Sport For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  Sport for Inspector West

  First published in 1949

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1949-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755135822 9780755135820 Print

  075513916X 9780755139163 Kindle

  0755137507 9780755137503 Epub

  0755145747 9780755145744 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  The Bliss of Ignorance

  Guy Randall had no idea that he was going to die.

  There was no reason why he should. No normal man of thirty-three expects death to be lurking round the corner.

  What he did on the day of his death is of importance for two reasons. It gave the CID three weeks of intensive work to find out exactly where he went and whom he saw; for probably one of the people with whom he talked, some hours before the fatal moment, was his murderer.

  Even apart from its climax, it was an unusual day for Randall; in its way, exciting and stimulating. He was happy, eager and energetic, and felt very fit; and he turned many corners before taking that final, fatal step.

  Chief Inspector Roger West of New Scotland Yard, who retraced those steps with infinite patience, was eventually able to present to his superiors a complete, comprehensive account of Randall’s movements, but he couldn’t supply them with a schedule of his thoughts.

  West’s report started from the early morning of the last day of Randall’s life.

  The room was neither large nor small, but bright because on that March morning the sun was streaming through an open window. It was a room on the second floor of Maybank, a Victorian villa in St. John’s Wood, and as much a home as a boarding-house can ever be.

  Randall slept heavily.

  Footsteps sounded outside, and there was a timid tap at the door. After a pause, the tap was repeated, but much more loudly. Randall did not stir, and the door opened; a cup and saucer chinked on a metal tray. A girl, of seventeen or eighteen, came in and spoke: “It’s eight o’clock, Mr Randall!”

  He started, blinked.

  “Eh? Oh, hallo.” He yawned widely and stretched his arms. “Hallo,” he repeated. “’Morning. Wass the time?”

  “Nearly eight o’clock,” said the girl.

  “Time to get up,” said Randall, and the girl went out, closing the door behind her.

  Breakfast at Maybank was an informal meal, and Randall alone of the seven boarders came down at half-past eight. There were two letters and a folded copy of the Daily Telegraph by his plate, and as he examined the letters the girl came in with his porridge. He gave her an absent smile and opened the first letter.

  It was from his sister, brief and to the point:

  ‘Dear Guy, I’m delighted to hear you’re engaged. Every good wish, my dear. When are you going to bring your Sybil to see us? She sounds delightful. Mustn’t stay now, I’m so busy, but I had to write something the moment I had your letter. Love, Jane.’

  Randall grinned, put the letter down and ate his porridge. He was deep in the second letter when the girl came in again, bringing him a sausage and some fried tomatoes.

  The other letter was longer and typewritten. It read:

  ‘My dear Guy. So the misogynist has fallen, the woman-hater becomes the lover! Good – I knew that it was bound to happen some day. No, of course not, this won’t affect business at all – why on earth should it? You’ll have even more incentive to sell our goods! Whether your wife will be particularly cheerful because you’ll be away so often isn’t my affair, thank heavens! That brings me to the point of the letter and the point in yours which obviously most worries you. The firm can’t, at the moment, give you an office of your own, for there’s no vacancy. On the other hand, I’m told that Lewis is talking of retiring, and when he does, the Midlands area will fall vacant. There isn’t much doubt that you will get this, and with it the extra £200 a year that it carries. So little doubt, in fact, that the board will increase your stipend by the said £200pa from the date of your wedding. I’ve written to you at the office today; by the way – try to keep your head out of the clouds long enough to see Perriman’s. If you could clinch their order – but you won’t, of course, they’re the most difficult prospects we have. Still, since they’ve asked for a quotation for their boxes for the next 6 months, we must have a shot at it. I’ve told you in the other letter you can cut each quotation by 5%, but between you and me, if you can get the order by cutting the quotations by 10 or even 12½%, there wouldn’t be any argument here! They’ve had the quotations, of course. I’ll be seeing you! As ever, Jim.’

  By the time Randall had finished reading this letter his breakfast was getting cold. He ate quickly, had two more cups of tea and several pieces of toast generously spread with butter and marmalade, then went into the hall. His gloves were in the hall-stand drawer – he didn’t wear a hat.

  He had to turn two corners before he reached his garage and got out his twelve-horse-power Mitchell saloon. When he drove away, he turned a dozen corners in succession – more when he was in the West End. At half-past nine he turned the last corner before parking his car, then walked to the offices of the Crown Printing and Manufacturing Company, which were in a side-street off the Strand.

  Randall hadn’t any friends in the London office. When he was travelling in London or the South, it was his business headquarters, and he knew
the clerks and the typists by name; they knew him as the star salesman of the Southern Area. He made the hearts of the younger girls flutter because he was good-looking and friendly, but he did nothing to encourage them. Coleman, the office manager and Southern Region Sales Manager, was a middle-aged man. He was already in his office. When Randall entered, he pushed aside a letter he was reading and said: “Good morning, I hear I have to congratulate you.”

  “How the dickens did you know that?” demanded Randall.

  Coleman laughed. “Mr Wilson mentioned it in a letter from the works,” he said. “There’s a letter for you, too, about Perriman’s, but you’ll never do anything there. Tucktos are dug in too deep. Very glad to hear your news, though. Do I know the lady?”

  “No,” said Randall. “I met her at Brighton in the summer. We’re going to get married very quietly at the end of next week.” He looked bright-eyed and happy, and Coleman smiled as if to himself. “You know more about Perriman’s and Tucktos than anyone, I should think,” Randall went on. “Give me the low-down, will you?”

  Coleman did so, and did not hide the fact that he considered it was a forlorn hope.

  The Crown Printing and Manufacturing Company manufactured a great variety of articles in paper and cardboard, and had recently experimented successfully with plastic in some of their products. Tucktos, who manufactured patent folding boxes and envelopes, was a much larger firm and had been established fifty years; during practically all that time, they had supplied Perriman’s with their requirements – and the requirements were vast.

  Perriman’s Packed Products used cartons and containers in almost unlimited quantities; they dealt in prepared foodstuffs, they had a vast wholesale business and a chain of retail stores, and in most of their business habits they were ultra-conservative. Few box-making companies had succeeded in obtaining even a share of their custom. The Tucktos company was a combine with different works specialising in producing different boxes, packets, and containers, and the size of the concern enabled them to keep prices down.

  Randall had already known a lot of this; Coleman told him much more, and added: “It isn’t only the size of Tucktos, you know. They’ve a fine sales organisation. Know Jeremiah Scott?”

  “Yes, I know Jeremiah of Tucktos,” said Randall with a faint smile. “Half-rogue, half-genius. He and I are by way of becoming rivals over some prospects, you know. If I take an order away from him, he always gets back on me by wheedling one from people I thought were safe for us. As a matter of fact, Coleman, I’d appreciate your advice about how to tackle that. No one in the business knows more about it than you.”

  “Very nice of you,” murmured Coleman. “What’s worrying you?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say worrying, but … well, I can’t put a finger on it, it’s more a feeling than anything else. Jeremiah Scott and I cross each other’s paths so much, especially down here, in the South. He always gives me the impression that he’s out to cut my throat.”

  “You mean, he doesn’t like you personally?” asked Coleman.

  “I don’t know about that. He’s usually genial enough. I don’t often see him unless we happen to be staying at the same hotel, and in the evenings he’s generally sozzled. I’ve never known a man drink like he does.”

  “I shouldn’t think he gets actually drunk,” said Coleman judicially. “He can carry his liquor. Tucktos never did like competition, and we’ve taken quite a lot of business away from them in the past two years. You have particularly. I wouldn’t put it past their board to have instructed Jeremiah Scott to go after your business, to try to get you down. But it isn’t personal, Randall, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “I sometimes wonder,” said Randall. “Not that it matters, but I’d like to know how to handle Scott.”

  “Just do your job,” said Coleman, rather smugly. “You won’t go far wrong. You may meet Scott again today. Head Office has fixed your appointment for three o’clock, by the way.”

  “Then Scott will probably have been there this morning,” said Randall with a grimace.

  He stayed at the office until half-past ten, made three calls between then and twelve-fifteen, getting two quite substantial orders, and then drove to Sibley’s, a small, exclusive restaurant in a narrow turning off Charing Cross Road. He had to park his car on a bombed-site parking-place and walked the last hundred yards.

  Louis, the commissionaire, who was standing at the corner, turned round, and nearly bumped into a girl.

  “Oh!” exclaimed the girl. Her face was pale and her eyes bright, almost frightened. “Oh – Guy!”

  “Sybil, darling! What—what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was afraid I was late.”

  “So was I.” Randall laughed as he took her arm. “Instead, we’re both on the dot. Darling, I’ve the most wonderful news for you?”

  “Really, Guy?” The fear, if it had ever been there, faded from the girl’s eyes. Louis watched them thoughtfully, smilingly. They hadn’t even noticed him.

  They went into the gloomy entrance lobby of Sibley’s, still armin-arm. And it occurred to Louis that he had never seen the girl in such a hurry before, and had noticed that she was looking over her shoulder as she came towards the restaurant. A man turned back when she met Randall. Vaguely, Louis wondered if she’d been hurrying from this man.

  Inside, Randall was talking as they followed a waiter to a reserved corner table.

  “Yes, it’s grand news. I had a letter from Jim this morning – Jim Wilson, my friend on the board.”

  “Yes, darling, I know who you mean.”

  “He’s turned up absolutely trumps. Practically promised me the Midlands area within a short time, and as a wedding present, two hundred a year extra. Pretty good?”

  “Wonderful!”

  The waiter came up, was consulted, advised, and went off again. The wine-waiter was also consulted; he advised a red wine and departed.

  “Yes,” said Randall, gripping Sybil’s hand quite openly. He spoke quietly, however, and she had to lean forward to hear his words. “That means a thousand a year salary, darling, and at the rate of commission I’ve been earning this past year, between two and two and a half thousand a year is certain. Think you can manage on that?”

  “Manage!” echoed Sybil. “Guy, it’s glorious.”

  “We’re going places,” said Randall in a louder voice. “You needn’t worry about that, darling – we’re in the money!”

  The waiter brought hors-d’oeuvre for Sybil, pâté for Guy.

  It was half-past two before they left, Sybil to return to her office in the Strand, Randall to go to Perriman’s.

  The food-products people had a huge building in the City, within hailing distance of the Guildhall. Randall had to give his name to a uniformed commissionaire, who telephoned to Samuel Perriman, the director who was in charge of the buying. Usually callers were escorted to their destination; only a favoured few were allowed to make their own way – and this was the first time Randall had been asked to go up alone. He smiled brightly and said, “Oh yes,” quite confidently when the commissionaire asked if he knew where Mr Samuel’s office was.

  Randall went up in a lift to the fourth of six floors, but when he stepped on to the landing, he hesitated, looking right and left. A diminutive boy came from a huge office with glass doors. When he saw Randall hesitating, he came up and smiled.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m looking for Mr Perriman’s office – Mr Samuel’s office,” corrected Randall. “It is on this floor, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, sir. Along there”—the boy pointed—”first right and then second left, you’ll see the name on the door, sir.

  Second left.

  He turned the corner – and for the second time that day almost ran into someone else. But this time it was a man – a man who backed away and, recognising him, grinned; or leered.

  It was Jeremiah Scott.

  Chapter Two

  Th
e Last Corner

  Jeremiah Scott didn’t move aside, and Randall had no room to pass. Randall managed an insincere smile. Scott’s eyes, glittering bright and bloodshot in the corners, had a bold insolence, calculated to annoy and to hurt.

  Randall broke the silence.

  “Hallo, Scott.”

  “Fancy seeing you,” jeered Scott. “You’re only just too late.”

  At that moment a door opened and a man appeared. He was a stranger to Randall, but he said, “Good afternoon, Mr Scott,” so he obviously knew the Tucktos man. Scott nodded and moved aside.

  “I expect we’ll be running across each other again,” he said to Randall. “So long.”

  He went off, a tall, broad man with an ungainly walk.

  The man who had come out of the office said, “I shouldn’t take any joke of Mr Scott’s too seriously, Mr Randall.” Then he walked on, and Randall was left alone. He glanced after the man, and then went a little farther along the passage, until he reached a door marked ‘Mr Samuel Perriman.’ He tapped, and the door was opened promptly by a short, dumpy girl in a black suit and a white blouse.

  “Mr Randall?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m Mr Randall.”

  “Will you please come in?”

  She stood aside for him to enter a small office.

  “Mr Samuel won’t keep you a moment,” said the girl, and she went into the next room.

  Randall heard Samuel Perriman grunt.

  This office had two desks, two typewriters, three filing cabinets, a dictaphone machine, and a ‘talking box.’ Nothing adorned the panelled walls except two photographs. The photographs were familiar to Randall – but then, they were familiar to every man and woman in Great Britain and in many places abroad. The woman was middle-aged, smiling, somehow a ‘type’ – comfortable, competent, the epitome of middle-class contentment.