Sport For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  The man was a little older, a Judge Hardy of a man, with greying hair and a tired but friendly smile; he looked as if he were sitting back in an easy chair after a hard day at the office. The remarkable thing about these photographs was the fact that they were only head and shoulders. The effect was created by their expressions; here, they almost said, is part of Old England. They were known to all as ‘Mr and Mrs Perriman.’ They appeared, side by side, on all Perriman products. Packet soups, beef cubes, jellies, powders of every kind and variety, anything to do with food that could be put in a tin or a packet, had these pictures as trademark.

  Randall was studying them when the girl surprised him by appearing again and saying: “Mr Samuel will see you now, Mr Randall.”

  “Oh … thanks.”

  The other door was open, and Randall stepped into the great man’s room.

  ‘Great’ might have been true of Samuel Perriman’s reputation and position, even his ability, but it was certainly not true of his stature. He was one of nature’s small men; his head and face were large in proportion to his body. He sat behind an enormous walnut desk with his back to a long, wide window. He waved a hand to an armchair.

  “Sit down, Mr Randall, sit down.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Randall. “I hope you’re keeping well, Mr Perriman.”

  “Seldom well,” said Samuel. “Indigestion. Now, Mr Randall – you have some samples, I believe. You are prepared to talk about delivery and—ah—terms. Prices. The prices quoted by your Head Office just won’t do, you know, just won’t do. Not competitive at all.”

  “I don’t think we need worry too much about price,” said Randall. He picked up his brief-case and began to open it. Samuel Perriman pressed a bell-push fitted to his desk, and the door behind Randall opened. The secretary appeared.

  “Yes, Mr Samuel?”

  “Bring me the Carton and Boxes sample file, please.”

  “Yes, Mr Samuel.”

  “And I feel sure you need not worry about delivery,” said Randall. “We have just installed some new machinery and it has greatly increased our output. Raw materials are rather more free now, and the quality … you won’t be worried about quality, Mr Perriman.”

  Mr Samuel patted his black waistcoat.

  “Quality is the basic essential of all business, Mr Randall,” he announced. “Perriman’s great reputation has been built up on it. Quality Counts with Perriman’s.”

  He rolled off the slogan, which accompanied the pictures of ‘Mr and Mrs Perriman’ on all their products, and proceeded to give Randall a lecture on the sins of those companies which economised on quality.

  At last the door opened and his secretary approached with a large square box, about the size of Randall’s brief-case, and placed it on the desk. Randall saw that her cheeks were flushed – and he also saw a frosty glint in Mr Samuel’s eyes.

  “You have been a long time, Miss Morton.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” said Miss Morton. “The file was in Mr Akerman’s room. I didn’t realise he’d had it out.”

  “You must always know where to put your hands on these files,” reproved Mr Samuel, and waved her away.

  By that time Randall had taken the Crown samples from his briefcase, and was spreading them over one part of the desk. These were only dummies. They had been made up partly by hand and partly by machine, and crude drawings of ‘Mr and Mrs Perriman’ had been etched in black and white, together with the slogan, Quality Counts. When he glanced at the samples which Samuel was taking out of the file, he grimaced because they were finished productions and they looked infinitely better than his. These, undoubtedly, were samples of the small boxes and cartons which Tucktos had made for years.

  Mr Samuel spread them out, lingering over each one; and they made a colourful show, for Perriman’s believed in system in all things, and each product was packed in a box or packet of a different colour from the next. There were also some pages of typescript – specifications for each container.

  Samuel began to talk again, earnestly, and after a while selected some of Randall’s dummies. Randall did very little talking, beyond interpolating a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘I understand’ every few minutes. Mr Samuel bent, smoothed, and folded the dummies, sniffed them, peered at them, nodded and shook his head, put some on one pile and some on another.

  Then he began to talk on a slightly higher note: “In spite of what you say, Mr Randall, I am doubtful about delivery. These custard-powder cartons, for instance – we should require …” He paused, drew in his breath as if for emphasis, and then added: “We should require a million, in the course of the year. A million, in equal monthly deliveries.”

  “Oh, we can do that,” said Randall confidently.

  “Very good. Price, now. You’ve quoted one pound eleven shillings and threepence per thousand. But it isn’t competitive, Mr Randall. We shall be ordering in millions, as I’ve pointed out. Our egg powder, gravy-salt, baking-powder, dried herbs, blancmange powder, and other products are all packed in similar cartons, only the colour is different – did you understand that?”

  “We quoted item by item,” said Randall, and he leaned back, rubbing his hands together. “How many of that particular sized box would you require in the year?”

  Mr Samuel barked: “Three million, at least!”

  Randall drew a deep breath and said: “Mr Samuel, I have every confidence in your fairness, in your opinion of what is a competitive price. If you give Crown an order for three million of these boxes, colours to your specification, then Crown will be quite happy to leave the price to you.”

  Mr Samuel said: “Really! Have you your company’s authority for saying that?”

  “I think you will find that in their letter they say that I am authorised to adjust quotations,” murmured Randall. “And for large quantities, I’m quite prepared to adopt the same procedure for other shapes and sizes. Write out a list of your requirements, specify your own delivery dates and prices and sign the order, Mr Perriman, and you will have no cause to regret it.”

  After a long pause, Mr Samuel said: “You are a very bold young man, Mr Randall.”

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Randall strode from the big building, his brief-case bulging, a smile that was almost fatuous on his face. He hardly noticed the corners he turned, and when he climbed into his car he let in the clutch and started the engine mechanically.

  Mr Coleman’s secretary was putting the black cover on her typewriter when Randall flung open the door and strode in. She stood and gaped, he was so excited. To crown her astonishment, he stepped to her side, put his arms round her shoulders and hugged her exuberantly. As he did so, Coleman came out of his office and stopped on the threshold.

  “Ah’mm,” he murmured.

  Randall swung round, in no way abashed.

  “I’ve got it!” he cried. “I’ve got it!”

  Coleman said: “Got what, Mr Randall?”

  “Not Perriman’s order,” breathed the girl.

  Randall raised his brief-case in the air and gave it a resounding thwack. Because it was crammed so full, it gave out a dull, heavy sound.

  “I’ve an order for nine million cartons, signed by the great Samuel himself, and the price is just above the minimum we were prepared to go to. I gather there’s been some bother with Tucktos.” Randall laughed. “Jerry Scott went in to see Samuel half-drunk and Samuel’s a great temperance fanatic.” With unsteady fingers he undid the straps of the brown brief-case and drew out a large envelope. “Here’s the signed order – look at it! Nine million cartons! And in there I’ve got the key-samples we’re to work from and the written specifications. A great wad of typescript, it’ll take me hours to wade through it.”

  Coleman examined the order incredulously. It was an official form, on which ‘Mr and Mrs Perriman’ smiled up at all beholders; and in the bottom left-hand corner was Samuel Perriman’s small, neat signature.

  “I would never have believed it,” Coleman breathed.
“This is the biggest single order we’ve ever had, Randall – it’s sensational. I think—I think I’ll telephone the works. Mr Wilson ought to know about this immediately.”

  “Don’t do that yet,” said Randall. “I’d like to take the whole thing up to the factory in the morning. I’ve earned that, I think! I’ll stay for an hour or two reading the specifications and making notes. I’ll finish the job at my room, if needs be – and catch an early-morning train. Any objection?”

  Coleman shook his head.

  When it came to studying the specifications, however, Randall found that he couldn’t concentrate. He kept looking at the clock in Coleman’s office, and at six o’clock he telephoned to Sybil.

  “Darling, I must see you for dinner!”

  Sybil caught her breath.

  “But, darling—”

  “It’s a must!” cried Randall. “Cut everything else, my precious, and meet me at Sibley’s at seven o’clock. I’ve had the most wonderful stroke of luck!”

  Louis, outside Sibley’s, noticed that Miss Lennox looked over her shoulder as she approached that evening, as if she were afraid that she was being followed. And a man was walking behind her, not very far behind – the same fellow, thought Louis, who had been there at lunch-time. Miss Lennox cast a final glance over her shoulder, as the commissionaire said: “Mr Randall’s inside, Miss.”

  “Oh.” She looked startled. “Oh … thanks.”

  The man who had come behind her walked past as she entered, looking straight ahead of him.

  Just after half-past eight, when darkness had fallen, Randall dropped his fiancée outside her boarding-house, waited until she waved from the front door, then drove towards the corner. His head was still in the clouds. He reached the garage and put the car in.

  Then he walked blithely towards Maybank. There was a street lamp at the corner. He turned the corner into the shadowy street. A lamp fifty yards farther along was shining brightly, and against it he saw a man, but he did not see the man’s face. He saw a flash, a spurt of flame, heard a faint sound – and then felt as if he had been kicked violently in the chest. He reeled and dropped his case, and vaguely saw another flash.

  Chapter Three

  Dead Body

  Guy Randall’s body had been on the pavement for nearly ten minutes.

  A woman’s footsteps approached along the street from which he had turned. She reached the same corner, looking at the lamp which was out now – it had been broken by the murderer. She hesitated, then walked on – and saw something dark lying near the kerb. She drew to one side nervously, but as she got nearer she saw that it looked like the body of a man. He wasn’t moving.

  “Are you—are you ill?” she asked timidly.

  The man neither moved nor answered.

  Then a door opened across the road and a man called heartily: “Good night, my dear, good night!”

  Light streamed out, touching the body of the man and showing a patch which glistened red on the pavement. The woman threw back her head and screamed. Across the road, the man gave a startled exclamation, and the woman with him called: “What’s that?”

  The woman standing by Randall’s body screamed again, and the man ran across the road to her, while the woman in the doorway shouted: “Be careful, be careful!”

  Another man turned the corner and a motorist swung his car into the road, its headlights revealing the whole scene and showing the bloodstains on Randall’s shirt, near the V of the waistcoat. The motorist pulled up; a middle-aged woman who joined the little group looked down at the dead man, and exclaimed: “It’s Mr Randall!”

  She was a boarder at Maybank.

  The man from across the road was on his knees beside the still body. He straightened up and spoke unsteadily.

  “Better not touch him,” he said. “Better have the police. Better ‘phone.”

  The morgue was a low building attached to the police station, and nearly two hours after he had been discovered and pronounced dead by a doctor, Randall, stripped of his clothes, was lying on a cold, stone slab. A bright light shone above him.

  The police-surgeon, Cumber, and his assistant, who were examining the body, paid little attention, at first, to anything but the two bullet wounds, one high and wide of the heart, the other through it.

  A knife glinted beneath the bright light. Cumber lost himself in his work, and if he noticed the door opening, he did not look round. A big, sturdy, youthful man with close-cut dark hair and a fresh complexion walked across to the bench, and Merrick, the assistant, glanced at him. With a few deft movements, Cumber brought the two bullets nearer the surface, then motioned to Merrick, who took them out with a pair of forceps.

  Cumber looked up.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?”

  “Hallo,” said the newcomer, who was Detective-Sergeant Goodwin of New Scotland Yard. “They told me you’d got a corpus, so I thought I’d have a look-see.”

  “You’ll have Adams after you,” said Cumber. “He hates you Yard smarties nosing around before he’s had a look himself. And he’s due any time.”

  “I’ll chance it,” said Goodwin. Then suddenly his rather amused smile was wiped away. A look of alarm and incredulity replaced it, as he saw the dead man’s face. He took a step forward, his hands clenched.

  “Don’t get worked up, it isn’t West,” said Cumber.

  “It’s uncanny,” Goodwin said. “It’s his double.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” retorted Cumber. “There’s a certain likeness between the dead man and Roger West, but it’s superficial. Colouring, the fair, wavy hair, shape of the eyes and the upper part of the nose, but that’s about all.” He gave a little laugh. “I don’t mind admitting that it shook me when I first saw him, and the others here were startled. We telephoned the Yard, and were told that West had been there until half-past nine and this chap was found just after nine o’clock. No need to worry.”

  “Of course not,” said Goodwin mechanically. “He isn’t so like as I thought at first glance, anyhow. But this will give West a jolt.”

  “Maybe,” said Cumber, “but it takes a great deal to upset that young man. Well, no need to stay here. I shan’t do the PM tonight,” he added. “Probably tackle it first thing in the morning. Anything else you want here?”

  “What do you know about him?” asked Goodwin.

  “Not my show,” said Cumber with a shrug. “Better see what you can find out inside. And don’t forget Adams will be after your blood, he’ll suspect you of trying to take a job away from him.”

  “Ass,” said Goodwin flatly.

  They left the body in the cold, bleak room, in charge of the morgue-keeper, and went into the Divisional Headquarters next door. Hardly had they arrived than Superintendent Adams, a square-shouldered block of a man, came hurrying in. He shot an unfriendly glance at Goodwin from his cold, dark-blue eyes, and then snapped out question after question. Cumber answered them patiently enough on the way to the superintendent’s second-floor office. Adams went to his desk, sat down, and picked up a report.

  “Want me any more?” asked Cumber.

  “Eh? Oh no. ‘Phone you later.”

  Adams nodded and said “Good night,” and rang a bell. A thin man in plain clothes came in.

  “What’s all this, Elliott?” asked Adams.

  “All in the report, sir.” Elliott had a squeaky voice and a prominent nose. “Nasty business – gave us a shock; the deado looks like Mr West.”

  “Who?” Adams barked.

  “Chief Inspector West, sir, of the Yard.”

  “Oh,” said Adams.

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Goodwin untruthfully.

  Adams grunted and picked up the report. He read it aloud, but in exasperatingly low-pitched voice, preventing Goodwin from hearing every word.

  Roger West was at home.

  It was nearly midnight, and he yawned as he looked into the glowing embers of a fire which his wife, Janet, had lit because the evening had been chilly and friends
had been in. West felt relaxed, pleasantly tired, and happy.

  Janet came in carrying a tray; there were sandwiches as well as coffee.

  “Ah, that looks good,” said Roger.

  “I’m glad the others wouldn’t stay for some,” said Janet, stifling a yawn. “I—”

  The telephone bell rang.

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Janet. “They’re not going to worry you at this time of night.”

  Roger chuckled as he stretched out his hand to lift the receiver.

  “Probably one of the guests has forgotten something,” he said lightly. “Hallo.”

  Janet saw him frown; so it wasn’t a forgetful guest. With a gesture of annoyance, she pulled up a small table and put down the tray. Then she sat back in her own arm-chair and watched Roger, who was holding on. It was now pleasantly warm in the room, which was comfortably furnished; a cheerful, modern room in a cheerful, modern house in Bell Street, Chelsea.

  “Yes, speaking,” Roger said at last.

  A pause and then he asked: “Who? … Oh, Goodwin. Yes?” He listened for a moment, and then said: “Well, if you really think it’s urgent … Yes, all right.”

  He replaced the receiver and was about to speak when Janet exclaimed: “Roger, it’s too bad! Night after night you’ve been out. It just isn’t fair – there are times when I hate your job!”

  “There are certainly times when I hate it too,” said Roger. “But this time—”

  “That’s not true. You love every minute of it. If you had to choose between giving up your job or me, it would be me every time. Don’t deny it, you know it’s true!”

  Roger was so startled by the outburst that he looked at her in amazement. He saw the tears in her grey-green eyes. Saw the signs of strain on her face. With her dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders and looking quite at her best, Janet was lovely.

  “You see, you know it’s true or you’d say it wasn’t,” she said in a muffled voice.

  Roger stood up abruptly, and knocked the table with his knee. The cups of coffee shook, coffee spilled over the edges and into the saucers.

  “Oh, you fool!” exclaimed Janet.