An Apostle of Gloom

by John Creasey

  “Seen Sloan?” asked Eddie Day, looking up from his desk.

  “Sloan? No!” Roger was eager. “Is he back?”

  “I saw him coming in, half an hour ago,” Eddie said. “Looks as if he’s been somewhere the sun shone – better weather than we’ve had.”

  Detective-Inspector William Sloan, until recently Sergeant Sloan and Roger’s chief aide, was a tall, not bad-looking man, with mousy hair, a rather speculative expression in his brown eyes. Roger sent for him; Eddie went out and Sloan said that he had come back two days early because he had heard a rumour of Roger’s trouble. He looked genuinely relieved at the present position.

  “Oh, it passed,” Roger said, “but the A.C. feels pretty sure that there is a leakage.” He looked at Sloan evenly. The other did not answer, but after a pause he smiled faintly and nodded.

  “What I want to do,” said Roger, “is to make sure that no one has a crack at Abbott or Martin.” He paused; he thought that Sloan was probably the only man at the Yard, Cornish possibly excepted, who would be able to read between his words. “They’ve been up to the neck in this business and they might be in danger, even though Malone’s gone,” he added. “But then, you don’t know what’s been happening?”

  “I’ve heard all about it,” said Sloan. “I’ve been in the canteen.”

  “Good! Take a couple of reliable men, will you, and guard Abbott and Martin with their lives!” Roger smiled. “Don’t let Abbott know what you’re doing, or he might get annoyed. It doesn’t take much to upset him.”

  “I follow you,” said Sloan, sombrely.

  “You’ll turn in the usual reports, of course,” said Roger, “and phone me if there’s anything urgent. Oliphant is suspect Number One at the moment – had you heard of that?”

  “Everyone here seems to have heard,” Sloan told him.

  “Nice work,” Roger said.

  But he believed that it was a mistake and was glad it was Chatworth’s responsibility, not his. If Oliphant were warned, anyone at the Yard might be responsible. Had only a limited number known of the solicitor’s connection with the case, the issue would have been narrowed. Now it was done, he would have to make the best of it, but it made new difficulties.

  In the course of the next hour, several reports were telephoned to him. The men watching Oliphant had nothing to report. The solicitor had not left his house but had been seen at the front window. He had had no callers. Mrs. Cartier was at her flat, but her husband had gone to the City and had last been seen entering the building which houses the head offices of the Cartier Food Product Company – it seemed likely that Cartier was taking one of his sporadic plunges into the affairs of the Company from which he obtained his wealth. There was no trace of Pickerell, but Cornish, telephoning personally, said that several more of Malone’s men had been located and there were rumours that a man answering Pickerell’s description had been seen in the East End the previous evening.

  “Good man – go to it!” Roger said.

  “Ought I to have a word with Abbott?” Cornish asked.

  “Why not?” asked Roger, putting Cornish through.

  He telephoned the letting office at Bonnock House, talked for some time, and, at half past twelve, he went down to the canteen, had a snack, and then left for Pep Morgan’s office – he had telephoned to say that he would be there about one o’clock and asked for Pep’s chief operatives to be present. Maude greeted him, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She told him that she had been to see Pep that morning and that he was making a good recovery.

  “I didn’t think it would be too bad,” said Roger. “Where are the men?”

  Maude cocked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating Pep’s private office.

  The lanky Sam was propping himself up against the window, a stolid, chunky individual – the man who had been at Bell Street and who had left soon after dawn that day – was sitting on Morgan’s desk. He swore that he had heard nothing of the taxi-driver’s arrival in the garage; Dixon had been there before Pep’s man had arrived on duty. The other men, middle-aged fellows with jaundiced looks in their eyes and the world-weariness which comes to men whose lives are bound up with the sordid business of domestic disruption, were sitting on upright chairs. All of them eyed Roger hopefully.

  “Okay, Boss,” Sam said, “shoot.”

  Roger smiled. “Look here,” he said, “this is more official than it was before – I’m no longer the bad boy of the Yard. But I want some help.”

  “So you really admit there are detectives outside the Yard?” Sam said, admiringly. “You learn quick, Handsome!”

  “I hope you will,” Roger said.

  He told them what he wanted. The Cartier ménage, the Society offices and Oliphant’s house were all to be watched, but they were not to disclose their presence to any police who happened to be near the scenes. They were the second line of defence, he said – the police would be recognised by the crooks but they might not be. Since Malone’s gang had been rounded up, they need not expect much in the way of violence, but he would expect precise reports as to who had gone into the buildings, and who had come out.

  He thought Sam seemed disappointed, but the men went off cheerfully enough.

  He telephoned the Cry and the Echo from Morgan’s office, speaking to both Wray and Tamperly. He gave each a resumé of the developments and promised them further revelations later in the day. Both men worked for evening as well as daily papers in the same combine, and he said to each: “If you can get a paragraph in, hinting that there will be startling developments in the next twenty-four hours, it would help, but don’t say that I’m cleared.”

  Each man agreed, in characteristic phraseology. Roger replaced the receiver and saw Maude looking up at him with her eyes narrowed.

  “Have you got something, Handsome?” she demanded.

  “Do you know,” said Roger, “I wouldn’t be surprised!”

  He reached the Green Cat, a small restaurant off Piccadilly, at half past two precisely; he had to wait for ten minutes before Mark and Tennant arrived by taxi. Mark showed signs of his all-night session more than Tennant, whose bright eyes suggested that he was not a stranger to such nights out. At a corner table, where they had coffee, Roger gave them an outline of the situation, naming Abbott and Tiny Martin. Neither of them seemed particularly shocked.

  “I’m not surprised,” Mark said.

  “Where do we come in, Roger?” asked Tennant, eagerly.

  Roger said: “I’m going to telephone Oliphant and tell him that Mrs. Cartier wants to see him at her flat, and telephone Mrs. C. and tell her Oliphant is coming – we’ll say at four o’clock. That will give us time to work.”

  “Supposing they don’t bite?” asked Mark.

  “Then we’ll have to try again.”

  “Supposing they do bite?” demanded Tennant.

  Roger smiled. “That’s optimism! You’ll be at hand – there’s a flat next to the Cartiers’ which we can use – the tenants will be out, but I’ve had their permission to use the flat. Its lounge window is next to the Cartiers’, and outside Bonnock House there are little balconies – a man of your agility can climb from one to the other. I’ll be in the Cartiers’ lounge and you’ll be on the balcony – I’ll leave it to you when to come in. They’ll probably try to be violent, but that won’t worry you! Er – have you ever jumped through a pane of glass?”

  Tennant beamed. “I’ve jumped through everything!” he declared extravagantly. “I’ll do my piece, don’t worry.”

  “Good man! Well now – I’ll have to be busy. As soon as the message is phoned to Mrs. Cartier I want her phone disconnected, and you’ve got to be installed next door—”

  He continued, outlining his plans; and by half past three everything was settled. Then he telephoned the Yard, to learn that reports coming in
from time to time showed no developments, except that Sloan had left a message to say that Abbott and Martin had left the Yard, and had gone to AZ Division – that part of the East End which included Rose Street and Leech’s pub. Then, before he rang off, he was told that Oliphant had left his Chelsea house at three-fifteen.”

  “Good!” said Roger, with some warmth.

  He was at Piccadilly when he made the inquiries and he drove immediately to Bonnock House. Crossing the heath – the quickest route – he remembered Dixon’s story of its loneliness. He saw the tree-clad patches, the scrub and bushes and realised how suited the heath was to hold-ups.

  It was a relief to know that Malone could not interfere this time.

  He reached the Cartiers’ flat at four-fifteen.

  The maid who had reminded him of Pickerell opened the door and told him, a shade too quickly, that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Cartier was at home.

  “Then I’ll wait,” Roger said.

  “I don’t think—” the maid began.

  Someone in another room said: “No, I don’t!”

  Roger smiled. “Take my card in, there’s a good girl, don’t make it difficult for yourself or me.”

  The maid looked reluctant, but she took the card, approached the door from which the voices were coming and tapped, gingerly.

  Carrier’s voice came promptly: “What is it?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but—”

  Roger, just behind her, put his hand to the door and opened it. He almost banged into Cartier, who was approaching. Behind Cartier was his wife, sitting on the settee where she had greeted Roger on that evening which now seemed an age ago. She looked startled; there was hardly any sign left of the rough treatment Malone had given her.

  “What the devil—” Cartier began.

  “I am a police officer,” Roger said, formally. “I would like you to answer a few questions, sir.”

  “Why, West!” exclaimed Mortimer Oliphant, rising from an easy chair and smiling widely. “Well, well, how small a town London is!”

  The solicitor’s interruption seemed to startle Cartier, who closed the door, shutting the maid outside. Mrs. Cartier extended a hand which Roger carefully ignored; that made her frown. Oliphant, well-dressed, smiling, handsome in his dark fashion, spoke heartily.

  “I’d no idea that you knew West, Mrs. Cartier.”

  “Only in the way of business,” said Roger. He glanced at the set tea table, seeing that there was early lettuce, jam, what looked like real cream and cakes and pastries. Mrs. Cartier rang a handbell and the maid appeared.

  “Bring another cup for the Inspector,” said Mrs. Cartier. “You will have some tea, won’t you?”

  “Thank you,” said Roger, formally.

  “We were just discussing a remarkable thing,” said Oliphant, who seemed too anxious to talk. “I received a message asking me to visit Mrs. Cartier on Society business and she received one purporting to come from me – but neither of us sent such a message!”

  Roger smiled. “No,” he said, “I sent them both.”

  Cartier exclaimed: “Now look here, you may be a policeman, but I insist on—”

  “Don’t get cross, darling,” urged Mrs. Cartier.

  Oliphant said: “That’s a surprising admission, West.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Roger. “I knew that you and Mrs. Cartier did a great deal of business together and I wanted to have an opportunity of meeting you at the same time – I couldn’t think of any other way of arranging it. Sit down, Mr. Cartier, won’t you?” He smiled pleasantly. Oliphant was wary, Mrs. Cartier’s smile as obscure, and Cartier appeared to be really bewildered.

  Oliphant demanded: “Is this visit official, West?”

  “Haven’t I made that clear?” asked Roger, blandly.

  “In that case—”

  “But not necessarily aggressive!” Roger assured him. He settled back in his chair and waited for the maid to bring in another cup and saucer, knife and plate – as well as a small plate of bread and butter and some cake. When she had gone, he went on: “I think I ought to be frank with you, Mrs. Cartier. Your organisation has been used to hide the activities of a subversive organisation which—”

  “But of course!” she said. “I told you it had!”

  “I don’t think you realise quite how widespread an organisation it was,” said Roger. “We have been able to find most of the active supporters and many of the people who helped in the work, which was no less than the hiding of jewels smuggled into the country from Germany and Italy – nest-eggs for repentant Nazis!” He laughed as if it really amused him. “Unfortunately, we haven’t found who was really directing the organisation,” he said, “unless”—he had never sounded so bland—”it was someone in this room.”

  “You have no right to make such slanderous suggestions!” snapped Cartier, but he turned on his wife. “From the very beginning I disliked the idea. If you had only had the sense not to interest yourself in such matters, this would never have happened!”

  “Please, darling,” said Mrs. Cartier, “I don’t think—”

  “You’re behaving very strangely, West, aren’t you?” asked Oliphant.

  “Oh, yes,” said Roger. “How much did you know about it yourself?”

  “I?” For the first time the solicitor looked really discomposed. “Are you suggesting—”

  “Hasn’t your usual informant sent the warning?” asked Roger, gently. “Yes, Ohphant, you, personally. I have a warrant for your arrest. Also I have one for—”

  “If you think my wife—” Cartier began, starting violently.

  He knocked over his cup, which, fortunately, was empty. The spoon struck a salt cellar standing near the lettuce, and salt spilled over the table. “Damn!” ejaculated Cartier. He took a pinch of salt and threw it over his left shoulder, then went on: “If you have the impertinence to suggest that my wife was a party to this nefarious business, I shall insist—”

  He went on and on, and Roger eyed him steadily.

  In his mind’s eye he saw Cartier about to follow his wife and stepping into the road to avoid walking under a ladder. He had another picture of Cartier uncrossing dessert knives in this very room. He saw the man throwing salt over his shoulder.

  Cartier stopped and Oliphant began to speak.

  “Look here, none of this is helping,” Roger said, smiling. “Mr. Cartier, are you very superstitious? Did my meeting with Oliphant on the 13th of December really upset you so much?”

  Cartier stiffened, Oliphant uttered a sharp exclamation – and then the room was very quiet.

  Chapter 24

  A MAN BRINGS A WARNING

  Oliphant broke the silence, making a good display of being annoyed and yet pretending not to show it in front of Roger.

  “I’m afraid West is getting rather beyond himself,” he said; “if he has suddenly developed peculiar ideas about unlucky dates, we need hardly treat his visit seriously!”

  Roger smiled. “Oh, but you should!”

  “Infernal impertinence!” snapped Cartier, but his air of outraged innocence had quite gone and the wary gleam in his eyes matched Oliphant’s. Mrs. Cartier sat back on the settee, her expression inscrutable. Glancing at her, Roger thought that no one would ever be able to do justice to her beauty. She was staring at her husband – and he wondered what was passing through her mind. “I demand a full explanation of this intrusion, Inspector, and an unqualified apology,” Cartier declared.

  Roger shrugged. “You’re trying hard, aren’t you?” he said. “Oliphant, we knew last night that you were up to your neck in it, but we waited for you to make some move. You didn’t make it, so I forced your hand. I expected you to hear from your informant at the Yard, but he’s been very remiss, hasn’t he?”

  “Oh, don’t be a fool!” s
napped Oliphant.

  “I’m not being,” Roger insisted. “I’ve told you that I have a warrant for your arrest – and Mrs. Cartier’s. I can take Cartier away with me, too.” He laughed at them all, but the only one who seemed unaffected was the woman. “I thought this little talk would clear the air,” he added, cheerfully. “You see, before it’s really finished, as far as we are concerned at the Yard, we want to find out who has been selling you information and who has been condoning your crimes. Who is it, Oliphant?”

  “I have nothing to say, except that this is a grotesque distortion of your authority,” Oliphant snapped.

  “Who is it, Cartier?” Roger asked the other man.

  “You must be quite mad!” Cartier exclaimed.

  “You wouldn’t know, Mrs. Cartier, would you?” asked Roger.

  When she made no answer he went on: “It isn’t working out very well. Let me be quite frank. Everything pointed to Mrs. Cartier but I had grave doubts about her because she first gave me reason to suspect the Society. The superstitions played a part, and when I saw a manifestation of quite childish prejudices on your part, Cartier, I wondered whether your hostility towards the Society was really sincere. I thought if I could get you all here together, with the telephone wires disengaged – it’s easy, for a policeman – and we had a heart-to-heart talk, I might be able to put everything in order. If Mrs. Cartier has been an innocent victim of the conspiracy, far be it from me to make trouble for her! Mrs. Cartier – you began to suspect what was wrong when you put in the dictaphone, didn’t you? You hoped one day to find out whether your worst fears were realised. You knew Oliphant was in it, as well as Pickerell and Lois Randall, but you only suspected your husband’s complicity.”

  “I—” began Cartier.

  “Be quiet!” snapped Roger, but he was surprised when the man subsided and sat staring at him. “Mrs. Cartier,” he went on, “you knew all that was being done, you knew that your husband – as well as yourself, of course – had friends all over the Continent. You probably started the Society to help those friends who escaped, as well as other unfortunates, but I don’t think you had any desire to extend the scope of it. It was extended, however, and then you became afraid of it. You would not take any direct action until you were sure, but you wanted to be quite sure. You heard that I was being framed and so you came to see me, being very discreet and relying on my adding two and two together. Well, here’s your answer. Your husband was in it.”