by John Creasey
“There is not a scrap of truth in anything you say,” declared Oliphant.
Roger laughed. “Oh, come! I’m waiting here for the proof, you know. You’ve worked through one of the officials at Scotland Yard, that is definitely established. He will move, he’s bound to, because he is afraid that when you are arrested you will betray him. He will come to warn Cartier to get away. He will be told that you, Oliphant, left Chelsea and came here and he’ll be equally anxious to warn you. He’ll know that in handling the matter I made a significant omission – I didn’t have police protection at Bonnock House. He’ll probably think that I can’t handle it on my own.”
“Perhaps he does,” murmured Oliphani, but Roger ignored him.
“He’ll be fairly confident because he has the authority to remove any police who might come to the flats,” Roger continued; “that is one of his advantages, isn’t it?”
Oliphant said in a queer voice: “Is it, West?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And do you think you know this individual?” asked Oliphant.
“I do,” said Roger.
“Perhaps,” said Oliphant. “Perhaps you’re right, West.” He looked at Cartier and said with a twisted smile: “You were certainly right, Syl, the 13th undid us.”
“Don’t be—” began Cartier.
“There’s no need to worry,” Oliphant said, slowly. “West came alone – he was so anxious to make sure that his colleague didn’t get suspicious, and he has great ideas of bringing off a coup by himself. He’s here alone. I think we can handle him well enough. If he has a warrant for me, it will be executed, either by him or someone else.” There was a curious smile on his face. “West is no fool, he knows that I have been a party to more than one murder – don’t you, West? The police have a case for murder – against me – as an accessory. There’s no hope for me, Syl.”
“I’m glad you realise it,” Roger said.
“But I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” said Oliphant. He put his hand to his pocket and drew out an automatic, levelling it casually at Roger. “If I shoot him,” he said dispassionately, “that will put the finishing touches to the case, but you and Antoinette need not suffer. You can tell the whole story – how West thought you were in it, how he accused me, how I confessed to being the leader and how I shot myself after shooting him. It will be quite convincing, won’t it?” He looked at Mrs. Cartier, and Roger, in spite of his own tension, saw with a burst of inspiration the reason for the man’s attitude, one which had been premeditated for fear of such an emergency.
Oliphant was in love with the woman.
“Well, West, what do you think of your pretty scheme now?” Oliphant said.
Roger said slowly: “You told me that I wasn’t sane.”
“Meaning that I’m not? Oh, I don’t know,” said Oliphant. “It has lasted for a long time and I have been feeling the strain for several weeks. Nothing has worked out as I expected it, and this will probably be the most effective finish. Don’t imagine that I am sacrificing myself for Cartier. I think it is the only way in which”—he drew a deep breath—”everyone can be happy.”
The woman was looking at him, and Cartier said: “You fool, don’t make such damaging admissions!”
“But it can’t do any harm,” said Oliphant; “only West is listening and he won’t be able to talk – but his men will come before long.” He stood up and backed towards the window, smiling. “Don’t try to stop me, Syl, it will only be a waste of time. Curious,” he added. “I wonder if it would have worked out differently but for your inhibitions? The unlucky 13th – it always frightened you, didn’t it? And it seemed so easy to divert suspicion to West, and satisfy you as well as keep our Scotland Yard helper safe from suspicion. With West in jail, our real informant would have been quite safe, which was much more important than easing your mind about the 13th. But we don’t need to tell West everything, he can fill in the details himself – in the next world!” Oliphant laughed, softly. “When our man comes from the Yard to warn us, he’ll find West and me dead. You can tell him what has happened, and he will be able to wind up the case most satisfactorily. You’ll point out, of course, that West came here alone to try to extort more money. You’ll make it plain that he is the renegade after all, the dictaphone record was a trick. Then, later, you can probably start all over again.”
He smiled and levelled the gun.
Roger thought: ‘Hurry, Tennant, hurry!’ He fancied that he had seen a shadow at the window, but was not sure. He wondered whether he had relied too much on ‘unarmed combat’ and the remarkable agility of Bill Tennant. Then he saw the shape at the window – Tennant was standing on the ledge.
Cartier gasped: “Oliphant, look—”
Tennant made no bones about it, but launched himself against the window, breaking the glass with his elbows and knees, keeping his chin tucked well down; he wore a crash-helmet. The crash made Oliphant swing round, and Roger jumped to his feet and overturned the table.
At the same time there was a banging at the door, then footsteps in the hall. Tennant, with a scratch on his right cheek and another on his hand, fell upon Oliphant and the two of them hit the ground together.
The gun flew from Oliphant’s hand; Cartier made a movement towards it, but his wife gripped his wrist.
“No,” she said in a tense voice. “No, not that!”
Her cheeks had no vestige of colour. Roger looked at her, seeing this tense drama of human emotions as if he were standing a long way off. It made no difference to the issue, all but one thing was over, now – yet there was a fascination in the relationship between the man and his wife.
Cartier said: “You started it, you shrew! If it hadn’t been for you this would never have happened.”
The door opened and the maid, frightened and trembling, admitted Mark. Roger saw him but looked back quickly to Mrs. Cartier.
She said: “I couldn’t let it go on, but – you’ll be free one day. Cheri, don’t do anything to let them hang you, you didn’t know anything about the murders, they were not done by you: don’t do anything to—”
Cartier struck her savagely across the face. She turned away and Roger put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He had no pity for him and he hoped that nothing would save him from the gallows; he did not think it would be hard to prove his complicity in the actual murders, and that he had given the instructions for them.
Tennant was brushing himself down and Oliphant sat on the floor, looking up stupidly.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” Tennant said, wistfully. “Anyone else coming, West?”
“Soon, I hope,” Roger said.
Neither Oliphant nor Cartier spoke again. Roger sent them, handcuffed to each other, into another room, with Mark and Tennant to watch them. He gave the maid careful instructions, then returned to the lounge. Mrs. Cartier was standing by the window, her face expressionless and her cheeks colourless. Roger looked out and saw one of Morgan’s men at the street corner, just walking out of sight.
He wondered whether Abbott would come. He did not feel like talking, although he wished the woman would break the silence. Suddenly, she turned and took a cigarette from a box on the table. She looked at him levelly as he lit it for her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Mr. West—”
“Yes?” said Roger.
“How long have you known that—my husband—was—concerned with it?”
“Not very long,” Roger said.
“Did I so much as hint at it?” There was a fierce note in her voice.
“You did not,” Roger assured her; “you did all you could, Mrs. Cartier, to hide that. I wish—”
“Please!” she said, then went on slowly: “I have always been afraid of it, but what could I do, what could I do? He—is my husband.” She might have said ‘lover’. “I could no
t bring myself to believe it. Gradually, I learned what was happening, how they worked, what Pickerell did, what Lois Randall, la pauvre! was forced to do. Had it not been for the agonising fear that Sylvester was concerned, I would have told you before. When I learned about you—” she drew a deep breath. “You know what I did. I told him, also, to warn him. When he did not show any resentment I thought, I prayed, that I was wrong. But that record – the 13th – I knew how superstitious he was, how everything worried him – spilled salt, ladders – a hundred things.”
Roger said: “How much more do you know, Mrs. Cartier?”
“Not much more than you must know already,” she said. “Oliphant arranged most of it, I think. My—my husband knew the people whose goods were sent here. He was always friendly with those in authority in Germany and Italy, but so were many others. I knew a little of Malone. I learned much from cylinders which you have not heard: I hid them, but you will be able to use them now.” She went on tonelessly. “They built up everything, Inspector. There is one saying that the man Leech was to be killed, the ‘Chief had ordered it – always they talked of the ‘Chief’, never did they give him a name. I tried to pretend that there was hope even if it were my husband. I should have known better. I knew that Malone and his men were employed sometimes, that there was a policeman who gave information away – he has done so for several years. When it appeared that such a man was suspected, it was decided to make out that you were the man. That satisfied—superstition as well. Malone introduced this policeman to Pickerell, I do not know who it is.”
“Do you know where Pickerell is hiding?” Roger asked.
“No,” said Mrs. Cartier.
“You’re sure you’ve not heard the name of the policeman?”
“I have not,” said Mrs. Cartier. She drew a deep breath. “Do you think he will come?”
“I hope so,” Roger said.
There was so little more to learn, yet without the final revelation, success would be tarnished. Her statement: “. . . he has done so for years . . .” haunted him.
The woman fell silent. Roger stepped to the window and looked out – and, after a few minutes, saw a taxi draw up. Close behind it there came a private car. He saw Sam and another of Morgan’s men approaching, closing in as he had instructed. His jaw stiffened when he saw Abbott climb out of the second car with Tiny Martin. He could not see who was in the taxi, it drew up too close to the building. Abbott and Martin disappeared from his sight, another car, doubtless with Sloan inside, came down the street.
Morgan’s men waited.
Roger turned and looked towards the door. The waiting seemed unending but at last there was a tap on the passage door; the maid opened it and a man stepped through.
“Is Mr. Cartier in?” he asked.
“No,” said the maid, repeating a lesson, “but Madam is in.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the man said and Roger’s mouth dropped. He did not want to believe the evidence of that voice. He knew it well, but it was not Abbott’s. “As soon as your master returns, tell him to go north, as arranged. Do you understand? Tell him to go north. And tell him there is the possibility that someone will have to travel from Chelsea, also.”
The maid said: “I will tell him.”
“All right,” said the man; his voice was unmistakable – it was Cornish!
Seeing him through a gap in the door Roger hardly recognised him, for Cornish had dyed his hair, was wearing a mackintosh with the collar turned up and looked disreputable. Only the voice condemned him. “Tell him to hurry,” Cornish repeated.
There was a pause – then a gasp. Abbott’s voice came: “Look out, Martin!”
A gasp from the maid was followed by hurried footsteps. Cornish pushed his way past her, slammed the door and then snapped: “The back way – tell me where the back door is!”
Chapter 25
THE END OF A HUNT
Roger stepped into the entrance hall.
Abbott was banging on the passage door. Another opened and Mark appeared on the threshold, with Tennant just behind him. Cornish saw them before he saw Roger. He put his hand to his pocket and snapped: “Stay where you are!”
“It’s no good, Cornish,” said Roger.
The man swung round. His mouth gaped open, his hand seemed to sag in his pocket. There was a moment of tense, utter silence before Cornish stiffened. Roger moved swiftly to one side, but he had never been more glad to see Tennant launch himself forward with his bewildering speed. Cornish fired once from his pocket, but the bullet hit the floor. Then he crashed down, but Tennant kept his balance and stood over his victim. He put his heel on Cornish’s wrist, forcing the gun away. Tennant kicked it aside.
Mark opened the front door, to admit Abbott and Martin.
“Well?” Abbott said, thinly. He looked at Tennant’s victim. “Is it—” he did not finish the question, but looked at Roger.
“I’m afraid so,” Roger said, painfully. “Yes, it’s Cornish.”
“I thought so from the time Malone tried to escape. Only Cornish could have given him that key.” It seemed an effort for Abbott to speak. “He went to Leech’s public house but didn’t come out as himself – Martin and I were watching and, deciding that he looked like Cornish, we followed him. So – we reach the end of the hunt, West?”
“Ye-es,” said Roger.
He knew, now, that there had been plenty of indications that it had been Cornish. Cornish had been transferred comparatively recently from AZ Division. When on the Division itself, he had worked only in the East End, where he had had ample opportunity of seeing Malone. The failure to keep constant guard at Welbeck Street had been his responsibility, the long time taken in tracing Dixon, were all explained. So was Malone’s confidence. And Cornish, after putting on an act, had been the first to offer help to him! Now, his motives were transparently clear.
Yet even that day Roger had not given the man a thought, although the fact that Oliphant did not know the developments should have been conclusive. Everyone at the Yard knew that Oliphant was suspect, yet Oliphant had not been told, because Cornish had spent most of the day away from the Yard, going to the East End straight from Cannon Row; he had not heard.
It proved, afterwards, that Cornish had telephoned the Yard several times and had eventually been told of the rumour about Oliphant. After that, he had acted quickly, not knowing himself followed. None of the Yard men had been stationed at Bonnock House. Cornish had easily found out and had felt quite safe to come in person, as he could not reach Cartier on the telephone.
He tried, at the last minute, to save himself by making a complete confession. That, the dictaphone records and the other evidence made the case damning against him, Cartier and Oliphant. It was established that Lois Randall had been a victim of circumstances, precipitated by her own folly. Malone’s part as the ‘strong man’ of the organisation was fully disclosed – ordinary theft had gone on side by side with the distribution from the Society.
Pickerell had been the intermediary. He had been approached by Cartier to handle the distribution, had known Malone, and had linked the two organisations together.
In Chatworth’s office, late that night, Roger told his part of the story. Abbott was there, thin-voiced and aloof as ever; he had made little comment when Roger had told him that he had been suspected, except: “That’s rough justice, West!” For him, the remark had been jocular.
“So we have it all,” Chatworth said, with satisfaction, “and you didn’t need to use Morgan’s men very much, West. I must say you handled that part of it very well, even without Abbott you would have got him.” He smoothed his fringe of hair, flattening it against the sides of his head. “What of the man Pickerell?”
“His body was found in Leech’s public house,” Abbott said.
“Do you know who killed him?”
“Malone
did, before he left for Fulham. I think Pickerell was losing his nerve,” said Abbott.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Chatworth. “Well, West, you seem to have had the thick end of the stick most of the time. Not a nice story about Cartier. His wife—”
“She tried to divide her loyalties,” Roger said, “she wasn’t a party to it—”
“Oh, no. No case against her,” Chatworth said, “and I shan’t try to make one. Have you the full story of the Cox murder?”
“Cornish says that Cox murdered his wife and that there was no motive apart from that we already knew,” said Roger. “Oliphant defended Cox because he was afraid of what the man might say, but Cox only knew the Malone end of the organisation. I once thought that Cox was drugged but I think I was wrong – he knew he would hang and saw no point in ratting on Malone. He believed that Malone was paying Oliphant, thus doing his best for him. Cox didn’t know about Cornish; only Malone, Pickerell and Cartier knew him.”
“Ye-es, they kept it close. Well,” went on Chatworth, “we’ll have a long job sorting it out. We’ll have to find which of these people holding jewels for the Society knew why they were holding them, and we won’t get many convictions. Still, we’ll get the goods, which is the main thing – the helpers were more fools than rogues, I think. Is there anything else, West?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Roger.