Sport For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  “Watch Scott!” Roger snapped to one of his men, and followed as Peel climbed through the window. There was no noise in the house, but the whistle shrilled out again and they could hear voices. Roger reached the passage first, then rushed along the side of the staircase. The kitchen door was shut. He turned the handle but the door was locked; and he put his shoulder to the panels and heaved. It made no impression. Peel came up, and they tried between them, but couldn’t shift the door. There were sounds of scuffling inside – but the noise stopped abruptly and the door was unlocked by a detective, whose hair was dishevelled and who had a scratch on his right cheek, but who said triumphantly: “Got him, sir!”

  “Who?”

  “Michael Scott – well, he’s all done up with sticking-plaster and his right hand’s bandaged, I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

  “That’s fine,” said Roger. “Now we can bring the brothers face to face.”

  He looked past the Yard man to the scullery door, through which Mike was being hustled by two more detectives. Mike’s nose was bleeding at the tip and he was breathing hard; it was as if he knew that this was the first step on the road to the gallows. Jeremiah Scott was in the hall.

  He caught his breath when he recognised his brother. But obviously neither he nor Roger were prepared for the sudden outburst of vituperation which poured from Mike’s lips.

  “You ruddy witless fool, you brought them here!” He spat the words out. “I’d like to cut your throat, you’ve shopped me, you …”

  He went on and on, and Jeremiah Scott, for once not smiling, stood quite still and stared at him.

  At last Roger said sharply: “That’s enough.” He looked at Peel. “Handcuff him, and then let’s look through the house. I want you to stay,” he added to Jeremiah, who had taken out his gold cigarettecase, and proffered it to his brother. Mike took a cigarette, the last thing he did before the handcuffs were slipped over his wrists. He gave a grin that was almost shamefaced.

  “Don’t say a word,” advised Jeremiah. “Don’t give anything away, Mike. I’ll get a good lawyer.”

  Mike nodded, his rage forgotten.

  The gas was hissing softly.

  They found no one in the ground-floor rooms, but some playing-cards were on the table in the middle room, and a pile of dirty crockery was on a chair – evidence that several people had been there.

  Roger and Peel went upstairs. As soon as they reached the landing, Roger put a hand on Peel’s arm, a gesture of urgency.

  “Smell that? It’s gas. Come on!”

  They found Sybil Lennox just as Mike had left her, in a gas-filled room.

  Twenty minutes later the doctor arrived. Sybil had been taken into another bedroom, and was under a heap of bedclothes. The doctor grunted and bent a long stare at Roger.

  “Kept her warm – good. Haven’t tried artificial respiration, I hope.”

  “No, there wasn’t much trace of breathing, it would only do harm. An ambulance is on the way.”

  “Good, good.” The doctor began to open his case.

  The ambulance arrived and Roger went downstairs, to where the brothers Scott were waiting in the front room. Neither of them had made any statement. Michael was tight-lipped and obviously frightened; Jeremiah gave Roger the impression of being more worried about his brother than himself. He was abrupt with both of them, and sent them to Cannon Row, after charging Mike Scott with driving a taxi-cab without a proper licence – which charge made Jeremiah pull down his long, lower lip in a cynical smile. He charged Jeremiah with ‘withholding material evidence in connection with an offence.’

  Peel came into the room while Roger was alone.

  “Any word from upstairs?” asked Roger.

  “No, they’re still busy.”

  “Having quite a time, aren’t we?” asked Roger. “What’s in the room where we found Sybil Lennox?”

  “Not much,” said Peel cautiously. “She handled the tubing and the gas-tap all right, but I can’t find any other prints.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Roger.

  The tubing and the tap, as well as other things in the room, were smeared with grey powder. Roger studied the position of everything for a long time.

  “Is she left-handed?” he asked.

  “No report of that,” said Peel.

  “She isn’t – she did everything right-handed when I saw her,” said Roger, “and yet her thumb-print is where her forefinger print should be.” He held the tubing while standing over the chair, and the grip was pretty well the same as the prints.

  Peel’s eyes glistened.

  “She didn’t do it herself, then?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Roger. “She could hardly have been standing up and holding the tube. Look for the tiniest fraction of print from Mike’s fingers, will you?”

  “He probably wore gloves,” said Peel, “but I’ll have another go. I—but I’ll tell you what, sir. I noticed several long, fair hairs on his waistcoat, fairly low down. If he lifted her—”

  “They’ll find them at Cannon Row,” said Roger. “All right, get cracking.”

  He searched the room for papers, but found nothing of interest. Her handbag had the usual oddments, and – the bullets. He put them carefully away.

  By the time he had finished, the men who had been searching downstairs had finished their job, and Roger found a little heap of papers and documents on a table in the front room. The house had been let furnished on a six months lease to ‘Michael Scott,’ whose address was given as Lanton Hotel, Bayswater. There were several letters to Michael, two from women, one from a bookmaker. That was all, except three pieces of folded paper which, when opened, proved to be programmes of matches played at Craven Cottage, the Fulham Football Club’s ground. They were fortnightly – whoever had brought them had attended three successive home matches. The half-time scores were filled in, and two or three of the players names were scored with pencil markings.

  “Not much there,” said Peel. “Any idea what’s behind it?”

  “Damn-all,” said Roger. “Except – we don’t get murder laid on as thick as this because a man takes a dislike to another’s face. I’ve been thinking of any big rackets, but I can’t think of any this might touch, except – food. Perriman’s are one of the biggest food firms in the country.”

  Just then a man came quickly down the stairs and Roger went to the door. It was a white-smocked ambulance man.

  “She’ll be all right, with luck,” he said. “Thought you’d like to know.”

  Near neighbours were shocked by police questions and told varying stories, but some things emerged. A dowdy, old woman came in daily to the house, but no one knew her. A young, well-dressed girl had arrived in a taxi the previous evening – but no one could describe the taxi, although one man said he thought the driver had gone in with the girl and another man had driven the cab away.

  No one mentioned the other two men, but several neighbours said they had seen a man loitering near the house the previous day. He was described as plumpish and dark-haired, and wore a black-and-white check coat and grey flannels. That struck a chord in Roger’s mind but meant nothing to Peel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Missing Man?

  At a quarter-past seven, Roger reached Scotland Yard feeling that he couldn’t complain about results.

  Sybil Lennox would be well enough to talk next morning.

  Roger walked along the cold corridors, meeting no one, and opened the door of his office. He smelt cigar smoke; the Assistant Commissioner smoked only cheroots or small cigars.

  Chatworth looked up from Eddie Day’s desk. He was in a dinner-jacket and smoking a cheroot.

  “Oh, hallo, sir,” said Roger brightly.

  “Remember me?” Chatworth asked sourly. “Why haven’t you been to see me today?”

  “It’s been a bit of a rush,” said Roger defensively. “You’ve heard what happened at the garage—”

  “Yes, all right,” said Chatworth, who had
obviously intended to be difficult, but now changed his mind. “Kirby – killed, murdered, you say, although every eye-witness seems to think it was an accident. You saw Relf murdered by being knocked off the roof, but he could have slipped. Michael Scott, missing for a while, but no real evidence that he was the driver of the taxi-cab. The girl, vanished. Not a very pleasing picture, is it?”

  “We haven’t got much for the Old Bailey yet, sir,” said Roger, sitting on the next desk. “But there’s a move forward. We can put Scott up in the morning on a trivial charge and get a remand. We found the girl just in time to save her life.”

  Chatworth took the cheroot from his lips. “So you haven’t been wasting all your time. How’d it happen?”

  Roger gave a good outline of the story in ten minutes. Chatworth nodded with satisfaction and stood up. “Well, I’ll leave it to you – but keep me informed.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Chatworth went off.

  Roger crossed the yard to Cannon Row, where he found a solicitor named Greenwall with the Scott brothers. Greenwall was a first-class man with an irreproachable reputation. As Roger expected, he took the line that while the police had reason to hold Michael Scott, his brother was a different matter.

  “I might agree, if he’d say why he went to see his brother,” said Roger.

  “Oh, he’ll do that,” said Greenwall, glancing at Jeremiah, who gave his half-sneering grin, and said that he had heard from Mike that he needed some money and was in trouble, and had gone straight to the house, because he wanted to help. He couldn’t reasonably be detained any longer.

  Roger said so.

  “Then I’ll have my worldly possessions back,” said Jeremiah. “Your men took everything out of my pockets.”

  “That’s normal enough,” said Roger. “I’ll get them.”

  The contents of Jeremiah’s pockets were on a table in the Station superintendent’s room. Roger glanced through them, and one thing in particular caught his attention. Jeremiah’s gold cigarette-case was only one of many valuable items – everything there, in fact, might have been found in the pockets of a really wealthy man. Then he caught sight of a small folder, like a tiny book with a stiff cover. It was upside down when he first saw it, but he turned it round and read:

  Membership Ticket. Fulham Football & Athletic Club, Ltd.

  The sergeant put everything in a large envelope and Roger took them along with him to the charge-room. Jeremiah left soon afterwards. Mike, who had refused to make a statement, was lodged in the cells at the police-station, and Roger had a word with Greenwall, who asked lightly: “Having him up in the morning?”

  “Yes, and I’ll tell you in advance that I’m going to apply for a remand on the grounds that more serious charges are pending,” said Roger. “That’ll have to do you. I think you’ll find that Michael Scott is deep in an ugly business.”

  Greenwall shrugged his shoulders and went off.

  Peel was already busy at a microscope, looking at some fine golden-coloured hairs. Several had been taken from the back of the chair in which Sybil had been found, others from Mike’s clothes; they were identical.

  “We’ll get him for attempted murder, anyhow,” said Roger. “And I think I’ve placed the plump man who was seen at Kent Street. You saw him last night, didn’t you? Soaked through, but in a black-and-white check coat.”

  “Clayton! The Echo reporter,” said Peel.

  “That’s him,” said Roger. “He got there ahead of us. Smart chap, Clayton. Oh, well. You get off.”

  Left alone, he found a fact constantly breaking into his thoughts. Three programmes of Fulham football matches at Kent Street, and a membership ticket for the same club in Jeremiah’s pocket.

  He reached Bell Street just after nine-fifteen, and Janet was at the door.

  “Aren’t I nice and early?” said Roger.

  “You could have been later! Darling, some good news, they think Goodwin will be all right!”

  “Thank God for that! Mrs Goodwin knows?”

  “Yes, we’ve just come back from the hospital. She’s upstairs – thank heavens, she’s broken down now, and I thought she’d better get to bed early. You won’t mind the camp-bed again, will you?”

  Roger chuckled. “Again! I’d like to try it for a night.”

  Mark Lessing grinned at him from the doorway. From the kitchen came the smell of frying onions, and Roger heard someone moving about; their daily help had obviously ‘stayed on.’

  “Hungry?” asked Janet.

  “Starving. You didn’t wait dinner for me, did you?”

  “No, yours is being cooked,” said Janet. “It’s a grill – hurry up and wash.”

  Roger ate in the dining-room. Janet sat at the table with him, drinking a cup of coffee. Mark Lessing lounged in an easy chair with his coffee-cup balanced precariously on the arm. Janet talked about the boys and Goodwin’s daughter, Marjorie – they were getting on famously. Afterwards she went into the kitchen to help the woman with the washing-up, and Mark grinned lazily from his chair.

  “Now let’s have some inside dope, Roger. Found the girl?”

  “Yes,” said Roger. “That reminds me. I haven’t seen much of the newspapers today. Let’s go into the other room and see what they have to say.”

  The papers were full of the deaths of Kirby and Relf and the disappearance of Sybil Lennox. The Echo hinted darkly at organised crime. The report had been written by the Tommy Clayton who was so often on the spot.

  Roger handed the paper to Mark.

  “See anything much in that?” he asked.

  “Oh, sheer guesswork.”

  “Clayton’s a good guesser,” Roger agreed. “Might be something in this.”

  “It’s coming to something if the Yard wants a lead from the Press,” remarked Mark.

  “We get plenty,” Roger said. He reached forward for the London telephone directory, ran his fingers down the columns until he came to the Claytons. Soon he dialled a number, and a woman answered him.

  “Is Mr Clayton in, please?” asked Roger.

  “Who is speaking?” The woman’s voice was sharp.

  “Inspector West of New Scotland Yard.”

  “And you want to know …” The woman caught her breath and then added tensely: “No, he hasn’t been home since yesterday morning. I’m his wife. I’m afraid that something’s happened to him.”

  “I expect he’s been sent on a special job,” said Roger soothingly. “I saw him last night.”

  “I telephoned the office,” said the woman. “They say that he often stays away without telling them where he is, they don’t think anything of it. But he always rings me up or sends me a wire. I really am worried.”

  “I can tell that you are,” said Roger quietly. “Leave it with me, Mrs Clayton, I’ll find out where he is.”

  He replaced the receiver and looked thoughtfully at Mark, then told him of Mrs Clayton’s worry. Next, he telephoned the Echo. Yes, it was true that Clayton hadn’t reported since sending in his report on the Randall case and the Relf business.

  “And you can’t help me to trace him?” said Roger.

  “No, but Tommy’s all right. He can look after himself.”

  Roger put down the receiver. He fiddled with the newspaper, thinking a great deal about the reporter who had first appeared in this case when he had tried to intercept Roger at the Yard. His arrival at Wignall’s garage had seemed just quick work on the part of the newspaper, but if he had been in Kent Street that afternoon, if he was now missing …

  The telephone bell rang, and he took off the receiver.

  “Roger West speaking.”

  “Oh, West – Echo here again.” It was the news-editor. “You’ve started me worrying about Clayton now. His wife was on the telephone earlier in the evening. Are you seriously worried?”

  Roger said: “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to make of it. Still, you’d better know that he believes that Perriman’s, the food people, are conce
rned. He struck something when he was writing up some food monopoly and price-ring stuff. Didn’t say much – he never does unless he can prove his case – but he thinks they might be a pretty bad lot.”

  “Perriman’s?” murmured Roger. “Thanks, we’ll check right away.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Truth From Sybil?

  The curiously high cherry-red colour had faded from Sybil Lennox’s face, leaving her very pale. She lay propped up on pillows, wearing a flannelette nightdress of hospital issue. Roger was by her side; a stenographer sat on the other side of the bed, and a woman police-sergeant stood in a corner. Roger said quietly: “I want you to tell me exactly what happened yesterday, Miss Lennox. Never mind about the day before. Why did you attempt to commit suicide?”

  She started up. “But I didn’t!”

  “Oh, come,” said Roger. “You—”

  “It’s not true! I don’t remember what happened after I went to sleep and woke up here. I just don’t remember. I didn’t try to kill myself, why should I?”

  “Do you know what happened to you?” asked Roger.

  “A—a nurse told me I’d been gassed, but I had no idea. That dreadful woman brought me some tea yesterday afternoon. I felt drowsy, and – I didn’t tell you!”

  “So someone tried to murder you,” said Roger quietly.

  “Was it Mike Scott?” she demanded.

  “He was at the house when we found you,” said Roger.

  “I suppose—I oughtn’t to be surprised,” said Sybil. “He took me there. He telephoned me after I—I’d had lunch with you at Sibley’s. He persuaded me to go with him, and when we reached the house, he—made me stay.”

  “Made?” echoed Roger.

  “Yes.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “I didn’t see anyone else except the old woman and two men – I only just caught a glimpse of the men. There was a visitor yesterday afternoon; I heard him come and heard him talking. They were in the room below mine. But I saw Mike, mostly.”

  “And you obeyed him,” said Roger.

  Sybil said: “I had to.”