by John Creasey
“So that’s settled?” Janet asked, eagerly.
“It—it doesn’t matter what you do, I can’t tell you anything,” Lois said, obdurately. “I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t be glad to hide away, but I just can’t talk. I won’t explain!” Her eyes were bright with defiance.
Roger smiled. “Haven’t we agreed that the subject’s not to be discussed now?”
“It won’t be any use saying that—that I came with you under false pretences.”
“It wouldn’t enter our heads!” declared Mark, brightly and with his head on one side. “When are we moving, Roger? Now, or after dark?”
“After dark,” Roger said.
Tennant exclaimed: “Do you seriously think there is danger in daylight?”
“Oh, no,” interrupted Mark. “He’s going to this trouble because he likes the look in your eyes! Don’t be an ass, Tennant. This business is serious and we haven’t got anywhere near the bottom of it yet. Lois is in danger because she has information which might cause a riot amongst her erstwhile friends. Accept things as they are, you won’t help things by being incredulous.”
Tennant scowled but shrugged his shoulders and conceded grudgingly: “All right, I suppose we’d better work with you.”
“That’s fine!” said Roger, briskly. “All four of you, then, will go to the Legge Hotel. I’ll join you as soon as I can.” He had been edging towards the door casually and with no apparent motive, but now he picked up his hat from a chair and opened the door quickly. “Tell them as much of the story as they don’t know,” he added, “I’ll be seeing you!”
“Roger!” cried Janet. “Roger – why, the old devil!”
She stared at the closed door then hurried across to it, pulled it open and stepped out. The door was pushed to gently as an arm slid about her waist. She gasped and Roger kissed her cheek.
“You scared me!” she protested.
“And I intended to,” said Roger. “That’s the kind of thing that is liable to happen in the next few days, my sweet, so don’t run undue risks. I had to slip out quickly or Mark would have wanted to come with me and I’m not happy at leaving you and Lois Randall to young Tennant on his own.”
“So you do know her surname,” Janet said, sarcastically.
“Darling, you don’t seriously—”
“Idiot!” said Janet, and squeezed his arm. She went on soberly: “Roger, I’m really beginning to get frightened, there are so many complications. Mark told me about this man Malone before—”
“You’ve much more to worry about than him,” said Roger. “Some time this evening I’m going to see one of the seven most beautiful women in the world, a Mrs. Sylvester Cartier, in fact. Now if I started to call her Antoinette, you would have cause for pointed questions!”
“You seem to know everyone by their first names,” Janet said. She sounded almost serious, but Roger laughed it off.
“Well, I have to be friendly! I haven’t placed the beautiful Mrs. Cartier yet, she may be leading me into an elaborate trap. On the other hand, she betrayed the Society and Pickerell and I’m taking a chance with her. This is what I wanted to tell you about, darling – and I do not want Tennant or Lois to hear you tell Mark.”
“What is it?” asked Janet.
“I’m going to number 11 Bonnock House,” Roger said. “I don’t know where it is, I’ll try to find out from Cornish – he’ll get the information for me. If I’m not back by”—he paused—”well, say ten o’clock, let Cornish know and tell him that I was last at the house with Mrs. Cartier. Will you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Bless you!” said Roger. He kissed her and then hurried down the stairs. Turning at the landing and looking up he saw her standing quite still, with her eyes very bright. He felt a little choky as he reached the front door.
Before he stepped into the street he looked either way, cautiously, and by the time he had reached the end of the street, Janet was in the back of his mind and he was contemplating the pressing problems.
He expected some sign of Malone or the man’s gang, but there was no indication of their presence. Perhaps Malone was still brooding over the indignity. Roger’s lips set tightly when he thought of the Masher; the man’s capacity for unadulterated evil was undoubtedly very great. He even had doubts about the course he had decided upon but, when he was lucky in picking up a stray taxi and sat back in the corner, he concluded that Malone was more use to him free than he would be in jail.
The complications were increasing with somewhat startling fecundity, yet there was a single connecting line to which he clung with eagerness and which rather troubled him; there was a hint of desperation in it. He was no longer possessed by doubts about the reason for the Masher’s arrival at the Saucy Sue. Malone had heard of Mark’s visit and his gang had been summoned. There was nothing unusual about a race-course gang which, in its spare time, haunted the East End. Even today there were a number of men who managed to evade military service and stayed with the gangs. There were others who were unfit for service and yet well enough to roam the streets. Malone himself had an unhealthy pallor and Roger would not have been surprised to learn that he was medically unfit for any of the services. His confidence in himself was enough to qualify him for the leadership of a dozen or so hooligans.
There, then, was Malone – an unfortunate but not remarkable feature of the East End. There was nothing surprising in his activities except that he obviously did work for Pickerell.
Roger considered that meek and faded little man.
Pickerell had arranged the payments to the Mid-Union Bank; it was a fact which could not be repeated too often. Lois was probably a pawn, important now because her part in the affair had been discovered. Pickerell himself was the man who mattered and who, almost certainly, knew why the attempt to frame Roger was being made.
Lois had been all right – according to Tennant, who struck him as a reliable witness – until four months ago. Her trouble had started about the same time as Roger’s. He was still without a clue as to the reason for the persecution but it was rapidly becoming clear that it was the result of something he had done or discovered the previous December. The fact that Pickerell employed Malone proved that it was a criminal conspiracy of some consequence and the fact that Malone had twice revealed himself suggested that the time for surreptitious action was past. There was some cause for satisfaction in that, for it meant that the culprits were getting worried – they were acting too hastily and openly, thereby increasing the odds against them.
Thanks only to Pep Morgan, the attempt to frame Roger had been no more than half successful; enough had been learned to convince even Abbott and Chatworth that their suspicions were groundless. It would surely not be long before suspension was lifted, although he could not count on it yet.
Pickerell’s swift volte face and the use to which he was prepared to put Lois’s evidence proved that; if Lois came again under Pickerell’s direct control she would probably swear Roger’s reputation away. She was quite frightened enough to do so but he regarded her fear as incidental, something which could be dealt with when the chief problem was solved. It was doubtful whether she could do more than she had already unwittingly done – name Pickerell and Malone as the chief protagonists.
Still pondering over the connecting links as he sat back in the taxi – he had directed the driver to Pep Morgan’s office in the Strand – he mused aloud: “So Pickerell and Malone are working together and Joe Leech knew something which he could have betrayed. Pickerell works—or he did!—for the Society, and Mrs. Cartier either knows something of his other activities or suspects them and decided to warn me. Which implies that she must have known of the effort to frame me.”
He stopped speaking aloud when he thought of the elegant gentleman whom he believed to be Cartier. He wished, for the first time for some hours, that all he
had to do was to telephone the Yard and start inquiries into the Cartier ménage as well as to receive a statement of the results. Those five-pound notes could also be traced. By now, Abbott and Cornish would probably be investigating the activities of the family and of the Society, but until he himself was fully absolved he would only get what little information Cornish could safely pass on.
The taxi pulled up outside Pep’s office.
Chapter 14
TINY MARTIN ON THE TRAIL
Roger paid the driver off and, walking to the lift, thought that the other taxi-driver, whose name he had not inquired – a piece of carelessness which annoyed him – might be telephoning Bell Street at any time. It would be wise to send one of Pep’s men to the house, to take possession and receive messages.
The door of the general office was open.
Inside, a long-faced girl with lank, mousy hair was sitting in front of a typewriter on a tidy desk and looking up at one of Morgan’s operatives. He was a tall, lanky man whose trilby was pushed to the back of his head and who, Roger knew, considered himself a brilliant detective. His name was Sam; the girl’s was Maude. Both of them looked at Roger, the man with a grin which irritated him, and Maude expressionlessly. She was at once the most discourteous and the most efficient secretary of Roger’s acquaintance.
He hoped Morgan had given them instructions to take his orders – and the girl put his mind at rest.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said; “if you’d been any later you’d have found the office shut up. We can’t stay open all night.”
“S’right,” said Sam.
“Can’t you?” asked Roger. “Pep’s in hospital with a bullet in his thigh. What are you going to do? Go home and forget about it?”
“That’s not true!” Sam said, sharply.
“No kidding?” asked Maude, narrowing red-rimmed eyes.
“If Pep’s caught a packet,” said Sam, his lean face sombre, “that’s different, Handsome. On the square?”
Roger said: “Yes. He was working for me.”
“Sure, we know,” said Maude.
Roger knew that all the staff had a remarkable loyalty to the twinkling little man and was relieved that he would have no further trouble in getting them to do what he wanted. Morgan employed four regular operatives and had others who would do what he required of them – small agents who specialised in more humdrum affairs. These outside agents would be brought in to carry on with the routine work of divorce cases – the bread-and-butter of the agency – and the salaried operatives would be switched over to the more urgent matter.
He made arrangements quickly.
One of the operatives, called by telephone, left for the Bell Street house before Roger left the office. Roger had given him a key to the back door. Two were to be sent to the Legge Hotel within the hour; Sam, more serious than was his wont, was to accompany Roger. Roger would have given a lot to have had a sergeant and a plain-clothes man with him but despite Sam’s mannerisms and irritating self-conceit he was a reliable companion.
From the Strand office, Roger telephoned the Yard. He asked for and this time was able to speak to Chatworth. He thought that the A.C. sounded less hostile than on the previous night but no news of importance was vouchsafed although Chatworth did tell him that Pickerell had not returned to his Lambeth flat. When the police had arrived there, they had found signs of hurried departure.
“Are you sure that he was the man who arranged for those credits, West?” Chatworth demanded.
“Yes, sir,” said Roger, “but until he’s found I won’t be able to prove it.”
“What about the girl he employed?” Chatworth asked.
“What girl?” demanded Roger, thus burning his boats.
“Didn’t you see one there?”
“There was a receptionist, yes,” said Roger.
“Oh,” said Chatworth. He sounded sceptical, but Roger doubted whether he had access to any information which could prove that his professed ignorance was a sham. “West, what were you doing at that Society office?”
“Making inquiries, sir,” said Roger, and emphatically: “On my own behalf.”
“Don’t ignore the circumstances,” Chatworth warned him.
“I’m not likely to, sir,” said Roger, coldly, “but I’m anxious to get this absurd suspicion cleared up. Is there anything else?”
He thought he heard Chatworth mutter ‘young pup!’ under his breath. Chatworth said there was nothing else and did not ask Roger to go to see him. Roger had expected a summons and was puzzled when he replaced the receiver and looked in Sam’s lazy eyes.
“Comes to something when your own boss don’t trust you,” said Sam, with surprising understanding; “they must be crazy, Handsome! Well, where are we going?”
“I’ve another call to make,” Roger said; “meanwhile, have a look in the London Street directory for Bonnock House, will you? Cornish might not be able to tell me where it is off-hand.” He dialled the Yard again and spoke to Cornish, who said that he did not know the house but promised to find it and to call Morgan’s office. Meanwhile Maude, a cigarette drooping from her lips and a smear of ash on her soiled woollen jumper, leaned back and jerked the telephone directory from the shelf.
“S’matter with looking at that?” she demanded.
Roger stared, then smiled.
“Never overlook the obvious – you’re right, Maude!” He turned the pages over, came to the ‘CAR’ columns and ran his forefinger down the ‘Cartiers’. There were several in the book and he found three entries immediately beneath each other.
Cartier, Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge – 012
Cartier, Mrs. Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge – 29
Cartier, Mrs. Sylvester, 11 Bonnock House, Hampstead – 54012
Maude was contemplating him as he closed the book after making notes of the numbers.
“Got what you want?” she demanded.
“Yes, thanks. It’s all right, Sam,” he said as the latter looked up from the street directory. “What’s the time?” He glanced at a large clock on the wall and saw that it was a quarter to seven. He had lost all count of time and had expected to find it a little after five; he was being more scatterbrained than the circumstances warranted.
“Ready?” Sam demanded.
“No-o,” said Roger, “it isn’t quite time to go.” He tapped against the desk thoughtfully. “We’d better get some dinner, Sam, we might be working late.”
“Want anything more from me?” asked Maude.
“Not to-night, thanks,” Roger said.
“Watch your step, Handsome,” said Maude; the ash fell from her cigarette.
As he walked down the stairs with Sam – the lift had stopped operating at half past six – Roger found himself oddly affected by the attitude of the girl and the lanky fellow beside him. He had expected to find them gloating over the discomfiture of a Yard man; instead, their sympathy, cloaked by an air of indifference but nevertheless sincere, was a heartening thing.
“Which is worth a lot,” Roger said aloud.
“S’at?” demanded Sam.
“Just thoughts,” said Roger, smiling at him, “just thoughts, Sam. You haven’t got a gun, have you?”
“I been thinking about a gun,” Sam told him, earnestly. “I got one at home, Handsome; I didn’t think I’d need it, but if Pep’s been holed maybe I ought to get it.”
“I think you should,” said Roger. “Where do you live?”
“Fulham Road,” said Sam, “not far. I can have some supper with my missus and tell her I’ll be late, as well as pick up the rod. Does that suit you?”
Roger considered, then said: “Yes, that’ll do fine, Sam. I’ll be at the entrance of Bonnock House, somewhere in Hampstead, at eight-fifteen. I’ll meet you there.”
&nb
sp; “Okey-doke,” said Sam, “I’ll take a cab – no limit to expenses, I hope?” He grinned and raised his hand, getting a cab after three efforts, while Roger walked slowly towards Fleet Street.
There was a little restaurant near the Cheshire Cheese where he could get a good meal and where he might find one or two crime-reporters of the London dailies. He was on good terms with them and they would probably be helpful. He did not doubt that they had heard of his suspension and, when he entered the smoke-filled ground floor room he saw two men look up at him with evident surprise.
One pushed his chair back and approached him, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.
“Why, hallo, West! What’ll you have?” He was a middle-aged man, nearly bald and rather shabby. He was one of the best crime reporters on the Street and was reputed to have more enemies in the East End than anyone outside the police force.
“Hallo, Charlie,” Roger said. “I won’t have anything except some food – is there anything much on to-night?”
“Might be in time for some roast beef,” said Charlie Wray, turning to stare coldly at a younger man. He had close-cropped black hair which rose in a quiff above his forehead, a broken nose and a wide mouth with a most engaging grin. He walked with a pronounced limp. “That’s if Tamperly hasn’t had it all!”
“Share and share alike,” said Tamperly, swallowing the last of a mouthful. “I was coming to see you, Handsome. I thought—”
“I have seen him,” said Wray, pointedly, “this is by appointment. And don’t be familiar.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tamperly was young enough to relish Americanisms.
“Now listen to me,” said Roger, “I don’t mind whether the Echo or the Cry gets a scoop, I’m too worried to take sides in a newspaper scrap. I do want some help.”
“Say the word,” Wray said, quickly.
“All the organisation of the Cry will support you,” said Tamperly. “As a matter of fact, Handsome, we’re running an article on you – we’ve whitewashed you thoroughly. Had to use the story,” he added, half apologetically, “it’s all over the place.”