by Peter Baron
It was rarely that Dennis Teyst used the door when another entrance would serve his purpose as well.
Closing the window he stepped softly into the room and felt his way to a chair. He dropped into it and sat there for some time until his eyes were accustomed to the darkness. The use of his torch was risky. Not perhaps so risky as impracticable. For mere risk Dennis had no regard and a triviality such as housebreaking was all in the day’s work. He would have lighted a cigarette, had he dared.
His thoughts were perfectly collected and revolved curiously enough, not around his present project, but around the possibility of a meeting in the near future between his two brothers, at which it would be disclosed that Ian had neither declined to meet his brothers or been asked to. Dennis had his own reasons for wishing to keep his brothers apart.
He remained seated for five minutes and then walked silently across the room and came to a halt before the despised Turner. And in that he made his first mistake. He trod on that part of the floor which lay directly below the picture.
A criminal seldom makes more than one mistake because there is not time between the blunder and the conviction, but Dennis was not aware that he had blundered.
He found what he wanted easily enough, and after twirling the disk for some moments and listening attentively to the tumblers, opened the safe. Taking a torch from his pocket he. flashed it for a moment on the pile of letters inside it. The unsealed envelope that lay uppermost was the one he opened first.
His brother’s letter to Ralph, practically a duplicate of one that Dennis himself had received, he tossed aside, but his fingers closed eagerly over the small strip that still remained in the envelope. And turning his back to the window he directed the beam of his torch on the paper.
Since Ralph had last seen it, it had changed from blue to white and its contents had become decidedly more intelligible if less gratifying. Dennis read it twice with a kind of helpless fascination:
“A safe is the one thing in the world that isn’t.—The Poacher.”
It took him two minutes to realize what he was intended to realize. Namely, that he had been “beaten to it.” It was a shock and it temporarily unbalanced him. That the writing of that note was not Ralph’s work, he realized instantly. Whoever the Poacher was, he was certainly not Ralph. He had neither the initiative nor the nerve of the legendary shadow who had signed that note.
From being merely a name, the Poacher became in that instant a tangible menace, something to be suppressed and from tolerant amusement. Dennis’ attitude veered suddenly to cold rage with regard to this interloper.
He swore softly, but not so softly that someone crouched behind the door could not hear. That someone was Ralph. Awakened some minutes previously by the electric bell, which did not penetrate the sound-proof walls of the bedroom, but was sufficiently loud to awaken its occupant, Ralph had thrown on a coat and crept from his bedroom to the living room.
Even as Dennis cursed, he straightened up and switching on the hall light, flung open the door.
Which was a fatal error. It silhouetted him in the doorway without revealing the intruder. What was more it startled Dennis, and Dennis had not practiced the subtle art of firing from his pocket for nothing. Prepared, he would have chosen some other form of defence, but in moments of sudden crisis he had learnt to think quickly and act even more quickly.
The movement was automatic. So was the pistol he held, with a silencer fitted.
Ralph died without knowing what had killed him, and only the soft plunk of the pistol broke the silence of the room.
Dennis watched the other slither down the wall and crumple up on the floor. In that position he saw something familiar in the inert figure, and before he had crossed the room had seen all he wanted to.
He looked down at his brother. Ralph was dead. There was no doubt about that. The bullet had hit him squarely between the eyes and the results were unpleasant. And likely to be more unpleasant, as Dennis realized.
He had never killed before, and would not have done so now, but here his brother lay and what he, himself, had come to seek, was still as far away as ever. In the hands of the Poacher. He gritted his teeth and stepping over Ralph’s prostrate body, moved quietly across the landing.
Oddly enough he had forgotten Barbara’s presence in the house until the moment when her bedroom door was flung open to reveal her in a flimsy kimono, staring wide-eyed across the landing.
For a full moment they looked at each other, motionless. Then her eyes slowly fell away and saw through the open door of the sitting room the thing that had once been her father.
It was her sudden scream that sent Dennis bounding past her down the staircase to fling open the door and dash out into Upper Brook Street. And, incidentally, into the arms of Inspector Keating.
CHAPTER TEN
It was Barbara’s scream that brought Keating across the road. The shock of the collision almost upset the two men, but Keating retained both his presence of mind and a grip that threatened to break the other’s arm.
“Let go, damn you,” Dennis snarled.
“In a hurry?” Keating inquired gently, and looked up as a second scream came from the house. “That girl’s got good lungs. Come on, you.”
He propelled Dennis towards the house. At least he began to do so, and would probably have forced the young man to confront the girl even then running down the stairs to meet them, but for the fact that Dennis suddenly halted and trod backwards. His heel landed squarely on Keating’s toes and the Inspector involuntarily released his hold. His bellow of pain terminated abruptly as a fist crashed into his face, loosening, as he afterwards averred, three of his front teeth.
When he sat up Dennis was forty yards away and going well. Clasping his foot, Keating watched his late captive’s retreat speculatively. Not even the appearance of Barbara, clad with a scantiness that would have undone weaker men, stimulated him to action. He merely sat and stared.
“For God’s sake stop him,” she panted. “That man—murdered—my father——!”
Keating started. “Murder—gosh! I didn’t think that snipe would use his gat.”
“Do something, do something,” she almost screamed and tried to pull him to his feet.
He obeyed. Producing a small silver whistle he blew one blast on it and uttered another as he moved his damaged foot.
“He won’t get far,” he said reassuringly, and looked up in time to interpose his bulk between a fainting girl and the hard road.
Rising painfully, he lifted the unconscious Barbara in his arms and stared down the street. Dennis had long since vanished into the darkness, but already inquisitive heads were beginning to appear at windows. Turning, he hobbled with his burden towards the open door.
Inside the hall he found a chair, by the simple expedient of banging his shin against it and, depositing Barbara, groped round the wall for the light switch.
Switching on the light he looked round him for a moment and listened. No sound came from the house and for a moment he was puzzled. Then he saw the name rack. The resident of Flat 1, “Mr. Smythe,” according to the little white card, was away. So was “Mrs. Hillborough,” of Flat 2, but Mr. Ralph Teyst was “in.”
“Out” would have been more apt, he reflected and looked down thoughtfully at Barbara. From the point of view of warmth her scanty draperies left much to be desired, and stripping off his overcoat he wrapped it round her.
He was debating the advisability of carrying her up to her flat when he encountered the mildly inoffensive eye of Detective-Sergeant Brown, who stood in the doorway.
“Kerrow’s after him, sir,” Brown reported, and Keating nodded.
“I guessed we wouldn’t have to wait long before our Dennis started something,” he said slowly. “Come on up.”
“What about the lady, sir? Shall I bring her up?”
“Someone ought to take the job in hand. Her father made a mess of it. All right, but remember the little woman at home and pray for guidance
.”
He stood aside and allowed Brown, with Barbara in his arms, to precede him. The three flights of stairs were the longest that Keating had ever climbed. He recalled new and entirely original descriptions of them every time the crushed toes of his left foot touched one.
Reaching the landing he found another switch and flooded the place with light. Almost the first thing he saw was a foot, protruding from a doorway opposite. A red leather slipper had fallen from the foot, and Keating, noticing an inflamed circle on the small toe, found himself reflecting inconsequently that Ralph had gone to a place where corns and chiropodists were unknown.
Limping across the hall he leant against the doorway and stared down at the dead man. One glance told him all that he wanted to know. He spoke over his shoulder.
“Better put that kid in her bedroom, Ralph isn’t a pleasant sight to wake up to.”
“Dead?”
“I hope so, for his sake.”
Dropping on his knees, Keating made a swift examination. His hand was still on Ralph’s warm chest when he heard a scuffling sound behind him. He turned to find that Barbara had slipped from Brown’s arms and was standing a few feet away staring down fascinatedly at her father.
“You’d better go to your room, little lady,” he murmured awkwardly, at the same time leaning forward to hide Ralph’s face.
She swayed slightly, and then without speaking walked past him into the living room. Keating shrugged, and rising, followed her. ‘Walking across to the table by the window he picked up the telephone and gave a number.
As soon as he was connected with the Divisional Surgeon, he gave a few rapid directions and then put a second call through to the mortuary. Concluding, he saw that Barbara was seated in a deep armchair, looking straight before her.
“You ought to be in bed,” he said gruffly, “but if you feel well enough to tell me what happened——”
“I do. There’s not much to tell. Simply that I was awake and heard a sound about twenty minutes ago—like someone falling. I went to the door and opened it, and saw——”
She paused, and he concluded the sentence for her.
“Uncle Dennis. You didn’t hear the shot?”
“No.” She spoke quietly, and he noticed that her face had gone pale. For a moment he was afraid that she was going to faint again. Her curious calm was not natural, and his experience told him that it was dangerous. The reaction when it did come would be severe.
“I don’t think you’d better talk any more,” he began, but she looked up and answered him.
“You’re expecting hysteria, aren’t you?” she asked. “Don’t, there’s no need to. It shook me up badly—the manner of his death—but his actual dying—Ralph and I were not friends.”
She looked past him and shuddered. His lips twisted at the familiar use of her father’s Christian name and she saw it.
“Ralph and I never enjoyed the father and daughter relationship,” she said. “Ralph wasn’t made that way. He hated me. I suppose I hated him, too. All my life he has made things unpleasant for me, but it’s difficult to hate him—now.”
Keating remained silent. He was thinking of the life of another woman that had been made “unpleasant,” but the man had been the same in both cases.
“Ralph was a tough proposition,” he said lamely.
He saw that she looked almost haggard, and waited for her to speak, but she made no sound. They sat there in silence until they heard footsteps on the landing.
“That’ll be the mortuary people,” he said, and rose to his feet.
He waited while the gray-haired Divisional Surgeon made a hasty examination, and then spoke a few words quietly in the doctor’s ear. Both stood aside and watched the men from the mortuary carry Ralph down to the waiting ambulance. Then Keating shook hands with the doctor and turned back to the room where Barbara was sitting as he had left her.
As he reached her she surprised him with a sudden outburst.
“He hated me—he hated me—he did all he could to make my life a misery. I never had the slightest excuse for loving him—never heard him speak kindly once and yet—it was a dreadful death.”
She lay back in the chair and closed her eyes. When she reopened them he saw that she had regained some of her composure. It worried him. He would have preferred to see her do the one thing that would ease her pent up emotion, cry.
“Would you mind very much if I asked you to stay for a little while?” she asked. “I feel nervous—I’m afraid I’m going to break down——”
“It’ll do you good.”
“No, it won’t. It’ll make it harder. It will make me feel almost hypocritical. Somehow I can’t bear that. I can’t pretend any real sorrow that he’s dead because I have no happy memories to look back on.”
He leant over and patted her shoulder.
“I’ll stay, but you ought to sleep. You look tired.”
“I am. I’ve had hardly any rest. I never get much unless I take my sleeping draught, and I forgot it tonight. I almost wish I hadn’t. I might have slept through this.”
“Better this way,” he said awkwardly.
She forced a smile. “Smoke if you like,” she invited, and he took advantage of her offer. “Now tell me all about it. I think I can stand it and want to know how you happened to arrive so opportunely. Did you know that Dennis was going to—”
She obviously shirked the word, and Keating interposed to prevent her using it.
“I know everything, but you’re not in a fit condition to hear anything.”
“I feel better, and I want to know a lot of things. After all, I shall have to know them sooner or later. I don’t even know how Dennis got into the flat.”
“I do.” Keating jerked a thumb in the direction of the French windows behind them. He looked across the room at Brown still standing impassively by the door. “Get Superintendent Kaye on the ‘phone. He’ll be at his flat. Grosvenor 2468.”
Brown crossed the room, and took up the receiver while Keating turned to Barbara again.
“Have you got any women folk you can go to, my dear?” he asked.
“I could go to Molly Wendover—a college chum. Ralph had no sisters, and I don’t know my mother’s people. Ralph hated them as much as he hated me.”
He nodded. “You suffered from a deadly sin in your father’s eyes.”
“And that was?”
“Being like your mother.”
Barbara started. “But how do you know——”
“That you had a mother? That’s easy.”
“No, I mean that I was like her.”
“I know everything,” he replied. “My job. I met your mother through Ralph. We had—er—business associations.” He failed to read the expression in her eyes correctly, and her next words came as a shock.
“You needn’t try to disguise the fact that Ralph was a crook. I know that. So was Dennis.”
He looked away. He had been wondering at her entire lack of curiosity concerning the motives surrounding her father’s death, but that partially explained it.
“Surely you’re going to do something,” she said suddenly, and her voice took on a strained note again. “Dennis is not to be allowed to escape——”
“No,” he grunted. “There’s a nice warm cell waiting for Dennis at Wandsworth. It’s been waiting for months. I reckon he’s about due as its tenant. I’ve been watching him all day. I had a hunch that he was just dying to see your father or to see your father dying—sorry. That wasn’t in the best taste. I hope you’ll forgive me-?”
She nodded mechanically, and rising to her feet crossed the room. Pausing before the Turner she pushed it aside and began to twirl the brass dial of the safe.
He watched her for some moments, and then looked up as Brown proffered the telephone.
“Superintendent Kaye here, sir.”
Keating took the instrument, and turning his back on Barbara spoke quietly and close to the mouthpiece.
“Hello, that you, Kaye?
Sam here. What’s that? Oh, I have, have I? Serve you right. I’m at Ralph Teyst’s flat. Sure. ‘He’s gone on a journey—a long journey—and forgotten to take a return ticket. Yes. I’ve got Dennis taped. Who? Kerrow. Smart chap. We’ll have Dennis within the hour. If we don’t I’ll have the Squad out. Yes. I’ve got a warrant on another charge. I had a hunch all day. Now go back and snore while I earn your living for you. Goodbye.”
He replaced the telephone and found that Barbara was watching him intently. She was still waiting for him to give some explanation.
Which was not Keating’s intention. At least, it had not been his intention, but somehow he found it difficult to refuse her. Few people except her father had ever refused Barbara anything, and Keating was discovering that in a very short acquaintance he had found much to like in this slender slip of a girl.
“Well, anything missing?” he asked, and, as she shook her head, “Good, our people are doing plenty.”
“You,” she countered, “don’t seem to be doing anything at the moment.”
“I’m doing what the novelists are fond of calling pulling the strings. I’ve spent a lot of thought on this case.”
“Not with a very happy result.”
“Ouch,” he winced. “Don’t hit a man when he’s down, little lady. I admit that your clever uncle pulled this pretty smartly and slipped me, but I was in at the death anyhow.”
The rather painful significance of the cliché escaped him.
“That ought to make Kaye squirm,” he said triumphantly.
“Kaye?”
“You don’t read your ‘Daily Express.’ Kaye’s one of the deserving few on the Round Table. In fact, he is the Big Four, the others are Small Ones.”
He broke off again. At least three of the members of the Big Four might have been replaced in his opinion by more able men. He knew of at least one deserving substitute.
“I think I’ve heard the name,” she said. “Someone called him the shyest man at the Yard.”