by John Creasey
“Free tonight?” he asked.
“Of course, darling!”
“Let’s meet at Richmond,” Quist suggested. “We’ll have dinner and go on the river for an hour or two; it’s just the night for it. A friend of mine has a small boat I can borrow. How does it sound?”
“Wonderful!” Such happiness: and by tonight she might be almost in despair.
“How long will it take you to get there?” Quist asked.
“About half an hour,” Sybil replied; “I can use the car.”
“Wonderful! Make it half-past six, and if I’m a few minutes late—”
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll be waiting.”
Would she be?
He went towards Piccadilly, for a train to Waterloo and Richmond, hurrying now; and was followed. He bought a ticket at a machine, and went with the jostling crowds towards the trains. The platform was crowded, with many people pushing: and several times he was edged towards the rails. He didn’t mind; at all costs he wanted to catch that train.
He heard it rumbling through the tunnel, and as it drew nearer, its lights actually in sight, a man fell against him heavily.
His heart turned over.
The train roared.
He staggered wildly, and a woman screamed; then a youth grabbed at him and pulled him back, as the train flashed by.
“My God,” thought Quist, “I must wake up.”
He was sweating from the narrowness of the escape, but put it down to his own haste in the crowd. He didn’t give a thought to attempted murder.
Sybil was waiting, and showed no sign at all of distress.
She stood by the side of her parents’ small Austin, wearing a lemon-coloured, sleeveless dress with a square neckline. She looked beautiful. And she was so much in love that she did not even try to conceal it from him.
It was an hour before Quist even asked after her mother and father.
“Oh, Father got home about eleven last night,” Sybil told him. “He’d had a drink or two, and was quite cheerful. Mother was anxious not to upset him, so everything went off quite well. Honestly, Mick, I don’t know whether to hate him for what he’s done to mother or not. I just hate thinking about it, but—well, I can’t say anything to her, can I?”
“Of course not.”
“Darling, you needn’t worry about it any more,” Sybil said. “Please don’t.”
Not worry!
He knew that he ought to tell her now, then go to the police, but her reaction might be swift and fierce – and she might be left on her own to cope.
Quist said nothing.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when they reached Hadworth, and Sybil slowed down at a turning which led to Quist’s street. They had been quiet for the past ten minutes, and now Sybil spoke as if with an effort.
“Which turning do I take?”
“You don’t,” said Quist. “Drop me near the station; it’s only five minutes’ walk.”
“But—”
“It’s better that way,” Quist said, quite firmly. If they drove to his flat, if they lost their heads – and that would be so very, very easy – they could spoil the whole future. “Are you free tomorrow?”
“I’m always free,” Sybil said, with a catch in her breath. “Mick, it’s so—so perfect.”
She stopped.
He held her fiercely, kissed her passionately, and felt her straining towards him. It was a kind of all-consuming madness. He had known nothing like it before, and felt sure that she had not.
This was a wide, tree-lined road and it was dark and there were few street lamps; it was a quarter of an hour before Quist said almost roughly: “You must get home, Sybil.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
Soon he was standing and watching her drive off. He could think of nothing but Sybil as she disappeared; of Sybil as he walked through the poorly lit streets towards his own flat. What would it be like when she got home? Would the police be there? Oh, he was crazy not to have warned her somehow.
He reached the flat where he lived, one of six in a corner house in a narrow street, and lights were on at several of the others. He heard music, but tonight he did not put on his record player, could not bring himself out of the trance, except to remember what horror waited for Sybil when the truth was known. He knew one thing: it would be much, much more difficult to tell the police anything now. He must get the report back from Gorringe’s desk, and forget that he had ever seen Charles Henry with that now dead woman …
It was a little after seven when he woke next morning, so he did not have to hurry to get breakfast and catch his train. The Gazette, his morning newspaper, carried a story on an inside page; the police were still looking for the cyclist, but there was no mention of anyone else. Michael felt uneasy, the night’s excitement all gone. He left it late, after all, bolted down a boiled egg and some cereal, and had to step out pretty quickly for the station.
He wasn’t quite himself. There were things that had been said and had happened last night which had all the quality of a dream. He tried to shake the mood off as he neared the station, with the usual crowd. He saw familiar faces – passengers as well as ticket collectors, newspaper-boys, taxi-drivers, all the daily familiarity of life. He also saw a small man whom he had seen the night before, but couldn’t place him, although memory of the near accident made him shudder.
The little man went ahead, towards the platform, and Quist noticed two heavily-built men standing by the ticket-collector’s booth as he flashed his season ticket, and it wasn’t until he was past, and putting the ticket away, that he realised that the two men had stepped up on either side of him.
“Excuse me, shy can you spare a minute?” The speaker had a north-country accent.
“Sorry,” said Quist; “I’m late this morning, I must catch my train. If we can talk as we go I’d be glad to. What’s it all about?”
“I’ll have to ask you to step on one side,” said the north-countryman, taking something out of his pocket. “I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard, and would like you to answer a few questions.”
Quist stopped short. Someone behind nearly bumped into him, and glowered. The policemen were on either side, hemming him in. The card, in front of his eyes, said clearly: Criminal Investigation Department, Metropolitan Police, and there was a printed name on it. Detective Sergeant someone.
One of the men held his arm.
“There’s a quiet spot along here, sir,” said the north-countryman, almost too respectfully, and led the way.
So far, Quist hadn’t said a word. He needed no telling what this was all about, but still couldn’t decide what to say.
“This is all very well,” he managed to protest at last, “but I shall be late at my office, and—”
“We’ll telephone your apologies,” said the north-countryman, as they reached a spot near the up platform where very few people were about. “Would you mind telling me where you were on Monday evening? The evening before last?”
At ten o’clock that Wednesday morning, Roger West heard the telephone on his desk, and damned it for ringing. He had just been told that the cyclist was downstairs, with Ibbetson and a detective officer, and was on the point of going to see him. He picked up the receiver and said snappily: “West here.”
“Good morning, Mr. West,” said Miss Foster brightly. “The Colonel would like you to come and see him at half-past ten.”
“Right; thanks,” said Roger, and rang off; then wondered if he had been too curt. He grinned at himself, but wasn’t too sure that he could laugh Miss Foster off. He gathered up several papers, and hurried from his desk. Half an hour might be ample, or it might be far too short a time for an interview with the cyclist named Michael Quist.
The door opened as he reached it.
“’Alio, ’Andsome,” greeted Eddie Day. “’Ow’s tricks?” Something had obviously pleased Eddie, he was seldom as expansive as this. “Remember th
at ten-bob job? Good as the real things, they were; been a pain in the neck for over six months. Just caught the beggar. Know ’ow I did it? You’d never believe.”
Minutes were flying, and there were too few already. But the delight in Eddie’s face was so vivid that it would be cruel not to give him a little longer to exult.
“How did you, Eddie?”
“The paper,” Eddie exploded. “Must be a flaw in the paper-making plant, there was always a tiny black mark in the top right ’and corner, near the number. Always made a point of looking for this, I did. Then I was ’aving a dekko at some share stertificates.” Eddie could never pronounce ‘certificate’ properly. “Anything on the same kind of paper was all right for me, and gor-blimey, there it was! Same paper, so I made a bee-line for the same printer. Little cove, in Chelsea. Got him ’ung, drawn and quartered. ’Ow about it?”
“Wonderful!”
“Put me in good with His Nibs, this will,” Eddie said, rejoicing.
Roger said: “Fine,” as heartily as he could, and hurried out. The waiting-room was two floors down; he waited for the lift, thinking it would be quicker, and it was an age coming; when it came it was crowded.
He reached the waiting-room at last. It was ten minutes past ten. The window was so made that it was possible to see the people inside, without them seeing out. On the outside was a kind of ante-room, where Ibbetson waited. At times his slow, deliberate voice and manner could be the most irritating thing at the Yard.
“I haven’t much time now,” Roger said. “Just want a word with this chap. What do you make of him?”
“If you ask me, he looked as if he would throw himself under a train when we picked him up,” said Ibbetson. “He wasn’t any more surprised than a father would be about his baby.”
“Has he admitted he was in Page Street?”
“Yes, and claims he didn’t go into the house,” said Ibbetson. “I don’t think there’s much doubt he’s a liar. I thought I’d not ask him too much until you came.”
“Good, thanks,” said Roger, and moved towards the door. “Was he difficult?”
“Argued a bit at first, that’s all.”
“Got anything with his dabs on?”
“My cigarette case.” Ibbetson looked almost smug.
“Get ’em checked at Records, and with those taken at Page Street will you?”
“Yes,” The Sergeant went off.
Roger had caught a glimpse of a uniformed constable through the one-way window, and as he went in, his man turned to greet him, whilst the cyclist named Michael Quist stood up from an armchair; he had been perched on the edge. The constable said: “Good morning, sir.”
“’Morning, Evans. Leave us until I call, will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
Quist’s tension was quite obvious, and meant very little; most men would be tense if they were at the Yard under any kind of suspicion. He was a presentable-looking man, probably nearer thirty than the reports said. He had a good complexion and some tan, and was obviously very fit – the kind of man who looked after himself. His clothes were immaculate, he wore a light grey suit, his collar was laundry-fresh, and he was a careful shaver.
Roger shook hands.
“Sorry to have to bring you here, Mr. Quist; but we hope you can help us.”
Quist said: “I’ve told the other man the simple truth, and he obviously doesn’t believe me. I was out for an evening cycle ride.” His voice was pleasant but just now rather stilted.
If ever he had wanted plenty of time with a man, Roger did with this one. This wasn’t an interrogation to be hurried, and it had been a mistake to see Quist before going to the A.C. He had made a double mistake, for he had come here now because he hoped to have hot news for Jay.
Whenever one allowed oneself to be pushed out of one’s normal stride, things went wrong.
“I don’t think anyone has jumped to any conclusions,” Roger said. “Certainly I haven’t. I’m here alone because a confidential talk can’t be used at any time – your word would be as good as mine in any court of law. My name’s West, Chief Inspector West.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Quist declared.
“Never know whether to be pleased or sorry when I hear that,” said Roger, almost briskly. Promptly he reminded himself that he mustn’t hurry; undoubtedly Quist wanted nursing along. He had to decide pretty quickly what to do, though: he couldn’t get half-way, and then stop.
“I want to make one thing clear,” Quist said. “I know nothing about that woman or her murder. Nothing at all.”
Roger said slowly: “If you don’t, you’ve nothing to fear.” And as he spoke he studied Quist, and saw in the man’s expression something which suggested that he had some cause for fear; it was easy to understand why Ibbetson had jumped so quickly to a conclusion.
Roger put a finger on a bell-push, without explaining why, and when the constable put his head round the door, said almost casually: “Have a message sent to the Assistant Commissioner and tell him I’m very sorry, but I’ll be late, will you?”
The constable looked as if he hadn’t heard aright.
“Colonel Jay, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Er, very good, sir,” P.C. Evans said, and withdrew; obviously he thought that Roger had had a mental black-out, and was back in the spacious days of Sir Guy Chatworth.
Well, it was done, and Jay could like or dislike it. The first consideration was the job, and Quist was a big part of the job. Hurriedly or carelessly handled now, the case might fall down. So the Colonel could wait and Roger could put him out of his mind.
It wasn’t easy; in fact it was rather like conducting the examination with an unseen presence in the room. Roger couldn’t even be sure that he was assessing Quist properly. He was soon quite sure that Quist had a lot on his mind, if not on his conscience.
“Now … began Roger, as if he had all the time in the world.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve nothing to say that I haven’t said already,” Quist declared. “I was out for an evening cycle ride, called at the Rose and Crown for a drink, and then cycled round to see where the roads led to.”
“Why did you stop in Page Street?”
“If I did, it was only to light a cigarette.”
“Why stop outside that particular house?”
“I don’t know where I stopped.”
“How well did you know Rose Jensen?”
“I didn’t know her. I’ve never seen her, to the best of my knowledge. And I’ve nothing more to add,” Quist said flatly.
Roger wished he could take one swift look into this man’s mind …
Quist thought: “If I tell him the truth now and he checks with Gorringe, I’ll be out of trouble, but Sybil will be in as deep as she can be.”
He knew that he was being stubborn, but he’d made his decision. The police were bound to get on to Henry soon, anyhow. For all he knew, they might have had him at the Yard.
The man West asked in his clipped, assured way: “How long did you stop to light this cigarette?”
“I don’t even remember doing it.”
“Are you a heavy smoker?”
“Er—no.”
“Do you usually smoke while cycling?”
“Sometimes.”
West didn’t press the point, just let it add to Quist’s uneasiness, and then asked abruptly: “Did you see anyone else in Page Street?”
“Well—I suppose there were people about.”
“You suppose?” That was almost a bark.
“I didn’t notice anyone in particular,” Quist said, and then added almost gruffly: “There was an oldish man; I do remember him.”
“Had you ever seen him before?” West asked, and then went on abruptly: “A fattish man, wearing clerical grey?”
So they were on to Henry, Quist thought: he could safely keep quiet.
“I slipped up somewhere there,” West reflected. “He’s cheered up a lot.”
He was so intent on Qu
ist that he had completely forgotten Colonel Jay.
“Oh, Cortland,” said Colonel Jay to the senior Superintendent, “is it West’s habit to break appointments with his seniors, do you know?” The precise voice was quite without expression.
“Never know him do it without cause,” said Cortland, shortly.
“But it’s not uncommon?”
He was a most difficult man to dissemble with, Cortland knew; every interview with him was rather like being a witness at a court-martial.
“I think we can say that he always puts the job first, sir,” he said, and wasn’t very happy about the compromise.
The Colonel simply nodded, and turned away.
Chapter Six
Identification Parade
It was impossible to mistake the greater confidence in Quist’s eyes, and Roger felt sure that the cause of it turned on the elderly man. Perhaps the wise thing was to let it pass, try to get a line on that man and then tackle Quist again. Roger wanted results quickly, but the facts had to be right: he mustn’t fall down on his first job with Colonel Jay.
“Now let’s go over one or two things again,” he said patiently, and went through the same questions, getting the same answers.
“Are you sure Miss Jensen was a stranger to you?”
“Positive.”
“Had you ever been to Page Street before?”
“I didn’t even know it was Page Street!”
“It won’t help at all if you lie.”
“I’m not lying,” Quist said curtly.
Roger had a mental picture of Mrs. Kimmeridge, with her white blouse and black skirt, her talkativeness, her steady, ready hand with the teapot. She was the kind of witness it would be a joy to put in the box: quite clear in what she said, most impressive to both judge and jury. She had told him that a man answering Quist’s description had visited Rose Jensen several times. Prove Quist a liar once, and he would be suspected in everything he said.
“Very well,” Roger said, and still spoke easily. “Let’s leave that for a moment. Had you ever been to Page Street before?”
“No.”