by John Creasey
He hurried across, feeling the stinging heat of the sun. She looked so cool, in contrast. She seemed surprised and even anxious, too. Could she have conspired with her father to send Quist to Page Street?
“Mr. West, have you any news?”
“No news, just one or two more questions,” Roger said apologetically. “I’m sorry to have to worry you again, but—”
“It’s quite all right. Won’t you sit down?”
“I mustn’t stay,” Roger said, and forced an easy-looking smile. “There aren’t enough hours in the day! You told me that you felt quite sure that Mr. Quist did not know Miss Jensen.”
“I still feel quite sure.”
“Did you know any of Mr. Quist’s friends?”
“Only—only some of the people at the tennis club.”
“You didn’t know any of his personal friends, or his family?”
She didn’t answer at once, and Roger thought that she was preparing to freeze up.
“No,” she said at last. “I did make it clear that we haven’t known each other very long, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Roger said. “It might help more if you knew him well. Miss Henry, has Mr. Quist ever suggested anything that might imply that he was worried, or in any kind of danger or difficulty?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Has he ever given you any indication that he had a personal enemy, with cause for resentment—”
“Mr. West, why don’t you believe the simple truth?” Sybil demanded, and her voice was pitched high. “Mr. Quist is quite well off, he has an excellent job and very good prospects. He has lived a perfectly normal life, and there is nothing sinister about him at all. Why don’t you look for the real murderer?”
No: she hadn’t conspired against Quist.
That was the moment when the garden gate opened, and Charles Henry came walking towards them.
Chapter Sixteen
Real Murderer?
Henry had probably heard the last words. Undoubtedly he had been within earshot. Now he stared at his daughter as he drew nearer, his face set and his eyes glittering; and his expression was a certain indication that he had heard. West saw him then as an old man; one to whom something had happened during the day to bring the years heavily upon him. His fists were clenched, and he strode with restrained vigour. As he drew close, Roger thought that he was going to strike his daughter.
He stood still, a yard away from her.
“Now I know what you’ve been trying to do,” he said in a savage voice. “You’ve tried to damn your own father so as to save that swine Quist. You damned, heartless little ingrate, you’re no daughter of mine.” He thrust his face closer to hers; all the muscles and nerves were twitching. “Get out of my house, and don’t come back. Pack all your belongings, and don’t ever let me set eyes on you again. Why, I could choke the life out of Quist, after what he’s done to me. And you’ve let him use you—”
His hands, crooked like claws, came up.
“Someone choked the life out of Rose Jensen,” Roger said coldly, and stared at those big hands.
Henry darted a glance at them, too. He seemed to sway. He dropped his arms by his side, and swung towards the house, and Sybil turned as if to follow him.
“I shouldn’t,” Roger said. “Not yet.”
As he spoke, Henry reached the side door of the house, and swung on his heel. Behind him was a background of bright green leaves and the gaiety of flowers, softness and beauty. But his mouth worked and he showed how ugly man could be.
“I didn’t kill that woman, I didn’t even know her, but Quist did. I can prove it, too. Don’t you forget, West, I can prove it; you’re not going to get away with this. Coming creeping round the place, turning my own daughter against me; you’re a disgrace to the police. If you had any sense at all you’d know that Quist was lying about me. He didn’t tell you the truth. But my own daughter would rather believe a scoundrel with a smooth tongue than—”
He broke off, choking on the words.
“If you can prove anything against Quist or anyone else, prove it now,” Roger said.
Henry didn’t speak, but turned away.
His wife appeared in the doorway, despairing.
Quite without warning, Henry seemed to double up. He fell into her arms, massive against her smallness, and began to cry.
There were tears in Sybil’s eyes.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Roger asked gently.
“I’ve told you everything I can,” she said, in a voice which threatened to break at any moment. “God knows I don’t want to do anything to hurt my father, but I had to tell the truth.” She lowered her voice, and repeated in a whisper: “I had to tell the truth.”
Then she walked towards her mother and father.
Roger got into the taxi, carrying a vivid mental picture of Charles Henry hurling that pathetic defiance at him. If anything was certain, it was the burden on Henry’s mind. Subjected to the right pressures at that moment, he would probably have broken down and told the truth, might even have confessed to the murder of Rose Jensen.
But was he the murderer? Was he right about Quist? Did his talk of ‘proving it’ mean anything? It had sounded like hopeless bluster; for if Henry knew anything against Quist, why didn’t he say what it was?
The taxi was still waiting.
“Going anywhere this time?” the cabby asked again.
“Sorry. First a telephone kiosk, then Hadworth Palace Road again, and stop right outside Number 101, will you?” Roger took five pounds from his pocket; two pounds more than the meter showed. “I’ll pay you now. Wait for twenty minutes, and if I’m not out by then you carry on and I’ll make my own way back to the Yard.”
The cabby grunted.
It might be imagination, but he seemed to have developed a marked lack of enthusiasm since he had heard about the message from the Yard. He was puzzled, of course, and might have heard more than he had said. By now, rumour would have swollen to great scandal at the Yard and in the Divisions, and there would be the careless talkers even among the police. In a way it would be a relief to get to the Yard and see Jay; at least the tension would be relaxed, and Jay would have to study any report.
Roger dialled the Yard from the nearest kiosk, and asked for Sloan again. When Sloan answered, Roger used the assumed voice, and said: “Mr. West thinks it would be useful if the man at the front of 101 Hadworth Palace Road was off for half an hour, soon.”
“What the devil—” Sloan began.
“Fix it, will you?” Roger urged in his normal voice, and rang off and went back to the cab.
They were approaching the station at Hadworth when a police car passed, and Roger saw it slow down, and then swing round. That might be routine, or it might be because the driver or passenger had seen and recognised him. He didn’t turn round to look, but soon saw the car pulling alongside. The passenger peered towards him as if to make sure who it was. Once he saw him, he waved, then called out so that Roger could hear.
“Pull into the kerb, Nobb.”
The taxi-driver, already slowing down, obeyed immediately. The police car pulled up in front, and both driver and passenger jumped out. That’s what they would do if they were going to hold a man. But their expressions did not suggest anything sensational, and they looked in at the same window, from the kerb.
“Good afternoon, Mr. West.”
“Hallo. Trouble?”
“We’ve been looking for you most of the day, sir; there’s an urgent request for you to communicate with Superintendent Cortland. Like to use our radio?”
“Good idea,” said Roger. “Thanks.” He got out, and walked with them. One man leaned inside and flicked on the radio, then they both stood by the car, showing no particular interest in what was being said.
There were the familiar noises; the Information Room; eagerness in the voice of the man who responded; and then, very heavy and deliberate, Cortland’s voice.
“That you, West?”
“I hear you want to talk to me.”
“That’s right. Report here just as soon as you can, and make it snappy.”
“Right,” said Roger. “I’ve one other call to make before—”
“I shouldn’t make it.”
“Listen, Corty; I’ve been chasing this job all day. I’ve one more call to make, and then I think I’ll have quite a story for you. If I don’t make it now, I’ll be throwing a day’s work away. I’ll come straight on to the Yard when I’ve finished here.”
He didn’t give the Superintendent a chance to argue, but switched off. He was sweating, because Cortland’s tone had confirmed everything that Sloan had said, but he didn’t see what else he could possibly have done.
“Okay, sir?” the patrolmen were bluff.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Right, sir!”
They went back to their car, and Roger got into the taxi. He wondered if they would follow; instead, they turned the car and went on the way they had been going, and that gave some relief: at least there was no general call except for him to report.
The taxi-driver seemed more affable.
“Everything all right, sir?”
“Everything’s always been all right.” Roger got in and sat back, lit a cigarette, and brushed his hand over his forehead. He was sweating so much that he could shake the moisture from his hand. This was it: see Mrs. Harrison, and die! Crazy thought. Worm the truth out of her somehow, so that he could have a real story for the Yard, something he could back with proof. Because he hadn’t any proof yet, only a succession of hunches and impressions supported by the discovery that Kate Harrison was Rose Jensen’s sister, and Kate hadn’t come forward voluntarily.
He saw no Yard man opposite Number 101; Sloan was a friend indeed. He went to the house. The taxi-driver waited until the door opened and Kate Harrison stood in front of Roger. Nobb waited until Roger had gone inside, waited twenty minutes and then moved off.
The sight of Kate Harrison shouted a warning.
Roger had realised that morning that she could be quite a woman. Then she had been about her housework, without make-up, and wearing that old, sloppy dress. Now she was made up to kill, and a man wouldn’t be human who didn’t feel something of her attention. She didn’t overdo the neckline, or even the bra support; she didn’t need to. She wore a short-sleeved dress of biscuit colour, with an edging of scarlet at the square neck, the sleeves and the hem; and it had huge scarlet buttons. Her hair was still brassy, but it looked as if she had been to the hairdresser since seeing him; it was soft, and it had quite a sheen. She’d put on a little mascara, but not too much; she was made up rather more than Janet would be, but no more than a lot of women. She had quite a smile, and was using it.
Roger couldn’t mistake her intention; she was going to try to win him round. There was the light pressure of her cool fingers on his hot hand as she drew him into the room. He could be amused by it, but not so much as he would have liked; he was too worried, too sharply conscious of the fact that he had to get some evidence which would stand up to the closest scrutiny,
“It’s ever so good of you to come,” she said. “When my cousin Theo told me he’d caught you, I was ever so relieved – I shouldn’t like to give you a wrong impression.” Still with her cool fingers on his, she led the way into the front room. It was all so obvious, yet not really overdone.
She flashed a smile.
The blinds were half drawn, to shut out the bright sunlight which now struck the windows. The small but well-furnished room, with its pleasant décor and its good furniture, had a real charm. A table, standing knee high between two easy-chairs, was laden with melt-in-the-mouth-looking sandwiches and small cakes which looked delicious. There was half a rich fruit cake on a silver stand, and near it a silver teapot, a tray and a spirit lamp. Kate lit the lamp, and as the gentle flame swayed beneath the kettle, motioned to a chair, and said: “The water is nearly boiling, we’ll soon have a cup of tea.”
Mrs. Kimmeridge’s opening gambit, too.
“Why don’t you just sit back for a minute; you look so hot?” Kate suggested. “It’s ever such a sticky day to go chasing around, isn’t it? I say, would you like a wash while the kettle’s boiling? You’ll be ever so welcome.”
It would be welcome, too.
Roger said: “That’s a good idea, thanks,” and tried to infuse some heartiness into his voice. He hadn’t sat down. He felt so sure that this was the parlour and he was the fly, but that was all: she wanted to make a good impression, meant to try to ease the pressure off. This was the way she was out to fool him, by putting up a nice act of sweet innocence. But here was Circe; and here was the sister of a murdered woman whose son had given a false statement to the police, and who had disappeared before the police could question him again.
“I’ll show you the way,” said Kate, and they reached the door together; she made it a tight squeeze, then went ahead.
The curve of her hips from her small waist was quite something to see; so was the shape of her legs and the smallness of her ankles, near his eyes as she led the way up the narrow stairs.
The bathroom was small and bright, with cream tiles. “I’ll just get you a clean towel,” Kate said. “That one over there is Syd’s—Mr. Sydney’s, I mean; he’s a lodger here, but he’s almost one of the family. Now you’ve got everything you want, and when you come down there’ll be a nice cup of tea waiting.”
She went out.
Roger put his head on one side, looked at his reflection in the mirror, saw that he looked sweaty and sticky; there was even a streak or two of dirt at the side of his nose. Some picture! But a cold wash would do him a world of good.
As Kate reached the foot of the stairs, Syd appeared at the kitchen door. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Kate whispered: “Am I doing all right?”
“You’re doing fine,” Syd approved. “Don’t forget to put the right sugar in his tea, and if he doesn’t take sugar, make sure he has some of that jam.”
“All right, Syd, but I don’t understand—”
“You don’t have to understand,” Syd said, in a whispering voice. He glanced upwards, and could hear Roger moving about. “You tell him what I told you to, about Clive. Then tell him about knowing Quist was putting the wind up Rose. Get him guessing, see? He’ll know there’s a catch in it, but he won’t know what catch. You just keep him there for half an hour after he’s had the dope, then you go upstairs and get the boudoir ready. Better put on your best nighty; you’re going to have your photo taken.”
“I hope it’s all right,” Kate said uneasily.
Syd dropped a hand to her wrist, and gripped tightly. “It’ll be all right if you do it the way I tell you to. We’ve got a cop on the run, and we’re going to make sure he gets in worse. But don’t you give anything away; you just act simple.” He dropped her hand, and sneered: “Just be yourself!”
The bathroom door opened …
“Sugar?” asked Kate sweetly.
“Thanks.”
“One spoonful or two?”
“One and a bit will be fine, thanks,” Roger said, and ate another of the sandwiches; he hadn’t tasted ham sandwiches like this for a long time. He kept telling himself that he would soon have to quicken the tempo, and stop this fencing; but he could use half an hour’s relaxation, he was enjoying the tea, and this was one occasion when he relished the way a woman tried to twist him round her little finger.
He’d heard her explanation of Clive’s reason for not saying that Rose Jensen was his aunt.
He’d heard her protest again and again that she hadn’t realised that the murdered woman was her own sister, at first, because she didn’t read the papers until the afternoon. She had intended to tell the police immediately, but it was such a shock and she hadn’t known what to do for the best, then she’d developed such an awful headache.
He’d seen the way she watched him with those bright and attractive eyes, and knew that she was on
edge, but there was no reason at all to believe that it was anything but nervous anxiety to impress him. It wasn’t going to surprise him if she soon started the seduction gambit. Every now and again she leaned forward to hand him his cup, or sandwiches – which he could reach without trouble – or cake. Each time the square neck of her dress fell forward, each time it was impossible not to let his eyes drop, impossible not to see those soft, inviting curves.
The thing that worried him was a drowsy feeling.
He blamed reaction, He also tried to blame the fact that he had been on the go so much, but that didn’t convince him; he had often been on the move quite as much, and doing his own driving in the bargain.
He blamed the heat.
He sat up determinedly about half an hour after he had come downstairs; this was the time to start asking questions, the time to try to break her down. It could easily be done, she was nervous enough already. He just wanted to get the right angle, judge the moment well, and start.
He couldn’t get his mind to work properly.
He was so damned tired.
It was an impossible situation, he must jerk himself out of it.
“Mrs. Harrison—”
His speech was slurred, and he hadn’t realised that before. It was the moment of understanding and of awful shock. He saw her leaning towards him. She had nothing in her hands now. She just leaned forward, as if commandingly. There she was, inviting him; there she was, a beauty in her way, smiling a triumphant smile. He tried to get up, but could not, for his head was swimming and his legs were weak. He had fallen for the oldest trick of all.
She was hugging him.
There was a man in the doorway, with a box.
A camera!
Chapter Seventeen
Missing
“What time do you say he spoke to you?” Colonel Jay asked, in that aloof, correct voice.