by John Creasey
“Photograph ’em,” said Roger briefly. He knew that Peel would have a Leica with him and was an enthusiast. The camera clicked, and by then Roger had practically finished his search of the room. Nothing of interest was found.
“Lend me a hand with the mattress,” he said.
Peel went to the other side of the bed and they rolled back the mattress, bedclothes, and all. They didn’t have to look any farther, for under the mattress there were some colourful pieces of cardboard, and from several of them two familiar faces peered out – the faces of ‘Mr and Mrs Perriman.’
“So we’ve got his samples,” breathed Peel. “And that means we’ve got her!”
Sybil Lennox worked in the drawing-office of a small firm of architects and surveyors, the firm of Boyd & Fairweather. Boyd was seldom in the office, but Fairweather was usually there, a small, grey, bespectacled man with a shrill voice and a quick temper.
She was not back in the office until nearly twenty minutes to three that afternoon, but he made no comment on her late return from lunch.
Just after four o’clock, the telephone rang; it was for her. She asked in a husky, rather nervous voice: “Who is that?”
She held the receiver tightly; she seemed to sway; she did more listening than talking, and her voice was hardly audible when she said at last: “All right, goodbye.”
Detective-Sergeant Harrison stood near the entrance to a block of offices in which the firm of Boyd & Fairweather was housed, contemplating some aeroplane, steamship, and motor-car models in a toy shop. He saw everyone who entered the office block with a photographic eye, for although others seldom registered him in their minds, everyone registered in his.
It was nearly five o’clock.
Traffic in the Strand was never slack during the day, but during the last ten minutes the crowds, the cars, taxis, and buses had become thicker as rush-hour approached, and there were several hold-ups. People pushed past Harrison. In his mind’s eye he had a picture of Sybil Lennox. A taxi drew up nearly opposite the exit. Harrison simply noticed the fact and also noticed the driver. He had some sticking-plaster over his face and forehead and his right hand was heavily bandaged. He had a rather long nose, with a piece of sticking-plaster attached to the bridge. The tip of the nose was sore, and his right eye was half closed by a bruise.
Harrison walked past him, and therefore past the entrance to the building, so as to get a closer look at the man who lit a cigarette as Harrison passed, and lowered his face towards his cupped hands.
Harrison turned and walked back to his original position. The girl was standing just inside the building. On her face was an expression of rapt attention – she was staring into the Strand, at the taxi-driver. Harrison caught on in a flash; she was waiting for the driver to signal her to come forward!
The plain-clothes man showed no sign that he understood this, but looked into a window where some hand-made boots and shoes were displayed. There was a traffic block stretching from Trafalgar Square; the lights were against the stream. Soon the traffic began to move, and the driver with the bandages tossed his cigarette out of the window. The girl came out, hurrying.
Harrison glanced eagerly at the line of traffic for a taxi with its flag up; there wasn’t one, there wouldn’t be one at this hour. He noted the number and make and colour of the cab. There was a public telephone in a confectioner’s shop nearby; he swung round towards the shop, and almost fell over a little man who staggered away from him.
“Sorry,” muttered Harrison.
“I should ruddy well think you are sorry!” screeched the little man fiercely. He was almost a dwarf, and barely came up to Harrison’s chest. His thin face was suffused with rage, and he hopped about on one foot like a man possessed. “Nearly broke my ankle, you great clodhopper.”
“Sorry,” repeated Harrison. “I didn’t mean—”
“Ought to look where you’re going, you clumsy basket,” screeched the little man. A crowd had swiftly collected; men, women, boys, and girls paused in their homeward rush.
“I’ve said I’m sorry. You’re not badly hurt. Don’t crowd round, please.”
The crowd pressed closer, the policeman’s voice without a uniform was ineffective. The words had incensed the little man even more too; he wanted his assailant’s name and address. Harrison pushed past him and tried to break through the crowd, but it was too thick.
The little ‘victim’ swung his injured leg at him and caught him a terrific blow on the ankle with the toe of his boot. Harrison was suddenly engulfed in pain which ran from his ankle to the rest of his body like a burning flame. He staggered and lost his footing.
It was nearly twenty minutes after Sybil Lennox had entered the taxi before Harrison got his message through to the Information Room.
About the time that the girl appeared at the doorway, Roger West reached Scotland Yard with Peel. He sent Peel along to the Fingerprints Room with the brief-case, his photographs, and the coloured specimens of Perriman’s boxes, all to be tested for prints. He went to his own office, and was glad to find it empty. He picked up the telephone receiver.
“Put me through to the Cheyne Hospital, please,” he said and held on. In the ‘Mail In’ partition was a small automatic pistol with the handle badly scratched, and with a label tied to it; on the gun were traces of finger-print powder. Also tied to it was a live cartridge – presumably the only one found in the magazine of the gun. It was, of course, the gun which had been used that afternoon. The label which Roger read when he pulled it towards him ran:
Walton -22 automatic pistol, found near body of man believed to be Arthur Kirby at scene of accident on Chelsea Embankment, March … at 3:34pm.
The smaller label tied to the bullet read:
Walton -22 automatic pistol bullet taken from gun found near body of Arthur Kirby. See gun.
“You’re through, sir,” said the operator.
“Thanks. Cheyne Hospital? … This is Scotland Yard. A Sergeant Goodwin was brought in this afternoon with a bullet wound in his chest, can you tell me how he is, please? … Yes, I’ll hold on.”
He heard footsteps outside and saw the door-handle turn. Eddie Day’s nose and stomach preceded their owner into the room.
“Why, hallo ‘Andsome! They tell me—”
“Hush!”
Eddie tip-toed towards Roger as the woman at the hospital spoke again.
“The bullet has been removed and the patient is as comfortable as can be expected,” she said.
“Is he on the danger-list?”
“Oh yes. I’m afraid he will be for some time. Am I speaking to a friend of the patient?”
“Yes.”
“I think his relatives should be summoned as quickly as possible,” said the woman.
“I’ll see to it, thank you,” said Roger gruffly.
He replaced the receiver and stared up into Eddie’s face.
“Goodwin in a bad way, ‘Andsome?”
“Very. He lives in the Marylebone Road. I think I’ll go and see his wife myself.”
“Anything I can do while you’re gone?” asked Eddie.
“Tell Peel I’ll be back by half-past five,” said Roger, “and tell him we’ll be working late tonight. He’ll take Goodwin’s place.”
“Right-o, ‘Andsome.”
Roger went downstairs. His car was parked near the front entrance, but as he started the engine, a tubby little man wearing a tweed suit came hurrying across the yard.
“Oi—Handsome!”
Roger looked at him unsmilingly.
“See the Back-room Inspector,” he said. “I’ve got nothing for you just now, Tommy.”
“Oh, come off it,” said the plump little man. “The Echo’s always first – remember the old tag. Just a sentence, that’s all I want.”
“As soon as I can, but not now,” said Roger.
He drove as quickly as the traffic would permit to Goodwin’s home.
Chapter Eight
New Aspect
G
oodwin lived in a flat above a newsagent’s shop at the Edgware Road end of Marylebone Road. There was a side door and a narrow passage. The door was ajar, and Roger pushed it open and stepped inside. The first thing he saw was a pram, and he had to squeeze past it to reach the narrow stairs. Goodwin had one child, a girl of nearly two – only the day before Goodwin had been saying that she was getting too big for her pram. Half-way up the stairs, he heard a woman laugh and a child chuckle.
The door at the head of the stairs was closed. Roger tapped on the small, iron knocker, and the woman’s voice stopped but the child’s gurgles continued.
“Now be quiet, Marjorie, Mummy’s got to go to the door. Stay there, mind.”
Footsteps followed, and Roger ran his fingers through his hair and wiped his forehead. He had met Mrs Goodwin only twice. She was a small, round-faced woman with mischievous, blue eyes and a well-developed, almost dumpy figure. She was half-smiling when she opened the door. Recognition came swiftly, and with it understanding, at least, that he brought bad news. The smile vanished.
“What is it, Mr West? Is he hurt?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Roger, stepping past her into the living-room of the flat. “He’s been shot, Mrs Goodwin. They’ve got the bullets out and are doing everything they can. But I think you ought to know that he’s on the danger-list.”
“Where is he?”
“Cheyne Hospital, in Chelsea.”
“How soon can I get there?”
“I’ll take you. I’ve got the car downstairs,” said Roger. Mrs Goodwin didn’t answer at once, but looked round at her daughter.
“I’ll have to take her,” she said. “We don’t know anyone well enough here to leave her with. I won’t be five minutes.”
She wasn’t. Soon she and Marjorie climbed into the back of the car, and Roger started off. Neither adult spoke, and the child kept quiet, as if the visitation had depressed her too. Roger went the long way round, to keep clear of traffic. Suddenly he said: “Mrs Goodwin, my wife will look after Marjorie for a few hours. We live near the hospital.”
“Oh, I can’t give her such trouble!”
“Don’t worry about that, and she’ll be quite happy with our two boys. I think we ought to drop Marjorie first,” Roger went on. “It won’t make five minutes difference.”
Scoopy and Richard, wearing bright red sun-suits, were playing in the back garden and came rushing into the front when they heard the car. Janet was upstairs; Roger saw her at the window as he climbed out. He beckoned her, and by the time the two boys and Marjorie had been introduced, Janet had appeared at the front door.
“What is it, Roger?”
Before he had finished telling her, she was on her way to the car. It was quickly arranged that Mrs Goodwin should return to Bell Street when she had to leave the hospital. Within five minutes, Roger was driving off again. When they reached the hospital he was relieved to see Bill Sloan in the big, austere, white-walled hall, and Sloan immediately had a word of cheer.
“No sign of a relapse, they tell me. Are you going up with Mrs Goodwin?”
“Can you?” asked Roger. “I ought to get back.”
“Gladly. Come on, Nell,” said Sloan, and Roger realised for the first time that Sloan and the Goodwins were friends. Nell Goodwin turned to Roger, started to speak but couldn’t, and hurried along with Sloan. Roger didn’t wait, but walked back to his car.
When he arrived at the Yard he hurried along to his office. Peel was waiting by himself. Roger looked at several packets and articles on his desk – the gun, and two more bullets, each with a label attached.
“Got the ballistics people busy already?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Peel, “but there’s something else.”
“Let’s have it.”
Peel told him what had happened to Harrison, and also that the taxi-cab had not been traced. Its number was not registered at Scotland Yard as a licensed ply-for-hire vehicle, which meant that it either had false number-plates or was used without a licence.
“Have you put a call out for Sybil Lennox?” Roger asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. And is Harrison’s description of the taxi-driver good enough to send round?”
“Yes, I’ve sent it,” said Peel. “Harrison’s up in the rest-room, with his leg stretched out, writing a report … oughtn’t you to see him?”
“Right away,” said Roger.
Harrison’s right foot was heavily bandaged. He was bending over a table, twisted round awkwardly, and writing furiously when the others arrived. He immediately apologised for making a mess of the job.
“No one’s fault,” said Roger briefly. “I’m worried about this little man who made the scene. Any doubt that he did it deliberately?”
“None.”
“This cabby – what did he look like?”
“As a matter of fact, he’d been in the wars, obviously had an accident quite recently,” said Harrison. “That’s why I took so much notice of him and was able to send the description round. I did wonder whether the plaster and the bandages were a blind, to make identification difficult, but I seem to remember that he had a little raw patch on the tip of his nose.”
“Just a minute,” said Roger sharply and spun round. “Peel, get on to Chelsea. Ask them for a detailed report on the injuries to the driver of the car which ran over Kirby. It looked as if Kirby had an accident, but it’s just possible that he was deliberately run down. If he knew the car was waiting for him on the Embankment, he’d try to reach it, and if the driver thought that he was in serious trouble, he might have driven at him.”
The driver of the car which had killed Kirby had given his name as Smith and submitted a driving licence in that name. But before eight o’clock that night, it was discovered that the driving licence belonged to another man, who had lost it some weeks before and who, during that afternoon, had been on the other side of London. The smashed car had been hired, also by a ‘Mr Smith,’ from a drive-yourself hire company in the West End, and a deposit had been paid in old pound notes. ‘Smith’ himself had been patched up by a local doctor, and had refused to be taken home in a police-car but insisted on taking a taxi.
There was a call out for the taxi-driver who had picked him up, and the man reported at Bow Street Police-Station at half-past eight. He had dropped his passenger near Long Acre.
All this, Roger discovered while sitting at his desk. The lights in the office were on, and Peel was sitting at Eddie Day’s desk, drawing up a report. There had been no response to the call for the pseudo-taxi-man, the little man, or Sybil Lennox. There was some information about Kirby. He had lived in a rooming-house near New Oxford Street for the past six weeks, renting a furnished room and getting all his own food; no one there knew much about him. He seldom had visitors, and the only one whom the proprietor of the house remembered clearly was a woman named Rose, aged about thirty.
Even without the attack on Goodwin, the Yard and the Divisions would have been keyed up to a high pitch, but the fact that Goodwin might die added a touch of fervour to their activities. Chatworth telephoned from his flat in Victoria, to inquire after Goodwin, and told Roger that he could have a free hand. That was at half-past nine.
Roger stretched himself as he replaced the receiver.
“Better have a snack, hadn’t we?” said Peel.
“Go and get us something from the canteen, will you?” asked Roger, and Peel went at once.
Roger picked up a pencil and began to doodle. He let his thoughts roam freely; the case had to be viewed from a new angle. Before, it had been regarded as a ‘domestic crime;’ but Kirby, the little near-dwarf, and the taxi-driver obviously belonged to the same group. They were no longer looking for one individual, but for forces behind the individual. In short, they were up against an organisation.
Was the girl a party to Randall’s murder? Did she play a part in some undiscovered racket? Had she struck up an acquaintance with Randall on someone else’s instructions in an effor
t to use Randall? If so, there might be reason for thinking that the murder had something to do with Randall’s business or his travels.
The telephone bell rang and Roger lifted the receiver.
“West.”
“It’s me, darling,” said Janet quietly; she sounded very subdued.
“Oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry. I quite meant to call you and—”
“I guessed you wouldn’t be home early,” said Janet. “Mrs Goodwin’s staying here for the night. I’ve put the two boys together and Marjorie in Richard’s room. Mrs Goodwin’s going to have your bed. I’ll put the camp-bed up in the dining-room for you.”
Roger said: “Bless you.”
“Oh, and Mark’s here,” added Janet. “He’s just called out, are you likely to be in before midnight?”
“I doubt it,” said Roger. “Remind him he’s an ordinary civilian, will you, and should stick to his china and textbooks. Sweet, I must go.”
“Take care of yourself,” Janet said, with a catch in her voice.
As Roger replaced the receiver, Peel came in with some beef sandwiches, cheese rolls, and tea. Roger munched and drank. Peel took two further negative reports about the search for the woman named Rose, and Roger started thinking about the case again. That taxi-driver, for instance …
He started up and nearly choked.
“Gone down the wrong way,” asked Peel, sympathetically.
Roger took a swig of tea.
“The man who called himself Smith. He was dropped near Long Acre. There are several taxi-garages just at the back of Long Acre. Smith left Chelsea, went straight to Long Acre, and was outside the Strand office in the taxi within an hour. So he must have got his cab very quickly.”
Peel grabbed a telephone. “The Squad?”
“Yes – and Divisions, for a cordon round that area,” ordered Roger.
Chapter Nine
Taxi
It was very dark and still hot – oppressively hot, as if a storm were brewing. In the back streets near Long Acre there was little noise after eleven o’clock. Now and again a cab drove into a garage, and when the driver left he was stopped and questioned by the police. Every one of the thirty detectives who were concentrated on this small area of London knew that they were looking for a 1928 Morris cab with a bull-nose, the body painted dark-blue, the wings and chassis black. They had a description of the little man who had delayed the observant Harrison and photographs of Kirby. The cab wasn’t in any of the five garages in the vicinity, so it might be driven in at any time.