Inspector West Alone

It wasn’t fair; the dice were loaded against Sloan. The slight pause, the nonchalance of manner, were preliminaries to a rapier thrust; strangers wouldn’t know, but Sloan had learned these very tricks from Roger.

“There are so many murders,” Roger said. “Copse Cottage—no. Well, vaguely. How long ago was it?”

Sloan said: “Say a couple of months.”

“Murderer still free?”

“Yes. A girl was battered to death. Her killer escaped, and that was quite a sensation, because he was kidnapped from the police, a gang was involved. You wouldn’t know anything about criminal gangs, would you?”

“Plenty. I read my newspapers.”

Sloan said harshly: “You’re just that much too clever. Ever used the name of Kennedy?”

“No.”

“Where did you get your money from to buy the business from Kennedy?” Sloan asked roughly.

Roger said: “I hypnotized him into letting me have it, and he didn’t have a chance. It wasn’t from anyone named Kennedy, anyhow, it was from Samuel Wiseman. I still don’t see where all this is getting, Mr. Policeman.”

Sloan shrugged and turned to pick up his tankard— danger flared again.

“This is just the preliminary stage, I’m making my man uneasy. What did you do before you bought this business?”

“I made a small fortune in Africa. People still can.”

That was in the records Kennedy had provided of his past.

“I’ll check that, too,” said Sloan. “When you were in Africa, or after you came back, did you ever have a visit from Chief Inspector West?”

CHAPTER XVII

CAUSE FOR ALARM

Roger had sensed a thrust coming and had his defences up. They weren’t strong enough to withstand that. He jerked his head up. Sloan grinned; Sloan had never seemed so sinister. Roger didn’t answer. Sloan moved towards him and put a hand on his shoulder and pressed hard; it was a familiar grip used when a policeman was going to charge a man, and enjoy doing it.

“So you did,” said Sloan.

Roger said: “No, I didn’t have a call from West.” He forced a laugh. “But that name startled me. I was reading an article about him in to-day’s Cry.” That was true enough, but was it a get out? Sloan looked disappointed, and took his hand away, but that didn’t mean that it was safe to breathe freely. “He disappeared, after—great Scott! The Copse Cottage murder!”

“Which you didn’t remember, although you read about it this afternoon.”

Roger said: “The article was about West, the murder was hardly mentioned. Another drink?”

“No, thanks. Sure you’ve never seen West?”

“He’s never called on me, you’re the first policeman I’ve met at close quarters.” Roger offered cigarettes, and Sloan took one and examined the tip thoughtfully. “I still don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Sloan said softly: “Roger West was a good friend of mine.”

“Was he?”

“That canard in the Cry isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. Oh, it doesn’t say anything openly, but it makes a pretty broad hint. West was a very good friend of mine. I think he was trapped and killed and his name smeared with muck, and I’ve just one job in my spare time—finding out the truth of that.”

“You’d better find the writer of that article.”

“I can find him whenever I want him,” said Sloan.

“Pity you can’t say the same about your friend.”

“Yes,” said Sloan heavily. “Listen to me, Rayner. I’ve spent a lot of time checking on your past and what you do. I haven’t found anything much against you. I’ll tell you something that I wouldn’t if I were here officially to-night. I like the cut of your jib. I don’t think you’re a bad ‘un, and I can smell bad ‘uns. You might be mixed up in something which you don’t know about. The man who owned this business wasn’t Wiseman, but a certain Mr. Kennedy. I think Kennedy can tell me something about

Roger said: “You get odd ideas, but I can’t speak for Kennedy. I dealt with Wiseman.”

“Please yourself,” said Sloan. He half-turned in preparation for another thrust. “Rayner, I’ve just come from West’s wife. She’s pathetic. She’s afraid that he’s dead, but she doesn’t know for certain. She’s frightened by things she can’t understand. She’s had a lot of that Cry muck poured into her, and it hurts her like hell. She knows what I know about West—there wasn’t a straighter man living. I’m going to scrape the mud off West’s name somehow. If you’re smeared with that mud, look out. If you’re not——”

Roger said: “I’m sorry for his wife.” He didn’t know how he got the words out, but Sloan didn’t seem to notice any oddness in the sound of his voice. Sloan might be foxing or, but more likely, had been carried away with his own emotions.

“All right,” Sloan said. “Tell your friend Kennedy what I’ve said.”

He went to the door. Roger let him out.

* * * *

Roger closed the door and went back to the sitting-room and saw nothing except the image of Janet’s face, superimposed on the memory of Sloan’s. His eyes stung, his hands were clammy. He sat down and leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling and at that image. It wasn’t a help to know that Sloan kept faith; nothing was a help.

Then he opened his eyes. The sight of sandwiches nauseated him. He poured himself out a strong whisky and soda.

It was a waste of time trying to guess how and why Sloan had so quickly connected Kyle, Marion, and Kennedy with him. He could see the build-up in Sloan’s mind; add to that Sloan’s tenacity, and in this case his burning desire to get at the truth, and it was all the explanation needed. By far the most important factor was the fact that Sloan had reason to suspect Kennedy.

Roger got up, took the money and the diamond out of the drawer and locked it in the small safe. Sloan had forced the pace. He himself had played cautiously for as long as he dared, and Kennedy was half-way to trusting him. He had never done a thing, since Kyle’s visit, to cause distrust. He was no longer followed everywhere, but in spite of that, he hadn’t put a foot wrong.

The first task was to find Kennedy’s home address.

As he was turning away, the telephone bell rang. It was Kennedy, who said:

“Well?”

“I must see you.” That rasping note should shake the man’s composure.

“I’ll come——”

“You won’t, you’re to keep away from here. Get that into your head. Where are you?”

“I’ll meet you——”

“Listen,” said Roger, “I’m not a stooge any longer, I’m a partner. We take the same risks, by relying on each other. I’m not going on with hole-in-corner business. Where are you?”

Kennedy said: “Percy will pick you up in half an hour’s time, outside the Burlington Arcade. He’ll bring you to me.”

* * * *

Roger went into the kitchen, tore some paper into squares, and, with steady hands, shook a little flour out of a tin into each square. Then he screwed the pieces of paper up; he had a dozen little screws when he’d finished. He wiped all trace of the flour away, and put the bags, wrapped in a large handkerchief, into his pocket.

* * * *

Percy was at the wheel of the Daimler, and didn’t get out. Roger climbed in. The car moved off swiftly, and the blinds fell, with the familiar whirring. Roger opened the side ventilation window, and waited until the car had turned two corners, then tossed one of the small screws of flour out. He waited for three more turns, and tossed another.

The journey took fifteen minutes, and he didn’t think they had gone farther than five minutes away from the Arcade; Percy had been driving over the same ground. As they slowed down, he dropped out another paper-bag.

Percy opened the door without letting up the blinds, Roger glanced up and down the dark street. Except that it was one of London’s squares, he couldn’t identify it. He glanced down at the pavement; the little white bag had burst ten yards or so away, the flour showed pale blue beneath a lamp.

He followed Percy to the house and saw that the number painted on a round pillar was twenty-seven. A manservant opened the door; so Kennedy lived in style. Percy came in and, without a word, took him upstairs. It was luxurious: carpets, tapestries on the walls, good furniture and soft lighting—the home you would expect of a millionaire. Percy led the way to a room on the right, tapped and opened it at a call.

It was a study; book-lined, with a magnificent carved-oak desk; a film set of a room falling just short of opulence. Kennedy stood by a white Adam mantelpiece, with a brandy glass in his hand and his eyes only slightly open. He tipped his head back to look at Roger.

“All right, Percy,” he said.

He was in a dinner-jacket. A cigar, half-smoked, lay on an ash-tray on the mantelpiece. On another, at the side of a chair, was a half-smoked cigarette; it was red-tipped, so a woman had been here to dinner.

The door closed with a click.

“What’s the cause for alarm, West?”

The slip. West instead of Rayner, betrayed Kennedy’s state of nerves. If Kennedy realized what he had done, he had the wit not to correct himself.

Roger said: “Why didn’t you tell me you were wanted by the police?”

Kennedy said softly: “But I’m not, and you know I’m not. You had a previous visit from Sloan, and he slung the name Kennedy into the conversation.”

“He’s after you,” Roger said abruptly. “What’s more he’s connected you with Kyle, Marion, and—with me. Don’t ask me how.”

Kennedy turned, took the cigar and drew at it, took it from his mouth and looked at the faint red glow beneath the pale-grey ash. He was quite steady.

“I should like to hear more about it.”

“You can listen to your dictaphone recording in the morning,” Roger said. “I thought I was the big risk in this outfit. Now I know that you are. Have the police got anything on you?”

“They’ve a name, that’s all. You know me as Kennedy. A few other people do. I’m not known here as Kennedy. That isn’t my name. I’m careful, Rayner.” He slipped back into the use of Rayner easily. “They don’t know anything against Kennedy. They might suspect him of a few minor crimes, that’s all. There’s no need to fly into a panic.”

“Call it what you like. This is dangerous. Sloan came to warn me that I was playing with bad men when I played with Kennedy.”

Kennedy said: “Perhaps he thinks you’re honest!” He didn’t seem to be amused. “I’ve always been worried by the man Sloan, he got on to Kyle too quickly. He was after the men behind Kyle, of course, that’s——”

“How the police get half of their results. They pick up a man on one thing, and find he’s connected with another. They’re much better than you’ve ever given them credit for.”

Kennedy said: “Maybe. Would Sloan have a dossier on you, this Kennedy, and anything else to do with the case?”

“He’d keep a record, probably in his desk—more likely there than at his home. Few policemen keep everything in their heads. They never know what they’ll forget—and they never know when they might run into trouble, so they leave their testimony behind them. Sloan usually kept his note-book in his desk.”

“Would he talk to anyone about this?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t any close friends at the Yard. He’s young— young for his rank, too. He and I were usually together on a job. He’d confide in me. And on this job, he’s more likely than usual to keep it to himself, because I’m at the bottom of it. He’d feel that the others were laughing at him for thinking I’d been framed—most of them have probably assumed that I killed the girl at Copse Cottage.”

Kennedy drew at the cigar again.

“I see. Have a drink, Rayner? I can recommend the brandy, or——”

“I wouldn’t mind a whisky.”

“Please yourself.” Kennedy poured out. “Do you know of anyone at the Yard you could bribe?”

The question wasn’t a surprise, was no more than Roger had to expect. He took the glass and didn’t answer.

“Do you?” The other’s voice was thin and harsh.

He had to win Kennedy’s confidence; there was no drawing back.

“I wouldn’t like to say. There are one or two I didn’t trust, but I doubt if they’d sell anything that mattered.

We had our black sheep, though. There’s one——” he broke off and gulped down his whisky. “No, you’re crazy! The Brixton job was bad enough. Corrupting a Yard man——”

“You wouldn’t have to do it. The man who’d tackle the job would be prepared for trouble. He’d be safe enough from our side. But it might take him six months to find the right prospect. This is just another way you can help me, Rayner—and help yourself.”

Roger shrugged. “I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Who is the man you’ve got in mind?”

“Well—Detective Sergeant——”

“Small fry,” sneered Kennedy. “Do better.”

“He’s your best bet. You can’t get at the high rankers —I’ll stake my life on any one of them. This man, Sergeant Banister, is an old chap. He has a damning habit of antagonizing his seniors, especially Assistant Commissioners, and he’s failed at most of his exams. He’s good, but he can’t get promotion and the accompanying pay increase, and he has a rough time at home. His wife’s on the sick list—a chronic invalid. I don’t know how far he would go, but he’s your most likely prospect. What do you want?”

“Sloan’s desk note-book.”

“What else?”

“Anything about the Copse Cottage murder, you, Kyle, Kennedy, and Marion—dossiers on them all. They’re easy enough to get for a man inside, aren’t they?”

Roger said: “They should be. They might be out— that means with the Assistant Commissioner, the Home Office, or one of the Superintendents. That wouldn’t be for long, but if Banister played ball, he might not be able to get everything for a few days. But there’s a snag.”

“What is it?”

“Once the dossiers were missed, the Yard would make a grand slam against the people covered by them. You’d be surprised what happens when those experts really put their heads together. They know all the tricks, all the answers.”

“I wouldn’t want the papers for long; just long enough for them to be photolithoed.”

Roger said: “Well, try Banister. Don’t say I haven’t warned you.”

“I won’t.” Kennedy laughed—that curious laugh with his head back. “Beginning to see what a tower of strength you are to me? I’ve often wondered how much they’ve got on certain friends of mine. This will help me to find out.”

Roger said: “No violence—with Sloan or anyone else.”

“I know where to stop,” said Kennedy. He looked earnest—until Roger glanced round at him from the door, five minutes later. Kennedy was grinning; at the thought of what was going to happen to Bill Sloan. This was like playing with T.N.T. The footman closed the door. Roger crossed the landing, and another door opened. A woman, small, chic, beautiful, looked straight at him. She wore a dinner-gown of black with lace half-revealing her shoulders and the gentle swell of her breast; she wore a tulle scarf, which wisped up at the back of her head. Her hair was corn-coloured. She didn’t smile, but withdrew and closed the door.

Percy was waiting outside in the street.

“Where do you want dropping?” he asked.

“The same place will do.”

Roger got in. A small car parked farther along the road moved after them. He didn’t see it, once he was inside, because the blinds were down, but it was still behind them when he was dropped in Piccadilly. He walked slowly towards the Circus. It was a fine, starry night, with no wind. The lights of London were on again, and the Circus looked gay with the moving advertisements.

A man followed him.

He made no attempt to avoid the man, but walked to his flat. He went upstairs and switched on the light, then went cautiously down again. The man was lounging in a doorway, opposite. So Kennedy—whose name wasn’t really Kennedy—had told Percy that the red light was on: Kennedy was making quite sure that Roger didn’t try any tricks. The telephone was tapped, of course. If he’d made a mistake it was in telling Kennedy that he knew of the dictaphones; but Kennedy had probably already realized that he knew. The risk, the great almost unforgivable risk, was with Sloan.

Sloan was marked down for murder as surely as Lucille had been.

To-night? Possibly to-night, but not if he stayed indoors; this would be another accident, not open murder. Roger stood in front of the telephone, undecided. He could switch off the dictaphone, but a different contraption might be fitted to the telephone itself. He suspected that the other offices in the building were owned by Kennedy, but wasn’t sure. He mustn’t take a risk with that telephone.

How long would the guard remain outside?

He went back upstairs, sorted through a small tool-box in the kitchen, selected several, including a key that would serve as a pick-lock, and then remembered Harry; Harry was usually in by eleven o’clock on his nights off; it was now nearly ten, and an hour wasn’t enough for what Roger wanted to do. He would take a chance by waiting until Harry came back. Roger picked up a book and began to read, but couldn’t concentrate. He switched on the radio; there was hymn singing. He read the Cry article again.

He didn’t like it; he didn’t like seeing the names of Janet, Scoopy, and Richard in print.

Then he heard Harry’s key in the lock.

Harry walked in, smiling sombrely, asked if there were anything Roger wanted, and went to bed; he had a small room which wasn’t included in the main rooms of the flat. Roger waited until the man had had time to undress and get into bed, then went into his own room, adjacent. He hummed to himself as he ran water from the tap, did everything as if he were going to retire. He switched on a small radio; there was dance music. He took fifty pound notes from the safe, then put on a pair of shoes with rubber soles and heels, wrapped up the tools and dropped them into his pocket, switched off the radio, and crept out.

At the front door he paused, to look towards Harry’s door. A line of light showed underneath, but he heard no sound of movement. As an afterthought, he went into the living-room, tore a piece of gummed paper off the wrapping of Mrs. Delaney’s package, and marked it with a pencil. He stuck this at the foot of his door, sealing door to frame. If Harry looked in to see if he were there, the paper would be broken and he would be warned.

He crept downstairs.

Harry hadn’t replaced the guard; the man was still huddled in the doorway.

Roger turned to the ground-floor office of the building and worked on the door with his tools. The lock wasn’t difficult, a policeman could crack a crib with any man if the need were great enough. He fiddled for five minutes before the lock clicked back. There were tell-tale signs at the door, marks of the tools, but they probably wouldn’t be noticed if nothing were stolen. He crept across a large office to the window which overlooked the yard—as did his office upstairs. The window was latched. He unfastened it and pushed the window up, climbed out into the concrete yard and then closed the window. He went to a narrow service alley which led to the next street, walked past the end of Lyme Street and saw the guard, and then averted his eyes quickly, for Percy swung round the corner in the Daimler.

The Daimler pulled up in front of the watcher, who hurried to it and climbed in. The Daimler moved off and was lost in the streets near Co vent Garden. That was reasonable proof that Kennedy relied on Harry to keep a watch on Roger at the flat; and with luck, Harry thought he was in bed. He needed luck. But he had never done anything to arouse Harry’s suspicions and had made no attempt at independent action until to-night. He had to do a lot to-night.

The tools were heavy in his pocket as he went along the Strand, then into a side street where he knew there were telephone booths.

He dialled Sloan’s private number.

He felt shivery as he did so, and as the brrr-brrr sounded. Was Sloan out? The ringing tone seemed unending. If Sloan were out, then he might run into trouble. Brrr-brrr. Sloan must be out, and it was too early for him to be in bed. Brrr-kk.

“Hallo?”

Roger schooled his voice. Sloan might guess it was Rayner, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Mr. Sloan?”

“Yes.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Sloan. They’re after you.”

“Who——”

“Use your wits. There’ll be an attack. Maybe a rundown. It’ll come quick. I’m warning you, Mr. Sloan.”

“Listen! Who——”

“I’ve warned you, just look out. And there’s another thing, Mr. Sloan.”

“Well?” Sloan had stopped expecting to be told the name of his caller.

“Remember the Copse Cottage job. Girl you never traced. Have a try in Paris. 23 Rue de Croix, District 8. Got that?”

“23 Rue de Croix, 8. Yes. Will you——”

“It’s the same job, and they mean to get you.”

Roger rang off and slipped out of the box. That was as far as he dared go; farther than was safe. He walked to the Strand and beckoned a taxi from the rank near the Savoy.

“Do you know Ealing?”

“Palm of me ‘and, brother!”

“Try and find Merrivale Avenue, will you?”

“Orf the Common, ‘seasy. There an’ back?”

“With a wait in between.”

“It’ll cost yer the world.” The cabby laughed his joke off. Roger sat back, legs crossed, watching the passing lights, letting his thoughts roam. A great deal depended on whether he got back without being missed. He smoked two cigarettes, and was half-way through a third when the cabby slowed down near Ealing Common Station.

“What number, Merrivale?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Okay.”

Number 35 Merrivale Avenue was a small house, standing in a tiny patch of garden, which even under the light of the stars, looked neat and tidy. No lights were on; it was now nearly half-past eleven, and there were few lighted windows in the long street. Roger rang the bell, and waited; rang again and knocked immediately afterwards.

A light went on, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

The man coming was Pep Morgan, who knew Roger West well; once, had known him very well indeed. He ran a private inquiry agency, and seldom risked a clash with the police. He opened the door, a ball of a man wrapped in a thick dressing-gown. His sparse hair was awry, and his nose and mouth were screwed up in annoyance. He squeaked:

“What the hell do you want?”

“Your services,” said Roger. “Fifty pounds for a job that’s not worth ten.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re inside, maybe,” said Roger. He squeezed past the round ball as a woman called out from upstairs: “Pep. Who is it. Pep?”

“Just a client, m’dear, just a client.” Pep closed the door and put on the light of a front room. He had bright-brown eyes, from which all traces of sleepiness had vanished. He eyed Roger closely. “I don’t know you,” he said.

“I hope you never will.” Roger took the fifty pounds from his pocket and put it on top of a small upright piano. Pep hardly glanced towards it. “This is a simple job, there’s no risk, and there’s nothing illegal, but it’s urgent. First thing in the morning—if you can’t do it earlier!—I want you to arrange for a man on a bicycle to start from the Burlington Arcade, take the first right and then the second left—got it?”

“I’ll write it down.” There was a pad and pencil near the telephone. Pep’s stubby fingers moved swiftly. “Yes?”

“And around there he’ll find traces of flour, which was dropped from a passing car. There are more traces, in different streets, usually at corners—always at corners, except one place. That’s a few doors from a house numbered twenty-seven. The number of the house is painted in black on a cream, fluted column.”

Pep wrote swiftly. “Yes?”

“I want to know the name of the street and the name of the owner of the house—just that and no more. As soon as you’ve got it, leave word at your office. A Mr. Brown will call you, probably about lunch-time—all he wants is that name and full address. All clear?”

“What’s worth fifty quid?”

“Being hauled out of bed.”

Pep rubbed his button of a nose. “Okay,” he said.

* * * *

Roger went back the way he had come—through the window of the downstairs office, so that he could latch the window and lessen the risk that signs of intrusion would be noticed. He locked the passage door with the skeleton key and went quietly upstairs.

The piece of gummed paper at the foot of his door was still in one piece; so Harry hadn’t realized that he had been out. He ripped it off, went in, closed the door gently, and then sat down in an easy-chair. He felt more light-hearted than he had for weeks.

Sloan could look after himself now.

Couldn’t he?

CHAPTER XVIII

SLOAN

BILL SLOAN tapped his silver pencil against his strong white teeth as he skimmed through the notes he had made on what he called The West Disappearance. These notes were kept jealously for his eyes alone. They contained a precis of everything he had done in the past two months in his quest for Roger. They showed that he had spent every spare minute of his time on the hunt. They also showed that he had worked with Mark Lessing, but not consulted any official at the Yard. He had taken the extreme precaution of buying a diary with a lock on it. There were references to Kennedy—a name only—Kyle, Marion Day, and several others; nothing was evidence in a legal sense.

He locked the book, put it away, and pressed a bell on his desk. He shared the big office with five other D.I.’s, but none of them was in. None had seen the book.

A middle-aged man with florid face, straggly grey moustache, barrel-shaped figure, and sullen, disappointed eyes came in. He let the door slam behind him.

“Want me?” he asked gruffly as he approached the desk. He was slovenly dressed. His brown suit needed not only pressing but also cleaning. His hair needed cutting. He looked as if he thought the world was against him, and had an almost furtive expression in his cloudy blue eyes.

Sloan said : “Yes, Banister. Do you know if the Assistant Commissioner is in?”

“Yes, I know the old—yes, he’s in.” Banister bit on his comment, and evaded Sloan’s eyes.

“Been after you again?” asked Sloan.

“He’s always after me. Everyone’s—oh, forget it.”

“All right, that’s all,” said Sloan. He watched the sergeant go out; the door slammed again, indicating that Banister was in a foul temper. Sloan leaned back in his chair for a few minutes, forgetting the A.C. He was recalling a conversation he’d had with Roger at Roger’s Bell Street house, a week or two before the disappearance. Roger had started it.

“Happy about Banister, Bill?”

“Can anyone be ? The scales are pretty heavily weighted against him.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“What did you mean?” Sloan knew, but wanted it put into words.

“Would you trust him with much?”

“Well—I’ve no reason not to, but if I wanted anything kept right under my hat, I wouldn’t choose him to hold my hat for me.”

“That’s what I mean,” Roger had said.

The Yard was full of Roger; his face, his brisk walk, his crisp confidence, his unorthodoxy, his daring, his friendliness. Sloan owed his quick promotion to Roger; he felt lost and out on a limb ever since Roger had gone. The odd hint here, a suggestion there, a chat over a difficult case— Sloan had trained himself largely on Roger West. Admiration and respect had grown into confidence and friendship. He was probably the last man at the Yard who still believed that Roger was alive; and who believed the sun more likely to fail to rise than Roger to become corrupt.

He jumped up and hurried along to the Assistant Commissioner’s office. Had he telephoned for permission it would probably never have been granted. Chatworth seldom had time for D.I.’s except on a specific case.

Chatworth growled:

“Come in.”

“Morning, sir!” Sloan was bright and brisk.

“What do you want?” Chatworth glowered; so it was a bad moment to have chosen.

He was a big, burly man with grizzled grey hair and a shiny bald patch, a brown, tough, weather-beaten face, which in moments of affability became almost cherubic; then one could see the essential simplicity of the man. He was dressed in green homespun tweeds, and his blue collar was two sizes too large for him, his pink tie badly knotted. He looked like a farmer in a beauty salon; for the office was all chromium, glass, and tubular steel, spick and span—cold, unfriendly. No one quite knew how Chat-worth had managed to get the Office of Works to make him such an office.

“Can you spare me a few minutes, sir?”

“What about?”

“A personal matter, sir.”

“Come and sit down.” Chatworth pointed to a chair. Sloan sat in it stiffly, feeling on edge, knowing that Roger, in his place, would relax and light a cigarette and not care a hoot what the A.C. thought.

Chatworth pushed the papers away, made notes with a slim gold pencil, and looked up. The cherub in him appeared. He smiled, showing small teeth, and moved a silver cigarette-box across the black glass of his desk.

“Have a cigarette, Sloan. What’s it all about?”

“I’m scared, sir.” That was the kind of introduction Roger would have advocated as being sure to grip the A.C.’s attention. Chatworth raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Oh? What about?”

“I’ve had a warning which I think I ought to take seriously—that there is likely to be an attack on my life in the next day or two.”

“Whose corns have you been treading on?”

“It’s a long story, sir, and——”

Chatworth’s eyes sparkled, and were frosty.

“Anything,to do with West?”

Roger would have expected that. Sloan hadn’t. He gulped, smoke got mixed up with his larynx and he coughed and spluttered. Chatworth tapped the gold pencil on the glass top.

“Well, is it?”

“In a way, yes. I——”

“Been devoting a lot of time to West, haven’t you?”

“Not official time, sir, it wasn’t my job, but——”

“Spare time? A good detective shouldn’t have any spare time. He should either be working or relaxing in order to equip himself for the next real job that comes along. You don’t think West is dead, do you?”

“No.”

“You don’t think he’s turned bad, do you? Or this nonsense about a split mind.”

Nonsense! Sloan’s eyes glowed. “No, sir, it’s utter rot. There are times when I feel like—did you read the Sunday Cry yesterday?”

Chatworth said: “I prefer evidence. You know the evidence that piled up against West. Never mind—you’ve been ferreting on your own, you think you’ve unearthed something and as a result, you’ve been threatened. That it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

Sloan said: “I’m not sure how much you want to know, sir.” He meant “ought to know”, and thought that Chatworth understood that. “There have been a lot of loose ends. I’ve worked on the theory that West uncovered something about a big organization of which we know little or nothing, and they had to get him out of the way. I don’t pretend to know how they’ve done it, but I’ve a feeling that he’s still alive and still working.”

“Working, eh?”

“Yes. If he is alive, he’s working. It’s all vague and——”

“At least you realize that.” But there was no bite in Chatworth’s voice.

“I haven’t any evidence that West is alive, but you remember that after the Copse Cottage job, we had a squeal from someone we brought in that a man named Kennedy could explain a lot about it. We never traced the Kennedy. But I went through the records and turned up another whisper about a certain Kennedy. He was supposed to have been behind the big forgery job up north, when a man named Kyle was sentenced to seven years. I thought it would be a good idea to watch Kyle when he came out, and put a man on it—Mr. Abbott authorized that, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Kyle went to see a man named Rayner, at offices in Lyme Street, Strand. This Rayner says he made a pile in Africa and came back and bought a general commission agency. He bought it from a man named Wiseman—sorry if I have to be confusing here, sir—and Wiseman had a sleeping partner, named Kennedy. That’s a commonplace name, but it was interesting that Kyle should go to someone who had taken over a business from the Kennedy already referred to in his trial. The Kennedy is only a name —I’ve never set eyes on him, haven’t been able to pin anything on to him. I talked to Kyle myself after the visit to Lyme Street, but he said he’d gone to ask for a job, and didn’t get one. I talked to Kyle about himself, and discovered that while he was inside, his wife was killed in a street accident.”

Chatworth nodded.

“Although he seemed bitter about it, I couldn’t make him talk freely. But I did discover that one thing frightened him—the possibility that his daughter, who lives in France, should discover the truth about him. The daughter’s name was Lucille. We always thought that a French girl was killed at Copse Cottage, if you remember.”

“There are other French names,” Chatworth said.

“I know, sir, but—well, remember the whisper that a Kennedy was involved both in the Copse Cottage job and West’s kidnapping. We’ve been looking for a French girl, and among the missing people reported at our request by the Paris Sûreté there was a Lucille Dinard. Just following that line, sir, I slipped over to Paris when I had a week-end off not long ago. I discovered that this Lucille was really English, but I couldn’t find out the English name she had before she went to live with this uncle and aunt in Paris. My French isn’t very good, and the Sûreté man who was with me wasn’t very interested. I just let it seep into my mind, sir, and watched Kyle. A month after he’d visited Rayner—the Kennedy contact—he fell under a train at Edgware Road. Someone told the police that he’d been pushed, but wouldn’t swear to it at the inquest. The coroner had a lot to say about vivid imaginations, and the verdict was accidental death. Like that on Kyle’s wife, some months ago. I checked, and Kyle had Rayner’s telephone number on a slip of paper, as well as a name—John Pearson—and a Strand post-restante address. There was a letter containing ten pounds at the Strand Post Office, waiting for Pearson, so someone was staking him.”

Chatworth rubbed his round, red nose and grunted.

“Then another queer thing happened—a girl named Marion Day was killed in a street accident. It all seemed normal enough, but I had an obsession about street accidents on this job, and spent a lot of time checking them. I couldn’t cover them all, but I had a bit of luck with Marion Day. She was killed in a stretch of Kensington High Street which is usually free from accidents—I investigated all of those in the accident-free parts, it narrowed the line of inquiry. When found, she had a telephone number in her possession—the number of the Kennedy contact whom Kyle had gone to see. That made three accidents, all connected with Kennedy. It was still vague, but I spent some time checking on this girl Day. She’d worked at a nursing home—a private asylum, really. They dealt in schizophrenic cases. The home was closed down a few days after Marion Day was killed. The doctor and staff vanished, and very little was known about them. There was no list of the staff, no record of the doctor in charge—named Ritter—in medical or surgical lists. But I spent a few odd hours up there—it’s near Worcester—and managed to find an old man who’d worked in the garden. He didn’t know much, never went inside the house, was paid by a member of the staff whose name he didn’t know. But he told me that a Mr. Kennedy often called there until a couple of months ago—he knew, because Marion Day occasionally had a talk with him, and once or twice she’d said she was expecting Mr. Kennedy. Now, he said that Marion Day had a special patient. She took him for a walk round the garden once, and—well, the gardener wouldn’t swear to it, but he thought it might be West. The gardener remembered being called away from the back garden on the occasion when he saw this patient. I showed him photographs. Slipped up, I’m afraid, sir—instead of giving him a selection to choose from, I let him see just West’s. Even then, he wasn’t sure, but he was sure about the name Kennedy. And this patient was at the nursing-home immediately after the Copse Cottage murder. As I’ve said, the nursing-home closed down after the death of Marion Day.”

Chatworth grunted; that might mean anything.

“So I had another go at Rayner, tried to get him to admit that he knew Kennedy and Marion Day and Kyle. I didn’t get anything out of him. I don’t rate him as a bad man— that doesn’t mean he isn’t one, some cover it well, but I doubt if he’s a professional crook. I saw him yesterday. Late last night I had a mysterious telephone message, warning me that I was likely to meet with an accident— that rang a bell, all right!—and also giving me an interesting piece of information. The man said that if I wanted to find the identity of the Copse Cottage victim, I ought to try 23 Rue de Croix, Paris 8. That’s the address of the Lucille Dinard whose relatives I went to see. As a result——”

Chatworth said heavily: “You want protection as well as official support for your line of inquiry, men to work with you, and—you’d like to carry a gun, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s about it, sir. I know that we’ve often had a lot of vague stuff like this to work on before, and I can’t say that until last night I could see any reason for concentrated effort on the job, but now——”

“Who’d you want with you?”

“Detective Sergeant Peel.”

“All right. Make an official report of the threat against your life, an official application to carry firearms until further notice, and see if Peel can be freed for a week. Week long enough?”

“We ought to get something by the end of it, if there’s anything to get.”

“All right, try.”

* * * *

Peel was eight years younger than Sloan, and in appearance, might have been his brother. He was also a protégé of Roger West. He was free for the job.

* * * *

At the top of the steps, Sloan said to Peel :

“I’ll go by bus to the Ritz, then walk along to Hyde Park Corner and down Grosvenor Place. You take a car and be waiting at the Ritz. Follow me. If I’ve been followed, I’ll tip my hat on to the back of my head. Right?”

“Right.” Peel was eager.

Sloan went briskly down the steps of the Yard, along past Cannon Row police-station, thence to Parliament Street. A small car, parked near Parliament Street, moved after him. It was a Morris, shabby and muddy grey, and the registration number was XA 124. Sloan boarded a bus and found a seat in a place where he could watch the road behind him. The muddy grey Morris followed. Something about it touched a chord in his memory. He rubbed his chin, and tried to think why. “Muddy” and “grey” were the words which mattered. He glanced at the Daily Cry which he carried—there were front-page headines about the Delaney escape from Brixton. Ah! “The police are anxious to obtain information about a small muddy grey Austin or Morris four-seater car seen near the entrance to Brixton Jail about the time of the escape. A man was at the wheel, and a young woman passenger beside him. Information should——”

Sloan said aloud: “I believe in coincidence, but not in miracles!” He shrugged the suspicion aside.

The car slowed up in front of the bus when he got off. A passenger climbed out, a small, nondescript man, dressed in navy blue, wearing a trilby hat with a wide brim. Sloan walked briskly past the bus stop and along by Green Park. Chairs were dotted about the grass, a few people were strolling about beneath the watery sunlight. Traffic streamed towards Hyde Park Corner, but the muddy grey Morris stayed where it was for a few minutes, and the nondescript little man followed Sloan. Sloan tipped his hat on to the back of his head, but didn’t look round to see if Peel were following: Peel would be.

Sloan passed the gates of Green Park, hesitated on the kerb and looked at the square mass of St. George’s Hospital. He seemed to change his mind about crossing, and stepped out briskly down Grosvenor Place. His man and the little car also followed—the car never more than twenty yards behind him.

Quite suddenly, Sloan stepped into the road.

He had hardly touched the roadway before the engine •of the Morris roared and the car leapt forward.

CHAPTER XIX

JANET

TWENTY yards wasn’t far.

Unwarned, Sloan wouldn’t have stood a chance. The driver of another car, who was just pulling out to pass the Morris, jammed on his brakes and started to skid. The muddy grey Morris turned towards Sloan, but couldn’t touch him without causing a crash. The driver straightened the wheel. The car didn’t slow down. It flashed past Sloan, who was in front of the other car, which had stopped inches away from him. The driver, opening his door, was white with fright.

Peel’s dark car flashed by.

The man in the navy-blue suit stood on the kerb for a few minutes, then suddenly turned and hurried back towards Hyde Park Corner. All he’d done was walk along the pavement, there was nothing Sloan could do about him. The driver of the car which had nearly touched Sloan shouted:

“You ruddy fool! Serve you right if you’d caught a packet. How I stopped I don’t know. It’s idiots like you that cause the trouble. You’re lucky to be alive.” The words came out in a furious spate, and Sloan straightened his coat and tried to speak, but wasn’t given a chance. Passers-by joined in, all on the side of the driver.

“. . . ought to be given in charge, walking across the road like that. I’ve a good mind——”

“Yes, sorry,” said Sloan. “It was my fault.” He took out his card.

“I should damn well think it was your fault. Only a fool or a drunk would do that! Don’t stick your card in front of my nose.” The driver waved it away.

“I thought I saw a man I was after,” Sloan said. “I’m from the Yard.”

“I don’t care where you come from, if—where did you say?” The scared blue eyes dropped to the card, everyone else stopped talking. “Oh, the Yard.”

“Yes, I’m after a man and thought he was over here. I didn’t see you coming. Sorry.”

“Well——”

It was ten minutes before Sloan, transformed from villain to hero in the space of seconds, was able to get away. He took a taxi back to the Yard, and the first job he did was to write an official report of the incident, a description of the man who had left the car, and of the car itself. He made a special note: “Check with Brixton job”, and then went on with routine work, on edge for a call from Peel.

The telephone bell rang.

He snatched off the receiver. “Yes?”

“Peel here,” said Peel. “I’m glad you’re all right, I thought you’d gone bang into the other car.”

“Trail him home?”

“Yes,” said Peel. “A boarding-house in Chelsea. I’m at the Chelsea Station. Better just have him watched, hadn’t we?”

“Your job,” said Sloan, “and keep it quiet.”

“After this morning’s dose, you oughtn’t to travel much on your own.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Sloan. “You just concentrate on that man. Where’s the car?”

“Outside the boarding-house.”

“Ask the Chelsea people to find out where it was last night—trace the garage, everything. Muddy and grey— does that mean anything?”

“Crikey! Brixton!”

Sloan laughed; he felt on top of the world.

He was still feeling on top of the world when the telephone bell rang again. He let it ring, but it wouldn’t stop. He finished a note and lifted the receiver. “Hallo . . . oh, hallo, Mark.”

His voice changed, and he came off the top with a bump. Mark Lessing made him think immediately of Janet West.

“Anything?” asked Mark briefly.

“I wish there were.” It was all right to use Lessing unofficially, impossible to tell him anything on this telephone, unwise to say anything that would raise Janet’s hopes. “How is she?”

“Not too good,” said Mark Lessing. “She’s convinced that the Yard has completely forgotten about it. Anything you can do to cheer her up a bit?”

“I’ll try to look in to-day,” Sloan promised.

He couldn’t settle to work for the next ten minutes. Visiting Janet West always hurt. He was back at the old question, too—whether to say or hint at anything that might raise her hopes.

He had lunch in the canteen. Banister sat on his own at a small table: Banister always sat on his own. He looked morose: he always looked morose. Sloan forgot him.

It was just after four o’clock when he turned into Bell Street, Chelsea. He hadn’t been followed; he didn’t think there was any danger for the rest of the day, they wouldn’t try again so quickly; one accident was an accident, two would make coincidence: coincidences made policemen thoughtful.

He saw two small boys, racing along the street towards him, one hefty and plump and red-faced, the other smaller, thinner, with wavy hair; even from this distance the smaller child’s huge blue eyes were noticeable. Both were laughing fit to burst. A young woman stood at a gate—West’s gate— calling them. They ignored her. They passed the car without looking towards Sloan, the larger boy nearly up to the first and stretching out to grab his grey jersey.

“Rich-ard!” He cried breathlessly. “That’s mine.”

Richard was clutching something that didn’t belong to him as he ran. The young woman called out again and began to hurry after them—and then Richard caught his toe in a ridge between paving stones, and crashed down. There was a moment of breathless silence, followed by a piercing howl. Sloan stopped as the woman hurried past him. She was small, big-breasted, with long, dark hair and a pale face; and her skirts were short. Richard howled wildly. Sloan looked out of the car and saw Scoopy, the elder boy, standing and watching in wide-eyed alarm; and he said:

“It wasn’t my fault, Richard took it.”

The woman said: “You’re a bad boy, Scoopy.”

Richard howled.

Sloan got out of the car and said: “Let me give him a ride, that’ll make him forget it.”

“No, he’s cut his knee,” said the woman, helping Richard up. His face had gone beetroot red, and he opened his mouth wide as he howled. The woman had dark eyes— and a way with children. She picked Richard up, and began to carry him towards the West’s house. “Scoopy, walk nicely behind me. What your mother will say, I don’t know.”

Scoopy defended himself. “Richard took it.”

Richard still had it; a small musical box, the shape of a drum, clutched in his right hand.

They trooped towards the house.

Normally, Janet West’s ears were so sharp that she would have heard that outcry and rushed to see what had caused it. She may have heard it, but hadn’t rushed. Sloan drove oh, and reached the house just in front of the little group. Scoopy took notice of him for the first time, and his big, broad face lit up.

“It’s Mr. Sloan!”

“Hallo, Scoop. What’s all the trouble about?”

“Richard wouldn’t let me have my musical box.” Scoopy knew an ally when he saw one. “It is mine. Daddy bought it for me before he went away.”

“He didn’t!” Richard had stopped crying, and was aggressively indignant. “He didn’t, did he, G’ace? Daddy bought it for us. It was my turn.”

The woman, Grace, put him down. His knee was bleeding freely, and blood gathered at the top of his sock. She bundled both of the boys inside; Sloan followed—and saw Janet coming down the stairs. She didn’t notice him. He stood and watched her, hating the lifelessness in her eyes and face and the dullness of her voice.

“Now what have you been up to?”

“Scoopy——” began Richard.

“Richard——” began Scoopy.

“I’ll look after them, Mrs. West, it only wants a wash and a bandage. Don’t worry.” Grace smiled; she had a charming smile which lit up the whole of her face with a lightness that was almost radiance, and made her look a different woman. None of the radiance touched Janet. She stood aside, and Sloan studied her more closely.

She had often been through difficult, dangerous times, known heart-ache and desperate anxiety when Roger was on a tough assignment; but Sloan had never seen her despairing. Her expression made her look years older—drawn lines at her eyes and mouth spoiled her looks. The eyes which had so readily glowed with cheerfulness were dull. She hadn’t let herself go completely; she was tidily dressed, in a dark-grey frock, and her hair was brushed; she wore it up, Edwardian fashion.

She saw Sloan.

“Bill!” Hope blazed in her eyes—hope without foundation, hope just at seeing him. But it faded swiftly; and she closed her eyes and stood quite still as he went in.

“Hallo, Janet. How are you?”

“I’m all right,” she said. “Come in.” She led the way into the front room—the sitting-room. It was full of Roger; why not? It belonged to Roger. His chair, his pipes, his-

Janet sat down and waved to a chair, then got up.

“Will you have a drink?”

“No, thanks, it’s a bit early.”

“There isn’t any news, is there?”

“No,” said Sloan. “Not news—not hard news, Jan. But I’ve something to tell you that I hope will help a bit.”

She became rigid.

“There’s a line on the Copse Cottage job which we hadn’t found before,” he said. “It may lead to nothing, but at least , it means that Chatworth has agreed that I should spend more time on it. I had a chat with him to-day. He’s prepared to back me up, and although he didn’t say so, he’s with me in believing that the whole business is a grotesque mistake.”

“He hasn’t told me that,” said Janet.

“He won’t, unless he gets hold of something that looks like real evidence. I don’t know that I should tell you this, but at least it’s something to hold on to. I can put some official time into it, now.”

She smiled faintly. “You’ve been wonderful, Bill. You and Mark, I don’t know what I’d have done without you. But—oh, I’ve tried to tell myself that it will work out all right, but if Roger were alive, he’d have got in touch with me, somehow.”

Sloan didn’t speak—but glanced at the door. He heard a slight sound there, and thought he saw the handle turn. Scoopy liked to listen to conversations, but if it had been Scoopy he wouldn’t have come to the door so silently. Imagination ?

Janet said: “Bill, it’s no use, we just have to face the facts. Either Roger is dead or he has had something to do with—crime. That’s the only choice we have. And you know he hasn’t had anything to do with crime, so he must be dead.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Have you any reason at all for saying that?”

Sloan stood up and took out his cigarettes, moved casually across the room without making a sound and without looking at the door. He said:

“No real reason, Jan. But we know the identity of the girl who was killed at Copse Cottage now, that’s the line that’s opened. I’ve left my matches in my overcoat pocket —won’t be a moment.”

He opened the door.

Grace was moving away, back towards him, heading for the stairs. She didn’t look round. He went to his overcoat and pretended to take matches from it, returned to Janet who was leaning back with her eyes closed. She’d noticed nothing unusual.

Sloan left, three-quarters of an hour afterwards, hearing the boys shouting in their bath, and Grace talking to them cheerfully. Janet was, if anything, a little brighter. He got into his car, waved and drove towards the other end of Bell Street and then to the Chelsea Embankment. He wanted to go back to the Yard.

The woman, Grace——

A car swung out of a side turning towards him. He wasn’t on guard, because he was concentrating on the woman, Grace. But his sixth sense, awareness of danger, worked as he saw the car. He wrenched the wheel. The other was a powerful Buick, big enough to crush his own car like matchwood. He felt the crash, but the Buick only hit the near-side wing. He lost control of the wheel, and his car swerved across the road. The Buick leapt along the Embankment and swung left, over the bridge.

Sloan regained control. People ran towards him. He wasn’t hurt, beyond a bruise or two.

* * * *

Peel was at the Yard when he arrived, and reported that the Chelsea police were looking after the man with the muddy grey Morris, and being ca’ canny. When Sloan told him of the crash, Peel said :

“I told you so.”

Sloan shrugged and said:

“Yes, we’ve got to keep our eyes open all the time. But it’s coming to a head. Peel.”

“Think so?”

“Roger West would call it a hunch. All right, call it a hunch. And here’s another job, to do very carefully. Check on the nurse, Grace Howell, at the West’s home.”

Peel went off.

Sloan began another report; an official one, for which he didn’t need his private note-book. So he didn’t look for it. But he wanted the Copse Cottage murder file, and sent a constable to get it from Records. The man was gone a long time, and Sloan looked up impatiently when he came in, empty-handed.

“What’s the matter—needing a rest?”

“Sorry, sir, but it’s not in its place. The Assistant Commissioner had it earlier to-day—he may still have it.”

Sloan said. “All right, thanks.” He managed without the Copse Cottage file, and went home a little after seven o’clock.

Nothing happened to him on the way. He didn’t tell his wife about the two attempts to run him down.

CHAPTER XX

KENNEDY DEMANDS

IT wasn’t possible for Roger to telephone Pep Morgan that day. He was followed wherever he went, whether by a Yard man or Kennedy’s, he didn’t know. He preferred not to take a chance.

Next day, he wasn’t watched. He didn’t waste time wondering why. He had an appointment in the Strand with a manufacturer of nylon stockings, left before noon, and called Morgan from a kiosk.

* * * *

Morgan said: “Mr. Raymond Hemmingway, twenty-seven, Mountjoy Square.”

“Thanks, Pep,” said Roger.

As the “Pep” came out, he realized the mistake. Not many people knew the private agent as “Pep”.

Morgan appeared not to notice the nickname.

“It’s still dear at fifty pounds, Mr. Brown.”

“I may have something else for you to do later. Not now. Thanks very much.”

Roger stepped out of the kiosk, in a corner of a tobacconist’s shop near Lyme Street, wiped his hot forehead, and went into the street. That had been a bad slip, his worst. By affecting not to notice it, Morgan had shown that it had registered; and Morgan would start thinking about all the people who knew him as “Pep”. They were mostly Yard men or Divisional detectives, who had started to use the name when he had said the police wanted more pep; that was years ago. The danger was that Morgan might tell Sloan, Mark, or Janet.

The risk was real; he couldn’t afford to relax his guard for five seconds on end.

Two or three people were passing; none showed any interest in him. He walked the long way round back to Lyme Street; no one was watching there.

He was paying dearly for the slip, already. Morgan had probably discovered something about Mr. Raymond Hemmingway of 27 Mountjoy Square. Roger should have asked that, and also instructed Morgan to find out all he could about the man.

It wasn’t certain, but it was likely, that Kennedy was really Hemmingway.

Rose was in his office when Roger arrived.

“Hallo,” he said. “Anything for me?”

“I was putting the letters here for signature, sir,” she said. “I’ll go to lunch, now, if there’s nothing you require.”

“No, thanks. Suppliers remain compliant, don’t they?”

“We’re very fortunate, sir.”

Roger smiled and nodded, and was relieved when she went out. He leaned across and took up a telephone directory. Mr. Raymond Hemmingway was shown at 27 Mount-joy Square—telephone, Mayfair 12131. So he’d lived at the house for some time, for this was a year-old directory. Roger took up a Directory of Directors and Who’s Who, but before he opened them he began to think about the ease with which “his” firm could obtain short-supply goods. It remained a simple fact that if any kind of goods were wanted, the firm of Rayner could get them. All quite legal, all above board; the firm had priority, that was all.

Why?

It wasn’t just with one or two firms; it was with practically everyone with whom they dealt. He had seen fresh evidence of it every day. Steel and steel parts were desperately short; get them from Steelers, who still traded under that name although they had come under the wing of the Board of Trade. Expensive china, which you couldn’t buy in the shops except under the counter— Barry’s of Stoke-on-Trent would supply as much as he wanted. Hand-woven serge, unobtainable in all but the most exclusive tailors and dressmakers who obtained their supplies through Rayner & Co.; Rayner’s bought from anyone of a dozen mills, and had no difficulty. All legal, all above board, but remarkable. There were a hundred other examples. The Scottish whisky distilleries were open-handed. Imported goods from anywhere in the world, even those which had the tiniest import quotas imaginable, came in without any trouble.

Other facts: the knowing ones in commerce, hotels, exclusive shops, and little-known organizations knew that Rayner’s could obtain almost non-existent goods. The connection was extensive, and world-wide; Rayner’s dealt only with the exclusive, and their amount of profit was high; but they kept scrupulously within legal margins. Whoever had built up this business had genius.

These facts had been floating around in his subconscious for some time, but he hadn’t concentrated on them; it was past time he did.

Mystery number 2.

Mystery number I was Kennedy alias Raymond Hem-mingway, and he mustn’t forget it. He looked up the entry under Hemmingway in Who’s Who.

Hemmingway, Raymond Manville, Company director.

b. 1905, ed. Eton, Balliol, m. 1931, Desiree, daughter of Sir Robert and Lady Mortimer. Address: 27 Mountjoy Square. Clubs: Athenaeum, Carlton, Pendexeter.

That didn’t give much away, except that he had had a better education than Roger had thought; you could never be sure. And that he’d married well. Roger turned up the name in the Directory o[ Directors. One Company was quoted—Hemmingway, Mortimer & Company, Ltd., Dealers in Fine Art.

That might help; dealers in fine art had wonderful opportunities for smuggling antiques, pictures, objets d’art, and jewellery. There was a lot of smuggling in that line to and from America, and into Great Britain from the Continent. But this company had all the hall-marks of a legitimate business.

His fingers itched for the telephone.

If he were at the Yard, he need only speak for two minutes and, by the evening, would have a complete picture of Mr. Hemmingway’s business activities.

The afternoon went quickly; orders flowed in.

Just before six o’clock, the door opened. Percy appeared in his navy-blue chauffeur’s uniform. He closed the door on the several members of the staff still working.

“Boss wants you,” he said succinctly.

“Knock before you come in here, and go downstairs and wait,” snapped Roger.

“One o’ these days——” began Percy, but he didn’t finish, and went out.

The door closed gently behind him.

Roger watched the door handle; it didn’t turn again, Percy wasn’t waiting just outside.

Roger didn’t hurry. The dozen thoughts crowding his mind needed sorting out. It was easy to read too much significance into that “Boss wants you”, but would Hemmingway send for him now unless it were urgent?

Careful; keep the man in mind as Kennedy, not Hemmingway; thinking of the new name might bring about another serious slip of the tongue.

The moment Kennedy suspected what was being planned, he would kill.

Roger picked up his hat and went downstairs: one difference between Charles Rayner and Roger West was that Rayner always wore a hat, and West had always gone hatless; trifles, which mattered. He found the” Daimler waiting, and got in. The usual trick with the blinds wasn’t played; they didn’t go to Mountjoy Square but to a block of flats behind Oxford Street—a small, luxury block.

“Number 15,” said Percy, showing no sign of grievance.

Roger nodded and went inside.

Kennedy himself opened the door. He was dressed in morning coat and striped grey trousers; he looked as if he had been poured into them. Except for his eyes, there wasn’t much to remind Roger of the man he had first glimpsed coming away from Copse Cottage. Why had Kennedy appeared in person in that job?

The flat was small, but the living-room was big and luxurious. It struck him as being a woman’s fiat. Drinks were out, which didn’t suggest a fiery interview.

Roger said: “Another little pied a terre.”

“I hope you like it. What will you drink?”

“Whisky, thanks.”

Kennedy poured out, offered cigarettes, and for him was a long time getting to the point. He sipped, and eyed Roger through his lashes, as if he wanted to hide those glittering eyes.

“Your friend Sloan is tough,” he said.

Roger stiffened. “I told you——”

“That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about,” said Kennedy mildly. “You’ve forgotten to forget your past. You’ve too much of a conscience. Sloan is tough, and Sloan isn’t a fool. He’s got to go. Two attempts were made on him yesterday. Both failed. I don’t know whether he suspects what happened or not, but he might, and he’s not safe.”

Roger said: “I won’t stand for it.”

Kennedy laughed.

“Won’t you?” He turned to a table, picked up a photograph that was lying face downwards, handed it to Roger. “Recognize them?”

Two smiling faces and one grave, stared up at him. Scoopy and Richard, dressed in Red Indian finery—and a girl whom he didn’t know, small, big-breasted, wearing a skirt much too short for her. He didn’t spend any time looking at the girl at first, just stared at the boys. Wearing those feathers and waistcoats was one of their great joys.

His teeth clamped together.

Kennedy said: “I’ve told you before that I don’t want to injure the kids, but you’ve got to understand that they don’t belong to you any more—and that any of your onetime friends who get in our way, have to go. Sloan’s one. I can lift up the telephone, and give orders to that girl to walk out of the house taking the kids with her. How would a certain widow like that?”

Roger felt sick.

Kennedy said: “I hoped you’d got past the worst stage. Rayner.” He turned from the drinks, went to the window and stood looking out. “I think you have—this is just a sentimental hangover. Sloan only spells danger to you. Don’t you enjoy your new standard of living?”

Roger said: “It has its points.”

“You can become a much richer man. You can do what you like and go where you like. I haven’t wasted my time when having you watched. This new life fits you like a glove. All you nave to do is forget, and everything is yours.”

Roger said: “I’ve warned you not to do anything to Sloan. The fact that he was a friend of mine is one thing. There’s much more. He’s bristling with suspicion. Do anything to him, and you’ll have the Yard down on you like a pack of hounds—and I mean like a pack of hounds. They’ll tear you to pieces, strip you of everything. This place. Your home. Your money. Your future. You’re a fool if you go for Sloan.”

Kennedy said: “He’s got to go, soon.” He moved to a writing-desk, a beautiful walnut piece, and picked up a book, a large diary with a lock and key. “Recognize this?”

Roger gulped.

“Sloan’s note-book?”

“He’s done a lot of ferreting. He’s proved you’re right —the police are better than I’d realized. If he talks about this, it might be very bad indeed. Yes, Sloan has to go.”

“So Banister——”

“Banister was exactly the right man. He’s done this kind of thing before, on a smaller scale. I’ve had dossiers and records photolithoed this afternoon, and know everything that the Yard knows. You’ll study it, point out the weakness and the strength, and decide how best to counter what they’re doing. But there’s nothing in those records half as dangerous as Sloan’s private note-book. Sloan must go.”

Roger helped himself to another whisky and soda.

“Have you been working long enough now to know how valuable you are to me?” Kennedy demanded.

“I’ve an idea.”

“We’ve hardly started.” Kennedy grinned. “When we get at the big stuff, you’ll wallow in money. Where does Sloan live?”

“You won’t get Sloan’s address from me.” Keep calm. “If you want to get yourself hanged, send one of your thugs to find out where he lives—they can follow him home. Do the job your own way, and don’t blame me.”

Kennedy looked at the amber liquid in his glass.

“Supposing Sloan were to disappear?” he said. “It would have a different effect, wouldn’t it? Sloan was such a good friend of yours. Sloan disappearing would seem almost a natural consequence. And if it happened together with the disappearance of confidential documents, your other friends there would add two and two. Sloan took the papers. Banister would remain at the Yard, able to serve us again. Do you like the build-up. West?”

Roger knew that “West” wasn’t a slip.

“You might get away with it,” he said.

“That’s condescending of you. I’d have two of the brightest men at the Yard under my wing, and the Home Office would begin to worry. Corruption at Scotland Yard is a bad thing, isn’t it? Afterwards, we might get one or two others to join us. I can imagine this doing a lot of damage at the Yard, but never mind that for now—just concentrate on getting hold of Sloan. There’s one simple way of doing it: speaking to him in your natural voice. He’d come running, wouldn’t he?”

Roger said slowly: “Yes.”

“I want him,” said Kennedy.

“When?” The word was dragged out of Roger.

“To-night. Well—to-morrow at the latest.”

“Where?”

“At your office. That will——”

“He suspects me as Rayner. He’d smell a rat if he had the address. What’s the matter with bringing him here?”

“All right, bring him here,” said Kennedy. “Number 15 Balling Mansions, Wild Street.” He made the decision quickly. “When you’ve got him, Percy will inform me.

No tricks. West. And when it’s done——” he paused, looked round. “Nice flat, isn’t it?”

“It’s all right.”

“Yours. With everything that’s in it. Everything you want, anyhow.” Kennedy laughed: that hateful laugh. “Stay and think it over. I’ll see you later. Don’t put that picture in your pocket by mistake, will you?”

He had propped the photograph up against a book-end; the two boys smiled gaily, and the dark-haired woman looked across at him sombrely.

* * * *

Kennedy was clever; Kennedy knew that this was a crisis, and wasn’t sure which way the cat would jump. So he had increased the pressure. He had also increased Roger’s determination to find out what lay behind it all— to guess at that “big future”. Get one thing straight, thought Roger; Kennedy was in big crime and mostly unsuspected crime. It had something to do with those short-supply goods; with the forgery racket which Kyle had helped to run; with the currency smuggling. One could spend a lifetime at Scotland Yard and scoff at stories of master crooks, but such men existed—and most of them worked without the police knowing. Kennedy—as Hemmingway—had kept himself completely free from suspicion. But in a show like this, you had to have records, you couldn’t keep them all in your mind. So Kennedy had records, and there was an even chance that they were at 27 Mountjoy Square.

Roger could spend a lot of time thinking of that and beg the most urgent issue—how to handle Sloan, or the situation which Kennedy had created with Sloan. One thing stuck out a mile: if Sloan disappeared, then everyone at the Yard would assume that he had been in a racket with Roger, and had gone to join him. Beyond all this there was the vague hint from Kennedy that the Yard could be split from top to bottom with corruption. It had happened before; not recently, but not so long ago that it didn’t make old Yard men sore whenever it was mentioned. If a man could control a large number of officers at the Yard, he would be in a perfect position to handle any crime, any racket that he wanted. The Yard’s tentacles spread far and wide—but he was letting his thoughts run away with him. He had to get down to earth; decide what to do about Bill Sloan.

He heard the door open.

A woman came in.

* * * *

She came in and closed the door softly, smiling at him as she approached. Hex movements were easy and smooth. She was tall, and no one would ever complain about her figure. She wore an afternoon dress, obviously a model, of dark green and pale yellow. Her hair was auburn, and she had fine, grey-green eyes. Her voice, unlike Mrs. Delaney’s, was husky and pleasing.

“May I have a drink?”

He took a grip on himself. “What will it be?”

“Gin and vermouth, please.”

He mixed the drinks. Her fingers were long and slender, pale, with pink nails; she wore a single diamond ring on her right hand, but no other jewellery.

“You look thoughtful, Charles,” she said.

“There’s plenty to think about.”

“Too much. Here’s success!” She sipped. “And everything you want. It is a pleasant flat.”

“So you’ve heard about that.”

“He told me. It’s my flat. I go with it.”

“I’m a bachelor by habit,” Roger told her.

“I know all about you,” she said. “You’re eating your heart out. I can see it in your eyes. I’ve told him that it was essential for you to have—companionship. There’s nothing that helps one to forget so much as someone else to think about. Has that ever struck you? When your wife reaches the same point, she’ll get better. You think it’s a tragedy. It’s happened to millions of people, and they’ve lived happy, contented lives afterwards. This sentimental illusion about one woman for one man is just nonsense. You ought to realize that.”

“So I’m eating my heart out, and you’re going to stop me,” he said, sardonically.

“I’m going to try, because I don’t want the unpleasant things to happen. After all, you can look after your wife, if you want to.”

This was a new angle—different pressure. He stared at her, the question in his eyes.

“With money,” she said.

“I just post a package of money to her, do I?”

“The worst of men when they’re in trouble is that they get childish,” she said. “Come and sit down.” She went to a couch and smoothed her skirts and adjusted a cushion.

He moved to the couch and sat on the arm.

“Help me to grow up,” he invited.

“I want to help you. You’re an attractive man, and you’re wealthy, or on the way to being wealthy. You’re quite young. You’ve been taken up by a man who is exceptional, and who will have very great influence before he’s finished—a kind of genius.”

Did she know much about Kennedy ?

“What makes you think he’s as good as that?”

“Ray is my brother,” she said. “I’ve never known him make a serious mistake yet. One or two of his friends thought that it was a mistake to try to use you, but—it hasn’t been, and if you’re sensible, it won’t be. He’s quite merciless—that is one of the things that makes him so unusual. He will one day be the richest man in England.” She spoke without any hint of doubt.

“A remarkable man,” Roger said heavily. “He has a small army of thugs, hasn’t he?”

“Practically none,” said the woman in green. “He has a lot of influence with some, and he can always find men to do what he wants. They don’t know that their orders come from him. Some of them get caught, like Kyle, but it makes no difference to him. There’s no way of tracing those things back to him. They can only be traced back to a certain Mr. Kennedy, who doesn’t exist.”

Roger slid from the arm to the couch itself, crossed his legs and looked at her levelly. There wasn’t anything the matter with her, except her outlook.

She smiled.

“What is more, if you were to see him as he really is, you wouldn’t be able to say for sure that you know him. You’re a smart man, Charles, and you’re good. Haven’t you marvelled that he showed himself to you?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

She stretched out her hand, so that it lay near his, palm upwards, slim and white and inviting.

“I think he was right,” she said dreamily. “He felt that using you was the most important step he had ever taken. It opened a host of new possibilities, and he had to make sure that it was successful. He couldn’t trust anyone else to deal with you—not even me.” She laughed easily, at herself; and laughter came naturally to her. “He is a fine judge of character. I often think he can read what is passing through your mind. Is it silly fancy? Look at to-night. He judged your reaction to Sloan perfectly. He knows that if you can jump this hurdle, everything will be fine in the future. He’s naturally very anxious that you should jump it.”

“And you’re to help me?”

“That’s right,” she said, and leaned nearer, taking his hand. “I’m to help you. I’m to show you the real future, to make you understand what it can be. Have you ever been poor?”

“Poor enough.”

“Not really poor? Poor enough to be hungry, to wonder where the next meal is coming from, to wonder whether your clothes will hold together for another day, to wonder where you can get new ones, something to keep you from shivering? Have you ever been poor, like that?”

“No,” he said; the word came out abruptly.

“I wish you had. If you had, you would understand so much more easily. We have. Ray thinks he’s forgotten those days, but he hasn’t. It was because of them that he turned his brilliant mind to this. We’ve touched the depths, and now we’re touching the heights. There is nothing money can’t buy, Charles. Beauty, lovely things, travel, comfort, luxury—everything but life itself, and we start with that. Ray hated the old days and loves the new. He’s very generous. You know that. Hasn’t he been generous with you? Is there anything you lack?” Roger said: “No.”

She raised his hand, held it close to her, pressed gently— so gently.

“You either have to go on doing what he wants—and what you will want eventually—or you will be killed. But the others will suffer so much, if you die. He might take your children away from their mother; that would really be cruel. She would have no idea where they were and wouldn’t have a moment’s rest. Think of it. And somehow he would make sure that she would spend the rest of her life in poverty. He can. Your friends, too—this man Lessing. Sloan—they would all be on his list, marked down, treated so cruelly. Yes, he can be cruel, and has to be in order to obtain what he wants. What happens to them is in your hands, Charles. Wouldn’t it be foolish to take risks?” Then, she added: “You have so much.”

She closed her eyes; and her lips were very close to his.

He kissed her.

* * * *

“You’ll send for Sloan?” she said quietly. He was standing by the cocktail cabinet, smoothing down his ruffled hair.

“Yes.”

“To-night?”

“If two attacks have been made on him, he isn’t likely to come at a mysterious summons after dark. He’d take the risk in daylight.”

“He must come by himself.”

“I can’t guarantee what he’ll do.” Roger poured drinks; champagne, which fizzed and bubbled and sparkled. His hands weren’t as steady as he would have liked.

The door opened, and Kennedy came in. His eyes were narrowed, there was the merest sliver of silver light in them. He grinned.

“What do I hear?”

Roger saw the flashing glance which she sent him, and read the triumph in it.

“Charles is going to send for Sloan,” she said, “and he’s made several suggestions . . .”

* * * *

“Good night,” Kennedy said, at the door.

Percy stood by the Daimler, outside.

“Good night.”

“I’ll see that you have the address for Sloan, early in the morning.”

“Thanks.” Roger hurried out to the car, Percy opened the door and looked at him without favour. Percy was never likely to become a good friend of Charles Rayner, there was instinctive animosity in him.

“I’ll walk,” said Roger.

“You won’t!” Percy snapped.

Roger turned away from the car and walked towards the end of the street. He couldn’t see Percy; guessed that Percy was sending an SOS to Kennedy, who was probably still at the door. At the corner, Roger turned. A man came out of the block of flats, walking swiftly, and turned in his wake. Roger affected not to notice him, and strolled on. It was a warm, friendly London night. He dawdled. The man who had come from the Mansions also dawdled, a little way behind him. He was still being followed when he reached Lyme Street, twenty minutes later. He stood at the doorway, lit a cigarette, and looked up and down; his shadower stayed in the doorway of a shop at the corner, appearing to take no notice of him.

Roger went upstairs, leaving the street door unlatched.

When he pulled aside the curtains and looked out of a front window the man was opposite.

Harry, quiet and unobtrusive as ever, asked if he wanted dinner.

“A snack will do.”

“Very good, sir.” Harry went into the kitchen. Roger put on some records; Wagner—Wagner suited his mood, the melancholy made a background to his thoughts. They were fragmentary. The clever cunning of it! The sugar coating over crudeness. The continued attempts to break down his resistance and corrupt his mind. Whether he got Sloan or not was to be a vital test; Kennedy might regard it as final. Succeed, and he would be close to the black heart of this affair; fail, and the woman in green—he did not even know her Christian name—would be able to say : “I told you so.” No use arguing with himself about that. Succeed, and Kennedy would lower most of the barriers. Fail—and die.

Fail—and take terrible risks with Janet and the boys.

He stirred in his chair, smoking, restless.

The woman in green was now with Kennedy, sure of herself, yet human and prone to mistakes. She had started to tell him what they were going to do that night and had broken off; and it was obvious that they were going out of town. Kennedy’s wife would probably be with them; Percy would almost certainly drive them. They probably wouldn’t be back that night. Kennedy was away from Mountjoy Square, then; and Percy, too. Kennedy’s wife? He couldn’t guess.

Kennedy was sure that he didn’t know the address at Mountjoy Square.

Kennedy and his sister were now sure that he would “play”; the shadow and this caution was routine. It was too big a thing on which to take a chance. He would be watched, everything he did until Sloan was caught would be noted, he had no real freedom of action, unless he took a desperate chance.

It would be the only chance, leading either to complete success or abject failure. It meant breaking into 27 Mountjoy Square. He’d need a skilled cracksman; he could find one, if necessary. He laughed-

If he held on, sent for Sloan and trapped him, then afterwards success would be much easier. On balance, he ought to wait; he’d gone so far, and Sloan would be the last man in the world to blame him for going on. Sloan was one of the few who would really understand what he had been doing, but—there was one incalculable factor.

If he caught Sloan, what would Kennedy do?

Use the other Yard man? Or kill him?

Could Kennedy use Sloan successfully? Hadn’t he all that he wanted, already?

Roger stood up suddenly. “He’ll kill——” he began.

The door from the kitchen opened silently, and Harry came in with a tray.

“Did you speak, sir?” His sallow face was expressionless.

“Talking to myself. I’m too much on my own, Harry!”

“That has been my opinion for some time, if I may say so, sir.” Harry put down the tray, took a silver-plated lid off a dish of mixed grill. “That is the best I can do at such short notice, Mr. West.”

He drew back; his doleful brown eyes had an unusual glow. He seemed to come alive. And by saying “West” he had flung a verbal hand grenade.

Roger said slowly: “I don’t think I heard you.”

“I think you did, sir.”

Keep calm.

“How much do you know about this, Harry?”

“A little, sir.” He was solemn again, the glow had gone, but there was something in him which hadn’t been there before. “Also, I have had my instructions to report on your movements and your telephone calls while at the flat, sir. I have duly carried out my duties. Except——” he paused.

This was a form of torment. It was impossible to know what was in his mind; Roger felt as if he were in the midst of a furious explosion, but Harry’s voice was so quiet. He’d known the man for nearly two months, and studied him. All he’d seen was a well-trained automaton, obeying orders with smooth precision, never obtruding, always at hand.

Now, he was a man; a human being primed with dangerous knowledge.

“Except what?” Roger held the arms of his chair tightly.

Harry gulped; he had screwed himself up for this—yes, he was frightened. Tension, springing out of nowhere, was brittle and dangerous.

“When you went out the other night, sir.”

Roger didn’t speak, but thought of the dictaphone he knew was hidden in this room. He’d never located it; it had been wiser to leave it untouched, and guide all conversation into channels which Kennedy could safely hear. He couldn’t control this conversation.

“I saw the brown paper at the door, and that told me you had gone—I thought I heard you,” said Harry. “But I didn’t report to Mr. Briggs.”

“To whom?”

“Mr. Briggs—Percy, sir. Percy is the man to whom I have had to make all my reports.”

“I see. And why didn’t you inform him?”

“I weighed everything up and decided that it wouldn’t be in the best interests,” said Harry. He formed every word carefully, had to force it out, because of his fears. Of what? Of Roger’s reaction, when he knew the truth? Was this—blackmail? The word seemed to scream at Roger.

Harry was a crook, and must be a professional, or he wouldn’t have this job; Harry had a stranglehold over his “boss”. Roger stood quite still, watching his composure break now. The grill stood on the table, getting cold. Harry seemed to shrink, yet there was a form of courage in him. He licked his lips before he spoke again.

“You see, sir——”

No, he couldn’t get it out.

Roger said slowly, forcing down his rage. “All right, Harry. Let’s have it. How much do you want?”

Harry raised his hands, a swift, startled gesture. “Want? It’s not blackmail, I wouldn’t put on the black, it’s——”

The front-door bell rang.

CHAPTER XXI

INTO THE PARLOUR

HARRY jumped, as if someone had kicked him, and darted a glance over his shoulder.

Roger said: “Never mind that. If it’s not blackmail, what is it?”

“I—I think I had better see who that is,” said Harry. The ringing had made him turn pale, his hands weren’t steady. “It might be Mr. Briggs.”

Roger grabbed his arm.

“Forget it. What——”

Harry pulled himself free and hurried to the door. Short of grappling with him, which would probably be heard outside, there was nothing Roger could do. He watched the man’s thin back and sloping shoulders as he opened the door of the tiny hall. He heard the outer door ( opening. He looked round the room, in a despairing effort to locate the dictaphone; he was reduced to despairing efforts. He heard a man’s deep voice :

“All right, I know he’s in.”

It was Sloan.

“Really, sir.” Harry’s voice rose in. a protesting squeak. “Mr. Rayner is just having——”

Sloan filled the doorway.

Roger said evenly: “Getting tough?”

“I’m always tough when I’m in a hurry, and I’m in a hurry now. Is there a place where your man can go without hearing us?”

Harry’s eyes became cloudy again.

“Kitchen, Harry,” said Roger. He might have said: “Kennel, Fido,” and meant the same thing and had the same effect.

Harry went off, hurriedly, and closed the door leading to the kitchen. Sloan went across to it and turned the key in the lock. He looked very big, powerful, and aggressive.

Roger said: “I don’t know that I like you in this mood, Inspector.”

“Forget I’m a policeman. Did you telephone me on Sunday night?” Sloan was in an angrily aggressive mood.

There was a dictaphone, taking all this down.

“I did not.”

“I want the truth, Rayner.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend Kennedy?”

“Don’t be smart. After I came to see you, I was twice run down. Nearly run down. They were murder attempts. They came immediately after I’d called to see you. I’m giving you a chance to save yourself from trouble. Did you telephone me?”

“No.”

Sloan said: “So you fixed those attacks.”

“You’re crazy.”

“We’ll see.” Sloan moved across the room. He had his right hand in his pocket, holding something which made a considerable bulge; the kind of bulge that a gun would make. If a Yard man had reason to suspect that his life was in danger, he could get authority to carry a gun. There was something new in Sloan’s expression, as if he felt sure he could force a showdown, and meant to.

Roger said : “Calm down. Have a drink.”

“I’ve finished drinking with killers.”

“All right, please yourself. Mind if I get on with my supper?” Roger sat down and picked up a knife and fork.

“Where have you been to-night?”

“Out.”

“Don’t evade my questions. Where have you been?”

“Continuing my experiments in romance. Auburn, this time, and very sophisticated. I don’t think she would be quite your type.”

“Don’t you ? Not the type you had with you on Sunday night?”

An alarm bell seemed to ring in Roger’s head. He cut into a kidney and put it to his mouth; it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to keep steady.

“No, not the same type at all. The first was a sweet little innocent animal, didn’t I tell you? There was nothing innocent about this one, and I don’t know that you could call her sweet.”

“What was the name of the girl you were out with on Sunday?”

“Doris.”

“Doris what?”

“That’s as far as was necessary.”

“Where did you take her?”

“I didn’t. She took me. A pleasant little two-roomed flat. She was very sweet.” He ate some bacon and toast; it nearly choked him.

“You’re lying. You took her out in a car.”

“Have it your own way.”

“The car was a Morris. Colour, grey. It was muddy because it had done a lot of country running and hadn’t been washed down. It’s still muddy. You took her out in it—let’s have the truth, Rayner.”

“I haven’t a car.”

“This one was lent to you.”

Roger finished his mouthful, and leaned back.

“I didn’t go out in any car on Sunday night. I spent the evening with Doris, and came back here in time to have a talk with you. Remember? If I wanted to hire a car, it wouldn’t be a poky Morris.”

Sloan took a step forward and grinned into his face.

“A poky Morris, is it? How did you know the size of that car, Mister Rayner.”

Roger would never feel contemptuous about a crook who made a simple slip again. But he laughed.

“When I think of Morris’s, I also think of size eights. I still wish that I knew what’s under your skin.”

Sloan said: “You will. We’ve picked up your Doris.”

“Really? What’s she done? I didn’t know that she was a crook in her spare time. I—oh, she’s a pro, is she ? Pity.”

“She’s a girl who lives on the fringe of a small East London gang. You know the gang—Myers runs it. She was in that muddy Morris outside Brixton Jail on Sunday night. You were with her.”

Roger said: “Well, well! Did she say so?”

“You were with her.”

“At her flat. If she’s said anything different, she was out with another man after I left her. That was quite early, remember. She——”

Sloan took out his gun—an automatic. He held it pointing towards Roger. He was a Scotland Yard Officer, and a Yard Officer never used a gun to threaten, or hardly ever. He used a gun in self-defence only, and there was no reason for self-defence here. Sloan was going too far, and the glitter in Sloan’s eyes suggested that he wasn’t himself. There was a dictaphone too, and it was at least possible that the watcher across the road had telephoned to report Sloan’s arrival. If so, others might come to collect the fly that had walked into Roger’s parlour.

“Let’s have the truth,” growled Sloan. “Go back a bit, Rayner. You killed West. All the rest is unimportant. You killed West. I may not be able to pin it on to you, but I’ve promised myself that I shall kill the man who killed West. I can shoot you in self-defence and get away with it.” His voice was low-pitched, he wasn’t so far beside himself that he risked Harry hearing the conversation. Could he mean this? Was it just bluff? All the experience of years told Roger that it was bluff, but he had never before seen Sloan in a savage, unreasoning mood like this. There was something more than the suspicion about the little grey car burning in Sloan.

Roger said: “I did not kill West. I have not killed anyone. I was not out in a grey Morris on Sunday night.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“All right, get on with your romancing. I’m hungry.” Roger turned to the mixed grill. It was cold, the fat had congealed on the plate. Sloan towered over him.

He said slowly, deliberately: “West’s body was found this morning. Until then, I wasn’t sure that he was dead. Now I know. Now I know that you killed him. But there are others, higher up than you. Kennedy—others. Let’s have the truth, Rayner. Give me the story, and the other names, and I’ll let you take your rap for the Brixton job and forget the rest. Keep it to yourself, and——”

He wasn’t even consistent.

Take it one at a time, and quickly. Kennedy’s sister had said that Janet could be “looked after” with a big insurance about which she had known nothing; that had been a strong hint that plans were in the making to produce his “body”. Sloan had jumped to the conclusions; but Sloan wasn’t in a normal mood.

Roger heard a car pull up, outside. Percy? Or men summoned by the man across the road?

“You can’t make me take a rap for a job I didn’t do,” he said. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Sloan. Put that gun away and be sensible. How do you know your friend West is dead?”

“His body was found. He’d been drowned. Face battered, fingers amputated, all the usual tricks to prevent identification, but they made a mistake. You made a mistake. You fools always make one. West had a scar or two which served as identification. I saw the body myself. I’ve seen those scars myself. I’ve seen them before—I was with West when he was wounded, and got one of them.”

Brilliantly clever; they had even scarred a man, so that the identification would be to the satisfaction of the police. And Janet—did Janet know? He felt a desperate surge of anxiety, he had never been nearer telling Sloan the truth. But he daren’t, yet. He heard a sound, metal on metal; a key was being inserted in the lock of the outer door.

Sloan didn’t seem to hear it.

“I’m sorry about West,” Roger said. He felt sick—did Janet know? “If this girl Doris told you that I was with her in the car on Sunday night, she lied.”

Sloan thrust the gun forward.

“I’ll give you half a minute,” he said. His eyes glared, all finesse had gone, but even now it must be bluff.

The door of the hall opened softly. Sloan had his back to it.

“I mean it, Rayner.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

A man slid into the room, gun in hand, and spoke. Sloan spun round. The man at the door fired. The bullet smacked into Sloan’s gun and wrenched it out of his hand. It dropped to the floor, between him and the gunman, who moved forward swiftly and kicked it away. Two other men came in swiftly. Both had guns.

Sloan drew back. “Get out. Get——”

They approached, remorselessly.

Roger screwed himself up. If the order had gone out, “Kill Sloan”, then they’d shoot again, whether Sloan took this lying down, or put up a fight. But if they had orders to kill, would the man have shot the gun out of Sloan’s grasp? Wouldn’t he have killed him with that first shot?

Sloan said: “Get away.”

“Don’t try any rough stuff, Sloan,” said the man with the gun. He was small, thin, evil-faced: evil because of his grin. Roger knew him slightly, as one of the most corrupt and vicious East End gangsters, a race-gang type, and one of Oily Joe’s mob. His name was Myers. He took another step forward, the gun still raised.

A third man came in.

Sloan said : “Get—away.”

And then he jumped——

Roger shot out his foot. Sloan kicked against it and went sprawling as the gunman squeezed the trigger. The bullet spat out, the sharp crack echoed. The bullet buried itself in the wall, and Sloan sprawled forward, unhurt. The two men from “behind the gunman pounced; wolves couldn’t have moved quicker. Before Sloan could save himself, he was manacled with regulation handcuffs.

Sloan suddenly became still.

Myers grinned at Roger. “Saved a lot o’ trouble, ain’t it? Okay, get him out.” He nodded to the others, who dragged Sloan towards the door, and at the doorway hoisted him between them so that they could carry him downstairs. He disappeared, and he was alive: they’d gone to a lot of trouble to keep him alive.

The thin-faced man said : “All okay?”

“That made a lot of noise,” Roger said.

“Nice and quiet up here. You don’t have to worry. If anyfink was ‘eard, we’ll fix it. So long.” Myers swaggered out of the room and closed the door behind him. The footsteps on the stairs sounded loud as the other men carried Sloan.

* * * *

He didn’t know how long he sat there before he heard the tapping. At first, he hardly noticed it, but it continued so persistently that he raised his head and looked about him. It came from the kitchen door—Harry, of course. He had forgotten Harry, forgotten his urgency when Harry had gone to open the door to let Sloan in.

He went across the room and turned the key.

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry. He didn’t look any less frightened. “I was afraid that you might get hurt.”

“What else are you afraid of?”

“I—I don’t think I’m afraid of anything, sir. I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry your supper was spoiled. Shall I prepare something else ? I will gladly——”

“Do you know where the dictaphone is in the flat?”

Harry gulped. “I’ve disconnected it, sir. I did that before I spoke in the first place.”

Roger said abruptly: “Get me a whisky. Help yourself to what you want. Then come and sit down.” He wasn’t sure that these were good tactics; one man would be more at ease with drink and in a chair; another would feel acute embarrassment. Harry had poured himself out a beer, in a glass tankard. Roger gave him a cigarette.

“Thank you, sir.”

They lit up.

“If it’s not blackmail, what is it?”

The fear was there, hovering in Harry’s eyes, but the new situation had given him confidence, and his voice was steady as he answered :

“I’ve noticed a lot while I’ve been here, Mr. West. One day before you arrived a lady came asking for you. I was here, fixing the place up. A Miss Day, she was. Miss Marion Day. I noticed in the papers what happened to her afterwards. It was from her I got an idea who you really were, sir. And I—I was a friend of Ginger Kyle’s. Very good friends we were in our young days. We got mixed up with the same bunch. I’m not pleading innocence, sir. We went into it with our eyes open, and we knew the risk we was taking. I was lucky—I’ve never bin inside. Made a little packet, and if it wasn’t for—for pressure, Mr. West, I would be retired now. Ginger ought to have had a nice little pile waiting for him when he came out. Instead o’ that, they didn’t look after him. They killed his wife, or he thought they did. And when they killed him—I can’t help it, Mr. West. If I’ve judged you wrong, I’m for it. I’ll take my chance, same as Ginger did. And others. But it seemed to me you slipped out the other night so’s they shouldn’t know, and you wasn’t working with them wholehearted. Are you, sir? If you are, then okay, I’m for it. If you’re not, if you’re against them—I’ll help if I can. My word on it, Mr. West.”

He sat back. His forehead and long upper lip were beaded with sweat, and that cloudy fear hovered in his eyes.

But—was that put on?

Was this another of Kennedy’s trick tests?

CHAPTER XXII

27 MOUNTJOY SQUARE

ROGER could tell Harry the truth; and Harry might send word to Percy, and so bring about the end of it all.

He could be non-committal; but if Harry were still spying on him, that would be as damning.

He could reject the offer, report to Percy—and if it were genuine, damn Harry, send Harry to his death. You slid into accepting that as a fact. You didn’t tell yourself that no one would kill as freely and as ruthlessly as Kennedy; you knew that it was true. The man was completely amoral, he didn’t regard killing as most men did. It was necessary, it was done—an obstacle removed, like a chalk mark wiped off a blackboard and leaving only a smear as trace.

Harry stirred in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette.

Roger said: “Where do you report, Harry?”

“To Percy, sir.”

“Yes. Where?”

“I have a telephone number. There is another way of communicating, also—through the men who sometimes are on duty outside. No doubt you’ve noticed them—I saw you looking out of the window to-night. There was one there. I always assume that when there is a special job on, they take extra care because they aren’t sure of you yet. I hope they never will be, sir. It’s a dirty business—it stinks. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but murder—I’m scared. I don’t mind admitting I’m scared. But I’ve taken a chance, and I hope it’s justified.”

“Don’t you know where Percy lives?”

“No, sir.”

“Kennedy?”

“I’ve heard the name, that’s all, and I think he’s called here once or twice, but when he’s been coming, I’ve had orders to keep out of the way.”

“How do you get your instructions?”

“From Percy, sir.”

“And he blackmails you into obeying?”

“That’s right.”

“What jobs have you done?” Roger asked.

Harry put down the empty tankard and half-closed his eyes.

“Safes, mostly, sir. And breaking and entering, more lately. One of the places I went to, an old man was killed. I didn’t do it, but Percy says he can pin it on me. I don’t doubt he can. I get well paid for this, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t do what I was told. You were just another dope. But after Miss Day and Ginger was bumped off—I couldn’t settle. There’s some things you can take, and there’s others that you just can’t swallow, and coldblooded murder’s a thing I can’t swallow.”

Roger wanted a cracksman. He said: “Have you got any burglar’s tools here?”

Harry’s eyes opened wide.

“Well——”

“Good, up-to-date stuff, not just a jemmy and a screwdriver.”

“I haven’t got any here, but I know where I could lay me hands on some.” Harry was puzzled yet eager.

“Will you take a big risk?”

“Nothing much to lose, now,” said Harry, and his face became more animated, a little colour glowed in his cheeks. “So I was right, you’ve been putting one across Percy and his boss.”

“That’s right, Harry.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and gave a little, satisfied smile. There was no gloating in it, but much relief.

* * * *

Roger stood in the doorway and looked across Lyme Street. The guard was still there. He himself was in the shadows, and the man couldn’t see him. He saw the other put his hands to his pocket and take out a packet of cigarettes; a moment later, a match flared. The man moved out of his doorway and strolled along the street—and Roger moved forward, but drew back suddenly. A policeman had turned the corner and was walking along, that was why the guard had moved. The guard crossed the road and stood outside a small cafe which was still open; a man, looking into a cafe and studying the menu card in the window, wasn’t going to attract much attention. He peered along the street. The policeman passed him. The guard waited until the policeman had turned the next corner, and then went back to his usual stand. Roger moved again, quickly. He saw the man stiffen. He crossed the road, but didn’t look at the man—whose job it was to report, and perhaps to follow. He walked towards the dark dingi-ness of the market lanes and alleys, and the man followed him. He slipped round a corner; it was very dark here. He heard the man hurrying after him, and knew when he was at the corner.

The man turned.

Roger grabbed him by the neck, stilling a cry, drove a fierce punch into his stomach, let him go, then struck at his chin. Two blows knocked the man out. No one was here, the policeman was out of sight. Roger dragged the unconscious man across the bumpy, cobbled road, into a narrow alley leading towards the main, covered market. He took out a length of cord, bound the man’s ankles and wrists, dragged him farther—into a little alcove—and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he dragged him, by his coat collar, and saw a dark pile of empty wooden crates. He shifted some of the crates, dumped the man behind them, and put them back into position. He wouldn’t be found until those crates were moved, and that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least.

He went back to Lyme Street.

Harry came out of the doorway. “All okay, sir?”

“Yes. Get a move on.”

“I had to see this through,” said Harry. “See you at the Burlington Gardens end of Burlington Arcade in about an hour, then. It’s just on eleven—I ought to be there by midnight.”

“Fine.”

Harry turned and hurried towards the Strand and a taxi.

Roger had an hour to kill.

* * * *

There had never been a longer sixty minutes. He walked to Burlington Arcade, and his mind wouldn’t stop working, weighing up his chances; especially those against him. Kennedy would have his home well protected. Kennedy, as Hemmingway, wouldn’t be likely to keep the records at the home where he was so safe. Harry might fail him. Harry might get cold feet. Harry might have fooled him. Death didn’t take long. A man might come towards him, walking, or in a car—and shoot just once.

Roger walked along to Bond Street and towards Oxford Street. There were few people about, and most of those who were came from the AEolian Hall, where they took the overflow from Broadcasting House. Taxis passed. A sleek car came from Oxford Street and slowed down as it drew near him. It was ten minutes to twelve. He turned his face towards the car, prepared to spring to one side if the driver or the passenger moved. The car passed.

Roger walked back towards the end of the Arcade. It was a warm night, but he didn’t feel warm. A clock struck sonorously—midnight. Each boom seemed louder and more threatening than the last. No one approached the Arcade. Harry might have taken fright; Harry might have fooled him. Harry might——

He walked away again; it was a dangerous spot to stand. Another car passed, slowed down at the corner, and then turned without the driver taking the slightest notice of him. Another—this wasn’t a car, but a taxi I It slowed down.

Harry, carrying a big suitcase, climbed out of the cab and paid the driver off. It wasn’t imagination that the driver looked at him curiously; but cab drivers were often curious about mysterious night passengers, it would have been better to have met outside a hotel; there were dozens nearby. Forget it. The taxi moved off, and Harry came forward briskly.

“I’ve got everything I could lay my hands on, sir. Had a bit of luck.” He was chirpy.

“Yes?”

“One of the new kind of burners, better than the old oxy-acetylene jobs, not so heavy. Heavy enough, but I can manage to carry it, need two and a car for the other kind. Are we within walking distance, sir?”

“Yes. Let me have the case for a bit.”

“I can manage, sir, thank you.”

Roger felt like laughing. Or screaming. “I can manage, sir.” He let the man have his way, and they walked briskly up Bond Street as far as Brook Street, then turned left. He took the case; it was heavier than Harry had made out. They changed it over three times before they reached the corner of Mountjoy Square.

They turned a corner, and a few yards along came upon a service alley which led to the backs of the houses in the Square. Mountjoy wasn’t typical of London squares. On small iron gates, to the tiny courtyards, there were house numbers. Roger didn’t light his torch. He peered closely at the numbers, found 23—it was white paint on a black gate, and there was some light from a house opposite.

Next door—25.

And here was 27.

“All right,” Roger said.

“I’ll see to the gate,” said Harry.

He didn’t add “sir”; he had dropped the handle. It wasn’t the only change in him—the other was so great that it was almost metamorphosis. Harry seemed to grow in stature and sureness and confidence. This was his real job, and he was a craftsman. The gate was simple, but it was locked. He opened it with a picklock, making no sound at all on the metal. The gate didn’t squeak when it swung back.

The courtyard was flagged. Their rubber-shod feet made hardly a sound. As they drew nearer the dark shape of the house, Roger saw a light; it hadn’t been noticeable from the gate. It was at the top of a window, where light crept past the curtains; and it was at the top floor—the servants’ floor. Harry glanced up, and then looked at the door. He didn’t use a torch, and there seemed to be hardly any light. He ran his fingers over the door gently, not worrying about leaving finger-prints.

“No can do,” he said. “Good job, that, it’s got a burglar-proof fastening on the inside. Think they’re wired up for an alarm?”

“Probably.”

Harry sniffed. Pushed past Roger and went to the long, narrow window near the door. Here, for the first time, he used a torch—one with a hood which could be opened or closed at a touch, and which regulated the beam of light and prevented too much from showing. He stood with his back to the alley and the other houses, and peered into the window. Blinds were drawn, but he was looking at the sides, for the alarm wire. He switched off the light suddenly.

Harry backed away.

“Lot o’ trouble there,” he said. “Might be a first-floor window open. Maybe a ladder. Stay here.”

He vanished, leaving the tool-kit by Roger’s side. He was gone for what seemed a long time, and came back silently as a wraith. ; “Found one?”

“No. Careful, aren’t they?” Harry’s words came in a faint whisper. “Quiet.”

Roger stood aside.

Harry took what looked like a folded rag from the toolkit, then a small can. He poured water over the rag, and then spread it over the window: gummed rag, or paper, deadened sound; but Harry might have forgotten one possibility, that the glass here was toughened. Harry took out a hammer and gave the covered glass a sharp tap.

It gave a curiously dull sound.

He sniffed. “Triplex.” He pulled the rag away, wrapped it up in newspaper and dropped it into the box. Then he I took out a drill and, working swiftly and with very little, sound, drilled four holes, close to each other in the wooden frame. Next, he used a narrow saw, which was just thin enough to go through one of the holes. The saw made hardly a sound, as it was loaded with grease. The line of the cut seemed to leap into the green-painted wood. In less than five minutes, he took a piece of wood out, making a hole big enough for him to reach inside. He did so, using the torch with one hand, groped for the catch and found it.

That made the first real sound—a sharp clang. He stood absolutely still. There was no other sound, no alarm. Harry poked his arm inside again; he was pushing the alarm wire up, away from its wall-fastening. It took a long time, and another car passed in Mountjoy Square, headlights glowing against the houses opposite. Harry didn’t stop working. A faint sound came from the window, and he withdrew his hand.

He pushed the window up. It made little noise, and there was no clangour of an alarm.

“Kit,” he ordered as he climbed through, pushing the curtains to one side. Roger handed him the suit-case, open; it was as much as he could do to lift it. Then he climbed through.

“Going to switch off the current at the main?” he asked.

“Not me! Light on upstairs, ain’t there? If it goes out, they’ll come and investigate.”

How many cracksmen were as good as he?

He adjusted the curtains and then switched on the light. They were in a long narrow kitchen. White tiles glistened, a chromium sink fitting showed. The door faced them.

“Know where we want to go?” asked Harry.

“For a start, the first floor—I know the room.”

“Any vaults here?”

“We’ll have to look and may have to get inside.”

“Okay. Try upstairs first. Know what, don’t you?” Harry looked at him, with a hand on the switch.

“What?”

“There’s one certain way of getting the dicks to have a look round. Ring 999 and report a burglary.”

“That will come later.”

There were two more rooms before they reached the passage leading to the hall. All was in darkness, and only the faintest glow shone from the torch, but it was enough to show the staircase. The thick pile of the carpet became their ally. Harry took the case, shut now, and they went upstairs, Roger in the lead.

Harry whispered: “Who’s at home?”

“I’m not sure.”

“They haven’t any guards.” The words suggested that Harry was beginning to feel nervous; but that was probably due to the fact that the first, worst job was finished and he was suffering from reaction. Give him a safe to open and he would forget his nerves. They reached the door of the study. Harry put the case down softly and tried the handle; the door was locked. He examined it, partly in the dim light from his torch, partly by sense of touch. He nodded, and set to work at once with a picklock.

Harry pushed the door open, gently; there was no light inside. He nodded and stepped in, shining his torch brightly now, but careful to make sure that it didn’t shine on the window. Roger closed the door. It closed too sharply, and he heard Harry’s soft intake of breath. Nothing happened. Harry moved away from him, his cat’s eyes getting him past the furniture without difficulty. He reached the window, and his curiously soft and penetrating voice, even when lowered, came clearly:

“Curtains are drawn—okay.”

“Door,” said Roger.

“Not a chance.”

Roger groped for and switched on the light.

Only two wall-lamps came on; they spread a quiet, subdued light. The room was familiar. He looked at the door, and remembered that he had noticed, on his first visit, that it was specially protected at top, sides, and bottom, to make sure that it was sound-proof; that also made it light-proof when closed, and Harry had realized that. He now had a lot of respect for Harry. The curtains were heavy green velvet with a large, deep pelmet, and they were wide and dropped well below the window. There was little chance of light showing.

Harry said: “Where?”

“You’re the boss.”

Harry grinned, his confidence fully restored. He roamed about the room, moving this picture, that piece of furniture, scanning the walls with expert eye. Roger took one end of the room, Harry the other. Roger wasn’t surprised when he heard Harry whisper: “Okay.” He turned. Harry stood by a bookcase which he had eased away from the wall. Roger crossed the room and saw the wall-safe behind it. There were wall-safes and wall-safes, and it was impossible to judge the really good ones from the outside. All there was to see were round pieces of metal and a bright steel knob. Harry pushed the bookcase farther away; it moved at a touch. He pointed, and showed where it was fastened to a spring hook in the wall; at the first tug, it would seem too heavy for one man to shift, but Harry hadn’t been fooled. He pulled a lamp standard nearer and switched it on. Then he took a pair of thin asbestos gloves from the case, drew them on, and picked out a tiny piece of needle-fine wire. He held the point against the steel of the knob; nothing happened. He held it at one of the ridge circles. There was a tiny blue flash. He drew back and grinned.

“Difficult?” Roger asked.

He knew that the orthodox move was to switch off the current at the main. But Harry was teaching him much about the practice of cracking cribs.

“Could be. But if it’s electric it isn’t so bad. Could be infra-red.” Harry sniffed. “That means an alarm, too— wired up liked this, they always ring the alarm.”

“Main switch?”

“You and your main switch.” Harry grinned. “Stop the alarm where it rings, that’s the idea. Most likely place is somewhere outside this room. Maybe there are two, but if we find the control alarm and put it out of action, that will stop the other one. Staying inside?”

“I’ll come with you.”

They went out again. Harry looked sharply at Roger when he opened the door, but didn’t speak. They stood in darkness on the landing. Then Harry put down a light switch; subdued light came on. Nothing stirred, there was no sound. Harry began to roam about the landing, looking towards the ceiling. He didn’t have to look far. A box was fastened to the wall, near the ceiling, just beyond the doorway from which the woman had stared at Roger. He brought up a chair; it wasn’t high enough. He pointed to an oak chest, and they carried it to the wall and then placed the chair on top of it. Harry still wasn’t satisfied, took the chair away and brought a cloth from a large table. He spread the cloth over the chest; that wasn’t to prevent scratching; he took infinite pains to be silent.

He could reach the box comfortably, now. He opened it gently, and inside a large brass bell gleamed. He worked on it for five minutes; they were nerve-racking minutes. Then he turned and whispered:

“Hand me down!”

Roger gave him a hand.

“Okay now,” said Harry. “Let’s get back.”

They went across to the wall-safe, and Harry put a cold chisel between the wainscoting and the wall, and levered part of the wainscoting away. Wood groaned and splintered, but he went on until he had room to work behind it. He had laid bare the electric cable leading to the safe. He put on the asbestos gloves again and took a pair of wire cutters with insulated handles. He cut the cable quickly; the powerful jaws snapped through at one nip. There was a fierce blue flash and a hissing sound; that was all. Harry nodded with satisfaction, straightened up, and turned his attention to the wall-safe. He could have spent time trying to find the right combination; he didn’t but took out a compact-looking instrument like a blow-lamp. It was fastened to a small iron cylinder by a long rubber cable. He fiddled with the blow-lamp for a few minutes, and then pressed a lever; a tongue of white-hot flame spat out towards the circular handle.

“Glasses,” he said, and then growled: “Only one pair. Look away.” He put on a pair of goggles and then turned his attention earnestly to the safe. Roger turned his back on him. Bluish white light filled the room with a garish brightness. He smelt something; molten metal? He was tempted to turn and watch, but knew that it would be crazy, he wouldn’t be able to see for an hour or more if he if looked at the flame with his eyes unprotected, so he stared at the door.

He saw the handle turn.

CHAPTER XX III

KENNEDY’S WIFE

THE flame hissed and glowed as Harry knelt by the safe, intent, unaware of the movement at the door.

The handle turned slowly.

Roger moved towards it. The door was locked, was light-proof and sound-proof. Why had anyone come ? Why was the handle being turned so cautiously? Had Kennedy returned, with suspicions at fever-pitch? Roger waited, watching the handle in that garish light. It didn’t fall back, and instead the door began to open.

It opened slowly and slightly, not wide enough for anyone to look into the room, but wide enough for them to see the light and know that burglars were here. It stayed open; the handle didn’t move again. He wanted to warn Harry, but a call, even a whisper, would warn whoever was outside. He stepped a pace nearer and glanced over his shoulder. Harry bent low over the safe. The flame dazzled Roger, and he averted his gaze quickly; that glance had been folly.

He closed his eyes to shut out the image of that fierce flame, opened them again cautiously. Door and handle were blurred, but he could see that the door was still open, and the handle hadn’t dropped back into position.

It began to move——

The door began to close.

He waited for ten pulsating seconds, then stepped towards it swiftly. Harry said something he didn’t catch. The hissing stopped, and only the subdued light of the lamps was on.

“What——” Began Harry.

Roger waved a hand to silence him, reached the door and turned the handle as stealthily as it had just been turned. He heard Harry grunt as he straightened up, glanced over his shoulder and saw the man approaching. He waved him back again. He opened the door an inch. A light was on in the passage, but no one stood outside the door.

“What is it?” hissed Harry.

“Someone outside. Quiet.” The whisper was agonizing, because it might be heard. He opened the door a little wider and looked round. He saw a bright light coming from a door which was closing—Kennedy’s wife’s door. He saw her shadow on the landing; then it was shut out. Harry was close behind him. “Who——”

“Hold it. Watch.” Roger went across the landing, heart thumping, touched the handle of the other door and pushed —she hadn’t locked it yet. He heard a ting !; a telephone being lifted. He thrust the door open. Kennedy’s wife, so small and exquisite, stood by the side of a bed in a luxury S room. The telephone was at her ear, her great eyes were staring towards the door. At sight of Roger, she drew herself up and terror flared in those eyes. But she didn’t take !; the telephone from her ear. Instead, she grabbed at something on the silken pillow—an automatic pistol. She didn’t speak.

She hadn’t had time to finish dialling. Harry said: “Strewth!” His heart was in the word. He stood behind Roger, who moved slowly towards the woman. This was a room of silver and gold, the right setting for beauty. She wore a flimsy, filmy dressing-gown which trailed on the floor, a pale-gold creation. She looked like something out of another, lovelier world—and the automatic was steady in her right hand. She put the ? receiver down slowly, and it clattered on the table; a faint burring sound came from it, she was connected with the exchange. She stretched out her hand and put a finger in one of the dialling holes, but she couldn’t judge which to turn while watching him, and she had to watch Roger.

He took a step nearer. Harry followed and closed the door. “Open it,” she said.

It was the first time he had heard her speak. Her voice was taut with fear, but she was full of courage. Harry didn’t respond. Roger took another step towards her. This was a long room, she seemed a vast distance away from him—ten or twelve yards.

“Don’t come nearer. Open the door.” Her voice was icy cold, now.

Roger said: “Put the gun down if you don’t want to get hurt, and come away from the telephone.” He whispered, although there was no danger of being heard outside the room. He went another step forward, and the gun was trained on his stomach, held so steadily that he knew she wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t watch both her eyes and her hand, and he had to watch her hand. He would see the sudden spasmodic movement if she were going to squeeze the trigger. So he watched her hand, not her eyes, and took another step forward. He felt prickly sweat over his face and neck, and he shivered.

He said: “I don’t want to hurt you. I——”

He jumped to one side as she fired. The bullet spat out with a bright flash. He felt it tear through his coat—and he heard Marry cry out. The bark of the report seemed like a thunderclap.

Roger leapt at her.

She was staring at Harry with horror in her eyes. That was for a split second. She jerked the gun up again as Roger sprang, but she had lost her composure; she fired again, but the bullet smacked into the floor. He reached her, hand thrust out, swung it and pushed her to one side. She struck the side of the bed and toppled on to it, still holding the gun. He grabbed her wrist, and twisted; the gun fell. He snatched it from the bed and backed away.

Harry gasped: “She—she got me.” His voice had a strained, wondering note in it.

Roger glanced at him. He was kneeling, with his right hand pressed into his side, and blood already seeped slowly through his fingers. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He had his mouth open, and gulped as if he were in pain.

Kennedy’s wife stood tiny and erect by the side of the bed, as if trying to defy Roger by her strength of will. The humming sound still came from the telephone, but he wasn’t worried about that, only about the door. Had the servants heard those shots? Only seconds had passed, but it seemed an age before he moved. She shrank back. He grabbed her shoulder and span her round, then reversed the gun in his hand. Her hair was short, a cluster of curls. He struck her at the back of the neck, and it was like striking a Dresden figure. She groaned and pitched forward.

She lay still, against the bed.

Roger put the telephone back on its cradle.

Harry said: “I’m—done for.”

There was no sound outside on the landing, but whoever came would come stealthily.

“Nonsense.” Roger stepped past him. Gun in hand, he I, opened the door cautiously, then drew back and switched off the lights. The landing light glowed faintly. He peered towards the stairs, saw no one and heard nothing except . . . the thunderous beating of his heart. He waited; there was no creaking of approach, no visible shadowy shape. Nothing.

The study door was ajar. He turned, passed Harry again and said: “You’ll be all right, Harry.” Harry still pressed his hand to his side, and the blood smeared the back of his hand, his face was ghastly. He reached the woman, lifted her and carried her across the landing to the study. She was as light as a child. He dropped her into an easy-chair, and turned and went back for Harry, who knelt in the same awkward position, and licked his lips.

“I’m going to take you into the other room. Take it easy. Just hold your side.”

Harry didn’t speak.

How did a lean man come to weigh so heavy?

Roger grunted with the strain as he lifted him and took him across the landing. He laid him on the floor, stretched out. He went back into the bedroom, dragged a sheet and two pillows off the bed, and hurried out, closing the door. He closed the study door firmly.

Neither Harry nor the woman moved. He pushed her chair away from a table, so that there was nothing she could pick up stealthily, while he was looking away from her; she would soon come round and might try to fox him. Then he put a pillow under Harry’s head. I “Let me have a look.”

“I’m—done for,” gasped Harry.

“Not yet—not by a long way. A doctor——”

“Don’t you—send for one.” There was pain instead of fear in Harry’s eyes. “You finish the job.” He licked his lips again.

Roger said: “Let me have a look at you.” He forced Harry’s hand away, and the blood dripped on to the carpet. The wound seemed to be on the left side, not dead centre. He unfastened Harry’s waistcoat and trousers and pulled up the sodden shirt. Blood oozed out of a wound. He folded a handkerchief into a wad and pressed it on the wound to staunch the flow. “Hold it there, Harry.” He put Harry’s hand on the pad, and then turned to the sheet. He started a tear with his knife, then ripped off strips. With one, he made a second pad, with another he began to bind Harry’s waist. It wasn’t easy to pass the bandage beneath the man.

Harry clenched his teeth now, fighting against the pain.

The bandage was in position at last, with a thick wedge over the wound.

Get Harry into hospital now, and he’d have a chance; leave him for an hour, and he’d probably die. Roger glanced at the woman. She seemed to be as he had left her, unconscious.

The safe gaped open, the tools and case stood on the floor near it. Roger went across. The edge of the metal was still warm to the touch. The safe was much larger than the opening seemed to suggest. There were rolls of paper— thick rolls. Jewel-cases, money, a dozen oddments. He pulled out several of the rolls, which were fastened with thick rubber bands. One lot of paper was stiffer than most— like photographs. He slipped the band off and saw that these were lithographed prints of the dossiers taken from the Yard.

He felt sick with hope and anxiety.

He unfastened another roll, and found sheet after sheet of paper with names and addresses and a few remarks against each. Dozens of the names were familiar; they were people with whom Rayner & Co. dealt, who supplied the short-supply goods—and the type of goods supplied was noted in the remarks column.

Another roll unfurled; more names and addresses, none of them in England—there were several sheets of paper for each country on the Continent. He’d seen some of these names before, too—when he had studied the case against Delaney. So Kennedy had been behind that. Another list of names followed, with a familiar look about them; peers of the realm and—Members of Parliament; peers and members of all political parties. Yet another list showed stockbrokers of irreproachable reputation.

There were many more, but Roger didn’t look at them. Kennedy kept his records here, that alone mattered. The Delaney contact would give the Yard sufficient to hold him on, and there were other things that would give them the excuse he wanted. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, and turned away.

Kennedy’s wile sat in her chair, her eyes wide open, staring at him. Harry’s eyes were closed.

He said: “You’ve had your run. It’s all over.”

She didn’t speak.

He went to Kennedy’s desk, glancing at the papers which littered the floor, picked up the telephone and began to dial WHI-

“Don’t do that!” Kennedy’s wife called. “Don’t do it. You’re throwing everything away.”

“Some will go as far as the gallows.” He dialled two numbers—1-2. The last time he had called Scotland Yard was to make that silly inquiry about Sloan, to give Sloan plenty to think about. Where was Sloan now?

“You can be so wealthy——”

“I’m sick of riches.” He finished dialling with another 1-2. He heard the ringing sound. He hardly knew what he felt or thought, except that he was tired—not exhilarated or excited, but tired. He could see Harry’s pale face and closed eyes and didn’t think he could see any sign of breathing. Brrrr-brrrr; brrrr-brrr. Why didn’t they answer? Brrrr-ck!

“This is Scotland Yard. Can I help you?”

Roger drew in his breath.

“Can I help you?”

“1 am speaking for Detective Inspector Sloan. He wants Squad cars at twenty-seven Mountjoy Square, at once. Also, an ambulance—a man has been shot and badly injured.”

“Is Mr. Sloan there?”

“He’s busy. Hurry.”

“Very good, sir.” The operator didn’t go away. “What is your name, sir?”

West!

“My name is Rayner, Charles Rayner. Will you please hurry?”

“Yes, sir, I’m calling the Squad Room on another line. Let me make sure I have it right, sir. Twenty-seven Mountjoy Square, and you are Mr. Charles Rayner.”

“That’s it.”

Roger put down the telephone. The woman hadn’t moved; nor had Harry. It was deathly quiet in the room. He brushed his hand over his forehead, and it came away filmed with sweat. He didn’t smile or feel like smiling— and he didn’t know why. The Squad Room always moved fast, cars and ambulance would be here in ten minutes. In ten minutes it would be all over, except the proving. He’d taken the chance, and it had come off. There were risks still; to Janet, the boys, and Sloan. How could he persuade the Squad cars to move off as soon as the police were here, so that no one would warn Kennedy, when he arrived. How——

The door opened.

Kennedy came in, with the woman in green behind him.

CHAPTER XXIV

HEMMINGWAY

KENNEDY had a gun in his hand.

He stepped into the study quietly, and looked round— and although it was Kennedy, there was something different about him. What? The woman’s automatic was in Roger’s pocket. He put his hand to his pocket, and Kennedy said: “Don’t.” The gun covered Roger, and there would be no warning when this man fired.

Kennedy’s wife said: “He’s just telephoned Scotland Yard, Ray.” She was breathless. “Hurry!”

The woman in green walked across the study, stood in front of Roger for a moment, and then struck him across the face. It was a blow as savage as the blaze in her eyes. But she didn’t speak. She put her hand into his pocket and drew out the automatic, then backed away.

What was the difference in Kennedy? He was the same man, yet not the same man!

His eyes: they weren’t orbs of silver fire, they were ordinary eyes, with nothing remarkable about them. It made a great difference to his appearance.

“What did he tell them?” he asked.

“He just asked them to come here.”

“Were there any other men with him?”

“Only that one.” Mrs. Kennedy pointed, and stood up. By her husband’s side, she looked ridiculously small.

There was a movement at the door, and Percy came in. He started, quickly recovered himself, and said: “I warned you.” Kennedy nodded. Not two minutes had passed since his arrival, but they were two precious minutes.

“What—— “ began Percy.

Kennedy said: “Collect all the papers, Percy, and take them away. Don’t go to Miss Kennedy’s flat—take them to one of the other places. First thing in the morning, tell Grace Howell to take the kids away from West’s house. I’ll deal with his wife afterwards. Tell Myers to put Sloan away, we won’t need him now—he wouldn’t be safe.”

Percy was already picking up the curled papers, and stuffing them inside his coat.

“Hurry,” said Kennedy dispassionately.

“Okay, okay,” said Percy. “No need to panic, we’ve looked after emergencies like this before.” He stuffed the last rolls of papers away, straightened up—and struck at Roger as he passed.

“Don’t waste time,” said Kennedy.

The Squad cars might be on the way already, but they might not be here in time to prevent Percy from leaving. There was no way of stopping him, except going for him now. That wouldn’t stop but only delay him. Percy passed Harry—paused again, and drove his foot into Harry’s side. Harry whimpered. Roger felt the blood rushing to his head in rage. No one spoke, and Percy went out. Kennedy backed after him, and closed the door. His wife went across the room and opened a cocktail cabinet and poured out three drinks. The seconds dragged. Kennedy looked at Roger with those dull eyes—the eyes that weren’t really his, and the eyes which had made Kennedy so noticeable among a crowd. The woman in green had said it would be impossible to swear that Kennedy was Kennedy. Impossible?

Kennedy came slowly. “Your mistake was in thinking we didn’t check up on your guard, West. We sent a man to see him, every couple of hours. When he wasn’t there, we guessed what had happened. I wish I knew why you did it.”

“Changing a face, you don’t change a mind.”

“I offered you everything——”

Roger said: “Why talk about it? You wouldn’t understand.” His cheeks and chin were smarting. He didn’t see how it would end, now, but Kennedy would get away with it for the time being, because that damning evidence had gone. He wondered what was in the man’s mind, what thoughts were passing behind those odd eyes. Kennedy didn’t look himself; looked a different man; he had become Raymond Hemmingway.

Kennedy shrugged.

“I still don’t understand it, West.”

Roger said: “You can judge a man by his actions, but not by his plans. You tried with me and failed. You used every pressure you could think of—threats to my wife and boys. You failed. I’m no further use to you. My wife and family can’t be. They’ll have enough to worry about, but just to get your petty revenge, you’ll make it worse for them. You’re as cheap as they come.”

Kennedy laughed. “Think so. West? I shall use someone else at the Yard and hold up what happened to your wife and the kids as an awful example. I’ve others marked down. Before I’m through, I shall have several contact men at the Yard. Banister is a good start, but a small one. I shall be able to get away with a lot of crimes with help from the Yard. But there isn’t time to go into detail.” He laughed again. “Just one more detail will interest you. I’m going to shoot you.” He raised the gun. “When the police arrive, I shall tell them the simple truth: my wife heard someone about, came to investigate, found you two in the house, shot one of you, and was overpowered by the other. Then I returned, and caught you red-handed. There’s the open safe, all the evidence. I am not Kennedy here, I am a respected society and businessman, named Hemmingway. I suppose you knew that. I shall pretend to know nothing at all, except that there were burglars and both were shot while trying to get away. That’s justifiable homicide. To make it more realistic, I may wait until the police are at the door—the sound of a shot would be most impressive, and would prove that I’d waited as long as I dared, and that you made a final desperate attempt to escape.” He laughed again. “It was a good throw, West, you almost deserved to succeed. Harry was the weakness, of course. I suppose it was a mistake to use a friend of Ginger Kyle’s.”

The gun covered Roger’s stomach.

There was one thing he’d forgotten, and his wife might forget; that Roger had used Sloan’s name. How would he explain that away?

It was very quiet in the room.

The woman in green said: “I shouldn’t lose any more time, Ray.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Kennedy, and raised the gun a fraction.

Here it came.

Roger braced himself. Better fling himself forward, make a pretence at fighting. Death had an ugly face, and he was looking right into it, it mattered little which way it came.

Then Harry kicked Kennedy.

* * * *

Kennedy, caught unawares, staggered and turned on Harry, who kicked again. Roger swung round on the woman in green. Gun in hand, she was staring at Harry. Roger snatched at the gun. She pulled it free. They grappled, and she fell backwards.

Kennedy fired at Roger. He felt nothing.

He grabbed the woman’s gun and flung himself towards the bookcase which stood at right angles to the wall. He felt a bullet tear at his coat and heard the second bark. He thumped against the wall, on the turn. Kennedy was out of sight. Roger waited. All he could see was the desk and the woman, picking herself up. Kennedy was creeping towards him, his only chance now was to shoot on sight. Never had the seconds seemed so long.

Then the door opened; he heard it bang back against the wall.

“What’s all this?” a man asked.

Roger knew that voice: this was Peel of the Yard.

* * * *

Roger kept behind the bookcase. Other men came into the room. The woman in green said in a choking voice: “Be careful, he’s armed.”

“Who’s armed?” demanded Peel.

“The thief behind here.”

Peel came forward slowly and stealthily. “Don’t try any funny stuff,” he said. He appeared and didn’t flinch, didn’t look at the gun.

“We caught them red-handed,” said Kennedy, and there was a catch in his voice. “Two of them—he’s dangerous, be careful.”

“He won’t do any harm,” said Peel. He held out his hand. “Let me have that gun, please.” He was crisp and authoritative, and didn’t seem to have a nervous qualm at all. “You’re Charles Rayner, aren’t you?”

Kennedy said: “Yes, he is. And——”

“We’ll talk later,” said Peel. “Your gun, Rayner, and don’t try any funny stuff.”

Roger said: “Get after Myers, the Bilk Street mobsman. He’s got Sloan. He’s going after West’s wife. The maid at the Wests’ home is going to kidnap the children.”

He held out the gun.

Peel said to a sergeant: “You heard that. Better put in a call. Have Myers picked up and the Wests’ maid questioned.”

He swung round on Roger. “Where’d you get all this?”

There was a chance for Janet.

“Never mind.”

“Inspector——” began Kennedy.

Peel said: “All safe now, Mr. Hemmingway.”

Roger moved forward. The woman in green joined Kennedy’s wife. Their tension reached screaming pitch. Kennedy, with those pale, dull eyes, was rigid, frowning. He was envisaging the accusations and counter-charges; his mind was working already on a way to discredit “Rayner”. It would have been impossible, had those papers been in the room. Now-

There were three men with Peel—familiar Yard men, big, comforting, confident. Two of them came forward and looked at the safe and began to talk in undertones.

“Now I’ll hear what you have to tell me, Mr. Hemmingway.” Peel was formal, and not particularly friendly. “You say that Mrs. Hemmingway surprised the two thieves and shot one. You arrived and were about to shoot the other——”

“After he had drawn a gun on me.”

“Yes, I see. Are there any servants here?”

“On the top floor.”

“Weren’t they disturbed?”

“No. The burglar alarm had been put out of action.”

“You returned with your wife——”

“No, with my sister.” Kennedy spoke quietly, and his eyes narrowed in that familiar trick. “My wife was alone on this floor. Do you mind if I get her a drink. Inspector, she has had a nasty shock.” He moved towards the cocktail cabinet.” And may I warn you not to pay any attention to this man, Rayner? He has a remarkable repertoire of lies.” He reached the cabinet, and picked up a bottle.

“No drinks just now, please,” Peel said. He was brusque. Kennedy looked at him, as if in surprise. The tiny china doll who was his wife sat down heavily, and buried her face in her hands. The woman in green stared at Roger— only at Roger. The tension in the three of them was at its height.

“Why not?” Kennedy snapped.

“I’d rather you didn’t, sir.”

Kennedy submitted, evidence of nerves.

“Very well. As I say, Rayner will doubtless——”

“What a man says isn’t evidence, sir, at this stage—he would have to offer proof of any charge which he might prefer against you.” Why was Peel so brisk and formal? “Has Detective Inspector Sloan been gone long?”

Mrs. Kennedy caught her breath.

Kennedy said calmly: “Sloan ? I don’t recall the name. Oh—Rayner mentioned it just now.”

“The man who called us said that he was speaking for Sloan. Didn’t you call us?”

“It must have been a mistake. Inspector. I didn’t——”

Mistake? That was Kennedy’s biggest ever! Roger felt warmth pouring through him.

Peel said: “The name of Detective Inspector Sloan was undoubtedly mentioned, sir. Did you call the Yard?”

“No, my chauffeur——”

“I understand that the servants weren’t disturbed.”

Good work. Peel! Keep at it!

“My chauffeur drove me back here. He telephoned——”

“Would he know Mr. Sloan?”

“How the devil do I know?” Kennedy rasped. “He may —he may have mentioned Sloan in order to get you here quickly.”

“We always come quickly, sir. Where is your Chauffeur?”

“He’s not here.” Kennedy licked his lips. The woman in green sat on the arm of the china doll’s chair. Both of them stared at Peel, ignoring Roger.

“So I observe, sir,” said Peel. “That is what puzzles me —why isn’t he here? Why did you send him out?”

“I didn’t send——”

“Then why did he go out?” asked Peel.

Peel had grown into a giant. Roger moved away and sat on the edge of the desk. The two sergeants talked in whispers, but he hardly noticed them, only heard Peel and Kennedy.

Kennedy said: “I have no idea. I didn’t know that he had gone out.”

“You didn’t know that we caught him, either, did you, sir? A patrol car came here immediately on receipt of the alarm, and your chauffeur was met on the doorstep. He had a number of papers with him—papers apparently taken from the safe here. He said that you had instructed him to leave with those papers. He was quite surprised by his detention, and had no time to think up a lie for us— sir. Why did you send your chauffeur out with papers taken from the safe?”

Kennedy didn’t speak.

His wife leaned forward and hid her face in her hands.

“We’ll have to know sooner or later, sir,” said Peel, whose voice kept on the same monotonous level all the time, “Is there something you wish to hide from us?”

Kennedy said: “I think you’re exceeding your duty, Inspector.” He glanced at Roger; and he still held the gun. He raised it slightly. “I have charged these two men with——”

A sergeant, behind Kennedy, came up quietly. Before Kennedy knew what was happening, the sergeant took the gun. He swung round, fist clenched to strike, stopped himself, and glowered at Peel.

“I insist——”

“Just a moment, sir, if you please.” Peel raised his hand —and footsteps sounded outside on the landing; one or two men were coming in. Roger watched, with increasing tension, not yet sure that it was over and that he could live again. Percy came in—thrust by someone whom Roger couldn’t see at first. Percy’s face was as pale as Harry’s and his eyes glittered with fright. He felt Kennedy’s gaze on him, but couldn’t meet his employer’s eyes. He came forward, pushed again—and then Sloan came into the room. Roger cried: “Bill!”

Sloan, one eye closed, coat dirty and torn, grinned across at him. Peel started in astonishment. A sergeant stood impassively by the door, holding the gun he’d taken from Kennedy.

“Hallo, Roger,” said Sloan easily. “I felt pretty sure who you were, earlier to-night.”

Peel choked: “Roger West——”

Kennedy took a step forward. “Yes, the renegade policeman ! The man who forced me to——”

“All statements will be taken down in due course, sir,” said Peel. But his voice was unsteady, he gaped at Roger. “A superintendent is on his way, he will take charge.” He gulped. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

“It is,” said Sloan. “What a present for Janet!” Kennedy’s face had turned a dirty grey.

CHAPTER XXV

PRESENT FOR JANET

IT was nearly three hours later before Roger talked.

Chatworth, who had arrived soon after Sloan, sat with Sloan and Peel in the drawing-room of 27 Mountjoy Square, and listened. A sergeant took the statement down in shorthand. It began unsteadily, almost incoherently, grew steadier as the minutes passed. The picture of those two sombre months gradually filled in, both for Roger and for the others.

Upstairs, men were going through the papers.

Kennedy and his wife and sister were held in separate rooms. Percy was on his way to Scotland Yard, Harry was already at the nearest hospital.

Roger knew a little more: that Peel and two other men had followed Sloan that night, and had seen him taken away from Lyme Street by Myers and his men. They’d followed, and rescued him; Myers and the men who had come to Lyme Street were already in custody, so was Grace Howell.

Roger talked on. . . .

He was dry, but forgot the whisky and soda by his side; tired, but talking vividly, with words welling out of him. He didn’t smile, didn’t alter the pitch of his voice, just talked—as he might have talked to a doctor, about nightmares—a two-month nightmare. Detail after detail built itself into the picture, giving it light and shadow.

He stopped, and sipped his drink.

Chatworth said after a long pause: “But why, Roger? Why?”

“You mean, why did I allow myself to be established as Rayner? Why didn’t I come to you?”

“No, no, you’ve made that obvious. You’d a chance to find who this Kennedy was, what he was doing. I think I see what drove you to that.” Chatworth was gruff. “Only way you could make sure of the proper finish was to trap him—Kennedy. Can’t imagine any other man standing up to the strain. Never mind that now. What I mean is, why did Kennedy do all this? Why?”

“We’ll know better when we have finished an examination of the papers upstairs,” Roger said.

“Inspector Chubb is going through them, he ought to have some ideas now.” Peel stood up. “Shall I go and see, sir?”

Chatworth grunted: it might have been “Yes.”

Peel went out. Chatworth drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Sloan sat back, with a fatuous grin on his bruised face. Peel was gone for a long time, but none of them moved. Chatworth couldn’t keep his eyes off Roger. He was looking at the new man, trying to see some semblance of the old. He shook his head, slowly, three or four times.

Peel came in, with glowing eyes and a sheaf of papers.

“Well?” barked Chatworth.

“Got it pretty well sewn up, sir! These lists and some other documents tell a tale! Kennedy has been at this for years, gradually building up a system of blackmail. He can put pressure on hundreds of people. Hundreds!” Peel was so excited that he rapped a table with a roll of paper. “It’s so big, it’s frightening. The key is blackmail, everywhere. He got something on these people and put the black on them—people who supplied those goods to Rayner & Go. did so because Kennedy squeezed—they had to. That was the smallest angle. He’s had his claws in Members of Parliament, peers of the realm, people of influence everywhere. He’s deep in the currency racket and other forms of smuggling. There’s a list here of his contact men—all crooks we’ve got on our records. He told them what to do, gave them a rake-off. Myers has admitted that —he got his orders from the chauffeur, Percy Briggs. There’s an elaborate organization, and we only know the beginning of it yet. Kennedy lived here as Hemmingway, and trusted only his wife, sister, and Briggs.

“He was planning wholesale blackmail and corruption. At the Board of Trade, the Treasury—any Government Departments that would be profitable. He wanted a good cover, and didn’t want to show himself much. A man named Rayner, who worked with him for some years, backed out and went to Africa, where he made a packet in diamonds. He——”

“Who’s told you this? It isn’t in those documents, is it?” Chatworth was abrupt.

Peel grinned. “No, sir, but Myers and Briggs have let a lot come out. I’ve just had a word with the Yard, sir. This man Rayner died some years ago. When Kennedy planned to corrupt West and turn him into a big cover for the whole job, he gave West Rayner’s name, passport, background—-everything. I’ve got some other details, too. Kennedy himself—that’s his real name—first thought of getting at men at the Yard, and incidentally he did get at one, sir, more of that later.” Chatworth opened his mouth, closed it again. Peel went on eagerly: “Then Kennedy had his big notion, of having a prominent Yard man to work for him. He plumped for West. He probed a bit, and discovered that Mrs. West had a cousin who lived in Surrey, and worked out the whole frame-up from there.”

“That French girl——” began Sloan.

Peel said: “Yes, Briggs has talked about her, too. She was in love with Kennedy. He went to see her, in Paris, calling himself Arthur King, to find out whether she knew anything about her father, Kyle. He fascinated her. and he was always after beautiful women. Ginger Kyle knew more about Kennedy than anyone else alive, and Kennedy was just checking up and fell for her. But he didn’t bargain on her following him to England. Kennedy thought that she was really probing into his plans, and she fell in nicely with the plot to frame Mr. West. Kennedy took over Copse Cottage, and arranged for her to meet him there It was he who actually killed her and attacked West.” Peel was hoarse from talking and from excitement now. “Of course, there are a lot more details to come, but the general scheme’s pretty obvious. Percy Briggs can’t talk fast enough, he knows it’s the only way to save his neck. When Kennedy wanted a job done—murder or any job—he knew exactly whom to use. He was born in the East End, according to Briggs. The real Hemmingway— the man he’s supposed to be here—lived and died abroad. Kennedy took his place. As Hemmingway had no close friends in England, Kennedy got away with it.

“We’ve enough to charge Kennedy and the women with now—shall I take them to the Yard?”

“Do that,” said Chatworth.

* * * *

Chatworth said slowly: “I can’t take it all in, Roger. It’s too much for me.” He pulled his lips. “Never heard me say that before, and you never will again. How any man kept the truth away from his wife for that time— and knowing you and your wife——”

“And knowing what Kennedy had fixed against me,” Roger said.

“Yes, yes. Well—it’s nearly five o’clock. Er—what about your wife? You can’t spring yourself on her. She—damn it, she won’t recognize you! The boys won’t——”

“I’ll ask Mark Lessing to go and see her,” said Roger. “I’ll see Lessing right away, if that’s all right with you.”

Chatworth said: “Do what you like.” He shook his head, wonderingly. “When this breaks—oh, never mind. Never mind. Go and see Lessing.”

* * * *

Sloan drew up in his car and waved as Roger stepped out of Hemmingway’s house.

“They’re under lock and key, Roger. Briggs is still talking. Man, of ideas, this Kennedy. He had a trick of putting drops in his eyes—not bella donna, but something like it. It changed his whole appearance. Very few people would have thought them the same man, when with Kennedy, you would be so fascinated by his eyes you wouldn’t take much notice of his features.”

“You’re telling me!” Roger said.

Sloan grinned; he was a happy man.

“He thought you were safe when he fixed that body. Remember I told you?”

Roger said: “Yes, Bill. You’ve been——”

“Forget it!”

“Never.”

* * * *

Later, Roger sat in Mark Lessing’s car, outside the Bell Street house. It was a little after six o’clock. Some traffic was on the road, and two or three people walked past the end of it. In Bell Street, there was sleepy quiet—even the boys were still asleep.

Mark was gone a long time. Cigarette after cigarette stub joined others on the kerb by the car.

Then Mark appeared, and beckoned.

He didn’t speak when Roger passed him at the gate.

Janet stood in the doorway.

The early morning light fell on Roger’s face. He approached her slowly, his heart beat furiously and breath bated.

It was more than two months since they had met, and Roger saw all the evidence of strain; and he also saw the light in her eyes. She watched him, studying every feature. Slowly, she stretched out her hands, and they were trembling. He took them; they were hot. He drew her gently towards him, and then suddenly she began to cry.

Janet sat on a pouf in front of him, head back, radiance in her eyes again. She held his hand tightly, as if she were afraid that if she let it go, she would never touch it again.

Upstairs, Scoopy called: “Richard. Richard!”

There was no answer. . “Richard!” Scoopy’s voice grew louder. “I’m awake. Wake up, I’m awake.”

Roger felt as if the fierceness of his thumping heart would suffocate him.

He said: “What will they say? I’ve thought about it a million times. They won’t know me, they——”

“They’ll know you. Just talk to them.” Janet’s voice broke. “I’ll tell them—you’ve—oh, I’ll tell them anything, it doesn’t matter, they’ve got you back, I’ve got you back! Roger, it was terrible, I just hadn’t any hope. I——”

“I daren’t——”

“Of course you daren’t. Don’t blame yourself, don’t worry.” Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t really cry as she went on chokily: “It’s not a bad face. Roger, I think I like it better, in some ways it——”

She couldn’t keep the tears back; but a moment later she was laughing loudly.

There was sudden silence upstairs, and then Richard said in his clear voice: “Mummy’s downstairs.”

“Grace isn’t in her room,” said Scoopy.

“Mummy!”

“Mummy!”

“I’ll be up soon, boys. You can go into—Richard’s room, Scoopy. Don’t make too much noise.”

They laughed, delighted.

Roger said hoarsely: “He was in Richard’s room already. Nothing’s changed. God! I’ve got to see them, Jan. I must see them. I——”

“I’ll go and talk to them,” said Janet. “I won’t be long.” She stood up, then leaned over him and kissed him, and he felt her damp cheek on his. She swung round and hurried out of the room.

Mark was in the garden, hands in pocket, back towards the window, shoulders squared; cheerful again.

Janet said clearly: “Now listen, boys, I’ve a surprise for you.”

“You’ve been crying,” accused Scoopy.

“I didn’t do anything,” said Richard, defensively.

“No. No.” She could hardly get the words out. “Now— listen, boys. I’ve a big surprise. I’m not really crying, I—I’m laughing. Something wonderful—wonderful has——”

Scoopy cried: “Daddy’s back! Daddy’s come back!”

“Daddy!” shrieked Richard.

“Boys! Just a moment, it is Daddy, but——”

They were tumbling about on the landing as she tried to tell them what to expect.

* * * *

It would be all right; everything would be all right. He was alive again.

THE END