A Part for a Policeman

by John Creasey

  ‘How should I know?’ she cried. ‘But it wasn’t James!’

  ‘Where is James?’ Roger demanded. ‘If he didn’t do it, what harm will you do by telling me where he is?’

  ‘Do you think I’d be fool enough to tell you, even if I knew?’

  ‘I think you might be sensible enough to tell me, knowing there is a possibility that it was James and that he might try again to kill Dr Mallows.’

  ‘I don’t believe it?’ she cried.

  ‘Then if it’s not James, it’s someone else,’ said Roger softly. ‘Someone who’s blackmailing him, someone who is making him commit terrible crimes he doesn’t want to commit. If it’s not James, I need to know even more than ever where he is, to save him.’

  ‘How—how can you save him?’

  ‘If he’s being blackmailed, how can he save himself?’ demanded Roger. ‘Is he—’

  He broke off.

  Just as there had been a flash of understanding when he had realised that this woman was a Donovan, now it sprang to his mind that there was an obvious place for her brother to be: at 5c Berne Court, the last place anyone would expect, but easy for Donovan to get into. The police watch on the flat must have been careless, although it was not a difficult feat for anyone to break in, with its several exits and entrances.

  ‘He’s at the doctor’s home, isn’t he?’ he asked, quietly. ‘He’s at 5c Berne Court?’

  Her eyes were pools of anger and distress. ‘It’s the devil you are! You can see into my mind. But I didn’t tell you. You must swear to that! It was you who told me.’

  Roger didn’t speak, but for the first time wanted the policewoman back. Opening the door he saw her standing with Coppell, a tray in her hands.

  Coppell said: ‘All right, you can go in now.’

  He made way for her, then moved to Coppell’s side, looking through the inner window at the policewoman who was already putting the tray down and speaking briskly to Maureen O’Malley.

  ‘Raymond Greatorex said “the bloody Donovans”,’ Roger remarked grimly. ‘I wonder what this is all about?’

  ‘What made you realise who she was?’ asked Coppell.

  ‘Her face,’ Roger said simply. ‘There is a strong family likeness.’

  ‘Her face didn’t tell you that James is at Berne Court,’ retorted Coppell gruffly. ‘Just guesswork, eh?’ He grinned in that savage and yet restrained way he had shown lately. ‘Will you go to check yourself?’

  ‘I’d like to strengthen the cordon around Berne Court first,’ Roger said. ‘Make sure Donovan can’t get out if he is there, and check one or two other things before we make a raid.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Coppell.

  ‘The medical report on Patrick Donovan, Greatorex’s condition, Mrs Mallows’ condition, the arson report, Sandell’s report—the lot,’ Roger added.

  ‘On the theory that if it’s all in your brain box it might come out when it’s most needed. All right. Need to see O’Malley any more?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  They began to walk away, and as they reached the point where Roger had to go in one direction and Coppell the other, Coppell spoke quietly.

  ‘Call on me for anything you want, Handsome. Clear the job up as soon as you can. The Commissioner wants to see it in the bag. Vincent Pole is terrified in case this puts film exports back by millions—and his profits, too. I told the Commissioner you’d have it sewn up within forty eight hours.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Roger said.

  But he went off, feeling lighter hearted than he had for a long time. Coppell had come right round, and was actually backing him to the Commissioner. If they kept this up they would be on better terms than they had ever been. He quickened his pace towards his office, then changed his mind and went down to the Information Room. He gave special instructions about the watch on Mrs Mallows’ flat, then went to his own office, told Watts what he had done, and asked: ‘Has that medical report on Patrick Donovan come in yet?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago,’ Watts told him. ‘He’s as sane as you and I.’

  ‘Good. Any chronic disorders?’

  ‘His liver’s not so good—he drinks too much Irish whisky.’ Roger nodded.

  ‘What’s next?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Raison’s here, sir.’

  ‘Send him in,’ Roger said, eagerly.

  Raison, short, tubby and red faced, came in and shook hands. Characteristically, he began to talk earnestly after the briefest of courtesies.

  ‘You were right last night, Mr West. This fire was caused by Phosphol, a delayed action incendiary powder. Once it starts to ignite it spreads like lightning. Generates phenomenal heat in double quick time. No doubt that was used—no doubt at all. And you’re involved in this film star case, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with it?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Very much indeed! This powder in very diluted form is used for mock fires during film making. Anyone who’s familiar with it would know where to get it and how to concentrate it. I—but I’m talking out of turn.’

  ‘Not for a half a second,’ Roger assured him. ‘It’s just what I wanted to know. Is there a way to stop the fire spreading?’

  ‘Simple, if you can get at it in time. Cover it. Any foam extinguisher will do, but not when the fire’s really got a hold. I’ve seen experiments with this stuff which have burned down a small house in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘And there’s no doubt this caused last night’s fire?’

  ‘No doubt at all.’

  When Raison had gone off, Roger told Watts to check manufacturers and distributors of Phosphol, told him to keep telephone calls away, and then began to study Sandell’s main report. It was comprehensive, succinct and unexpectedly colourless. He had employed James Donovan because Donovan was known to be tough and a worker. He had known of his reputation as a mercenary and had not seen any reason not to employ him. Donovan’s special job had been to go round the big stages and make sure no one was lurking there—a lot of damage could be done during the night to wiring and to sets ready for the morning’s takes. As far as Sandell knew, Donovan had done a satisfactory job. He had shown no particular interest in O’Hara or in Greatorex. As far as Sandell could find out, he had never acted as an extra before.

  Roger put it aside, and turned to the one about the sabotage. It said little more than he had told Roger yesterday, except that he named Phosphol, and said he was trying to trace the suppliers.

  What was needed now, thought Roger, was a word with Mrs Mallows or Raymond Greatorex.

  And he wanted a reason why the Donovans should so hate Greatorex and O’Hara.

  It was after lunch before he made up his mind what to say to Coppell, who answered his own telephone this time.

  ‘Well, Handsome?’

  ‘I’d like to give James Donovan a chance to escape,’ Roger said, and after a few moments’ pause, added: ‘I’d like to see where he goes.’

  ‘It’s your case,’ said Coppell. ‘Don’t lose him.’

  ‘I won’t lose him,’ Roger said gruffly.

  Nevertheless, he felt some misgivings. There were times to allow a man to roam free, but James Donovan was not only a killer but a man of great resource. Arrested, he could do no harm, but there was no reason at all to believe that he would talk if he were picked up at Berne Court.

  There was no actual certainty that he was there, either.

  Roger went along to East End Division. Campbell was not on duty but the Superintendent in charge had worked out a comprehensive plan of campaign. Berne Court was in fact surrounded by two cordons, and word was flashed to Divisional Headquarters whenever anyone went into the building or came out.

  ‘Everything’s covered,’ the superintendent assured him. ‘You needn’t worry at all, Handsome.’

  Roger said: ‘Well, I do. If he leaves, I want him trailed, not picked up. I want to know where his next hiding place will be. And I want to flush him out from it, soon. Any ideas?’ />
  ‘Can’t say I have,’ the Divisional man said. ‘If he’s there he’s bound to have outside contacts, though. One of those could telephone him we’re on the way, if only we knew which one he would believe.’

  Roger stood looking at him for a long time, and then said softly: ‘I know who he would believe. She’ll do very well, in fact. All we want is a woman with a voice which sounds like Maureen O’Malley’s.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Flush

  The startling thing was the difference in appearance of the two women who spoke with Maureen O’Malley’s voice. Finding an impersonator had taken only an hour and a half – one of the policewomen had listened to O’Malley and then picked up her voice perfectly. Now, Roger stood outside a prepayment telephone kiosk in the Yard, while she dialled the number of Mrs Mallows’ flat.

  The voice that answered appeared to be that of Nurse Trebizon. That she knew of the identity of James Donovan, and would be willing to pass the message on to him, was what they had to hope for.

  The policewoman drew a deep breath and in a voice uncannily like the Irish cook’s, said: ‘Is my brother there?’

  The nurse caught her breath.

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about!’

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ ‘O’Malley’ breathed. ‘I’m risking my neck to warn my brother James. You tell him the police are coming to search every inch of the place, and they won’t be long coming.’

  ‘But—how do you know?’

  ‘Because they had me at Scotland Yard for questioning,’ ‘O’Malley’ said. ‘Tell my brother, do you understand? Tell my brother!’

  She put the receiver down, and turned to look for approval at Roger, who smiled encouragingly as he opened the heavy door for her to come out.

  ‘If that didn’t fool her, nothing will,’ he said. ‘Nice work.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Now all they could do was wait.

  The moment James Donovan appeared, word would be flashed to the Yard, and Roger had become used to the need to switch his thoughts from one thing to another without being harassed and without vacillating. Back in his office, he went yet again through the reports, then came to a note in Watts’ handwriting, which said: ‘Please go to see Commander Coppell as soon as you come in.’

  Coppell –

  Coppell’s mood towards him had changed considerably since the beginning of the case, he remembered. From sullen fury he had become mellow, almost friendly.

  When he asked himself why, the obvious answer was that the pressure he had been under had been relaxed a little. From the Home Office? From Sir Vincent Pole? There was no way to be sure.

  Roger went over everything Coppell had said. His talk of the spotlight, the need for quick results, the pressures on the British film industry, the harm this could do unless the criminals were caught quickly.

  He scowled at the window; got up and looked out at a view of the skyline between two modern blocks – this wasn’t half the place the old Yard building had been. He had been able to look down on the Embankment and the river beyond, calm or stormy, grey or vivid blue, and draw understanding from it. It had been as if the Thames had been a running waterway of ideas. There were no ideas out of reinforced concrete and tinted glass.

  His internal telephone rang.

  He lifted it quickly, half prepared for the familiar voice of the Chief Inspector in charge of Information.

  ‘You flushed him, Handsome,’ this man announced flatly.

  Roger felt a fierce surge of excitement.

  ‘Is he recognizable?’

  ‘Made up a bit facially, but there’s no doubt it’s him. The Allsafe man identified him from his walk, and he’s trying to make sure he’s not followed. He’s being tagged better than he knows. We won’t lose him.’

  ‘We’d better not,’ Roger said. ‘I want a report on every move.’

  ‘Right. You’ll get it.’

  Roger rang off and wiped the sweat off his forehead. The build up of tension in him was rather more than he could explain. It was as if he were moving under the deepening shadow of an impending disaster. Why? Who was in danger now? There had been cases where he had known a murderer might strike again and again but he had always been able to protect the next potential victim. Here, he did not know where Donovan would strike.

  ‘The bloody Donovans,’ Raymond Greatorex had said.

  Roger went back to the window – and a telephone bell rang, so he was back at it in a flash.

  ‘West.’

  ‘Good morning, Handsome,’ said Ian Peterson. ‘Glad I found you in.’

  ‘’Morning,’ Roger said. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘We know what was hidden in the panel of O’Hara’s bed,’ answered Peterson.

  Drugs? Roger wondered, but all he said was: ‘Good work. What was it?’

  ‘Money—including gold.’

  ‘What?’ Roger almost gasped.

  ‘It’s true enough,’ Peterson assured him. ‘Though you can’t see a thing by the naked eye, all the indications are that O’Hara brought currency and gold in large quantities into the country.’

  ‘From where?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘The USA, most probably.’

  ‘How often did he go there?’ demanded Roger.

  There was a momentary pause before Peterson answered in a rather deflated voice: ‘I don’t know—but these film stars are always going to and fro.’

  ‘I don’t think O’Hara went as often as that,’ Roger said. ‘But—’ His mind was working very fast, almost out of his direct control. ‘Have you learned anything about his habits? Was he a womaniser?’

  ‘Nothing I’ve found says so, except that bedroom.’

  ‘The mirror room,’ Roger said briskly. ‘Yes. Sandell says he wasn’t a ladies’ man, and you’ve found no evidence—Ian, how many visitors did he have?’

  Peterson seemed to catch his breath.

  ‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘Why the hell didn’t I—’ He broke off, only to go on ruefully: ‘He had a lot, Handsome—mostly film people from all over the world. If you care to look at it that way, he ran a kind of guest house, and was always throwing parties. That seemed normal enough for these types—’ He broke off again. ‘Oh, well, no need for me to make excuses. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Find out the names and addresses of his visitors—what staff did he have?’

  ‘None, now, since Mary Ellen left. There’s a room service scheme to look after the domestic work.’

  ‘You check your end, I’ll check with the studio,’ Roger said. ‘Thanks.’ He rang off, picking the receiver up almost at once, and when the operator answered, saying: ‘Get me Mr Sandell, of Borelee Studios.’ He rang off, and dialled the internal instrument for Coppell, whose secretary answered. ‘Put me on to Mr Coppell—at once.’ The peremptory tone of his voice got results, for almost at once Coppell said: ‘What’s on, Handsome?’

  ‘When you talked about this O’Hara case, sir, you said the British Film Corporation was badly worried.’

  ‘As hell,’ said Coppell.

  ‘Did they give any special reasons?’

  ‘I told you. Losing bookings at home and abroad, losing stars to the United States, running into labour troubles which doubled the cost of some of the pictures. They were—God damn it they are—frightened of being put out of business by American opposition. They—’

  ‘Any talk of takeover?’ interrupted Roger.

  ‘Fear of it for sure,’ answered Coppell. ‘And another fear they feel that if they lose out on this then the British film industry will have had it. The BFC is the last of any real significance left. There are lots of small ones, but—’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you spell this out to me before?’ Roger asked in a taut, angry voice. ‘I—sorry, sir!’

  ‘I didn’t hear you,’ said Coppell.

  ‘Thanks. I—may I call you back?’ Roger asked, as his other bell rang. ‘I’ve a call from Sandell on my other lin
e. Oh! Gold and currency smuggling is part of this case, sir.’

  ‘Good God!’ gasped Coppell, properly impressed.

  Roger snatched up one telephone as he put the other down, not realising how perfectly hand, ears and mind were coordinating.

  ‘Mr Sandell, sir,’ the operator announced.

  ‘Dave,’ Roger said crisply. ‘Does O’Hara have a secretary at the studio?’

  ‘There’s a girl who looks after the correspondence of several of the stars,’ answered Sandell.

  ‘Would she know how often he had guests at his apartment?’

  ‘She should know everyone who’s been there for the past six months or so,’ said Sandell. ‘But it’s plenty. He put up a lot of Hollywood semi-stars, and a lot from the Continent, too. I’ve never known for sure but I think he had an arrangement with them.’

  ‘What kind of arrangement?’

  ‘He was paid for the apartment and services.’

  ‘What services?’

  ‘Handsome, don’t be so naïve,’ said Sandell gruffly.

  ‘I’m not naïve, I just want the answers spelled out.’

  ‘There are a lot of young actresses who think they can get to fame and fortune in a big bed,’ said Sandell. ‘O’Hara knew a lot of them. Don’t get prudish about this, it happens all the time—it’s part of the game. Some girls even enjoy it!’ He laughed. ‘O’Hara didn’t use any coercion, they knew the odds and he always promised to get them out of trouble if they got into it.’

  Roger felt a surge of triumph. He needed no more telling who financed 5c Berne Court. He wasn’t concerned with moral issues, only in facts and rational deductions. Most of the pieces of the puzzle were dropping into place.

  ‘Why wasn’t this in your report?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t ask fool questions,’ Sandell answered roughly. ‘This is O’Hara’s private business. Nothing happens at the studio. My job’s to protect the studio—didn’t you know?’

  ‘My job’s to find O’Hara’s murderer,’ said Roger roughly. ‘Didn’t you know? This is a damned sight worse than letting Donovan get away.’

  ‘I won’t be talked to like that by you or anybody!’