve rung the Yard, Handsome,” came Pep’s voice, “they won’t be long.”
The girl gasped. Pickerell looked towards the door and tightened his lips – Roger stepped hastily to one side, thinking he was going to shoot.
Pickerell thought better of it. He backed to his desk and, keeping the gun trained on Roger, the girl and the door – all in line with one another – pulled open a drawer and took out some papers. He felt inside the drawer as if to make sure that it was empty, then stuffed the papers into his pocket.
That done, he took out a box of matches.
Roger guessed what he intended to do but the threat of the gun kept him still. Clumsily, with one hand, Pickerell broke two matches before one ignited. He held it to the corner of a paper on the desk and, when that was burning, to others. Smoke and flames rose up and began to spread.
“You fool!” Roger cried. You’ll—”
“Stay where you are!” snapped Pickerell. He moved towards a door leading to the passage as the flames took a firmer hold. The smell of burning grew strong. A ring of flames ran along the cable of the telephone and a draught from the open window sent two pieces of burning paper sliding along the desk, where they caught others; the desk and its contents were soon ablaze and the smoke was beginning to make Roger cough. The girl turned towards the window but Pickerell did not pay her any attention. Step by step, he reached the passage door, took a key from his pocket, inserted and turned it.
“Pep!” Roger exclaimed, moving forward, “he’s—”
Pickerell stretched out a leg and kicked a chair, standing near the wall, in Roger’s path. Then he pulled the door open and stepped swiftly into the passage. Morgan’s voice was raised and Pickerell fired; the gun was not silenced and the shot echoed about the passage, followed by a sharp exclamation from Morgan. Roger jumped over the chair and reached the passage in time to see Pep leaning against the wall, with one leg off the ground, and Pickerell disappearing down the stairs. He ran past Pep and would have had a chance of reaching the man but for the opening of the ‘Enquiries’ door and the sudden appearance of Lois Randall. She got in his way, blocking his path by accident or design. He pushed past her, roughly, and sped on, calling: “Put that fire out!”
He knew that the opportunity was lost. He could not see the other man and, when he reached the street, there was no sign of him. The stocky cabby was lounging against his taxi, wide-eyed and staring towards the Piccadilly end of the street.
“Some people!” he was saying. “Swore at me just because I said—”
“Did he get a cab?” Roger snapped.
“Yerse, ‘arf way up the road, Guv’nor.”
“You didn’t hear where he directed the driver?”
“Nar what do you think I am?” demanded the cabby, with a vast, triumphant grin, “a radio-location expert?”
Roger said: “One day you’ll learn when to be funny. Telephone Scotland Yard from the nearest call-box, ask for Inspector Cornish and tell him that West—have you got that, West?”
“Yerse,” said the cabby, visibly impressed.
“... says that he should send men to this address quickly,” Roger said. He turned and hurried upstairs, wondering whether he was too late to stop the fire from spreading. He had been
forced to attempt too many things at once. There was no sign of the girl but Pep Morgan was disappearing into the end office, from which smoke was billowing in great choking gusts. Roger hurried after him, to find him wincing as he dragged himself towards the desk, the top of which was all ablaze. He picked up a heavy ledger with one hand and began to beat at the desk.
“All right, Pep,” said Roger, “I’ll get the stirrup pump.”
He was surprised to see no one else on that floor and, as he reached the beds and the fire-fighting apparatus, he called out for help. Someone had smelt the fire and was on the landing below; he hurried up. He was a middle-aged man, followed by two girls and an old lady; all of them sized up the situation quickly and took their places, obviously thoroughly trained in fire-fighting. A cloak-room, near the outer office of the Society, was handy for water and within five minutes the stirrup-pump was hissing and spraying the desk, while the two girls were going round the office, beating out little fires started by the burning paper which had blown off the desk.
Pep was sitting on a chair against the wall, perspiring freely and with his right leg stuck out in front of him. Roger turned to help him but Pep shook his head and pointed to the other door. Roger nodded and went into the room where Lois had been working. He ran through the papers on her desk, picking up an address book and a telephone index. He pushed them into his coat but made reasonably sure there was nothing else there of interest until, opening a small account book, he saw that the pages were headed with copper-plate handwriting, admirably executed in black drawing ink. The entries were not all the same, some being in a neat hand which he imagined to be the girl’s, but others, in drawing ink, had exactly the same characteristics as the letter from *K’.
“So I don’t need to look much farther for him,” he said, then laughed shortly. “Don’t I? I wonder if—”
He looked through the address book, found the name ‘Pickerell’ and an address in Lambeth. He picked up the telephone and dialled the Yard, asking for Chatworth. He was told that the A.C. was not in. He knew that Eddie Day would shrink from taking any action without Chatworth’s express wishes; Cornish was the only man on whom he might be able to rely for assistance. He made sure that Cornish had left, then, accepting the inevitable, he asked for Abbott.
The Superintendent’s voice sounded frigid.
“What is it, West?”
“I have the name and address of a man named Pickerell,” Roger said, knowing that whatever else Abbott did he would take the message correctly. “He has admitted arranging for the payment of the money into my account. Pickerell has just left his office and might have gone to his home, at 81 Bligh Street, Lambeth. That’s all.”
He rang down, giving Abbott no chance to ask irritating questions and hoping that he had forced an issue. Then he heard men approaching and was relieved to see Cornish passing the open door. He called out and Cornish hurried towards him.
“Much excitement,” smiled Roger, “but I’m afraid the bird’s flown, Corny.”
“Flown?” Cornish’s voice rose in disappointment.
“I’ve just phoned Abbott and told him where he might be, so you’d better stay here,” Roger said. “Abbott will probably resent it if you usurp his authority.”
“I don’t give a snap of the fingers for Abbott!” said Cornish roundly. “Do you think—”
Roger persuaded him, without too much trouble, to stay at the office of the Society. The fire, and Roger’s and Morgan’s evidence, were enough to justify Cornish making a search, although Roger kept the address book and telephone list tucked under his coat. Eventually, Roger found that the two girls of the fire-fighting party had given Pep Morgan first aid; a bullet had entered the fleshy part of his thigh. They had unceremoniously removed his trousers and, judging from the bright hue of his face, greatly embarrassed him. The wound was bandaged well, however, and when an ambulance arrived with a doctor in attendance the latter declared the work excellent and said it would keep Pep going until he reached hospital.
Roger saw the little private detective off.
“Got everything you want, Handsome?” Morgan whispered hoarsely as he was being lifted on a stretcher into the ambulance.
“Everything,” Roger assured him, “and I’ll look in before the day’s out, Pep.”
“Don’t you worry about me, you look after yourself,” said Morgan. “Oh, there is one thing, Handsome – if you wouldn’t mind telling my wife. Don’t want some idiot putting the wind up her, it’s nothing much.”
“I’ll go straight from here,” Roger promised.
Pep said ‘Ta!’ fervently and then the doors were closed on him.
Roger felt a strange independence in his freedom from the obligation to go immediately to the Yard and report – and he was appreciative of Cornish’s ‘forgetfulness’ in not telling him to stay long enough to make a full statement.
He found the cabby waiting nearby. The truculence of the man remained, although he appeared to regard Roger with more respect.
“Anywhere else, Guv’nor?” he asked, and then added carelessly: “Your pal copped it, didn’t he?”
Roger smiled. “Oh, that was nothing to what will probably happen.”
“Wot, see-riously?” Truculence was lost in amazement.
“Yes,” said Roger. “Shall I hire another cab?”
“Don’t you leave me aht o’ this,” snapped the cabby with quick resentment. “I drove all through the blitz, didn’t I? What’s a little thing like this to the blitz? Where to?”
Roger said: “Clapham Common, I’ll—”
Then he broke off. Looking along the street, he saw a Daimler limousine turn the corner and approach slowly. He did not know whether Mrs. Sylvester Cartier was inside but recognised her chauffeur, the man with the economical name of ‘Bott’.
Chapter 11
THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
AS Roger stepped away from him, showing no desire to get into the taxi, the cabby drew himself up to his full height, which was not exceptional, puffed out his chest and thrust forward his square, unshaven chin, narrowed his shrewd eyes and spoke with deep feeling.
“Guv’nor, will yer make up your mind? Are you a fare or aren’t you? Do you want to go to Clapham Common or—”
Roger looked over his shoulder and frowned, then returned to the man as the Daimler began to slow down. He took a handful of silver from his pocket, thrust it into the cabby’s hand – which was promptly held forward – and spoke quietly.
“Give me some change, make it look as if I’m paying you off.” He waited only for the man’s startled expression to change to one of understanding before going on “Drive along the street and wait where you can follow the Daimler when it moves off. Wait as long as necessary with your flag down, and when you’ve finished following it, telephone my Chelsea house. The number is Chelsea 0123. Keep the chase up all night if necessary.”
“What erbaht petrol?” the cabby demanded, putting a threepenny piece and some coppers into Roger’s hand. “There’s yer change, Guv’nor!”
“Do the best you can,” said Roger. He looked at the trifling change, saw the man’s grin and smiled in spite of himself. “I’m relying on you,” he added, “and I’ll make it worth your while.”
He turned and approached the house again.
The Daimler had drawn up and chauffeur Bott was standing, stiff as a ramrod, by the door. A man stepped out, tall, elegant and impressive-looking. He turned to assist Mrs. Sylvester Cartier from the car and the two of them, tall and making an impressive couple, stood eyeing the crowd which had gathered, the policeman and the evidence of a fire – for belatedly a fire-engine had been summoned.
“Now what has happened?” demanded the man. He spoke resignedly, his voice low-pitched but audible to Roger. “Has one of your sorrowing gentlemen lost his head, d’you think
?”
“Probably,” said Mrs. Cartier, distantly.
She looked at Roger. There was no sign of recognition on her remarkably beautiful face but she beckoned him – it was an imperious gesture, that of a woman whom no man disobeyed. He moved towards her, reluctantly. Her eyes held an expression which he could not name, yet he read warning in it – the fact that she did and said nothing to suggest that she knew him might have been the reason for that. She had been instrumental in bringing him here – obviously that had been the real purpose of her call that morning – and consequently he was prepared to play her game.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He thought he saw a quick, appreciative gleam in her eyes.
“Can you tell me what is happening here?” she demanded.
“Yes – there’s been a fire.”
“Where?” Her voice hardened.
“On the top floor,” Roger said, “but no great harm was done, they got it under control quickly. I think there was some other trouble,” he went on, “and a man was shot.”
“Shot!” ejaculated the elegant man. “Great heavens! He wasn’t killed?”
“He isn’t dead yet,” Roger said.
“You see, Antoinette!” The man turned to Mrs. Cartier, his large, expressive eyes filled with concern. “This is what happens when you indulge in such whims. A shooting affray!” He turned to regard Roger. “Are the police up there, do you know?”
“Yes,” said Roger.
“My dear,” said the elegant man, sadly, “I have always told you that if you persisted in this absurd quixoticism you would one day regret it.”
The woman smiled at him. “You are always so helpful, darling!” she said, but her words and her smile hid barbs. “We must go upstairs and find out what has happened. Thank you!” She smiled radiantly upon Roger and then swept towards the door. Her companion – presumably her husband – sent Roger a single expressive glance, shrugged his shoulders and went in her wake.