by John Creasey
“Now we know that the Fulham programmes mean something,” Roger said to Peel, when the dentist had gone. They were in the CI’s office, with all the lights on; elsewhere the Yard seemed quiet and deserted, and Peel looked tired.
“You’d better get home. Tomorrow may be Sunday, but it won’t be a day of rest for us. The reports from the Fulham ground are all here, aren’t they?” said Roger.
Peel tapped a Manila folder.
“All in there.”
In the quiet of the office, Roger read through the reports from the Divisional police and his own men. There was one on Samuel and Emanuel Perriman; another on Jeremiah Scott; a third on Akerman; another on the Woodhall Dispatch Department foreman, more about other employees of Perriman’s, three on taxi-drivers, who usually garaged their taxis at Wignall’s garage, and several more on friends or acquaintances of one or the other of the Relfs. Was it really so astonishing that so many people on the fringe of the Randall case had been to see that match? Would they have gone to see the game itself? There was no immediate answer, and on the whole it seemed to Roger that a detached critic might say that he was reading more than there was into the Fulham ground coincidence. He read each report closely; all were brief, and the one on the Woodhall foreman was typical:
‘Arthur Morgan. Arrived at ground, 2:51pm on foot, with two companions from Perriman’s, Woodhall. Bought programme from seller outside Bishop’s Park gate adjacent to ground. Entered covered terraces through turnstile K. Took up position half-way between Cottage goal-line and centre of field. Showed great enthusiasm when Fulham goals were scored. No one else approached him. Left ground at 5:03pm and walked through Bishop’s Park to Putney Bridge, where he caught a number 22 bus, going to Homerton.’
Roger flipped over the report and glanced at the next – and when he did so something which was in most of the reports struck him so forcibly that he sat back sharply in his chair. This was the report on Jeremiah Scott, who had also bought his programme from the seller whose pitch was by the park gates next to the ground.
Everyone remotely associated with the case had bought a programme from the same man!
Chapter Twenty-Four
Programme!
Roger took out Jeremiah’s programme, and placed it side by side with his own. The printing on Scott’s programme was slightly larger than on his, and the margins were a little smaller. The paper was different too.
Roger read one paragraph from his own programme, then the same one from Scott’s. They were identical in most respects, but there were several misprints in Scott’s which didn’t appear in his. Odd letters, words slightly misspelt, something which might mean a code, but –they certainly hadn’t been printed on the same machine.
He lit a cigarette, conscious of a rising excitement.
He finished reading Club Chatter in Scott’s programme, and the final sentence was:
‘We regret that next week’s programme might not be so detailed. This will be corrected at the earliest opportunity.’
He read his own again – that sentence wasn’t in it.
“Now we’ve got something,” he said aloud, nicking over the pages of the directory on his desk, and looked up Osborne’s home telephone number. He put the call in, and was waiting for it to come through when he heard footsteps in the passage outside. Then Chatworth came in.
“Oh, hallo, sir,” said Roger brightly.
“Making up for lost time?” asked Chatworth, rather tartly.
The telephone bell rang.
“I won’t be a moment, sir … Hallo … Is that Mr Frank Osborne?”
“Yes, who’s that?”
“West here – Inspector West. Sorry to worry you again, but I’m interested in your programmes. Do you have them printed by two different people?”
“We do not,” said Osborne.
Roger said: “Did you have this sentence in this week’s programme? ‘We regret next week’s programme might not be so detailed. This will be corrected at the earliest opportunity.’”
“The man who wrote that must be daft,” said Osborne. “The programme will be exactly the same next week – except that it’s a London Combination game, not a League match. What put the idea into your head, Inspector?”
“I’ve two different programmes of today’s match,” said Roger slowly. “They’re identical in wording, except for that sentence, but they were printed on different machines and on different paper.”
“It could be a pirate programme,” said Osborne. “That’s happened before. Someone prints the teams and makes the thing look like an official job, and gets a rake-off.”
“This has everything the official one has,” said Roger.
“Then it’s not simple pirating,” commented Osborne. “You wouldn’t know what pitch it was bought from, would you?”
“Yes. By the park gates, next to the ground.”
“Was it, then?” exclaimed Osborne. “That pitch is held by a friend of Maidment. It fell vacant a few months ago, and Maidment said he knew a youngster who would like the job.”
“Can you tell me where I can find him?” demanded Roger.
“Now that’s just what I can’t do,” said Osborne. “He reports to the office before each match, and pays for the programmes he’s sold afterwards. I’ll make inquiries, if you like.”
“Better leave that to me,” said Roger.
“If that’s the way you want it, all right,” said Osborne. “Shall I tell you if the boy turns up at the next match?”
“Or before,” said Roger. “We’ll be watching for him next week. Thanks very much, Mr Osborne, good night.”
He rang off, glancing at Chatworth, who said gruffly: “Well, what’s it all about?”
Roger told him.
Chatworth made little comment, but agreed that the journey to Fulham looked as if it would yield dividends. Then a sergeant came in.
“Another report for you, sir – from the South-West Division,” the sergeant said. “Just been brought in, sir – the man who made it met with a slight accident, that caused the delay. It’s been sent by special messenger.”
“Thanks,” said Roger, taking the report.
The sergeant went out, and Roger slit open the envelope. His attention sharpened when he started to read.
“Now what’s this?” demanded Chatworth.
“Listen to this, sir,” said Roger eagerly. “’A woman answering the description of Sybil Lennox arrived at the Fulham football ground at 3:05pm in a taxi, entered the park-end terraces, paying 2/- after buying a programme from a man at the park gates. She was approached by five or six men during the afternoon, and engaged in conversation with each of them for several minutes.”
Roger put the report down, and his eyes were hard and bright.
“If she came up from Brighton, why didn’t we know?” Chatworth demanded. “What’s Mark Lessing doing?”
“I’ll go down to Brighton and find out,” said Roger.
All was not well with Sybil Lennox.
There was nothing on which Mark Lessing could put his finger; nothing worth reporting to Roger. It might have been that the girl was still suffering from shock after Randall’s death – and yet Mark had a feeling that it was something other than that. Sometimes she was almost gay and took part in the general conversation at the hotel; at other times she would shut herself in her room. Once or twice she received letters and telephone calls. The previous evening they had gone to the theatre together, and Mark had found that it mattered whether she wanted his company or not.
It would not be easy to behave dispassionately over a girl of whom he was getting fond. If Roger suspected, he would send someone down from the Yard to watch her. Mark had, in fact, debated with himself as to the wisdom and fairness of telling Roger about it, but had decided to leave it until after the weekend.
Brighton FC were playing at home.
After the theatre, Mark had suggested that she might care to watch a football match, and she had agreed. Next morning – that S
aturday morning – just after eleven o’clock, when he had been sitting in the writing-room, she had come in, and said abruptly: “Mr Lessing, I’m sorry, I won’t be able to come this afternoon.”
“Oh?” He felt ludicrous because he showed his disappointment so clearly.
“I’m sorry, but I have to meet some friends,” she said, and went out.
Mark had been a little way behind the girl when she had left the hotel and had walked rapidly towards the main shopping centre. He’d followed as far as the Dome, and then she had disappeared into a shop. He wasn’t sure which one, but he knew that it was one of several near a large cinema. So he had strolled as far as the three shops and looked into each.
Sybil hadn’t been in any of them. One was a Perriman branch.
He had gone across the road, and stood looking in a shop window for some time and had seen a taxi draw up outside the shop. He had been able to see the girl’s reflection in the shop window as she hurried out of Perriman’s and stepped into the cab. By a lucky chance, another taxi near by was empty. Mark had followed the first to the railway station, and saw Sybil go on to the platform for the London trains.
She travelled first.
He travelled third.
Just after three o’clock she had reached the Fulham ground.
He had taken up a position some way behind her, and had not been able to see so much as the detective whose report Roger received later. He had seen several men speak to her after forcing their way through the crowd.
Being afraid of losing her on the way out, Mark had left a few minutes before the final whistle, and had been waiting at the exit. He had caught sight of her broad-brimmed hat as it bobbed up and down among the people. She had joined the queue waiting for trolley-buses, and then gone to Hammersmith, from Hammersmith to Victoria and then to the Brighton platform.
Now they were back at the hotel – it was a little past eight.
He doubted whether she knew he had followed her all day.
She looked up as he entered the lounge after dinner, and her smile seemed to invite him to sit in the chair next to her.
“It’s almost a pity we went to the theatre last night, isn’t it?” he said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, if we hadn’t gone we could go tonight.”
She laughed. “Oh, I see.”
“We could try the flicks,” suggested Mark. “Care to?”
“I don’t think I’d like to go to the pictures, thank you, but …” She paused.
“A walk?” suggested Mark quickly.
“It would be pleasant, it’s a lovely night.”
“Perfect,” said Mark.
They dawdled over coffee, and then Sybil went upstairs for her coat. She was soon down. Her head was bare, she wore a three-quarter length beaver coat and carried a small handbag and a pair of gloves.
“Sea-front or the back streets?” asked Mark.
She laughed again – and he thought that he detected a nervous note in the sound.
“I know it’s rather silly,” she said, “but I’d rather like to go on the pier.”
“What’s silly about that?” demanded Mark. “Let’s go.”
The main promenade was fairly well lighted, although it was gloomy in places. Couples walked arm-in-arm, murmuring to each other; a little party of girls in their early teens came walking along slowly, giggling among themselves. Two youths stood in the darkest spot, staring – at the girls or at Sybil – Mark had no idea which.
From across the road there had appeared to be a few people near the promenade, but now there proved to be hundreds. A man who had been sitting in the shadows stood up suddenly; Sybil caught her breath and clutched Mark’s arm. He didn’t laugh at her or speak reassuringly; his own heart was beating uncomfortably fast.
The pier loomed nearer, not brightly lighted yet. Mark and Sybil walked more slowly. If she would talk about it, she might feel better and he more courageous.
He said: “Sybil, what is worrying you?”
He hadn’t used her Christian name before.
“Nothing!” she declared, almost too loudly.
Two youths approached close to them, swaggering along and looking as if they were determined to force Mark and the girl to get out of their way. The two youths parted, one going one side, one the other, when they were only a few yards away. Then a car drew up to the kerb, a powerful car. Mark glanced at it involuntarily – and then one of the men reached his side, pressed something into his ribs and spoke very softly: “Don’t make a fuss. Get in.”
“What the devil—”
The man stood grinning at Mark, pressing the ‘Something’ into his ribs.
“In,” the man repeated.
Now Sybil was clutching Mark’s arm. Mark knew that the other fellow was talking to her, in a sibilant undertone. The pressure in his ribs increased.
“In,” the man said again, and now menace was added to his voice as well as the thing in Mark’s ribs.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Going Places
It wasn’t only pressing now; it caused a sharp pain, as if the point of the knife were piercing Mark’s flesh. He could just see the man’s face, the half-smile that was really a sneer. To passers-by this must look like a chance encounter, a meeting of friends. The engine of the car was ticking over softly, a man in a peaked cap sat at the wheel. There were fifty people within as many yards of the car. Mark stood quite still with the sharp pain in his side, Sybil close to him. Her grip on his forearm was vice-like. Mark’s assailant said: “Now listen, Lessing, I’m not going to wait all night. I’ll slash the dame’s face if you don’t get in.”
He moved his knife, swiftly, pressed it sharply into Mark’s belly. Mark jabbed at his chin – and won by surprise. The man reeled back, something dropped to the pavement with a metallic sound – the knife. The man on Sybil’s other side took her arm and twisted viciously, making her gasp and release her hold on Mark’s arm. She was dragged away. Mark tried to stop her, but the man he had hit now kicked at his groin. The blow landed painfully on the inside of the thigh. Sybil was now near the open door of the car. A group of girls near by stared in astonished silence.
Mark shouted: “Police!”
A figure loomed close to him, a hand moved near his face, and he saw a light glinting on steel. He backed away. “Police!”
A girl screamed.
Sybil was now half-way inside the car.
Mark’s second assailant blocked his path when he tried to reach her. His first had fully recovered from the attack and kicked again, getting Mark in the pit of the stomach and forcing him to stagger back, drawing in an agonised breath. Lights went in wild circles, he could no longer see steel, or faces, or the car; he could only cry out at the top of his voice: “Help! Help!”
And there came the sound of footsteps of men running.
The blurred and circling lights steadied, but before he could see clearly or tell whether help was at hand, his legs were swept from under him arid he fell heavily. He heard a door slam and the car moved off.
Two youths were running towards Mark, as well as a girl. Not far away, a whistle sounded – so the police had heard the cry.
A man bent over Mark.
“You okay?”
Mark gasped: “Car—got my girl—car!”
“They’re after it,” the man said laconically.
Then a policeman came up …
The policeman was efficient and reassuring. The cry for help had soon been heard, one of his colleagues had commandeered a car and was giving chase. Meanwhile, as soon as the gentleman was better he would like some information. His girl had been kidnapped, according to one of the youths – was that the truth? Who was she, where had she come from, what was she dressed in?
Mark said: “Listen, constable. Telephone Scotland Yard, with a message for Chief Inspector West. Tell him that Miss Lennox—got that?—Miss Lennox has been kidnapped.”
“Scotland Yard, sir?”
&
nbsp; “Yes.”
A police-car drew up.
“Better come with me to the station, sir,” said the constable, “we can get through quicker from there.”
It was a sleek, powerful car, and it threw off the challenge of a commandeered Morris disdainfully, lost itself in the warren of back streets in Brighton, threaded its way softly and stealthily towards the London road, hummed along for a few miles, swung off the main road into a narrow lane, and came to a standstill.
The man sitting next to Sybil said: “Out.”
She fumbled for the handle of the door, just visible in the reflected light from the headlamps, and managed to open the door and stagger out of the car. She missed her footing, for the car was close to the hedge and there was a shallow ditch. Her right foot went ankle deep in water, and the cold chilled her through.
Mark’s assailant, who had been sitting next to the driver, had also climbed out. He took her arm and hauled her out of the ditch. The man who had ordered her to get out now followed. He said something to the driver, who let in the clutch. The engine hummed again, tyres crunched on gravel, and then the car moved furtively off, using only the sidelights. Some distance behind them, cars travelling along the main road cast great beams, but the lights did not spread as far as this spot.
A man gripped Sybil on either side, holding her just above the elbows.
“Come on,” one of them said.
They were dark, shadowy figures; their faces were just pale blurs, grotesque, frightening. Sybil was panting, as if she had been running a long way, and her legs were so weak that she knew she would fall if it weren’t for the support of the two men. They went on for a hundred yards or so along the by-road in the wake of the car which had completely disappeared, and then one of the men said: “This is it.”
Something white loomed out of the gloom on their left – a gate. She saw, when she was closer, that it was a five-barred gate to a field, not to the drive of a house. It groaned as it was pushed open. They went through the gate on to rough meadow-land.
Above, the stars were bright and clear, and there was no wind. Some way off, Sybil could see a myriad of lights, a great patch of darkness and then jutting arms of light, and she knew she was on high ground, overlooking Brighton – the jutting arms were the piers.