Sport For Inspector West

by John Creasey

  Roger said: “We won’t take it to court yet, old chap. Now let’s have a closer look at the corpse.”

  The dead man was quite young; in his early twenties. His head was badly injured, but his face hardly touched. They needed only a few minutes examination to know that he hadn’t been knocked down by a car, but thrown out of one, on his head.

  Peel said in a quiet voice: “I’ve a feeling I’ve seen him before, sir.”

  “So have I,” said Roger. “I can’t place him, though.”

  “I can’t help thinking it’s something to do with Saturday,” said Peel.

  Roger exclaimed: “I’ve placed him! It’s that—”

  “Programme seller!” cried Peel,

  They stared down at the pale, lifeless face; and they could picture the youth, standing near the Bishop’s Park gate, calling ‘programme, ‘ficial programme’ and dishing out the programmes for the twopences, the click of the coins in his little bag, and the bulging sides of his canvas satchel. It was undoubtedly the man they had wanted to question – another link in the chain had broken.

  “Now, we must find a telephone,” said Roger quietly. “You take the car and drive on a bit.”

  Peel did not have far to go. Roger was bending over the dead youth when he heard Peel shout and, looking round, saw the sergeant getting out of the car and waving to him. Roger hurried up, to find Peel standing on the grass and pointing to something which stood just inside a field gate. It was a London taxi.

  They went near, flashing their torches.

  The body was painted dark-blue, the chassis black, and the near-side front wing was patched. This was Kirby’s taxi.

  “I’ll bet the kid drove it down here, and met his murderers by appointment,” said Peel gruffly.

  They were near Redhill, and the local police were soon on the spot.

  Roger took everything that was found in the lad’s pockets, left instructions that the body be sent to London, and then drove on, much more slowly than on the early part of the journey.

  At Cannon Row, he spent half an hour interrogating the two prisoners there; both said that they received their orders from the third man, whose name was Smith. Roger had already charged them with attempting to cause grievous bodily harm to Sybil Lennox.

  He gave instructions for them to be questioned every hour until he came again, and then went to his office. The first thing he did was to have a check made on the movements of the Perrimans’ Rolls-Royce.

  Nothing of interest had come in.

  He sent Peel home, glanced through the contents of the dead lad’s pockets again, finding two Fulham programmes. The murder, the inhuman treatment planned for Sybil Lennox, all these and other things indicated the ruthlessness of the men he was fighting. The food thefts might only be the forerunners of many others.

  He reached Chelsea a little after six o’clock.

  And he found himself thinking a great deal about Tommy Clayton.

  Janet stirred and woke. He wouldn’t let her get up, but undressed quickly and slipped into bed.

  When he woke up, the sun was high and he thought that it must be approaching midday. He stretched out his hand for his watch. Half-past ten – that wasn’t really too bad, he could be at the office by half-past eleven.

  Janet came in.

  “Ever hear of a policeman who was sacked for being late at the office?” demanded Roger.

  “If there’s one thing I’d love to hear, it’s that you’d been given the sack,” retorted Janet. “Tea? The kettle’s on, I usually have a cup about this time of morning.”

  “None for Nell Goodwin?”

  “She’s gone,” said Janet, and laughed at his surprise. “She said she couldn’t stay on indefinitely. Jack’s out of danger now, and there was a lot that wanted doing at the flat; so she left just after breakfast.” She tossed him a morning paper. He yawned and stretched, felt as if he could conquer the world, and picked up the newspaper.

  It was the Echo.

  And the headline which screamed along the front page was:

  GIRL TORTURED IN BARN

  POLICE POUNCE

  Immediately beneath it was a large photograph, head and shoulders only, of Sybil Lennox. There followed a story, reasonably accurate in detail, quite sufficient to convince him that Tommy Clayton had been near the barn the previous night; even the scythe was mentioned.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Says Jeremiah

  A frowning Chatworth sat behind his big black-topped desk. Roger sat in front of him. Chatworth was heavy-handed, in no mood to hear that Roger had really used the girl as a decoy.

  “And this story of hers – what does it really amount to? It confirms the football ground business. Well, we hardly needed that confirmed. Also, the use of Perriman’s Brighton shop – although from the report I see that you have no evidence that the shop is used by these men, only the girl’s statement that it is so.”

  “The girl’s, and the men who interrogated her,” corrected Roger mildly. “We heard them.”

  “H’mm. Don’t see that it makes much difference. And this—” Chatworth tapped a copy of the Echo with his forefinger. “Clayton was obviously watching her and knew exactly what happened. The way he’s written up the story doesn’t help. Most censorious article I’ve read for some time – says that we were almost criminally negligent about the girl. Even mentions Lessing as your friend. I don’t like it, Roger. It was sheer chance that you learned that Sybil Lennox had been to Fulham. Your fine friend didn’t take the trouble to telephone you and advise you she was leaving Brighton.”

  Roger said quietly: “He hadn’t time, sir. And the Brighton police knew about it.”

  “Blaming others—”

  Roger interrupted: “I’m blaming no one.”

  He was surprised both at the tartness of his voice and his temerity. He saw Chatworth start – and then his heart began to beat uncomfortably fast, in case he had gone too far.

  “So you don’t think anyone’s to blame,” growled Chatworth.

  “No, I don’t. It’s been a case of trial and error, but we’ve recovered from our mistakes quickly and have forced the other side into a lot of mistakes themselves. You don’t think they wanted to kill Kirby, Relf, Maidment, this programme seller, or anyone else, do you?” He knew that he sounded aggressive, but couldn’t help himself. “We drove them hard and they killed in self-defence, just to keep us at bay. Well, they haven’t succeeded. We’re on to the Fulham ground, on to Perriman’s shops, on to those programmes. Mike Scott is awaiting trial, and we’ve several others also under remand. We can be pretty sure that someone high up in Perriman’s has a hand in the business, and there’s someone else – such as Jeremiah Scott – who has a kind of roving commission.”

  Roger paused and lit a cigarette. His face was white, his voice rather clipped, and his mouth was dry; he wished at once that he hadn’t lit the cigarette.

  Chatworth looked at him beneath his shaggy eyebrows, his face expressionless.

  “And that isn’t all by a long way,” Roger went on. “Before this started we’d no idea that there was so much food stolen – few reports reached the Yard. Now we know that it’s a countrywide organisation. We’ve forced the thieves out of one hide-out and storage dump in London; we’ve stopped them from getting stuff straight from the ships which unload in the London Docks. We can see the whole set-up now.”

  He looked at the cigarette, then back at Chatworth, who didn’t improve the situation by sitting and staring.

  Chatworth relaxed, sitting back in his arm-chair.

  “I see,” he said mildly. “Most impressive. I congratulate you.” He bent down and opened a cupboard in the desk; something clinked, and Roger’s edginess eased immediately – he’d pulled it off! A whisky bottle and glasses appeared on the desk and Chatworth added a syphon. As he opened the bottle, he went on: “The impressive analysis wanted a finishing touch or two, I think. You let Sybil Lennox go to Brighton, unescorted except by your friend Lessing
, because you thought she might be a good decoy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “If it wasn’t self-evident, I thought it might as well just tick over,” said Roger.

  “I see. Much better to take me fully into your confidence. Must be able to rely on you – always have, always want to. What’s the position, Roger? Do you think you can see what’s really at the back of this business?”

  Roger leaned forward and said very slowly: “I think this goes much farther than we yet realise. We’ve discovered the Fulham ground’s place in the general scheme, but – why only Fulham? Why not Chelsea, The Arsenal, White Hart Lane – all of them are larger grounds. And why confine it to London? Why not spread it to the Midlands, the North, Scotland? What’s to prevent these beggars from using a dozen different grounds, playing the same trick with the programmes, having their workers collect orders at the grounds?”

  “Well, well,” exclaimed Chatworth. “That big?”

  “It could be. And Perriman’s have their wholesale warehouses up and down the country – these, and the big retail shops which supply hotels and boarding-houses, could absorb all the stolen food. We’ve hardly begun, sir.”

  He had never seen Chatworth more perturbed.

  “Take every man you need and get cracking,” the AC ordered. “We want this thing smashed in a hurry.”

  Roger and Peel put all they’d got into the job, but it showed no sign of breaking. Scott remained a possible key, and when Mark Lessing telephoned to say that he was in London with Sybil, Roger said: “Mark, I want her help. Now, listen.”

  He talked for several minutes, rang off, and then telephoned to ask Scott to come and see him.

  Later in the day, Peel took a telephone call, and said: “It’s Jeremiah Scott.”

  “Fine,” said Roger. “Have him sent up.”

  “Send him up, escorted,” said Peel into the telephone. He replaced the receiver, pulled a shorthand notebook close, and sharpened a pencil.

  Jeremiah came in, escorted to the door by a constable. Roger stood up and pointed to a chair. Peel pulled his notebook towards him.

  Out came Jeremiah’s slim, gold cigarette-case.

  “Not now, thanks,” said Roger. “I’ve smoked too much today – but you carry on.”

  “Good for the nerves, this Virginian tobacco,” said Jeremiah. “Sorry you’ve been living on yours. Or is it, like me, just a matter of habit?”

  “I always smoke a lot when I’m near the end of a case.”

  Jeremiah’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Really? Congratulations.” He grinned. “Well, what can I do for you? Second thoughts after the Fulham match, or more inquiries into the mystery of the missing warehouseman?”

  “Neither,” said Roger. “I’m going rather farther back, to Randall and before Randall’s death.”

  “Oh, your double,” said Jeremiah. “I’ve often thought it was a pity you didn’t hush up the fact that he was dead. You could have impersonated him pretty well, you know, and then the whole thing would have been easily solved. Sorry – I can’t get out of the habit of facetiousness. I didn’t know Randall very well – better have another cut at his lady love, who appears to have been in trouble again. I warned you from the beginning not to trust the lady and to look for her other friends, didn’t I? Said friends have now apparently tried to scare the wits out of her – ever wondered why?”

  “I know why. What made you warn me against her?”

  “Not against her – her friends.”

  “Did you know much about these friends?”

  “I knew enough not to like ’em.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they were friends of my brother and weren’t doing him any good. When are you going to bring that case on, by the way? It’s a bit hard to hold a man indefinitely, and—”

  “The longer he waits for his trial, the longer he’ll live,” said Roger sharply.

  That got past Jeremiah’s guard.

  “Going a bit far, aren’t you?” he demanded. “I didn’t know you were going to charge him with murder. And I thought there was an unwritten law in this country about innocence being assumed.”

  Roger said: “My job is to find murderers.”

  “My brother isn’t a murderer.”

  “I think he is. I know his friends are.”

  Jeremiah sat back in his chair, and lit another cigarette from the stub of his first,

  “If you want to know more about my brother, it’s simple. Always a wild youth. Got mixed up with more wild folks in the RAF. They trained him for wildness – ever thought of that? Didn’t care a damn provided he was keyed up to kill and to whoop for joy after doing it. Bad thing, on impressionable minds. Then he went one worse, and became fond of Sybil. I don’t know what that Jezebel has told you, but doubtless she’s made herself out to be the wronged innocent, and last night’s performance may encourage you to believe her. Don’t. She is a liar born and bred. Her one object in life is to get her own way, and that way is chiefly directed towards getting money and clothes and luxury living. Facts, West.”

  Roger made no comment.

  “Because he was infatuated, Mike allowed himself to be used by these precious friends of hers. As I’ve said, he was already wild. But there’s no viciousness in him, and as an elder brother, I tell you I’m going to see that he gets justice. I’ve already arranged for counsel.”

  “Very interesting,” said Roger perfunctorily. “Why did you really lose Perriman’s business?”

  Roger saw the sudden drop in Jeremiah’s expression, not bewilderment, but surprise and perhaps alarm – and then the familiar smile which was just a mask to hide his true feelings.

  “Surely I told you. Sam’s T.T. I’m a Johnny Walker fan. The two don’t mix.”

  “They mixed for a long time.”

  “Sam didn’t find me out very easily. He hasn’t found Wilson out, either – Randall’s boss. Heavy drinker.”

  “Stick to the point,” said Roger. “Samuel Perriman’s an astute business-man. He knew about your drinking and it didn’t matter to him. There was some other trouble.”

  “None, I assure you,” said Jeremiah. “It may have been that on the night of the staff dance I flaunted my vice more than usual.”

  Roger said: “I’ve never known a man lie to the police and get away with it for long. Why did you drop your programme at Fulham on Saturday?”

  Again that swift look of surprise.

  “Getting clever now, are you?” murmured Jeremiah. “I like to think I’m getting value from the old taxes. Do policemen do their job? I’d discovered that Mike and some of his furtive friends who often went to Fulham, patronised the same programme boy. Did the same, last week, and also bought one from another seller. Saw differences – can’t say I’ve puzzled it out, but there they were. So I dropped my programme in the hope that Hawk-Eye the detective would spot it and wonder what I was up to. Well done, Hawk-Eye! Cipher of some kind, is it?”

  “Just pirating,” said Roger.

  “Oh. Small change.” Jeremiah lit a third cigarette. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” said Roger. “You can tell me whether you know any of these people.”

  He took several photographs from his desk and pushed them in front of Jeremiah. Among the pictures was one of Maidment and one of Tommy Clayton. Jeremiah pushed Clayton’s out of alignment, looked thoughtfully at the others, and then fingered Maidment’s.

  “I think I’ve seen him around some place,” he said. “Might call him to mind, if it will help. The other cove is Clayton, of course, the know-all of the Echo. Man always gets under my skin. He’s by way of being a Perriman pet, but I suppose you know that.”

  Roger said: “How is it you know?”

  “I patronise Perriman’s pets, you never know when they’ll come in useful.”

  “Which Perriman is so fond of Clayton?” demanded Roger.

  Jeremiah said: “If you don’t know, it wouldn’t be hard to find out. It’s young R
onald. Ronald is Samuel’s eldest son, the white-headed boy of the family. Clayton has a buxom sister, not to say luscious. Ronald is fond of Beryl Clayton. Q.E.D.”

  “That all you know?” asked Roger.

  “Everything,” Jeremiah affirmed. “Very bright boy, Clayton, with great ambitions. Why not? Mind if I go now? It’s half-past five and I’ve a lot of work.”

  “I won’t keep you much longer,” Roger assured him, and surreptitiously pressed a bell-push fastened beneath the edge of his desk. That was the signal which he had arranged with a sergeant – who was with Sybil Lennox in the next room. “I don’t want to exaggerate the dangers of the present position, Scott, but I don’t think you fully appreciate them. Several murders have been committed; far too much food is stolen. It must be stamped out. A lot of people who may think they’re just helping friends or fallen relatives will probably get hurt if they don’t tell the truth.”

  Jeremiah looked solemn.

  “Let that be a lesson to me,” he said, pushing his chair back. “You’ll do, West.”

  He stood up, and went to the door. He saw the handle turn and drew back.

  The door opened and a man said: “Miss Lennox, sir …”

  Anything else he intended to say was lost in a sharp exclamation from Sybil. She appeared half inside and half out of the room, while Jeremiah stared at her, his smile fading, a hard, bleak expression in his eyes. They eyed each other for some seconds; tense, painful seconds; then Jeremiah shot a searing glance at Roger, and stepped forward, making the girl move to one side.