The Doorway to Death

by John Creasey

  Quist stood up eagerly from a small chair, but his disappointment was very clear when he recognised Roger. “Leave us, will you?” Roger said to the warder.

  “Going to be long, sir?”

  “Ten minutes at most.”

  “Okay.” The warder stood aside, then closed the door behind them, and locked it. Of course, he had to; routine was routine, and risks were risks, but the locking of the door did something to Roger. If Jay did get a brainwave, if he did telephone an inquiry—

  “Good morning,” Quist said quietly.

  He looked tired, but well; his colour was back, and the glint in his eyes was vividly remindful of Sybil Henry’s. He was obviously wary.

  “Good morning,” Roger greeted, and offered cigarettes, then went on abruptly: “Quist, I saw Miss Henry last night. She told me her version of what happened on Monday. Give me yours again, quickly.”

  Quist said slowly: “You’ve no right to ask me to make a statement without my lawyer being present.”

  “I’ve every right, but I can’t make you answer,” Roger said. “You can shelter behind Samuelson or anyone you like. They’re interested only in one thing: getting you free. They might be able to do it with an astute defence. They might quite easily get a ‘Not Guilty’ verdict which would leave a bad taste in your mouth and the public’s mouth for a long time. They’re not interested in finding out who did kill this woman, though. I am. I don’t give a damn whether it was you, Miss Henry, or any one out of the nine million people in London, I want the truth and nothing else, because I don’t want to take the slightest chance that a murderer is running around loose. I think you can help. If you didn’t do this job, someone seems determined to make it look as if you did. So either you did it or you’re being framed. Don’t interrupt, just think. Why should anyone want to frame you? What else was in that report? What do you know that you haven’t told me? You might give me the line I need to start looking for someone else. The one thing you have to believe is that I want the murderer in dock, not any particular individual.”

  He stopped.

  He could not realise how tensely he had spoken, or how it impressed Quist. He did see the change in Quist’s expression, as if this approach bewildered him. He knew that time was going fast, that there was the risk that Jay would pick up the telephone and check.

  Quist said: “I’ve told you everything I can.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Nobb

  “Listen to me,” Roger said almost desperately; “if you’re innocent we need proof. You’ve got to try to remember every trifle that may help.”

  “I’ve made myself silly, thinking about it,” Quist said helplessly.

  “Do you know a man named Pegg – Theophilus Pegg?” Roger asked.

  “I don’t know him, but I know of him,” Quist answered. “He’s an agent for several box-making and packaging manufacturers and specialises in unusual box designs for tropical use. Saxby’s do quite a lot of business with him.”

  “Were any Pegg cheques altered?”

  “I didn’t see any,” said Quist, “but I’m only a junior member of the staff, and couldn’t get the cancelled cheques or bank statements on my own authority. I couldn’t ask Mr. Gorringe to send for them without saying why. I just watched when and where I could. I found cheques for Cole’s, Edger’s and Marshall’s.” Quist broke off, frowning, as if he had just remembered something. Roger waited.

  “I’ll tell you one thing I hadn’t realised before,” said Quist. “The invoices from Pegg’s, Marshall’s, Cole’s and Edger’s were all printed by the same people, and made out on the same typewriter – an old one. I suppose I noticed it but didn’t give it a second thought. Could that help?”

  “Possibly.” Roger fought back excitement. “Did you say this in your report?”

  “No.”

  “What made you write out the report after all?”

  “A new cheque came in, altered by three hundred pounds.”

  “Whose cheque?”

  “Cole’s, the fuel people.”

  “Did anyone see you make out that report?”

  “I don’t see how they could; I did it at home.”

  “Do you think Henry had any reason to suspect you were watching him?”

  “Well—I suppose he could have. I questioned him pretty closely when I last saw him, about smaller discrepancies, and his method of checking.”

  “So he could have suspected that you were on to him,” Roger said. “What kind of envelope was the report in?”

  “A thick manilla legal envelope.”

  “Addressed to Gorringe in your handwriting?”

  “Yes; I put it in his In basket, and covered it with some file copies of letters. Mr. West, in view of that report, why was I charged?” Quist demanded.

  Roger said. “Gorringe didn’t get it.”

  Quist began: “What on earth—” and then stopped, backed away, and sat down heavily. His colour seemed to run from his cheeks.

  “I see,” he said after a pause. “No altered cheques, nothing to bear out what I’ve said. It’s—but it’s incredible!” He could see that it might be deadly.

  Roger said quietly: “Get it into your head that we don’t plan to convict innocent men. Now, I’d like some other details – of Saxby’s business with these firms, for instance.”

  “Most of them supply fairly regular things – food, for the canteen; fuel; goods in steady use. Pegg’s are different. We have our own air freight service to the tropics, and Pegg’s do the boxing and packaging, and supply special packaging material.”

  “What kind of goods do Saxby’s make for the tropical market?”

  “Oh, everything in rubber and plastic, like hot-water bottles, stoppers, engine parts, soles and heels for shoes, what we call mechanical goods,” Quist said. “They’re mostly moulded, and it’s a very big business.”

  “I see,” said Roger. “Do you know Theophilus Pegg personally?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know a boy named Clive Harrison?”

  “I know a David Harrison, a George Harrison and a Marjorie.”

  “A sixteen-year-old schoolboy.”

  “No.”

  “A Mrs. Kimmeridge?”

  “No. Who are—”

  “Ever been to the Angel, in Chelsea?”

  “Yes, years ago.”

  “Not this year?”

  “Not for seven or eight years. I used to go to the Polytechnic at Chelsea, and—”

  “All right. Had you any earlier idea of any trouble between Mr. and Mrs. Henry?”

  “No, but I didn’t know much about them. It didn’t surprise me that Henry was on edge, of course. I thought he himself was probably altering the cheques under pressure.” Quist seemed as frank as a man could be; as frank and honest as Sybil Henry. But if he was telling the truth, was the girl? Supposing Sybil Henry had deliberately sent Quist after her father, knowing that her father was going to kill the other woman. Quist would be the victim of a vicious, cruel conspiracy.

  “Ever been into the branch of the bank where Henry works?” Roger asked.

  “Yes, now and again, to pay money in.”

  “Ever heard any kind of money trouble in the Henry family?”

  “No. I hope you aren’t going to push these questions about them; I don’t know that I want to.”

  “That’s the lot,” Roger said, with the briskness which had characterised him since he had come in the cell. “But I ought to add this: I can’t use what you’ve told me, because there was no witness to either statement. You need not tell Samuelson that you’ve just talked to me. It’s entirely up to you. But my own view is that it would be wise to tell him, and for you to stick to your statement, if it’s true. Don’t let him or anyone else stop you from making and signing it officially. Don’t put it off.”

  Quist said: “I’ll have to think it over, and do what seems wisest.”

  “I’m doing what I think best, too,” Roger said, with a twisted smile.


  The brightness of the sunshine outside the prison walls looked inviting. Roger stepped out, the big gates clanged behind him, and he found himself breathing deeply. There were so many things he wanted to do urgently – among them, see Mr. Bouncy Pegg again. The taxi was round the corner, and the driver had a copy of the Witness in front of him; but he made no comment, except: “So they didn’t keep you in?”

  “Not today,” Roger said. “Now Chelsea, please: the Midpro Bank in the High Street near the Town Hall.”

  “Right.”

  They reached the bank at five minutes past ten. At ten minutes past Roger came out; he had a hundred pound notes distributed about his pockets, and hoped that they would be more than enough to meet any emergency. He went next to Hadworth Station, stopped there, went to a kiosk and telephoned Janet. She answered herself.

  “Jan.”

  “Roger ! Have you seen—”

  “Yes. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But hasn’t the Assistant—”

  “Haven’t seen him,” Roger said. “I’m following a lead which might take me out of town for a day or two, so don’t worry.”

  “A day or so?”

  “Yes,” Roger said. “Don’t be too surprised if you don’t hear from me. How did the boys like the pretty pictures?”

  “I don’t think they’ve seen them yet,” Janet said, “but everyone else has. The telephone’s been ringing about every five minutes.”

  “Tell ’em all the same – no comment,” said Roger. “’Bye, my sweet.”

  But he doubted whether he had fooled her.

  He went straight to Henry’s bank, as nearly sure as he could be that Henry had known Rose Jensen, and knew much that he hadn’t admitted. The bank was crowded, but a clerk recognised him, and said: “I’ll let Mr. Henry know you’re here, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said.

  Henry kept him waiting for nearly ten minutes, and when Roger sat opposite him, there was a noticeable smell of whisky. So Henry had needed some Dutch courage.

  Roger was brusque …

  Henry said flatly that he had never seen or heard of Rose Jensen and that it was unfortunate that his daughter had become enamoured of a man who had. He hadn’t been to Page Street. He hadn’t left the Rose and Crown. That was all. Yet he gave Roger an even stronger impression that he had a lot to hide.

  Roger felt curiously dejected when he left the bank – and then came out of his reverie with shock. Ibbetson was walking across a zebra crossing, towards the bank; he might have a message from Jay.

  Roger waited, tensely. Ibbetson hadn’t caught sight of him, but the detective officer did now, and they both glanced his way. Then they drew up, a yard away from a zebra crossing, and it was still difficult to be sure whether they had any special message or not.

  “Good morning, sir.” That was the D.O.

  “’Morning.”

  “Glad I’ve caught you, sir,” said Ibbetson, and could not even begin to suspect how tightly Roger’s teeth were clenching. “I knew you wanted quick results, so I went to the Hadworth Echo office. I felt sure they’d have one or two photographs of Mr. Charles Henry, and they had. I took them along to Mrs. Kimmeridge, with several other photographs. She didn’t pick Henry out, sir, but said that she was sure that the old man who went to see Miss Jensen wasn’t in any of the photographs.”

  Roger felt his heart thumping.

  “Did you check with any other neighbours?”

  “Two now say they’ve seen this fat chap at Page Street, but it didn’t get us anywhere,” Ibbetson said. “One didn’t pick out any photo at all, the other picked out Henry and two others, but said she couldn’t really be sure. The only person we can trace who’s seen this chap at close quarters is Mrs. Kimmeridge, sir, and she’s quite positive.”

  “I see,” said Roger. “Well. Anything fresh about Henry at the Rose and Crown?”

  “There’s no doubt he was there until after ten o’clock. A barman says he was in early, too – a relief barman, who seems all right.”

  “Keep at it,” Roger said. “Try to find out if Henry left at all, and the length of time he was away, if any.” But it looked as if Henry was in the clear. “Anything new about Rose Jensen?”

  “We have picked up a trifle.” Ibbetson spoke almost as if he was deliberately making an understatement. “We found one or two envelopes addressed to her in the dustbin, but don’t know who from. There was also a spoiled envelope which she’d started to address.”

  “Who to?” Roger asked eagerly.

  “A Mrs. Harrison.”

  There was a long pause, while traffic and people passed, and thoughts jostled each other in Roger’s head. At last he said: “No address?”

  “No, sir. There was a big ink blot, which had spoiled the envelope.”

  “Harrison,” Roger said heavily. “Well, it isn’t exactly an unusual name. Do you remember the boy Harrison’s address?”

  “Yes, sir. 101 Hadworth Palace Road.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive. He goes to Hadworth Grammar School.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger. He felt more doubtful about the case than ever. Ibbetson had dug out a cousin of Rose Jensen, who was the owner of a business connected with the forged cheques which Quist had talked about. Now, the dead woman was known to someone bearing the same name as a second witness against Quist. Coincidence?

  At least nothing Ibbetson said suggested that either of the Yard men knew that he was being sought by Jay, but Roger wanted a word with Sloan or anyone who could tell him whether Jay was making much fuss.

  Ibbetson and the other man went off.

  Roger walked past the taxi, and said to Nobb: “Go round the next corner, then the first left. I’ll join you in that street.” He walked on after the man’s grunt of acknowledgment, and reached a corner and turned round it, so that he would meet the cab. Ibbetson hadn’t followed him. It was only two minutes before Nobb came up, and he got in.

  “Do you know Page Street, Elwell?”

  “Know of it,” Nobb said.

  “Take me there, wall you? And when we get into it, head for Hadworth Palace Road.”

  “Hadworth Palace? Why don’t we go there first?”

  “Don’t you want the meter to keep ticking away?”

  “Okay,” the cabby said.

  They reached Page Street at about a quarter to eleven. A policeman stood at one corner, another outside Number 31. Rose Jensen’s flat was sealed now, but the police were making sure that sightseers didn’t become a nuisance. Both policemen stared towards the cab, but it wasn’t likely that they recognised Roger. The cab turned right at the end of the street, then doubled back for five minutes before turning off to Hadworth Palace Road.

  Roger was drawing very deeply on a cigarette.

  Clive Harrison had said that he had been waiting to see a girl. That girl might be worth an interview. He was anxious to see the boy again, and to get an assessment of him from someone quite dispassionate.

  “Hadworth Grammar School, now,” Roger said to Nobb. He tossed his cigarette out of the window, and sat back. He was getting used to the idea that he was on the run, but it wasn’t remotely exhilarating. The need to know Jay’s reaction nagged at him all the time.

  The school was a modern one, built only on the ground-floor, with playing-fields on three sides. The tree-lined road was bright and shady in the warm sun. No houses were near the school, which stood on a slight rise of ground; there was a public park near it. Roger had the cabby stop outside the front entrance, and went hurrying towards it, still looking about him as if there was a risk of being seen by someone who might give him away.

  The big, bare hall was empty, and Roger glanced into several doorways, but found only empty rooms. Then a little red-haired man came along, taking very short steps.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like a word with the headmaster, please, if it’s possible.”

  “I’ll ask him, sir; I’m his secretary. This
way, please.”

  It was possible.

  The headmaster was not unlike Charles Henry to look at, except that he was ten years younger, much more grey and had unmistakable lines of humour at his eyes; Henry had looked as if he hadn’t laughed for years. This room was spare and bright and somehow not quite right; a little shabby, perhaps. But the headmaster was an adept at putting callers at their ease.

  “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. West, but your son—”

  Roger broke in, smiling. “I’m sorry, I’ve probably misled you. My son isn’t here. I’ve called about another boy.”

  “I assure you I haven’t mistaken your identity,” said the headmaster. “We had your elder son here only a few weeks ago, in the semi-finals of the boxing competition. We have a very fine gymnasium. Remarkable physique for a boy of his age. I—er—I almost felt sorry for his victim that night!”

  Here at least was warmth and friendliness. “How can I help you, Mr. West?”

  “I’d like a confidential report on one of your senior pupils,” Roger said, “and I really mean confidential.”

  “Are you asking officially?”

  He wasn’t under suspension yet.

  “Yes.”

  “Then of course I’ll give you all the help I can.”

  “Thank you,” said Roger, and put his question very clearly and deliberately: “Do you think it is wise to rely on the word of a pupil here named Clive Harrison? In your opinion, is he completely reliable and trustworthy?”

  The headmaster’s smile faded, and for a while he made no attempt to answer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Angry Mother

  The longer the headmaster sat there, the more Roger believed that even if he answered at all, he would be evasive; but evasion would be as good as an answer. The bare, shabby office with the gown and mortar-board hanging behind the flat desk, which needed re-varnishing, was very quiet until the headmaster said: “Clive is a remarkable boy in many ways, Mr. West. He is probably the most brilliant we have at the school – perhaps it would be more honest to say our one really brilliant boy. He is quite exceptional in his grasp of mathematics, and we all hope that he will go a long way. There’s no doubt that he should. However, the school is only one factor in education, and not always the most important. Environment has a great deal to do with the making of a boy’s future, and I can tell you this: Clive lost his father, in rather unhappy circumstances, only three years ago. Until that time his father had a very strong influence over him. Since then—well, I can say that he’s headstrong, and whenever allowed to have his head, very difficult. I confess that I would very much like to help him. Frankly”—the headmaster waved his hands a little, and gave a taut smile—“I’m talking so freely because it is conceivable that an encounter with the police might be helpful at this stage. That’s as far as I can go, Mr. West, unless you can be more specific. For instance, has the boy committed any offence?”