A Part for a Policeman

by John Creasey

  ‘As Heaven’s my judge, I never laid a hand on the villain.’

  ‘Then who did?’ demanded Roger.

  He waited for an answer, studying the man who called himself Donovan. There was no sign of blood or any brown stain at all on his tweed suit, none on his hands or face. If he had battered O’Hara savagely about the head, and O’Hara had left the trail of blood, then surely some would have stained the hands and clothes of his attacker.

  ‘Answer me,’ said Roger sharply. ‘Who attacked O’Hara? Because it happened when you were here.’

  ‘It did indeed,’ admitted Donovan, almost ruefully. ‘I swear to St Michael I didn’t see who it was. If you want to know the reason, it was like this: I telephoned Danny O’Hara, and he told me to come and see him, and I came here straight away—’

  ‘From where?’ interrupted Roger.

  ‘I was at a lodging house near Paddington Station,’ answered Donovan. The statement came promptly and with apparent truthfulness, like everything else he had said. ‘And I asked him where Mary Ellen was and he said she’d run away and he didn’t know where.’

  ‘Didn’t you believe him?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Surely to God I believed him,’ said Donovan, in the most matter of fact way. ‘Until I learned for certain he was the biggest liar on God’s earth. He promised he would try to find out where Mary Ellen was and to tell me, when this other man arrived. Well, O’Hara opened the front door to him and he came in bellowing like a sick bull. “Where’s Mary Ellen?” he cried. “I’ll break the middle bone of your long scraggy neck if you don’t tell me where my Mary Ellen is!” And—I’m telling you the truth as I’m standing here, Superintendent, strike me dead if I should tell a he about my own dear charming daughter. “Where is she?” the man screamed again, and they began to fight between themselves.’

  ‘Didn’t you stop them?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘Now why should I stop two men fighting?’ demanded Donovan. ‘O’Hara was getting the worst of it, thanks be to God—and then he begged the other to stop fighting him, he said he would tell him where to find Mary Ellen. And that was when I knew Danny O’Hara for a liar, you have me word for it, Superintendent, as sure as I’m standing here.’

  ‘Where did he say Mary Ellen was?’ prompted Roger.

  He was aware that Peterson and the other divisional men were listening and watching intently, no longer apprehensive; if Donovan made another run for it he would probably catch them by surprise. He saw the colour rise to the Irishman’s cheeks, the bright sheen appear in his eyes again, the big hands bunch.

  ‘He said she’d gone to a doctor in Whitechapel, that’s what he said—and he said that he’d paid the doctor well, that Mary Ellen wouldn’t be having the baby. That’s what he said, Superintendent,’ Donovan went on in a strange, thin voice, and he looked as if he were working up to a fit. ‘If I could have got at him then I would have broken his neck with my bare hands, that’s as sure as I’m standing here.’

  ‘Instead of which you cracked his skull with a hammer,’ retorted Roger.

  ‘No, sorr, I didn’t,’ insisted Donovan. ‘I’d stepped into a cupboard and pulled the door shut, and the devil it was to open again. I heard them fighting and O’Hara screaming, and then all of a sudden he stopped. There was a thudding sound, and a groan or two—and then everything went quiet. It was like being shut in the bowels of the earth and there wasn’t even a glimmer of light to keep me company.’

  Donovan stopped, and ran his hand nervously over his sweating forehead. None of the others spoke for what seemed a long time, but eventually Roger asked: ‘What else did you hear, Donovan?’

  ‘Like a regiment of soldiers trampling all over the place, it was.’

  ‘How many men were there besides O’Hara?’

  ‘I only heard the one and I only saw the back of him before I shut myself in the cupboard,’ declared Donovan. ‘Don’t ask me how long the shindy lasted, it seemed to go on for ever, but after a while it stopped, as I told you, and I heard a man go out and a door close.’

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Roger, patiently.

  ‘The catch of the cupboard had jammed, but I got it open at last and I was going to leave this sinful place when some men arrived—your colleagues as ever was, Superintendent. So I bided my time until there was a chance to escape. You know what happened afterwards.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said drily. ‘We know what happened. Why did you bring a gun to London, Donovan?’

  ‘For my own protection,’ Donovan answered promptly.

  ‘Protection from what?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘They’re a thieving lot of SOBs in London, Mr West, so I’ve heard. And isn’t this shindy proof enough?’

  ‘You didn’t bring a gun to protect yourself against thieves—’ began Roger.

  That was the moment when Donovan hurled himself forward. His speed, from a standing start, was quite remarkable. Peterson gasped, the man near Donovan flung up an arm, but Donovan sent him crashing against the fireplace.

  Roger spun round.

  Donovan, expecting to crash body to body, was too late to stop himself, and he hurtled past Roger who stuck out his foot and tripped him, bringing him crashing down. Peterson was on him in a flash, grabbed his right arm, twisted, and pushed it up behind him in a hammerlock. The other detectives came forward, handcuffs clicked again as Donovan went still, as he had before, as if all the rage and all the strength had been drained out of him.

  ‘Get him to Cannon Row, and send for a doctor,’ ordered Roger. ‘I want him to have a medical examination tonight. ‘I’ll fix the court hearing myself.’ He glanced at Peterson, as if to say: ‘Okay?’ but Peterson was watching Donovan, who got slowly to his feet and allowed himself to be led out of the room, as docile as a well trained horse. ‘Four of you had better go,’ added Roger. ‘Use a van, not a car.’

  Someone called. ‘Right, sir.’

  Peterson, breathing hard said: ‘He fooled me, I didn’t think we’d have any more trouble with him.’ With ungrudging admiration he added: ‘You expected it, didn’t you?’

  ‘More or less,’ confirmed Roger. ‘Did it strike you that he was speaking the truth?’

  Peterson shrugged.

  ‘He seemed to know what his daughter had been up to.’

  ‘And came to shoot O’Hara, do you mean?’

  ‘Isn’t that pretty obvious?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Roger replied, slowly. ‘I think he told the truth but not all of it—he certainly had some good reason for coming to London and bringing the gun with him. If I had to guess—’ He paused.

  ‘Let’s have one of your famous hunches,’ urged Peterson, slyly.

  ‘All right,’ said Roger. ‘I think the days of an outraged father coming to make a shot gun wedding, or horse whip the daughter’s seducer, are over. I suspect he brought the gun to put the fear of death into O’Hara—and to squeeze as much money out of him as he could. But we’ll be able to judge more when we’ve checked Records for him, and when we’ve seen where his fingerprints are. If in the bedroom and the living room, we’ll know he’s a liar. If not—’

  ‘I can answer that now,’ said Lomas, who had suddenly appeared. ‘His prints were in the living room but not everywhere—he certainly didn’t break the place up. There were some at the front door—and the cupboard he escaped from is full of them and the self locking catch was forced. Prints of one other man are all over the smashed furniture and the kitchen—bloodstained prints, too. There was another man all right.’

  ‘We want that other man quickly,’ Roger urged, ‘and the quickest way to find him is through Donovan’s daughter. Better warn Whitechapel to have a list of abortionists ready, and get over there at once. That girl could be in a lot of trouble.’ Roger paused, thinking hard before going on: ‘What did you find in that bed panel?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lomas replied, in obvious disappointment. ‘It’s a hiding place right enough, but there’s nothing in it now.’ />
  Roger shrugged, much less troubled about that than he was about the missing girl and the man who murdered O’Hara.

  Chapter Four

  Mary Ellen

  Mary Ellen was sleeping.

  She lay in a narrow bed in a modern block of flats not far from the St Catherine’s Docks in the heart of London, and through a window open a few inches at the top the booms of ships’ sirens, the muted harshness of car engines, came faintly, not disturbing her.

  As the girl slept, the police in the East End of London made one of their rare mass raids. With men drafted in from neighbouring divisions, those covering Whitechapel organised a visit to all the places where abortions were known to be carried out, as well as many which were suspect. In all, there were one hundred and seven. There were back rooms near the homes of doctors, some qualified, some from the Commonwealth whose qualifications did not give them the right to practice in Britain. There were small ‘hotels’ and boarding houses, the homes of midwives, ‘nursing homes’ where patients suffering from all mariner of ailments were housed.

  Some of these places were scrupulously clean and maintained with hospital standards of hygiene; most were average. Far too many were filthy, with no standards of any kind – dirt, squalor and unsterilised instruments were found – and it was from these that the bodies of young girls were too often smuggled away.

  The place where Mary Ellen slept was one of the best, and also one of the least known. In fact the police had only heard of it by chance, and had no proof at all that it was used illegally. When two plainclothes men called, a plain, pleasant faced woman, wearing a dressing-gown over pyjamas, opened the door, and then slowly backed inside.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  ‘We are police officers, madam,’ one man said.

  ‘So I imagined.’ The woman closed the door and then led the way to a small room where a record player played softly. One wall was lined with books and there was a good deal of quiet, homespun comfort. ‘I suppose this was inevitable,’ she went on, resignedly. ‘May I make one thing clear?’

  ‘Let me make one thing clear,’ a youthful detective officer said. ‘You are under no obligation to make a statement. We have come to ask you some questions.’

  She looked at him steadily as she remarked: ‘Presumably you have power to search.’

  ‘We have, madam.’

  ‘Then I would rather talk to you before you search than after,’ the woman said with quiet assurance. She was in her early forties, the young policeman judged. ‘My name is Ivy Mallows, Mrs Ivy Mallows. Three of my patients here appealed to me in great distress, and I helped each by what the police will probably call “inducing a miscarriage”. I alone am responsible. I have nurses to assist me, and a once qualified anaesthetist whom I shall not name, nor shall I name the sponsors. The girls are now sleeping. My own request is that you do not wake them.’

  The older of the two men, a hardy looking man with a fringe of grey hair, hitched his brown jacket into position and spoke almost with embarrassment.

  ‘No reason why we should.’

  ‘I am most grateful, thank you.’ The woman gave a little, half amused, half resigned smile. ‘Now I will gladly answer your questions.’

  The younger man handed her a snapshot of a girl which had been found in Donovan’s pocket.

  ‘Is this girl here, please?’

  She took a single glance, and nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She is!’ The younger man jumped with excitement.

  ‘We’ll need to check,’ the other man said cautiously.

  ‘Of course you will. Please come with me.’ The woman turned out of the room, walked along the carpeted passage to a door, and pushed it open, making no sound. She went in, and only the young detective followed. Light from a bedside lamp shone on the dark hair and the oval face depicted in the snapshot. The room had a faint smell of antiseptic, and was nicely but plainly furnished, more like a hotel than a hospital.

  The detective nodded and they went out, back to the room where she had first taken them.

  ‘May we use your telephone?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pointed.

  ‘What is your name?’ the older man asked. ‘I missed it.’

  ‘Mallows—Ivy Mallows,’ she told him.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Mallows,’ the older man said heavily, while the younger one was already dialling his divisional headquarters.

  Soon, more police had arrived, and the apartment was searched thoroughly. It was in fact two flats converted into one, though each flat could still be shut off from the other. There were six bedrooms, or wards, and a small room with oxygen and an operating table. Everything appeared spotless; no doubt this was one of the better places, thought the young detective, who had finished his telephone call and joined in the search; it wasn’t surprising that it was licensed as a nursing home.

  Roger West drove, alone, through the narrow, deserted streets of the City of London, past the mass of the Bank of England and the neo-Grecian block of the Stock Exchange, the tall, narrow buildings which housed the head offices of great banks, insurance companies and commercial houses. The street lights were on at their fullest, casting an almost too vivid glare. At one small line of shops a policeman was trying doors. He was the only person on foot whom Roger passed, and apart from three taxis, two with their roof signs glowing, and two private cars, Roger saw nothing. He turned left at Aldgate Pump, and spotted a man leaning against it, one arm round the stone, as if he were drunk. Roger instinctively slowed down, but before he stopped, a police car appeared and drew up alongside the Pump and the solitary man.

  The road widened into Aldgate. Roger turned off, towards the river, and pulled up outside a newly built Divisional headquarters. A policeman beneath the blue lamp came forward and opened the car door.

  ‘Mr West, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Campbell is on the first floor, sir.’

  ‘Right.’

  Several cars were parked along the street but there was ample space. Roger went in. Two youths were sitting, handcuffed, outside the charge-room where a tall, stringy looking sergeant was already taking down particulars from several other youths. An elderly constable was in the office, big, burly, bovine.

  ‘Good evening, Mr West. First floor, turn left, first door on the right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Roger went up the shallow steps two at a time. The staircase was modern, with gaps between the treads, a broad wooden handrail on either side. The new offices of Scotland Yard were not unlike this, but they still had a kind of clinical effect on Roger.

  The first door on the right was open, and Chief Inspector Campbell, in charge tonight, rose from his desk as Roger entered. He was elderly, grey, genial – and somehow managed to show the respect due to rank with a poise which implied equality.

  ‘Good evening, Mr West—long time since we’ve met.’ He stretched across the desk, shook hands, then glanced round at a younger man standing near. This man was tall, spare, dark-haired, rather too handsome with fine, bold, brown eyes, not unlike Donovan’s. ‘I’ve just been discussing your Mary Ellen with Detective Sergeant Pell, who saw her.’

  Roger nodded to Pell.

  ‘I gather she was all right.’

  ‘Sleeping peacefully,’ Pell answered. ‘I’ve been in a lot of those places, sir, but never seen one like this. It was spotless.’

  ‘So Mary Ellen was lucky,’ remarked Roger.

  ‘Whoever sent her there knew what he was doing,’ rejoined Pell.

  ‘Is it expensive?’ Roger asked.

  ‘I should think it’s pretty high, but—’ Pell broke off.

  ‘But what?’ asked Roger.

  Pell seemed to draw a deep breath.

  ‘Not my place to give opinions,’ he said, ‘or even impressions, sir. But I don’t think this Mrs Mallows would overcharge.’ When Roger made no comment, Pell went on a little awkwardly: ‘I got the impression she’s dedicated, sir.’r />
  ‘I have known some who are,’ Roger said mildly. ‘When they get into court it doesn’t seem to make much difference.’

  ‘I suppose we have—’ Pell began, only to break off again.

  ‘Have to make a charge?’ asked Roger.

  ‘It—er—it seems a pity,’ said Pell.

  Roger moved to the chair and sat down, looking up at Pell, aware that Campbell was watching them both – and suspecting that the Chief Inspector was mildly amused and probably enjoying this encounter. Roger, still aching from the kick on the temple, finding the borrowed shirt chafing a little at the neck, knew that he must make sure he was not over critical. Campbell had been a detective sergeant when he, Roger, had joined the force, and seen through his eyes Roger could imagine a great deal of similarity between himself, twenty years ago, and Pell at this moment. Pell was burdened with one enormous disadvantage which Roger had also suffered: he was far too good looking. No one really believed that a handsome man could be fully efficient. Roger, fair hair hiding the flecks of grey, knew that he was still regarded as the glamour boy of the Yard, his nickname ‘Handsome’ would never be dropped. In his early days, too, he had had one besetting ‘sin’ as a policeman: he had allowed his sympathy for other people, even suspects, to impair his judgement. He had been lucky with his superiors; they had knocked this out of him without crushing his humanity.

  All of these things flashed through Roger’s mind during those few seconds of silence.

  He looked steadily at Pell for a few seconds, then turned to Campbell.

  ‘Can you spare Sergeant Pell to concentrate on inquiries into the place the Mallows woman runs?’ he asked.

  ‘I certainly can, Superintendent.’

  ‘Good,’ Roger said. ‘Probe deeply, Pell. How long she’s been there, how she got her reputation, how much she gets for each job, who is financing her if anybody, how many girls have been through her hands, how many have died, how many appear to have suffered ill-effects. The lot. Is that clear?’

  Pell was standing like a statue.

  ‘Perfectly clear, sir.’