The Doorway to Death

by John Creasey

  “Sure,” the girl said.

  Pegg put down the telephone, and began to chew the nail of a little finger.

  It was a good meal.

  Roger dabbed his lips with a paper serviette, and stood up. He had already paid the bill, and the taxi-driver had gone out ahead. He wondered if the motor-cyclist was still watching, and decided to stroll towards the corner and see for himself, but as he went out of the shop into the sunlight, the girl from Pegg’s warehouse came hurrying along. She had very high heels, and wobbled a little on spindly legs. Without smiling, she stopped in front of him; this was the last development he had expected.

  “Excuse me, Mr. West, Mr. Pegg is back, and he says would you be good enough to go and have a word with him? He’d be ever so grateful, really.”

  It wasn’t only unexpected, it smelt to high heaven; but there was no point in hesitating, because he still wanted to see Pegg. So Roger flashed his most amiable smile, and obviously startled the girl.

  “Yes, I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, thanks ever so.”

  The girl hurried back, her step still mincing, the frill at the end of her skirt frisking about her legs just below the knee. Roger strolled towards the taxi. The motor-cyclist had gone; his appearance could have been a coincidence. The taxi-driver was leaning against his cab and listening to a porter telling some tale about his wife and a lodger in loud tones which brought smirks and grins from a dozen people nearby. A man wheeled a barrow, laden with bananas, almost over the cabby’s toes.

  “I’ll be half an hour, Nobb,” Roger said. “Will you wait?”

  “Oke.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Be able to take a week’s holiday after this,” Nobb quipped. “At the public expense, you might say.”

  Roger grinned.

  Then he saw two policemen, standing together not far away; if they looked up now they would almost certainly recognise him, and he felt his heart beating uncomfortably. He didn’t want to avoid them deliberately; a trained constable had a habit of knowing when a man was doing that. So he stopped and looked into a fruit warehouse, then saw the pair go down a side street. He didn’t like the evasion at all, but hurried towards Pegg’s warehouse. On this side of it there was a small paved alley, a short cut to one of the market halls; several trolleys and barrows were being trundled along it. Roger saw them, but didn’t see a man standing just behind a tall pile of crates. Even if he had, he would not have recognised the motor-cyclist without his goggles.

  He reached the crates, and then heard Bill Sloan call softly: “Roger!”

  He swung round, really startled, his heart pounding. Sloan hadn’t moved. The crates gave him good cover from the street, but not from the entrance to the market hall.

  Roger went to him.

  “I don’t know what you’re planning to do,” Sloan said. “So far as I’m concerned I haven’t seen you, but every copper on the Force is looking out for you, and asking you to report to the A.C. The Yard’s buzzing with it; the Divisions soon will be, too. You’re taking a hell of a risk.”

  “It’s taken,” said Roger. “I wish you hadn’t stuck your neck out, but I’m damned glad to see you.” He kept his voice low. “How about the Harrisons, mother and son?”

  “The boy’s gone off somewhere; apparently he often plays truant,” Sloan said. “We’re having a man watch Mrs. Harrison. I passed your message on to Cortland; he reacted better than I thought he would.”

  “Corty’s all right,” Roger said. “Wish I knew where that boy’s gone, but there’s no case for putting a call out for him. Anything else in?”

  “Not much. Did a pretty thorough job at the Hadworth Bank, and there’s nothing to suggest that Henry’s in money trouble. Saxby’s say they’ll get their accountants to check all bank figures, but it’s a big job and will take days, and that will be too late for you. Had another go, through Brown, at Mrs. Henry and the daughter, Sybil, but they wouldn’t come across any more, Samuelson was at the Yard for an hour this morning; there was a conference – him, Jay and the Commissioner. That’s why I say you ought to show up.”

  “There are one or two things I ought to do before I come back,” Roger said quietly. “Nothing would stop Jay from standing me off now, so I might as well make a job of it. Just in case anything goes really wrong, and I am taken off the case—”

  He broke off.

  Three men pushing wheelcarts trundled by them; a fourth came striding along with eight or nine round baskets on his head, quite unconcerned.

  “Well?” Sloan asked, looking about as if he was equally anxious not to be seen.

  “Collusion among the witnesses is the line to follow. Young Harrison is Rose Jensen’s nephew, but tell Corty it’s probably better to keep that to ourselves for a bit. All right?”

  “Roger, why don’t you stop this caper, and come back to the Yard?” Sloan demanded, and obviously he would have liked to take Roger back by force. His voice actually quivered in his earnestness. “You can pass all this on to Corty and me before seeing Jay. We’ll follow it up, and while you’re having a few days’ rest—”

  Roger broke in sharply.

  “Sorry, Bill. I’ve been thinking about this all day. If Jay’s decided to make an example, he’ll make it good and proper. This could be my last case for a long time, could even be my last case. I’m going to try to see it through.”

  “I think you’re a damned fool.”

  “Perhaps I think I’m a damned fool, too,” Roger said. “If there’s any urgent message, leave it with Janet, and I’ll pick it up somehow or other.”

  “Pick it up is right,” Sloan grumbled, and added gloomily: “Corty says he wouldn’t be surprised if the next step is a call to pick you up. Jay’s getting really mad.”

  “It’s one of those things,” Roger said.

  Sloan eyed him searchingly, and then said with obvious reluctance: “I suppose it is. No use my trying any more, anyhow. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Roger nodded, and turned away.

  “I tell you I heard him say it,” Chick the motor-cyclist breathed to Pegg and Syd. “I nipped into the jimmy, and heard every word. Actually said he wouldn’t be surprised if the next stage wasn’t to pick West up. West’s in bad. There was something about having a rest, and the other copper said he ought to stop this caper.”

  He stopped, but still gasped for breath.

  “You know what?” said Syd very softly. “West is out on a limb. All we’ve got to do is to push him off. Treat him gently, Theo; don’t let him get away.”

  “I won’t let him get away,” said Pegg. “If we can fix West and all stick together, we’ll be sitting pretty.”

  “It’s a fine thing,” Syd said sneeringly. “You get us in the trouble, I get us out. After this I’ll be the master mind.”

  Pegg didn’t speak.

  Chapter Fifteen

  New Angle

  “You may very well say that it’s none of my business,” Samuelson said, in his most gentle voice, “but I can’t help saying that I hope you won’t let West get away with this, Mr. Assistant Commissioner. As we’ve just heard from Miss Henry, she did go to see him of her own accord. I’m glad to say that there was no effort on West’s part to interfere with a witness who might be called for the defence. But for him to use such violence against members of the Press who were doing their public duty—” He broke off.

  Colonel Jay looked exactly as he had when Cortland had talked to him earlier.

  “I shall bear in mind what you say,” he said. “Thank you for bringing this to my notice. And thank you for your information, Miss Henry.” He looked at the girl, who was rising from her chair near a comer of his desk. “You have been very good.”

  She didn’t speak.

  She was dressed in a linen two-piece, and wearing a small hat of the same apple-green colour. She looked fresh and charming; if she felt worked-up she hadn’t shown it since arriving here with Samuelson to see the Assistant Commissioner. Sa
muelson, with his benevolent expression, his silvery hair and pinkish complexion, might have been her father.

  “You may be sure that if Mr. Quist is not guilty of the murder, we shall find out,” Jay said. “I hope you will understand me when I say that if there should be any other item of information which you wish the police to know, it would be much wiser to come here and report, and not to go to the home of any individual.”

  “I think you forget how worried I was,” Sybil said, quite firmly. “And I felt sure that I could get a hearing from Mr. West. There’s one other thing I ought to say before we go.”

  “Yes, Miss Henry?”

  “Mr. West didn’t start the fighting last night; he was very strongly provoked. He didn’t strike any one of the others before his son was attacked.”

  Samuelson shrugged, disparagingly.

  Jay said: “Were you an eye-witness all the time, Miss Henry?”

  “No, but—”

  “How do you know who started the fracas?”

  “I heard what was going on, and Martin West told me afterwards that—”

  “A son would naturally side with his father,” Samuelson put in smoothly, and Jay nodded. “I don’t think we should take up any more of the Assistant Commissioner’s time, Miss Henry. He asked you to come and tell him exactly what you saw happen, and I know he’s grateful.”

  “Most grateful.”

  Sybil said, almost helplessly: “I don’t seem to have helped. Colonel Jay—”

  “My dear—”

  “Yes. Miss Henry?”

  “Would it be possible to see Mick—Mr. Quist—even for a few minutes?”

  “I am afraid that is not possible,” the Colonel said, and as the girl turned away, he went on in a voice which obviously had an edgier note in it: “Had you any knowledge of his association with Miss Jensen?”

  Sybil caught her breath. “I don’t believe he ever knew her.”

  “I’m sure we’ve stayed too long,” murmured Samuelson. “Good day, Assistant Commissioner.”

  When they had gone, Jay stood looking out of the window, tight-lipped, watching a few people hurrying, many dawdling, the pleasure-boats on the river, and the stream of traffic flowing in either direction over Westminster Bridge.

  Each year Roger interviewed hundreds, sometimes thousands, of different people. Each year his ability to judge their integrity and truthfulness became a little better. Each year his first-sight judgement was usually confirmed by results and events, but occasionally he was hopelessly wide of the mark. That made him wary of being emphatic in his opinion.

  He had few reservations about Theophilus Pegg.

  Pegg didn’t do his job badly, though. He protested a little too much, was a little too earnest and virtuous, and too apologetic; and he had almost certainly been in the office when Roger had first called.

  “… I do assure you, Mr. West, my cousin and I are very anxious indeed to help in every way we can; we wouldn’t like any injustice done. As I’ve said, all we want is to see Miss Jensen avenged; no one ought to be allowed to get away with murder. I couldn’t agree with you more about that. Ever since you called and told Kate – that’s Mrs. Harrison, of course – that you were afraid that her son had lied, she’s been very worried. Of course she sprang to his defence; what mother wouldn’t? She wouldn’t like to think he had told a falsehood which got other people into trouble. You know how boys are, Mr. West, and this boy isn’t a liar, but like all of them at his age he does like the limelight, does like to attract attention to himself. I’m sure that if he did tell any falsehood, it was without malicious intent.”

  Roger said: “I hope you’re right.”

  “Well, I’m sure I am,” said Pegg. “I can’t say that I know the boy didn’t—er, exaggerate, shall we say?—but I’m positive it would be without malice. His mother thinks it might be very helpful if you would go and see her again, and she tells me – over the telephone, I haven’t seen her, Mr. West – she tells me that she thinks she might have a little information about her sister’s murder that might be helpful. You know that the two sisters saw very little of each other, don’t you?”

  “So little that Mrs. Harrison didn’t come forward as a relation,” Roger observed.

  Nor had Pegg.

  “I know, it was unfortunate,” Pegg said smoothly; “but then she is a lady with an untarnished reputation, and you know how scandal affects one’s so-called friends and neighbours. However, if you feel that she has nothing to say that might be helpful, I shall understand. She will be very disappointed, but—”

  He broke off.

  That there was a trick in this proposition stood out as plainly as Theophilus Pegg’s addiction to whisky. That didn’t mean that Roger shouldn’t go and talk to the Harrison woman. He had scared them all, and they were going to try to cover up; it was essential to find out how, and he couldn’t think of any other way. If things had been normal he would have waited, it wouldn’t do Mrs. Harrison or Pegg any harm to sweat for a night; but he hadn’t a chance of staying on the job beyond today.

  So he had to hand it over now, or else agree to see the woman soon.

  He had arranged for her house to be watched, and it wouldn’t be easy to get in there without being seen by the Yard man. Probably it wouldn’t even be possible, unless some kind of diversion was created; but he didn’t intend to call on Pegg for help. Pegg was watching intently, and obviously his anxiety was real, not pretended. He was scared, Mrs. Harrison was scared, Henry was scared. It was a damned queer business. First Quist on a plate, now these people too, if he handled the job properly. Roger found himself thinking beyond that again, and wondering what lay behind it all. Why should five people gang up to save themselves, being so ruthless that they would gladly see an innocent man convicted? They couldn’t be more vindictive towards Quist if they were setting out to frame him deliberately; if he had been an intended victim from the beginning.

  Could they be ganging up on Quist because he was Quist, not simply because he had chanced to be in Page Street?

  Had it been sheer chance?

  Was Quist also lying, to save himself?

  Roger hadn’t wondered about that seriously before. He didn’t want to concentrate on it now, but would have to. If he turned up at the Yard again with the case as confused as it was now, he could say goodbye to rank.

  He’d probably have to do more than that, as he’d hinted to Sloan. It was in his mind, lurking as a horror in a nightmare. He might even have to say goodbye to the Yard.

  Thoughts took so little time.

  Pegg watched Roger, frowning and a little puzzled because he was taking so long to answer, but that was all. Pegg didn’t know how many conflicting ideas had gone through Roger’s mind, didn’t know that Roger was coming rapidly to a decision: that he would have to try to get to the bottom of all of this alone if he was to stand any chance of getting out of trouble.

  “Yes, I’ll see Mrs. Harrison,” he decided. “When will she be in?”

  “Why, any time, Mr. West; you’re very good to take the trouble. She’s on the telephone, I’ll give her a call.” Pegg didn’t overdo his satisfaction.

  Roger said: “I can’t tell you when I’ll call, but I hope she’ll be in when I do.”

  “Oh, she’ll wait in; she’s very anxious to put any misunderstanding right.”

  West stood up. “I hope she means it,” he said. “Thanks, Mr. Pegg.”

  “It’s a real pleasure to help the police at any time,” Pegg said, and hurried ahead of him to open the door. “I really mean that, Mr. West, especially such a distinguished officer as you.”

  Roger kept a straight face …

  The afternoon sun struck warm. He had been in the office for less than twenty minutes, but now the warmth seemed much greater and there were fewer people in the streets. Fruit and vegetable warehouses which had been opened, with vans being loaded outside, were closed. A few elderly men were sweeping up the rubbish, without any enthusiasm. The taxi was a little way
along the road. Roger went towards it, watching, making sure that he wasn’t followed.

  He saw no trace of anyone.

  It was nearly three o’clock. If he went straight to Hadworth Palace Road, it would suggest that he was much too anxious to see Mrs. Harrison. But how could he use the time? If he could call the Yard and give orders to Ibbetson and Brown, and work from there himself, he could fill every minute of the day, but now time threatened to hang heavily. The new angle on Quist was teasing him, too, and as he got into the taxi, he said: “We’ll go to North Hadworth again – Laurel Avenue.”

  “What’s the matter with the police cars today?” the cabby asked. “They gone on strike?”

  “I don’t want to let the people I call on know in advance who I am.”

  “That so?” Nobb turned round to look at Roger through the glass partition, and then said very quietly: “It’s none of my business, Mr. West, but up at the shelter some of the chaps was saying that the sergeant on this beat asked them to give him the tip if they saw you. Said he’s got an urgent message for you. You told me to keep my mouth shut, so I kept it shut.”

  Roger said warmly: “Thanks.”

  “Still want to go to North Hadworth?”

  “Yes.”

  “As I said, it’s none of my business,” the taxi-driver said, and turned round.

  He hadn’t smiled.

  It took them nearly half an hour to get through the early home-going traffic to North Hadworth, and to Laurel Avenue. Real warmth lay upon the suburb, and on the little houses with their neat gardens. Colourful garden umbrellas and swings showed here and there, deck-chairs were pulled up on the grass under the shade. Only the children played, but one gardening enthusiast pushed an old lawn-mower. There were two deck-chairs on the lawn at the side of Henry’s house, but only one was occupied. As Roger got out of the taxi he couldn’t be sure who it was; then he saw Sybil Henry look round, and start up from the chair at sight of him.