Inspector West At Home

JOHN CREASEY

Inspector West At Home

Copyright Note

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from back cover

Frame-up!

Chief Inspector Roger ‘Handsome’ West opened his front door to Superintendent Abbott.

“I think you know why I’ve called,” said Abbott. He drew a folded slip of paper from his coat.

It was an official search warrant. . .

To save his career from being ruined and his name blackened. West plunges into a mystery that involves murder, international conspiracy — and corruption at the Yard!

Table of Contents

Copyright Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

CHAPTER 1

Roger West Has a Day Off

SUPERINTENDENT ABBOTT inserted his tall figure and expressionless face into the narrow opening of the door of the Chief Inspector’s office on B Floor at New Scotland Yard. Abbott seemed never to enter a door in natural fashion, but to slide in as if he were anxious to be unobserved.

When Roger West, who was in the office with Chief Inspector Eddie Day, looked up and saw the vacant face of the Superintendent, his heart dropped. He had schemed to take this particular day off, because it was his wife’s birthday, but he had been pessimistic until, when he had arrived an hour before, he had found a note from Abbott telling him to give details of one or two reports and go off. It was a dull, grey day, with early April making a passable imitation of late November; lights were burning over the desks furthest from the windows.

At the Yard, they called Abbott the Apostle of Gloom, for he was invariably the bearer of evil tidings, which perhaps accounted for his cold, vacuous expression.

Eddie Day looked up, pushed his chair back, and grinned. Eddie was not handsome, and when he grinned he showed most of his prominent front teeth.

“Oh, West,” said Abbott. “Will you be at home this afternoon ?”

Roger looked puzzled. “I expect so, yes.”

“Can you make sure that you will be in ?”

“I had thought of doing a show with my wife, but that wouldn’t be until this evening.” Abbott was not a man with whom it was wise to take liberties. “You’re not going to bring me back, are you ?”

“I just wanted to be sure where I could find you,” Abbott promptly effaced himself, closing the door without a sound.

“What a ruddy nerve!” Eddie declared. “Trying to put you in a fix so’s you don’t know what to do. I’ll tell you what, Handsome, take Janet out and let Abbott get someone else to chase round after him.” Eddie, who was a shrewd officer and at his particular job — the detection of forgery — head and shoulders above anyone else at the Yard, still looked and talked like a detective-sergeant newly promoted from a beat. “Cold as a fish, that’s what I always think the Apostle is.” Then he frowned at Roger’s expression. “Say, what’s biting you. Handsome? You look as if you’ve eaten something that don’t agree with you.”

“It’s nothing,” said Roger. “He might have given me one day without wanting me on tap.” He locked his desk and took his hat and mackintosh from a hat-stand. “Head him off for me if you can, Eddie.”

“Trust me,” said Eddie. “I won’t let you down. Give my love to Janet!”

His laughter echoed in Roger’s ears as he went out, and walked thoughtfully along the passage.

A soft drizzle of rain, a mist which threatened to become a fog and a sky of a uniform dull grey did not depress him. He slipped into a shop, for Janet, and contemplated an afternoon in front of a log fire after a good lunch at a hotel in Chelsea.

When he reached his small detached house in Bell Street, Chelsea, she was waiting in the lounge in a gaily-coloured mackintosh. She was tucking in a few stray curls of her dark hair beneath a wide-brimmed felt hat.

“Will I do, darling?”

Slowly, Roger West looked her up and down. As slowly, he began to smile. The wicked gleam in his eyes brought a flush to Janet’s cheeks.

“You ass !” she exclaimed.

“Yes, you’ll do,” declared Roger. “Although why we want to go out I don’t know. I’d much rather stay in. Catch!” He tossed the package to her.

She caught the package, moved to him and kissed him. “I thought we said “no presents, only a day out”,” she said. “Roger, you haven’t got to go back ?”

He laughed at her sudden alarm. “Not as far as I know. That’s not a peace-offering !”

Yet as she opened the present he wished that she had not reminded him of the Yard.

Janet enthused over a locknit twin set.

She dropped the set on a table. A few minutes later, with her hair slightly rumpled and faint smears of lipstick on his lips and cheeks, Roger had completely forgotten Abbott.

Throughout the meal, at the hotel ten minutes walk from the house, they talked of trifles. Only when they were in the lounge drinking coffee, and Roger could see into the street, did a frown darken his face.

“What’s the matter?” asked Janet.

“Nothing,” said Roger.

“Darling,” said Janet, “you can probably deceive all the criminals in the world but it’s no use lying to me. What did you see?”

“Now, would I lie to you?” asked Roger. “I caught a glimpse of Tiny Martin outside and wondered why he’s here. He’s been on a job at Bethnal Green.”

“Who’s Tiny Martin?”

“A sergeant who does Abbott’s leg work,” said Roger. “Let’s forget him.”

But Martin was not so easily forgotten. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man who always worked with Abbott and had something of the Superintendent’s strange coldness.

In spite of the drizzle, Roger and Janet sauntered along the Chelsea Embankment before returning to Bell Street. Twice Roger caught a glimpse of Martin, although Janet had completely forgotten the man and was busy speculating on Roger’s chances of a month’s holiday so that they could go abroad. They were still discussing it when they reached the house. He thought that he caught a glimpse of Martin at the end of the road, but dismissed the idea and went indoors. He sat back in an easy chair and told himself that he was both a happy man and a lucky one. He looked a little drawn — Janet knew that overwork explained it, but although there was a tinge of grey at his temples he looked absurdly young to be a Chief Inspector at the Yard. Their closest friend, Mark Lessing, frequently declared that Roger amazed him, so rarely did good looks and a keen mind go together.

“What time must we leave?” Janet asked.

“We shouldn’t start later than six,” said Roger, “the curtain rises at a quarter past seven and I don’t suppose we’ll be able to get a cab.” He reached out for his cup and then sat upright, hearing footsteps on the front path. The lounge was at the front of the house.

The footsteps were heavy and deliberate.

“Darling, why are you on edge so?” demanded Janet. “It’s probably the laundryman.” She put the lid over a dish of toasted crumpets and hurried to the front door. Roger glanced towards the hall, not knowing himself why he felt so worked up, until he heard Abbott’s familiar voice.

“Good afternoon,” said the Superintendent, “is Inspector West in, please ?”

“Yes, he’s at home,” said Janet, her tone reflecting the keenness of her disappointment.

“Ask him to be good enough to spare me a few minutes, will you? I am Superintendent Abbott of New Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, I know,” said Janet. She asked Abbott into the hall, then came to tell Roger, who was standing up and sipping his tea.

“Shall I ask him in here?”

“Yes, you’d better,” said Roger, reluctantly.

“I suppose I’ll have to offer him some tea,” said Janet. She made a moué and then went out into the hall again, but she sounded brighter as she invited Abbott to come into the lounge.

“It is a private matter, Mrs West. I would rather see him alone,” Abbott said.

Roger went into the hall with a manner which could hardly be called inviting.

“Wouldn’t a phone call have done as well?” He was on surer ground in his home than at the Yard. He saw Detective Sergeant Martin standing by the gate, looking gloomier because it was raining harder. Drops fell from the turned-down brim of his trilby. Roger frowned and added more sharply : “What is it?”

Deliberately, Abbott wiped his feet on the door-mat and shook the rain from his hat into the porch before putting it on the hall-stand. Janet closed the door. Abbott did not take off his mackintosh as he said :

“I’d like a word with you, West, alone.”

Feeling angry, Roger led the way to the dining-room. He stood aside for Abbott to pass and the Superintendent sidled in.

Roger waited as Abbott regarded him with narrowed eyes; he was a spare man with a curiously fleshless face and lips which were almost colourless.

“Well, what is it?” Roger’s exasperation got the better of his discretion.

“I think you know why I’ve called,” said Abbott.

“I certainly don’t,” Roger said. “And I hope it won’t take long. Is it the Micklejohn case?”

“It is not,” Abbott said. “West, I don’t wish to make this more unpleasant than I have to. You know why I’ve come and your aggressive attitude won’t help you.”

Roger stared. “Aggressive attitude?” he echoed. “If you mean a reasonable annoyance at being visited at home when I’m off duty —”

“I mean nothing of the kind,” said Abbott, and sighed, as if what he had to say was extremely distasteful. “I’ve come, of course, to search your house.”

Roger looked at him stupidly. “You’ve come to —” he began, then stopped abruptly. He was no longer angry, but was simply puzzled. “I wish you’d tell me what all this is about. It’s got past the joking stage.”

Abbott pushed his hand into his coat and drew out a folded slip of paper. There was something familiar about it; it was an official search warrant. Even when it was upside down he recognised the flourishes of the signature of Sir Guy Chatworth, the then Assistant Commissioner at the Yard, but until he had read it he did not really believe that it authorised Abbott to search his house. He drew in a deep breath, dropped the warrant on the dining-table and said :

“I think you owe me an explanation. I have no idea what this is all about.”

Abbott did not immediately answer and before Roger could speak again, still shocked by Abbott’s announcement, a second knock came at the front door and Janet’s footsteps followed. He paid little attention to what was happening outside, but looked into Abbott’s narrowed eyes and tried to quieten the heavy thumping of his heart.

CHAPTER 2

A Policeman Under a Shadow

“IT is not a pleasant task for me to present this warrant and X I think you should stop pretending that you know nothing about it,” said Abbott.

“I tell you I haven’t the faintest idea,” insisted Roger.

“Hallo, Jan !” cried a man from the hall. Roger recognised the voice of a close friend, Mark Lessing. Abbott was so surprised that he looked towards the door and Mark continued: “How’s the birthday party going?” There was a smacking sound and then, in a gasping voice, Janet said :

“Mark, you ass !”

“Now what is a kiss between friends on a birthday?” demanded Lessing. “Especially on the twenty-first — it is your twenty-first, isn’t it?”

Abbott pinched his nostrils. “Well, West?” he said.

Roger was thanking the fates for sending Mark Lessing just then. Mark had given him time to realise that he would be wise to adopt a less hostile attitude. There was some absurd mistake, but it could be rectified.

So he forced a smile.

“I haven’t anything to say about it, Superintendent, except that I’m completely at a loss.” His attempt to be affable faded out in the face of Abbott’s cold stare. “Obviously you must have some reason for getting a warrant sworn for me.”

“You must know the reason,” insisted Abbott.

Roger fancied that the faint emphasis on the ‘must’ implied a query. Before he could speak again, however, there came from the lounge an astonishing sound — astonishing because of the previous quiet. It was the deep, throbbing bass notes of the piano. Almost at once Mark began to sing, more loudly than harmoniously. A suspicion entered Roger’s mind : that Mark was drunk.

“Is that din necessary?” Abbott demanded irritably.

“Is any of this necessary?” asked Roger, tartly. “I thought I was going to have a day off. I’m taking my wife to a show as I told you. Are you serious about executing this warrant?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“Why did you get it?” demanded Roger.

He had to raise his voice to make himself heard for Mark was going wild. He crashed wrong note after wrong note and he was thumping so heavily that the piano frame was quivering and groaning.

“If you will stop that noise I will tell you,” said Abbott. He stepped to the door. Roger had to go with him. When it was open, the whole house seemed to be in uproar, and he heard a bump upstairs.

Then he pushed open the lounge door.

Janet was by the mantelpiece, doubled up with laughter, for Mark was playing with idiotic abandon. As he crashed his hands on the keys he bobbed his head and his dark hair fell over his forehead; after each note he raised his hand high into the air, flexing his wrist. His pale face was flushed and his eyes were glistening.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Roger demanded, striding across the room and grabbing Mark’s shoulder. “Stop it, you fool !” Mark continued, bobbing his head up and down vigorously. Boom! went the C sharp and then Mark played a run superbly. Boom! went the A, then G sharp, then C again.

“West, I insist that you stop this nonsense !” called Abbott.

Boom! went Mark. Then he took his hands from the keys and swung round on the piano stool, pushed his hair out of his eyes and glared at Abbott. Roger had never seen him look so furious.

“Nonsense?” he roared at Abbott. “Who the hell are you, sir? What do you mean by calling my playing nonsense? If you have no appreciation of good music, if your ignorance is so abysmal, I advise you not to declare it to the world. Is this what you would call nonsense?” He swung round to the piano, raised his hands and began to crash out Liszt’s Liebestraume.

Abbott stared, tight-lipped. Roger, at first irritated by Janet’s laughter, saw an expression in her eyes which gave him his first inkling that she knew why Mark was playing the fool. She began to laugh again as if she couldn’t stop, and Abbott looked about desperately; Roger thought he bel-lowed ‘madhouse’. He did shout loudly enough to be heard above the playing : “Stop him. West!”

Roger tried, half-heartedly, beginning to wonder whether Mark could possibly be making this din deliberately, as a distraction. Roger remembered the bump upstairs. His confusion grew worse but he made a good show of losing his temper. Mark stopped at last and rose, disdainfully from the piano. He brushed his hair back from his forehead and straightened his tie — and then he jumped, as if horrified.

At no time handsome, he was a distinguished-looking man with a high forehead, a Roman nose and a pointed chin; his lips were shapely and his complexion so good that it was almost feminine. About him there was an air, normally, of arrogance.

Just then his whole expression was of horror.

“My sainted Cousin Lot!” he exclaimed. “Superintendent Abbott! Why didn’t someone tell me? I am sorry. I’d no idea it was you.” He continued to stare into the Superintendent’s eyes while uttering abject apologies. Since he was not a policeman they were excessive, but he was known at the Yard as a friend of ‘Handsome’ West’s who dabbled in crime. “You know, Superintendent,” he went on in the same shocked tones, “I was absolutely carried away. I’ve been working hard and just felt like letting my hair down. Something powerful in the way of urges. And it’s Janet’s birthday. I remembered that this afternoon and rushed over to apologise for not having wished her many happy returns. I say, Jan, could you rustle up a cup of tea and a biscuit?”

“Of course,” said Janet. “Will you stay to tea, Superintendent?”

Abbott had listened to Mark’s protestations while gradually resuming a stony aspect. He turned to Janet, obviously ill-at-ease. Roger offered him a cigarette.

“Don’t get worried, Abbott,” he said. “All this will work itself out. Why don’t you have a cup of tea and talk about it?”

“What’s this?” demanded Mark. “Sticky business on the criminal stakes? Famous member of the Big Five flummoxed, Handsome West called in to get his nose on the trail?”

“You’re not going to take Roger away!” Janet protested. Abbott had the grace to cough in confusion.

Roger put him out of his misery.

“Not in the usual way, Jan, anyhow. I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but he’s turned up with a search-warrant. I must be credited with having broken open a till.”

“A search-warrant ?” gasped Mark.

“What?” cried Janet.

Roger thought that they put a shade more emphasis than was needed, although he might have gained that impression because there was obviously something afoot between them.

Abbott appeared to think their amazement understandable and sincere; he coughed again.

“You can’t be serious !” exclaimed Janet.

“I am afraid I am, Mrs West,” said Abbott. “I really must not waste any more time.” He shot a quick, almost furtive glance at Roger. “Information has been lodged to the effect that you received, today, a sum of money intended as a bribe in consideration of withholding action when you knew that action was required.”

Roger stared, blankly.

“Let’s be serious,” said Mark. “A joke is a joke and I like one with any man, but this —”

“It is no joking matter,” Abbott assured him. “But for the peculiar circumstances, I would not have made the statement in this room. However, you appear to wish your wife to know, West. That is your responsibility.”

Janet stepped to Roger’s side.

“Is he serious, Roger?”

Roger forced a smile. “Yes, he has a warrant, but it’s coining to something when he adopts this method instead of a straightforward approach. I suppose he could have come while I was out instead of while I’m here, but apparently that’s the extent of the consideration I can expect.” He seemed almost amused. “It’s all quite fantastic. It explains why Martin was dogging me, anyhow. He’s probably been making sure I didn’t pass the bribe on to anyone else!”

Abbott regarded him coldly.

“I can see nothing amusing in the situation, West.”

“I suppose not,” said Roger, dryly. “Hadn’t you better start searching? You’ll want to begin on us, but that doesn’t include my wife.”

“If it is necessary to search Mrs West — and I hope it will not be — I hardly need tell you the proper measures will be taken. Will you be good enough to call in Martin and the others ?”

“Others?”

“ There are two detective-officers with him.”

Roger nodded curtly, went to the front door and called the sergeant and his men. One of the plainclothes men was obviously embarrassed, but that didn’t stop him from doing his job properly.

The police finished downstairs and went up. Roger heard the heavy movements of the men upstairs and thought how often he had been on exactly the same quest.

He had searched with a thoroughness which had brought the tension of the people waiting in another part of the house to breaking point. He had worked with a grim determination to find some evidence of complicity in crime and to break his victim’s resistance. After the search, if it proved successful, came the arrest, the charge, the magistrate’s court, the gradual collection and piecing together of evidence, the final day of the assize trial. That last stage was often absurdly short in view of the weary weeks of preparations which had preceded it. Jury, judge, sentence — and prison.

He could not really grasp that this was happening to him. Instead of being the Apostle of Gloom, Abbott became the Apostle of Doom. For with every minute which passed one thing became more obvious. The Superintendent would not have come here, and Chatworth would not have signed the warrant, unless they felt reasonably sure that they would find evidence that he had accepted bribes.

He lit a cigarette and stared at Janet helplessly. Her lips curved in an encouraging smile.

The men were still moving about upstairs and time was flying — it was a quarter past five. Every minute worsened the suspense.

Janet turned restlessly towards the window.

“How much longer will they be?”

“Not long,” Roger said.

Mark broke in, reassuringly.

“After all, no news is good news. If they’d found the alleged evidence they would have come down by now.”

Almost as he spoke, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

The three turned towards the door, and only the plainclothes man seemed indifferent. All of the search party appeared to be coming and Roger, feeling a curious mixture of relief and tension, stared at the door handle. Someone spoke in a low-pitched voice but the handle did not turn. The front door opened and footsteps scraped on the narrow gravel path.

Roger muttered a sharp imprecation, stepped towards the door and opened it. Abbott was standing at the foot of the stairs.

“Well?” The word almost choked Roger.

“I want you to believe that I’m really sorry about this,” Abbott said. His lips moved so little that he looked incapable of feeling. He glanced towards the open door, and Roger, following his gaze, saw a woman approaching with Sergeant Martin. He recognised the newcomer as a tall, round-faced, jovial policewoman, one of the few female detectives at the Yard. Her purpose was only too apparent. He turned back to Abbott and spoke in a low-pitched, angry voice.

“I won’t forget this afternoon’s work, Abbott.”

“I am sorry,” Abbott repeated, expressionlessly. “Will you explain to your wife ?”

Roger turned on his heel. He caught Janet’s eye as he returned to the room. She gave him the impression that she had heard Abbott and was half-prepared for what was coming.

“They want to search you,” Roger said. “They’ve a woman outside, so they’re not breaking any regulations.”

The woman officer stood on the threshold, smiling as if it were the best joke in the world. She was the only one of the police who seemed untroubled by the situation. Roger stared when she winked at him before going upstairs with Janet to the main bedroom. Abbott entered the lounge and stared at Roger.

“All right,” Roger said. “Get on with it,” and allowed himself to be searched, standing rigid, neither helping nor impeding Tiny Martin, whose every movement seemed to be reluctant. The contents of his pockets were set out in neat array on a corner of the tea-table, next to the muffins which were now cold and unappetising, with congealed butter smeared on them. The fire had nearly gone out. Mark, suddenly waking out of a reverie, began to stoke it, putting on a few knobs of coal and two logs and using a small pair of bellows.

Tiny Martin finished and Roger looked at Abbott.

“Well, are you satisfied?” He could have crashed his fist into Abbott’s face.

“There is nothing here,” Abbott admitted. He took some brown paper and oddments of string from his pocket. “What was in this ?”

Roger stared. “I don’t know.”

“It is addressed to you and it’s registered,” Abbott said. “What was in it?”

Roger stretched out a hand and took the paper. It was familiar but nothing clicked in his mind at first. It was of good quality, with a typewritten address on a plain label. The postmark was blurred but, after some seconds of close scrutiny, he saw that it was franked December, although he could not distinguish the date. His face cleared and he handed it back, knowing both what had been in it when it had reached him and why Abbott had found it upstairs.

“It contained a Christmas present from my father,” he said. “Two first editions of Scott.”

“Christmas!” Abbott was stung to the ejaculation.

“It was tucked away in my drawer for some months,” continued Roger, icily. “I took it out today and wrapped a birthday present for my wife in it. So it has quite pleasant associations. I carried it all the way from here to the Yard. It was folded up in my raincoat pocket when you saw me this morning. I went to Estelle’s in Oxford Street and bought a twin set. For my wife,” he added with a savage note in his voice. “Are there any more intimate details you want to know?”

“Now, West —” began Abbott.

“ ‘Now West’ be damned!” growled Roger. “This is an outrageous visit. I may be a policeman, but I have some rights in law.”

Mark began to whistle a dirge. Roger swung round on him.

“Is that necessary? The piano’s still there.”

“I was only trying to while away the time. Ah! Sounds of progress.” Footsteps, this time of the women, sounded cm the stairs. Janet was first and she hurried in.

“Nothing at all on my person !” she declared. “I must say the officer made a job of it. Mr Abbott, perhaps you are satisfied now that my husband is not a renegade policeman?” She stared at the paper and snapped : “What are you doing with that?”

“He thinks the filthy lucre was wrapped up in it,” said Roger. “I’ve been giving him the history of it. Next time I bring you a present I ought to wrap it in newspaper or it will be used as evidence against me.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. Now that the search was over, except for this room, he felt much better. He insisted on staying while the room was searched methodically. Nothing was left out of place, perhaps because the work was done under Abbott’s cold eyes. When the man had finished, Roger eyed Abbott steadily and, after a prolonged silence, asked :

“Well, what’s the next shot in your locker?” For the first time he wondered whether they would take him away.

CHAPTER 3

The Remarkable Story of Pep Morgan

HAD THE police made any discovery there would have been a formal charge; although they had not, they could still ask him to go with them for questioning. Abbott seemed not to hear Roger’s question but turned and motioned to Tiny Martin and the policeman — the woman detective had already gone. The lesser policemen went out and Martin closed the door.

Abbott looked even more discomfited.

“I don’t propose to do anything else now, West, but —”

“Now wait a minute,” protested Roger. “Either you give me a clear bill or I call for legal aid. I hope you realise that I can create the mother and father of a row.”

“You would be ill-advised —” Abbott began.

“What you seem to have forgotten is that I’m a policeman too,” interrupted Roger. “If there were any suspicions of a man at the Yard and I had charge of the case, I’d have the ordinary decency to tell him what allegations had been made, and ask him for an explanation. I would not burst into his house, risk upsetting his wife, accuse him —”

“I accused you of nothing.”

“You charged me with nothing but you’ve accused me of a damned sight too much. I want a full explanation and an apology.”

Abbott rubbed his chin, slowly.

“I think you had better come with me,” he said.

“If you want me, get a warrant.”

“Do I understand that you refuse to come with me?” Abbott demanded.

“You understand that I refuse to come to the Yard for questioning until I have had a more formal explanation of the reason for all this, and I’ve had a chance to get legal aid. That’s the least you would do if I were an ordinary civilian.”

Abbott’s mouth closed like a trap.

He turned and, without nodding to Janet or Mark, sidled through the partly open door and then closed it. There were muffled footsteps in the hall before the front door closed. Footsteps followed on the gravel path. Roger stepped to the window and saw the party disappearing towards King’s Road.

Roger turned to face the room, his lips curved in a smile which held no amusement.

“Sweet, I’m terribly sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be an ass, you couldn’t help it,” said Janet. “If it had to happen I’m glad it was here.”

“I’m not and before I’m through I’ll let Chatworth know what I think. I might have expected it of Abbott, but not of Chatworth.” He lit a cigarette and stared at the teapot.

“I’ll make some tea,” Mark volunteered, now very subdued.

He took up the teatray and went out. He had lived at the Bell Street house for some months and was familiar with every room and, as he often said, he liked to amuse himself in the kitchen.

Janet came over and sat on the arm of Roger’s chair.

“Feeling pretty grim?”

Roger said : “Damnable! I — but Jan, what’s Mark been up to?” He gripped Janet’s arm. “I’m so woolly-headed I forgot all about that rumpus. He sent you a tea set as a present, didn’t he? I’m not dreaming, you did have the parcel this morning?”

“Ye-es,” admitted Janet. “I was afraid you were going to say something about that before.” She stood up, stepped to the mantelpiece and took down a small cup and saucer, a fragile, beautiful thing. Idly, she flicked it with her finger; the china rang sweet and clear. “This was just to hoodwink Abbott.”

Roger said : “Did he know that Abbott would be here?”

“Yes.”

“And that din —” Roger jumped to his feet and stared at her, his eyes blazing. “There was someone upstairs. I thought I heard a bump when he was playing the fool on the piano. Jan, what has Mark been up to?”

“I only know that he told me he was going to make the devil of a row and the more noise I made the better it would be. Abbott did scare me and except for Mark the only light relief was when that woman took me upstairs,” Janet said. “She was a pet! She told me that she didn’t know what Abbott was up to and if he thought you were involved in shady work he must be off his head. You know her, of course ?”

Roger nodded. “She’s Winnie Marchant.” The loyalty of the policewoman cheered him up. “Come on,” he said, “I’m going to wring the truth out of Mark.”

Mark was leaning against the gas-stove, whistling gently, imitating the noise of the kettle, which was singing.

“Here it comes !” he said.

“Never mind making tea,” Roger said. “Janet will do that. What brought you here ?”

“Oh, my natural prescience,” said Mark, airily. “I heard a little bird tell a story about Abbott and Tiny Martin being on Handsome’s heels and I thought I would come and introduce a little light relief. Was I good?” He seemed hopeful. “If there’s any damage to that A string, I’ll have it put right at my expense.”

Janet took the teapot from him.

“Talk, Mark,” Roger ordered.

“I can’t tell you any more, except that the little bird was Pep Morgan.”

“Pep !” exclaimed Janet, swinging on her heels.

“Morgan?” echoed Roger. “Where does he come in?”

“The senior partner of Morgan and Morgan, Private Inquiry Agents telephoned me about half an hour before I arrived and told me to hurry over here,” Mark said. “He added I was to kick up the dickens of a shindy if I found Abbott on the premises. Had it been anyone else but Pep I would have told him to take his practical jokes elsewhere, but Pep wouldn’t play the fool. When I asked him why he told me to listen carefully if I wanted to save Handsome from Dartmoor. What else could I do but obey, Roger?”

Roger said slowly : “He must have had an idea of what Abbott was coming for and knew that if anything were found it would mean a long stretch.” He smoothed the back of his head and watched the steam hissing from the kettle, while Janet stood unheeding. Only when the lid began to jump about did she look away from Roger and make the tea.

“Let’s go into the lounge,” suggested Mark.

They went in, and when they were sitting around, Roger said :

“Pep was upstairs, presumably.”

“It seems likely,” admitted Mark.

“He wanted you to create a din while he got in upstairs and he —” Roger paused, boggling at the actual words.

“Took something away!” exploded Janet.

“We’re talking on supposition,” Mark said. “But if Pep learned that something incriminating was to be planted on you, obviously someone was to do it. There’s your problem — who and why ?”

“Yes.” Roger finished his tea in silence, then leaned back and studied the ceiling. The others did not interrupt his train of thought but Mark pretended to find some interest in a magazine. Suddenly Roger jumped to his feet, and stepped to the telephone in the corner of the room. After a short wait he said :

“Is Sir Guy Chatworth in, please?”

Janet stayed by the door, tensely. He was asked his name and then to hold on; he waited for a long time before Chat- worth’s servant — he had called the A.C. at his private flat, in Victoria — said that he was sorry but Sir Guy was not in and would not be in all the evening.

“So he won’t talk to his favourite officer?” Mark said.

“It’s fantastic!” exclaimed Janet. “I thought Chatworth was a friend. Roger, they can’t believe that you’ve done anything to deserve this. I mean — if they do they’re not worth a damn.”

“Indignant female expresses herself forcefully,” murmured Mark. “This is a conspiracy of silence. They wouldn’t have acted this way and certainly wouldn’t have put Abbott on the job if they hadn’t meant to make it as hot as they could, so they must have a good reason. It’s no use blinking at facts, is it ?”

“No,” conceded Roger, glumly, and that ended the conversation for some minutes.

“I suppose I should start getting supper,” said Janet, jumping up. “I won’t be long.”

She came back half an hour later with ham, cheese, bread, butter and a bowl of fruit. They finished supper and began the waiting game again.

They heard the gate open suddenly. Roger reached the front door before anyone knocked.

“Pep!” he exclaimed.

As soon as the door was closed again Roger switched on the light and looked at the smiling face of Morgan. A shiny man from his thin grey hair to his polished shoes — bright enough to see his face in, Morgan boasted proudly. In a good light, he scintillated. His cheeks shone like a new apple, his bright eyes gleamed, his astonishingly white teeth behind a full mouth seemed to sparkle. He was a chunky man, well- dressed but running to fat about die waist.

“Hal-lo, Handsome!” He patted Roger’s elbow. “This is a fine old how-d’ye-do, isn’t it?”

“Come in, Pep.” Roger led him into the lounge, where he shook hands ceremoniously with Janet and smiled at Mark.

“You did your stuff very well, Mr Lessing ! I was upstairs, and believe me I thought you would have the police on you for disturbing the peace.” He looked back at Roger and his smile grew strained. “Handsome, you won’t take me wrong, I know, but I’m staking my reputation on you.”

Janet and Mark seemed to fade into the background. Roger smiled, grimly, and asked :

“How’s that, Pep?”

“It’s a remarkable business, it really is. You’ve guessed I came here when Abbott was on the spot, and removed a little trifle from upstairs?”

“We guessed,” said Roger heavily.

“The little trifle was one thousand pounds,” said Morgan, softly. “One thousand of the very best in five-pound notes, that is what I found upstairs underneath your wardrobe, Handsome. Look!” Pep took out his wallet and extracted two clean five-pound Bank of England notes. “I’ve brought two of them. I thought I’d better not bring them all in case Martin saw me come in and wanted to know what I was doing — he might have insisted on searching me.” Morgan was nervous, but perky with it. “I don’t know who’s got their knife into you, Handsome, but someone wants to put you on the spot.”

Roger stared at him.

“You must feel pretty bad about it,” said Morgan, “and so do I, Handsome. When I heard what was coming to you I came to the conclusion that it was a fix, and I couldn’t let you down. Lucky thing you’ve got some friends at the Yard.”

Roger said slowly : “What do you mean?”

“It was like this,” said Morgan, moving to the table and sitting on the corner. “No names, no pack drill, but I was chatting with one of the women at the Yard and she started to talk about you. Some o’ the ladies get a proper crush on him, Mrs West!” Morgan shot a sly glance at Janet. “She didn’t exactly tell me, but she did say she’d got a nasty job on this afternoon, and she rambled on a bit — talked about having been told there would be some dough in the bedroom of a Yard man some time after lunch and it would be curtains for him if it was found. She didn’t say you were the man concerned, but she’d been talking about you and she gave me a wink — kind of telling me to put two and two together. So I rang up Mr Lessing and came along here and did my stuff.”

After a long pause, Roger said :

“And you found a thousand pounds in notes?”

“Two hundred five-quid notes as sure as my name is Pep Morgan,” declared Morgan. “I don’t mind admitting I was pretty scared; if they’d found that dough on me they might have asked a lot of awkward questions. So I tied it up and registered it to Post Restante, Lower Strand, addressed to a Mr North. I thought that sounded better than “Smith”,” added Morgan, anxiously. “It’s a bit close to West. I hope I didn’t slip up there.”

“No, you didn’t slip up,” said Roger, smiling into the little man’s eyes. “Pep, I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”

“Oh, forget it. You’ve done me many a good turn, and I knew if they found that dough here you would have a taste of what you dish out to others, but I don’t believe you would take bribes.” He took out his cigarette-case but Janet stepped forward with a box. “Oh, ta,” he said. “Bit of a shock for you, Mrs West, I expect.”

“It certainly wasn’t a pleasure.”

“I’ll say it wasn’t! Well, I’ve told you all I know, Handsome. I needn’t say I know you won’t let me down.” He laughed and drew on his cigarette. “What a business it is, isn’t it?”

“Did Winnie Marchant tip you off?”

Morgan wrinkled his forehead and repeated :

“No names, no pack drill. Was she here ?”

Roger smiled.

“Yes. She gave Janet a piece of her mind !”

Morgan slid from the table and stood up, frowning, barely reaching Roger’s chin.

“Handsome, what’s it about?” he asked. “Who’d do the dirty on you like this?”

“I simply don’t know,” said Roger.

“You must have some idea,” protested Morgan.

“One day I will have.” Roger said softly. “I hope it won’t be long. Will you take a commission from me, Pep?”

Morgan’s little eyes glistened.

“I never thought I’d come to the day when a Chief Inspector would ask me that. Sure, sure. It’s all in the way of business, there’s no need for anyone to know how I came into it. You could have phoned me and asked me to try to find out whether anyone’s trying to put you on the spot. It would be a natural thing to do. What’s happened? Been suspended ?”

“Not yet,” said Roger.

“Nothing to prevent you from looking around yourself, then,” observed Morgan. “And Mr Lessing would lend a hand, as well as me. These fivers might help. Inspector West works from home, so to speak!” He laughed, quite gaily. “What do you want me to do for a start?”

“Make general inquiries, and try to find out whether anyone has a grudge against me. I suppose someone who’s just come out of stir might be behind it.”

“I thought of that,” said Morgan. “But it would have to be a big shot — I mean, a thousand quid isn’t chickenfeed. I’ve been thinking about those who’ve come out in the last month, and I don’t know of anyone who could lay his hands on a thousand. Still, I don’t mind trying, Handsome. There won’t be any secret about it, will there?”

“None at all.”

“Okay, then, I’m hired!” Morgan beamed, looked positively embarrassed when Janet came forward and kissed his cheeks. “He’d do the same for me,” he mumbled and hurried to the door.

Roger watched him disappear into the gloom, and followed. It was not quite dark, and he could make out Morgan’s shadowy figure. Suddenly he saw two others converge on the little man, and heard Detective Sergeant Martin:

“I want a word with you, Morgan.”

Morgan protested in a high-pitched squeak. Roger drew nearer.

CHAPTER 4

Information from Eddie

PERHAPS because he thought that Roger would be following, Morgan held his ground and complained at being frightened out of his wits. He talked to Tiny Martin and the other policeman luridly enough to cheer Roger as he drew nearer, keeping against the hedges of the small gardens of Bell Street so that he would not be noticeable if Martin looked round. Ten feet away, he stood still.

“There’s no need for you to behave like that,” growled Martin. “You’ve co-operated with us before, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t had anyone run out on me like that. What do you want?”

“Superintendent Abbott would like a word with you.”

“Well, he knows where I live. He seems to have gone off his rocker. So do you, Tiny.” Although still aggrieved he sounded mollified, a sensible reaction to ‘Superintendent Abbott would like a word with you’. “I’ve just been along to see Handsome West. You must be daft if you think he’s crooked.”

“Never mind that,” said Martin.

He led the way towards King’s Road. Roger stayed on the other side until a bus lumbered out of the gloom, stopped for the two men and went lurching onwards. Roger turned back to Bell Street. The other Yard man was still near the house and Roger caught a glimpse of him across the road.

Roger went into the house but did not return to the lounge. He took his raincoat out of a corner cupboard.

“What are you doing?” Janet asked.

“I’m going to the Yard,” Roger said.

“Do you think —” began Janet.

“Is it wise?” asked Mark, outlined against the light of the lounge.

“I’m not suspended yet,” said Roger. T might pick up a hint from someone. If Winnie Marchant was prepared to let Pep know, one of the others might give me a hint of what it’s all about;” He put his hands on Janet’s shoulders and kissed her. “I don’t expect I’ll be late,” he said. “Make Mark play backgammon with you.”

There were tears in Janet’s eyes.

Roger went out, and paused on the porch to light a cigarette.

The plainclothes man was near the gate.

Roger drew on his cigarette so that his features were illuminated, then shone his torch into the other’s face.

“I hope it keeps fine for you,” said Roger. He was ridiculously glad that it was raining and cold enough to make the vigil an ordeal.

He did not get his car out, but walked briskly once he had grown accustomed to the gloom. He kept his eyes open for a taxi but had reached Sloane Square before he saw one. He was not sure that the Yard man had kept up with him, but thought it likely.

As he waited on the kerb while the taxi turned in the road, footsteps, soft and stealthy, drew near him. He took it for granted that this was the plainclothes man and took no notice. The taxi pulled up and the driver expressed himself tersely on the weather.

“You going far ?”

“Scotland Yard,” said Roger. The shadowy figure behind him drew nearer and he wondered what the man was thinking. As he was climbing into the cab, the figure moved forward and a soft voice, certainly not belonging to the detective, broke the stillness.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Roger turned his head, when half-in and half-out of the cab.

“Yes?” He was in no mood for casual encounters.

“I hope you won’t think this an impertinence,” said the stranger, “but I am most anxious to get to Piccadilly and the buses appear to have stopped running. I wonder if you would mind if I shared your cab?”

“What abaht askin’ me?” demanded the driver.

“Oh, yes, indeed — if your fare wouldn’t mind.” The man looked towards the cabby. Roger noticed that he wore a trilby hat pulled low and had his coat collar turned up. As he saw the pale blur of his face he thought, impatiently, that it could not have happened at a worse time, but he said:

“Of course,” and hoped that he sounded cordial.

There was no sign of anyone else nearby.

“Thank you so much,” said the stranger, eagerly.

“Op in,” said the driver.

Roger shifted to the far corner and the newcomer sat back with a sigh. He murmured that taxi-drivers were getting far too independent, it was most embarrassing to ask favours of them; it was very good indeed of Roger to allow him to share the taxi. Had he overheard him say that he was going to Scotland Yard ?

That was an invitation to confide, but Roger made an evasive remark and sat back. The other continued to talk of the weather, the cold war situation, the possibility of the bank rate going up, the price of houses and income tax. Roger made an occasional comment.

The cab drew up outside the gates of Scodand Yard, and the cabby opened the glass partition.

“Needn’t take you right in, need I ?”

“No, this will do fine,” said Roger.

He got out, stumbling over the other man’s outstretched legs. He paid off the driver and watched the rear light fading into the night. He heard the footsteps of the policeman on duty and, a moment later, a bull’s eye lantern was switched on.

“Is that necessary?”

“Oh — sorry, sir,” said the policeman, putting the light out hastily. “Nasty night, sir, isn’t it?”

“Bloody,” growled Roger and strode towards the steps. It was some consolation to know that the man had no instructions to stop him. He went up the steps and into the hall, where a sergeant on duty saluted. He was an oldish fellow with a wisp of yellow hair and very thin features. It might have been the light and shade of the hall, but to Roger he seemed surprised as he said “Good evening.”

“ ‘Evening, Bates,” grunted Roger.

He passed no one downstairs nor on the stairs, but the walls themselves seemed cold and hostile. He had never been in the Yard before without feeling a certain friendliness in its atmosphere. He began to realise how much the place meant to him. The dimly-lighted passages, shadowy now, seemed to hold a menace which was no less disturbing because its cause was unwarranted.

He opened the door of his office quickly and stepped inside.

Eddie Day was sitting at his desk with a watchmaker’s glass screwed to one of his prominent eyes. He looked up — and the glass dropped out, bounced from his desk and rolled along the floor.

Roger repressed a comment, loosened his coat and approached Day, looking down at the startled man.

“So you’ve heard, have you ?”

“H-h-heard w-w-what?” stammered Eddie.

“Why pretend that you haven’t, Eddie? Is it all round the Yard?”

Eddie closed his mouth, then bent down to retrieve the glass. His face was scarlet when he straightened up. Then he burst out:

“I’ve heard a rumour, yes!” To his credit he stopped pretending and did not try to make light of it. “You could have knocked me down with a feather. I don’t know what to make of it, I really don’t. You’re the last one I would have thought —” he broke off. “What are you doing here ? You’ve been suspended from duty, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t been told so.”

“Oh, well, perhaps that’s a rumour,” Eddie said hopefully. “I hope it is, Handsome. I can’t believe —” he paused and then went on : “Did Abbott have a search-warrant?”

“He did. And he used it.”

“Blimey!” Eddie pushed his lips forward and eyed Roger owlishly. “I just couldn’t believe it when I heard. When Bennett told me I thought he was joking, but he said he’d seen the warrant. What’s the Old Man got to say?”

Roger said : “The Assistant Commissioner hasn’t thought it worth discussing with me.”

“Strewth !” exclaimed Eddie.

“Eddie, do something for me,” said Roger softly. “If you know what they think I’ve been doing, if you’ve any idea from where they got the tip, tell me. I was pretty sharp with Abbott, because I know nothing about it. What do you know?”

“Handsome, I’m with you. I think it’s all a lot of nonsense. I can’t understand the Old Man. All I know is that you’re supposed to have accepted bribes over a period of the last three months.”

“From whom ?” Roger demanded.

“The squeak came from Joe Leech.”

“Oh,” said Roger. He stepped restlessly to the fireplace, where the fire glowed red. He knew ‘Joe Leech’, a bookmaker in the East End who kept within the law and was allowed to go to the extreme limits because he was a regular source of information to the police. His information was usually reliable and the police were often obliged to act on it. Few at the Yard had any liking for Leech, whose bad reputation in the East End was well known. Two or three times a year he had to be given police protection after he had squealed and friends of his victims had threatened violence. One thing was certain. Leech would not have done this unless he believed the allegation to be true or unless he had been heavily bribed.

“Don’t say I told you,” pleaded Eddie.

He heard someone approaching and put his glass hastily to his eye. The footsteps passed. Eddie stared at Roger with his glass at his eye, his forehead and nose wrinkled.

“It’s a bad do, Handsome, no doubt about that.”

He broke off when the telephone on his desk rang. He answered it and Roger judged, from his manner, that it was Chatworth. Eddie was more impressed by the Assistant Commissioner than most Chief Inspectors, although Chat- worth had a reputation for being a martinet.

Eddie replaced the receiver and stood up, gathering some papers from his untidy desk.

“Got to go and see the Old Man,” he said, in a confidential undertone. “He wants my report on those dud notes. You know the ones I mean.”

“Yes,” said Roger, with a flicker of interest. “Are they slush?” He thought of the £1,000 now at the Strand Post office waiting for ‘Mr North’ but it was too early to ask Eddie’s opinion of the two specimens; Eddie was not a man to be trusted in these circumstances. There were two Yard men who might take the risk of helping him, but one, Sloan, was on holiday.

“Stake my reputation on it,” said Eddie, half-way to the door. “They’re good, though. Er — best of luck, Handsome. If I can do anything let me know.”

Alone in the office, Roger looked about him, putting his hand in his raincoat pockets. He felt an envelope in there but thought nothing of it. The green-distempered walls displayed a few photographs, including one, old and faded, of a

Suffragette procession down Whitehall in 1913, two cricket XI’s one of them including himself, two or three maps of London districts and several calendars. On one of the desks was a small vase of fading daffodils. The fireplace was littered with cigarette ends and the carpet, with several threadbare patches, had a few trodden into it. The desks were bright yellow but, in places, the polish had worn off and the bare wood showed. There were little partitions for different papers – ‘For Attention’ – ‘For Review’ – ‘Mail In’. Suddenly he stopped reading the black, stencilled letters, for his own desk was empty; everything had been removed since he had been there that morning.

He turned away, taking his hand out of his pocket and drawing the envelope with it. He looked down at the crumpled paper, frowning. It was thick and newish-looking; had it been in his pocket for some time it would have been grubby. He remembered thinking that morning that it was a fortnight since he had last worn his raincoat. He had not noticed the envelope then.

It was sealed and there was no writing on it. He inserted a finger at one end and ripped it open. Inside was a single slip of paper on which were two or three lines of block letter writing, upside down. He turned it swiftly and read :

Dear West,

I’ve another proposition I think will interest you. It will pay even better than the last. Meet me at the usual place, tomorrow, Wednesday, at 7.30, will you?K.

At first startled, then tight-lipped, Roger re-read it. All that it meant and all it might have led to passed through his mind, together with a fact which he had to face and which almost stupefied him. ‘Another proposition’, inferring that there had been plenty of others; ‘It will pay even better’ . . .’ meet me at the usual place . . .’

A film of sweat broke out on his forehead.

To Abbott it would be just the evidence he wanted — and he had brought it into the Yard himself! He might easily have left his coat on a peg and gone to try to see Chatworth, which was his chief reason for coming. He stared down, studying the ‘K’ more closely; it was a carefully-formed letter; the whole note had been written by someone who knew how to use a pen. It was in drawing-ink, jet black and vivid against the white paper.

He screwed it up, with the envelope, turned, and placed it carefully in the middle of the glowing embers of the fire. It began to scorch but took a long time to blaze up. He heard someone approaching and turned with his back to the fire. As he did so the paper caught alight, making a flame bright enough to cast his shadow on the nearest desk. If someone came in and saw it they might try to retrieve the evidence.

The man outside passed, footsteps ringing on the cement floor. Roger stirred the blazing paper with his toe. In a few seconds it was just black ash, glowing red in places and giving off a few sparks which were quickly drawn up the chimney. He went to an easy chair to recover from the shock and to face the obvious fact; the envelope had been put in his pocket either at his own house or in the taxi.

CHAPTER 5

No Welcome for Roger

NO ONE came to the office.

Roger sat in an armchair of faded green hide. Nothing seemed quite real and the appearance of the note in his pocket seemed fantastic. He could remember every word and every characteristic of the lettering, the quality of the white paper and its thickness. He half wished he still had it, but it must have been too dangerous to keep.

Abbott must have searched the raincoat, so the note had not been there at five o’clock. No one had been in Bell Street except his friends and the police. The thought that Morgan might have put it there could be dismissed at once. The more he considered it the more convinced he was that the soft- voiced man of the taxi had inserted it when Roger had got out of the cab.

Roger stood up, and went to the door.

Chatworth’s office was on the next floor. Roger walked to the stairs and met two Detective Inspectors coming down. They looked surprised to see him. Along Chatworth’s corridor a door opened and Superintendent Bliss, broad and fat and with a voice like a dove, almost knocked into him.

“West!” he exclaimed.

“Bliss?” said Roger.

“Eh — didn’t expect to see you,” said Bliss and hurried off. Two men in the office stared at Roger as if at something strange. Tight-lipped, Roger went on to Chatworth’s office. There was a light under the door and he could hear Eddie Day’s sing-song voice. At the best of times it was unwise to interrupt Chatworth; he would have to wait.

Two corridors away was a common-room, for higher officials. It had a billiard table, table tennis, darts and all the paraphernalia of a club. Nearing the door Roger could hear the murmur of voices, and bursts of laughter. He went in and walked across the room without drawing attention to himself. Someone looked up from the billiard table and he heard his name uttered sotto voce. Two other men turned to stare. Others, by the walls playing chess and draughts, two card parties and table-tennis players, all stopped just long enough for the pause to register.

He felt the blood flooding his cheeks.

No one spoke to him and he made no attempt to start a conversation. Fair-haired, youthful Inspector Cornish, who had recently been promoted from one of the Divisions, was the nearest approach to a close friend Roger had at the Yard. He was the only one here who might risk helping him.

Cornish looked up from an evening paper, coloured and averted his eyes. Roger turned on his heel. He was by the door when he heard his name called and, looking over his shoulder, saw Cornish hurrying towards him, his fresh face alive with concern.

“Handsome, do you know what’s being said ?”

“And believed, apparently,” rejoined Roger.

“Is there any truth in it ?” Cornish demanded.

“You ought to know better than to ask,” Roger said. “It’s a canard and will be recognised as such one day. Then what will all my good friends say when they come begging Superintendent West for favours?” He looked contemptuously round the room and felt suddenly unaffected by the hostility and the strength of the feeling against him. He would have felt strongly towards anyone whom he believed to have committed a cardinal crime in a policeman’s calendar. They had no time or sympathy for a renegade. He went on, sounding almost light-hearted. “You’d better be careful, Corny, or you’ll be looked upon as an accessory ! Good night!”

He went out, hearing the hum of conversation which followed. The door opened again and Cornish hurried after him.

“Roger. Roger!” The other was distressed and Roger turned and waited. “Look here, old man,” said Cornish, “just answer me this — did you do it?”

“I did not.”

“Is there anything I can do?” asked Cornish abruptly.

Roger warmed towards him.

“If you really want to stick your neck out you can try to find out the name and address of the taxi-driver who picked me up at Sloane Square about three-quarters of an hour ago and dropped me here. I shared the cab with a man going on to Piccadilly.” That was as much as he dared ask.

“How will it help ?” Cornish demanded.

“I’m not going to let you get involved with details,” Roger said. “If you can find out just the cabby’s name and address, it could help a lot. Don’t take this too hard,” he added, cheerfully, “it won’t last for ever !”

He went on his way, grateful to Cornish, and was smiling to himself when he turned the corner. Sir Guy Chatworth, a large, burly man wearing a long mackintosh which rustled about his legs, and a wide-brimmed hat — nearly but not quite a Stetson, was shutting his office door. His large, round features were set in a scowl, by no means unusual. His natural colour was brick red.

“Good evening, sir,” said Roger.

Chatworth raised his massive head and stared at him.

He put the key in his pocket, and demanded heavily:

“What do you imagine you are doing here?”

“I’ve come for two things,” Roger said. “First, an interview with you, sir, and second, to apply for a release from duty for four weeks.”

“Oh,” said Chatworth, ominously. “You want release from duty, do you? Well, you can’t have it. You are suspended from duty.”

“That’s news to me,” said Roger. “I’ve had no notification, sir.”

Chatworth thrust his chin forward, narrowed his eyes, often round and deceptively wondering and innocent. “It isn’t dated until tomorrow morning. You’re being clever, are you, West? If you think you can apply for release and escape the stigma of suspension, you’re wrong.”

“I’ve been wrong about so many things that nothing will surprise me.”

“What do you mean ?” snapped Chatworth.

“I had always been under the impression that any man of yours would receive scrupulously fair treatment,” Roger said. “It was a nasty shock to find I was wrong about that.”

“You had your opportunity to discuss this with me,” Chatworth said. He stood by the door, feet planted wide apart, his mackintosh draped about him like a night-shirt which was too large. He pushed back the big hat and revealed his high forehead and the front of his bald head. At the sides was a thick fringe of close curls, blond turning grey.

“I had no such thing,” said Roger.

“You appear to be forgetting yourself,” Chatworth said coldly. “You were requested by Superintendent Abbott to come here to see me, and you refused. You were also insolent to a superior officer.”

“In the same circumstances any man should be “insolent” to an officer who invaded the privacy of his home, adopted an arrogant and overbearing manner to his wife and tried to take advantage of seniority,” Roger said clearly. “Superintendent Abbott appears to have misled you, sir. He did not say that you wished to see me. He asked me to go with him for questioning. As I knew nothing of the circumstances and he would not give me any information, I refused.”

Chatworth frowned, then dug his hand into his pocket. He took out the key, unlocked the door and pushed it open, striding into the room ahead of Roger, who followed without an invitation.

“Close the door.” Chatworth walked to his flat-topped desk. Everything in the room was modern, most of the furniture was of tubular steel, filing cabinets and desk were of polished metal which looked like glass. There was concealed wall- lighting and a single desk-lamp, all of which were controlled by a main switch.

Chatworth unbuttoned his mackintosh but did not take it off. He placed his hat on the desk in front of him and looked up at Roger, who was standing a yard from the desk without expression. Chatworth pushed his lips forward in deliberation, then said :

“I am grievously disappointed in you, West.”

“And I in you, sir.”

“Are you out of your senses ?”

“It is a very grave matter for me, sir,” Roger said. “I don’t think it has been properly handled. If a sergeant dealt with a parallel case in the same way I should have his stripes.”

He had burned his boats, but Chatworth would think no worse of him and it might enable him to force a hearing. He had won a minor triumph by getting into the room at all. He stood at ease, with one hand in his mackintosh pocket, and thought of the letter from ‘K’.

Then Chatworth nearly floored him.

“Who broke into your house while Abbott was there?”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” Roger said.

“Yes you do. While Abbott was in your house Lessing arrived and drummed on the piano while a man broke in through a first floor window, and removed the evidence which Abbott went to find. Don’t lie to me, West. You think that was clever, but it was a mistake.”

“To my knowledge there was never any evidence in my house which would convict me of accepting bribes. I have never accepted a bribe in my life. I don’t know where you got your information, nor how long I have been suspect, but

I do know that I think the methods adopted to trap me are disgraceful. You appear to have prejudged me, you’ve denied me the right to enter a defence. My best course, I think, is to refer the matter to the Home Secretary.”

“Are you trying to frighten me ?”

“I am giving you notice of my intention,” said Roger. “That’s more than anyone did for me.” He paused but Chatworth simply sat back and stared at him; the desk-lamp shone on his polished cranium.

Looking at a man who had often been friendly and with whom he had worked for several years, one whom he had almost regarded with hero-worship, Roger felt a quickening tension. Until then, he had thought it just possible that Chatworth had deliberately planned to smear him so that he could work surreptitiously. The last hope should have died when he had found ‘K’s’ note, which was proof of evil intent.

Now he saw the situation for what it was — absurd but highly dangerous. Chatworth was not an ogre, but a reasonable human beneath his gruff manner. Roger stepped forward and planted both hands on the desk.

“I know that you must have strong reasons for what you’ve done,” he said. “You might at least give me the chance to answer the allegations. My record at the Yard should entitle me to that. The case must be more serious even than the seriousness of accepting bribes, or you wouldn’t have been so arbitrary. And Abbott’s visit doesn’t make sense.” He saw Chatworth going even redder. “If I were guilty, I wouldn’t be fool enough to keep evidence in my house.”

“That’s enough, West,” said Chatworth in a more reasonable tone. “Sit down.” That was a ray of hope. So was the way Chatworth pushed a box of cigarettes towards him. He lit up, and Chatworth bit the end off a cheroot. “For the first time I’m beginning to think I might be wrong,” Chatworth went on. “Why do you want four weeks’ leave?”

“To investigate this affair for myself.”

Chatworth unlocked a drawer in his desk and drew out a manilla folder. Roger leaned back and drew on his cigarette. The office was quiet except for the rustling of papers, until Chatworth glanced up and said sharply : “How do you account for seven payments of two hundred and fifty pounds paid into your account at the Mid-Union Bank, Westminster, during the last three months? Cash payments, always in one-pound notes. Where did you get the money?”

Roger was stupefied. “It’s not true!” he protested.

“Now, come. I have seen the account, talked to the cashier and the manager. Your wife made the payments.”

“Nonsense!” said Roger.

“Are you telling me that you don’t know what money there is in your account?”

“I use the Mid-Union bank only for occasional transactions,” Roger said. “It’s a supplementary to my main account at Barclavs, Chelsea. I’ve sent no credit to Mid- Union for at least six months. Nor has my wife.”

Chatworth said :

“Look at that.”

He handed a bank paying-in book across the desk. It was a small one, with half the pages torn out, leaving only the counterfoils. Roger saw that the first entries were in his handwriting — the book was undoubtedly his. He glanced through it, seeing a payment of fifty pounds which he had made in the September of the previous year. From then on — beginning in the middle of January — there were the payments which Chatworth had mentioned. The official stamp of the Mid-Union Bank with initials scrawled across it was there and the name at the top of each counterfoil was his.

Roger turned the counterfoils. The first shock over, he was able to study the writing and he noticed the regular lettering, it was almost copperplate writing, such as the man who had signed himself ‘K’ might have written.

“Well ?” demanded Chatworth.

“And my wife is supposed to have paid these in?” said Roger. “No, sir, it didn’t happen that way. The money has been paid in, all right. They’ve taken a lot of trouble to frame me, haven’t they?” He smiled, looked almost carefree. “I suppose someone representing herself to be my wife made the calls?”

“The description of the woman in every case is identifiable with your wife,” Chatworth declared.

“The description of any attractive, average build dark- haired woman with a flair for dressing well would do for that.”

“You seem remarkably pleased with yourself,” said Chatworth, sarcastically.

“I’m greatly relieved, sir! This is obviously one of your main items of evidence. My wife didn’t visit the bank and the bank’s cashiers will say so when they see her. You’ll arrange for several cashiers to see her, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Chatworth. He leaned back and closed one eye. His pendulous jowl pressed against his collar, only half of which was visible. “You’re remarkably smug,” he remarked. “You could have sent another young woman.”

Roger laughed. “Aren’t you letting yourself be carried away, sir?”

“What did you say?”

“If I were to advance a theory like that, without evidence, you would tell me not to go out on a limb,” Roger said. “Someone else paid that money into my account and whoever it was can be found. When she’s found we’ll have the answer to all this. May I ask what other evidence you have?”

Chatworth said in a strained voice : “West, are you a consummate liar or do you seriously suggest that you have been framed?”

“Obviously, I’ve been cleverly framed,” said Roger. “You can’t have any unanswerable evidence or you wouldn’t have waited so long before acting. You can’t charge me or you would have done by now. May I have that four weeks’ leave of absence, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Chatworth. “When did you arrange for Morgan to break into your house?”

With anyone else, Roger might have given himself away. For years he had been used to such unexpected questions and he had trained himself never to be taken off his guard. His mood changed, however, but he felt sure that Morgan would have made no admission, so he answered promptly :

“I didn’t.”

“Morgan’s finger-prints were found in your bedroom this afternoon and he was seen visiting you this evening.”

“There’s no reason why his prints shouldn’t be there,” Roger said. “He’s visited me often enough.”

“Do you usually take visitors to your bedroom ?”

“Frequently,” Roger replied. “I use it as an office sometimes. Morgan has been helpful recently, and as soon as I realised what Abbott was after I asked him to help me.”

“Help you to do what ?”

“Find the answer to this mystery.”

Chatworth closed one eye again and looked at the ceiling. His fingers, covered with a mat of fair hair, drummed on the polished surface of the desk and Roger waited with growing tension.

CHAPTER 6

The Lady So Beautiful

“GO On,” urged Mark Lessing.

“What did he say?” demanded Janet breathlessly.

“Not a great deal,” said Roger, who had told them the story of his interview with Chatworth. “Apparently Pep’s story bore mine out. The denial that you’d been paying the cash in floored the old boy, I think. He was quite reasonable, as far as it goes. In the circumstances, suspension was the only thing, and leave of absence wouldn’t do. He’s right, of course. He gave me the impression that he expects me to get around a bit and will be prepared to listen to any evidence I dig up.”

“So I should think!” exclaimed Janet. “I’ll never like that man again.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Roger. “Those entries, occasional rumours from Joe Leech” — he uttered the bookmaker’s name very softly — “and other indications all pointing towards me, must have made it look black.”

It was nearly midnight but none of them looked tired and there was a kettle singing on the hob and an empty teapot warming by the fire. Roger was sitting back in an easy chair wriggling his toes inside his slippers. Mark was opposite him, and Janet was curled up on a settee between the two armchairs.

Tie didn’t tell you who’s supposed to have bribed you?” inquired Mark.

“No. He was reticent about that, which probably means that he doesn’t know for certain, but that he thinks the case hasn’t really broken open yet. He didn’t say much more,” he repeated. “A few generalities suggested that this is supposed to have been going on since about Christmas, when I hit upon some particularly clever racket and accepted bribes and held my tongue. Abbott’s been working on the case from the beginning.”

“What a snake he is,” said Janet.

“It wasn’t a pleasant job,” Roger replied, “and—”

“Darling, there are limits to the spirit of forgiveness.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” interjected Mark. “Better too much than too little, and although no one loves Abbott, he’s good at his particular brand of inquiry. When the cashiers have said “no” about Janet we’ll all feel better. You learned nothing else ?”

“Not from Chatworth. Eddie Day gave me Joe Leech’s name and Cornish promised to find the taxi-driver.” He had told them about the note from ‘K’. “If I can find out where the other passenger went it might help. The copper-plate writing and the paper — I wish I’d kept the envelope but I was too leery ! — the drawing-ink, Joe Leech and the woman who’s paid the cash in, and those five-pound notes. With luck and hard going we’ll get through. I wish I had some kind of idea why it’s being done,” went on Roger. “That’s one of the things at which Chatworth boggles most. Why should there be a deliberate attempt to frame me? I’ve been over the possible revenge motives, but Pep’s right. No one’s come out of stir lately who would be rich enough to try it. In any case, it’s too fantastic a notion.”

The kettle began to boil and he leaned forward and poured water in the pot. There were some sandwiches on a tray and Mark bit into one.

“The reason why,” he murmured. “That seems to be the first thing to discover, Roger. Shall I set my great mind to work ?”

“Not yet, thanks!” said Roger, horrified. They laughed. “Your first job, if you’ll do it, is to interview Joe Leech. Joe will be smart enough to outwit Pep.”

Mark grinned. “For that oblique compliment, many thanks ! Er — Roger.”

“Yes?”

“One little thing you might have forgotten,” Mark said, “and it could be significant. I mean, the attempt to involve Janet. The first assumption might be that it was just to strengthen the evidence against you, but it might also mean that the family is to be involved.”

Roger frowned. “I can’t think that’s likely. Did I say that Chatworth is going to send Cornish with you to the Mid- Union tomorrow, Jan? I think he’s afraid you will scratch Abbott’s eyes out!”

He laughed, and the atmosphere, already very much easier, grew almost gay.

The tension at the house while Roger had been out had been almost unbearable. It had been broken only by a telephone call from Pep Morgan, who had reported his encounter with Tiny Martin and told Mark that he had gone to the Yard and been questioned. He had been asked whether he had been at Bell Street earlier in the day, as well as to the reason why he had gone that night. Pep had answered on similar lines to Roger and had been released with a sombre warning from Abbott to ‘be careful’.

They went to bed just after one o’clock and, surprisingly, Roger went to sleep quickly. Janet lay awake a long while, listening to his heavy breathing and to Mark snoring in the spare room.

Mark was up first and disturbed the others by whistling in his bath. They breakfasted soon after eight o’clock and, just after nine, Mark left for the East End. Roger was tempted to go with Janet to the Mid-Union Bank, but thought it wiser to wait at Chelsea. She left soon after ten o’clock, met Cornish at Piccadilly and received the paying- in book from him and, at the small branch of the provincial bank made out a credit entry for fifty pounds, in cash, which Roger had taken out of his safe.

Cornish was nowhere in sight when she paid it in.

In spite of all the circumstances and her knowledge that she had never been inside the bank before, she felt on edge. The cashier was a middle-aged man with beetling brows; there was something sinister about him, about the tapping of a typewriter behind a partition and the cold austerity of the little bank itself. The cashier peered at her over the tops of steel-rimmed spectacles, counted the notes carefully, stamped the book and handed it back to her.

“Good morning, madam,” he said.

“Good morning,” gasped Janet and hurried out, feeling stifled.

She did not see Cornish immediately, but went by arrangement to the Regent Palace Hotel. She sat in the coffee lounge, and waited on tenterhooks. After twenty minutes Cornish came hurrying in, smiling cheerfully. Her spirits rose.

“Hallo, Mrs West!” Cornish reached her, his smile widening. “You’ll be glad to hear that he has never seen you before!”

Janet drew a deep breath.

“Thank heavens for that! I was half afraid that—” she broke off and forced a laugh. “But I mustn’t be absurd !”

“I’ve telephoned the Yard, so that’s all right,” Cornish said. “You’ll have some coffee, won’t you?”

“I must let Roger know first. I’ll phone from here.”

“Thank God for that,” Roger said over the telephone. “I was half-afraid that the cashier would go crazy.”

“So was I,” said Janet. “I suppose we’ll imagine idiotic things everywhere until it’s over. I must go, darling, Cornish is being very sweet. He’s getting some coffee.”

“Remind him to find that cabby’s address,” Roger said.

Smiling, he stepped from the telephone to the window and looked out into Bell Street. One of Abbott’s men was still on duty there. He felt like laughing at them, much happier now that he had a chance to fight back. Once the initial suspicion was gone, the whole organisation of the Yard would support him.

He hummed to himself as he lit a cigarette and then, frowning slightly, saw a powerful limousine drawing up outside the house. The driver glanced about him as if looking for the name of a house before pulling up opposite Roger’s.

Abbott’s man, betraying no interest, strolled along the opposite pavement.

A chauffeur climbed down from the car and opened the rear door. There was a pause before a woman stepped out. She was quite beautiful, and beautifully turned out in a black and white suit trimmed with mink.

Through the open window, Roger heard her say :

“I will go, Bott.”

Her voice was husky, the sun glistened on her teeth. She walked up the narrow path while the chauffeur stood at attention by the gate. As she disappeared from Roger’s sight, the front door-bell rang.

Before Roger went into the hall he smoothed his hair down and straightened his tie. When he opened the door he was smiling. It wasn’t difficult to smile at a woman as attractive as this stranger.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Is Mrs West in, please?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Roger. “I’m her husband.”

The woman said as if surprised : “You are Chief Inspector West?” !.

“Yes. Will you come in ?”

She hesitated and then said :

“I really wanted to see Mrs West.”

When he stepped aside, she entered the hall and he showed her into the front room. She moved very gracefully. Disarmed at first, Roger grew wary as she loosened the jacket, smiled, and sat down in Janet’s chair. “Will you please tell your wife I called?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Roger. “Whom shall I say?”

“Mrs Cartier,” replied the woman and took a card from her bag. “Mr West, I wonder if you will give me your support? It is such a good cause and I was told that Mrs West would probably be invaluable to us.”

“Us?” queried Roger, who had not looked at her card.

“To the Society,” said Mrs Cartier.

Roger glanced at the card, which was engraved : “Mrs Sylvester Cartier, President, the Society of European Relief, Welbeck Street, W.I.” He had heard of the Society which, when it had first been formed, had been visited by Yard officials to make sure of its bona fides. He remembered that it was registered as a Refugee Charity and that its patrons included some of the most distinguished names in Who’s Who.

Janet worked for several welfare societies, and he assumed that Mrs Cartier had obtained her name from one of them. Yet he could not help feeling that her visit on this particular morning was a remarkable coincidence. He remembered that Janet had said that they would be reading sinister qualities in the most innocent matters; this was probably an example.

“How can my wife help you?” he inquired.

“Her enthusiasm and organising ability are so well known,” said Mrs Sylvester Cartier. “I have been told that she is quite exceptional. You know of our Charity, of course?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Then you will help to persuade her?”

Roger said : “I think I should know more of what you want her to do.”

“But that is so difficult to explain precisely,” Mrs Cartier said. “There is a great deal of work. Our Society will make strenuous efforts to assist the professional people among the refugees — who so often cannot be helped by the United Nations or other official organisations, Mr West. So many groups cater for the common man, but the professional classes need help just as badly. They must be rehabilitated” — she pronounced that word carefully, as if she had rehearsed frequently and yet was not really sure of it — “and enabled to contribute towards their adopted nations. I will not weary you with details, but please do ask your wife to consider my appeal for her services most sympathetically. I am at the office most afternoons between two and four o’clock.” She rose and smiled as she extended her gloved hand. “I won’t keep you longer, Mr West. Thank you so much.”

“Good-bye,” said Roger, formally.

Janet would have accused him of being in a daze as he saw her out and watched her get into the car; a Daimler. The chauffeur tucked the rug about her, closed the door and went round to his seat. The car purred off, revealing the Yard man on the other side of the road.

“Well, well,” said Roger. “I wonder what Janet will say?”

It was just after eleven and he did not expect Janet back until after twelve. He leaned back in his chair and tried to concentrate on his immediate problem.

The payments to his account at the Mid-Union Bank had started in mid-January. From that time someone had decided to try to destroy his reputation and, at best, to get him drummed out of the Yard. He had dismissed the possibility that it was revenge, but there must be some reason and he could imagine only that, about four months earlier, he had made some discovery which, if he followed it up, would have startling results.

“Some unwitting discovery,” he mused. “Something which made me more dangerous than a policeman would normally be.”

He began to go back over his activities in December. He had finished off three minor cases of burglary, one of forgery with Eddie Day’s help, one sordid murder case. He had made some inquiries into aliens living in England and whose activities were suspect. These aliens had succeeded in proving their good behaviour. Aliens—

He sat up abruptly. Aliens and the Society of European Relief! What a fool he had been not to see that connection before! Mrs Cartier might be English by marriage but she had almost certainly been born an alien. Others connected with the Society might be as well, one of his inquiries might have touched upon the Society. In sudden excitement he began to trace back again, trying to remember every visit he had made, every name which had been suspect. ‘Cartier’ was not among them, yet even that held a French ring.

Yet would the woman have come and risked setting up such a train of thought? If the mystery concerned the

Society, she would surely realise that it might start him thinking, and she might even know of his plight.

He went to the writing desk and began to make out a list of names, stopping only when his memory failed him. He grew so absorbed that even when Janet had not returned by one o’clock, he did not pause to wonder why she was so late. Nor did he wonder what progress Mark was making.

CHAPTER 7

The Fears of Joe Leech

MARK LESSING strode along the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges, not far from London Bridge. He was a noticeable figure in that part of London. He seemed unaware of the dirt, the smells from small shops and markets, the grime which floated from the river and the spectral outlines of warehouses. Now and again he passed rows of hovels, some of them with the doors and windows open, most of them tightly closed and looking forlorn. Tugs hooted mournfully on the river. Covered gangways connecting one warehouse with another crossed the narrow street at intervals. Quays and locks, crossed by revolving bridges, were crossed with depressing frequency. Now and again he looked over the side of a bridge and saw the green slime undisturbed for many months. Yet there was a great hustle of activity, many voices were raised, horses and lorries passed along the cobbles in what seemed an endless stream.

Mark walked on, as if oblivious to it all.

He reached Rose Street, a narrow turning off the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges. Its houses were squat and ugly, but halfway along were two larger buildings — one a school, the other a public house. The latter, called for some incalculable reason the ‘Saucy Sue’, was a grey-faced, grim-looking Victorian edifice with its windows boarded up.

Joe Leech owned the ‘Saucy Sue’.

He did not work in the bar, although he did the buying and handled all the business with the breweries. He had a manager, a bald-headed, lantern-jawed individual named Clay, whose face was exactly the colour of clay and whose features had a trick of immobility which made them appear fashioned out of the same material. Clay was reputed to be the most saturnine man in the East End of London and it was said that he was the only man who had worked for Joe Leech for more than six months.

The ‘Saucy Sue’ was not open to the public when Mark reached it, just after ten o’clock, but the front door was open and a young girl, with bright fair hair, was scrubbing the doorsteps.

When he drew nearer Mark saw that she was older than he had thought, but painfully thin. When she became aware of his shadow, she looked up and brushed the hair back from her eyes. She had a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean and looked rosy. Her round bright eyes regarded him with guarded curiosity.

“Hallo,” said Mark.

“Watcher want ?” asked the girl.

“Is Mr Leech in?”

“I dunno.”

“Oh, come,” protested Mark. “You must know.”

“I said I dunno an’ I means I dunno,” said the girl. “If yer wants ter know anyfink, wot’s the matter wiv’ going inside?” She pointed towards the open door and then dipped her work-grimed hand into the water. Mark shrugged his shoulders and stepped over the threshold.

A man behind the bar was polishing glasses. Behind him the brasses of the taps and the faucets at the end of the wine and spirit bottles glistened in spite of the gloomy interior. The floor was strewn with clean saw-dust. This main was Clay.

“Watcher want Mr Leech for?” he demanded.

“Is he in ?” asked Mark.

“You ain’t answered my question.”

“I want to see Leech. Tell him so and be quick about it.”

“Can’t see Mr Leech wivvout a good reason,” Clay said stubbornly.

“I have a good reason.”

“If yer ‘ave, wot is it?”

The harsh, monotonous sound of scrubbing came from another room. Clay continued to stare, but finally admitted defeat, opening his lips but closing them again before he demanded grudgingly:

“What’s yer name?”

“Lessing. Mark Lessing. I want to see Leech on important business.”

Clay turned and walked stiffly to a closed door and pushed through it. Outside, feminine voices were raised, and Mark grinned when he heard a woman say :

“Got a toff to see yer, duck ?”

“Wot, me see ‘im ?” demanded the girl with the pail.

Mark lit a cigarette, felt uneasy when Clay did not return after five minutes, then heard more footsteps on the pavement. A quavering voice, that of an old man, demanded:

“You open yet, Lizzie ?”

“Go and hide yerself!” ordered Lizzie. “What’s the use o’ worritting me every morning? You won’t git a drink until twelve o’clock. Git out’ve my way.”

“Now, Lizzie,” remonstrated the man with the quavering voice, “I was only arsking a civil question wot wants a civil answer.” He lowered his voice. “Seen the Masher arahnd?”

“No, I ain’t!”

“If I could see Joe I could tell ‘im a thing or two,” declared the ancient. “If ‘e knew what I knew he wouldn’t mind lettin’ me ‘ave one.” Mark heard Lizzie’s unprintable retort, followed by the shuffling footsteps of the old man. He stepped to the door. Ten yards along the street the man was walking slowly, sliding his feet along the pavement. The heels of his boots were worn down to the uppers, his trousers were ragged and patches were coming away from the stitches. His shirt was filthy. He wore a pair of braces, the back tongues pinned to the top of his trousers. He turned into a little house twenty yards further on. Mark watched him thoughtfully and was startled by Clay’s voice.

“Leech ain’t in,” Clay announced. “It’s no use.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“I said so, didn’t IV

Mark took two half-crowns from his pocket and held them on the palm of his hand.

“If yer was to offer me a fiver I couldn’t tell yer where he is. ‘E ain’t in — you clear out.”

One of the remarkable things about Joe Leech was the fact that normally he made himself available to any caller. A good purveyor of inside information had to be catholic in his friends, and Mark knew his reputation. As well as being the owner of the ‘Saucy Sue’ and a bookmaker, he was a ‘commission agent’. He handled all kinds of strange commodities and took commission on an astonishing variety of transactions. The only times when he was unapproachable were during periods when he had squealed to the police and vengeful criminals were out for his blood. His philosophy of life was that anger burned out, and if one kept out of the way for a few days trouble would blow over. Then Joe Leech, short, plump, and gaudily-dressed, would decorate the drab streets again.

“Clay, you lie too easily,” said Mark, sorrowfully. He pushed past and reached the door. Clay swore and jumped at him, but Mark slipped through the doorway and hurried up the narrow wooden stairs. The house smelt of beer and decaying vegetables. There was a narrow landing with three closed doors and he wondered which of them was Joe Leech’s. »

“. . . murder yer !” Clay was bellowing.

Mark opened one door of a bedroom, the bed unmade. He closed it and opened a second door as Clay reached the top of the stairs and he stopped there breathing vengeance. Mark looked into a long, narrow room. It was a parlour filled with cheap modern furniture and with wallpaper so gaudy that it was an offence to the eye.

Sitting at a table at the far end of the room was Joe Leech, a vision in puce pyjamas, with tousled hair, bloodshot eyes and sagging cheeks. There were two curious things about Joe; the visible one was his small, cupid’s mouth, soft and womanish; the audible one his pure tenor voice, not childish yet certainly not manly. He was proud of being self-educated and affected a horror of the Cockney accent; his was a neutral one and usually he managed most of his aspirates.

Mark left the door open and stepped towards the man, who had a table-drawer open, pushed against his stomach, and his right hand hidden inside the drawer.

“Why, Joe !” exclaimed Mark. “What’s all the to-do about? I only want a word with you.” Leech snatched his hand from the drawer and slammed it to; it caught at one side and gave Mark the opportunity of seeing an automatic. Then Joe slammed it home.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“We’ve met before, Joe. What’s frightening the wits out of you ?”

Joe gulped. “I — I — I’m not frightened.”

“I thought I recognised all the symptoms.”

“If you don’t sling your hook, mister, you won’t reckernise yer own dial,” growled Clay from behind him. The manager had a poker gripped in his right hand, his stiff movements holding a menace which made Mark back hastily to the wall. “Clear out.”

“Tell him to go away, Joe,” said Mark.

Leech darted a sidelong glance towards him, and licked his lips. He stood up and rounded the table, putting a hand on Clay’s arm.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, Clay, I recognise Mr Lessing now.” He smiled weakly. “I didn’t know who it was at first, if I’d known it was Mr Lessing I’d have told you to show him up right away. You know I would, Mr Lessing, don’t you?”

“Shut the door behind you, Clay.” Mark waited until the door was closed, watching Joe’s movement towards a corner cupboard, opening it and taking out glasses and a bottle. Joe’s head jerked backwards as he drank. He turned round, a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

“Have a drink, Mr Lessing? I was up all night, so it’s just a nightcap for me. I was going to have forty winks just before you came. No peace for the wicked, is there ?”

“None at all, Joe,” Mark agreed. “No peace for the wicked at all.” He saw the blood-shot eyes widen and Joe’s Adam’s apple jerk.

“You will have your little joke, Mr Lessing, won’t you? How’s the Inspector? He was with you the last time you come here, wasn’t he? I always said that you got a square deal from Mr West and that goes for you, too.”

“You know why I’ve come, we’re only wasting time. You got some information about West — or you thought you did. Where did it come from ?”

“What, me?” Joe’s voice rose to a shrill falsetto. “Why, I wouldn’t let a friend down, Mr Lessing, you ought to know I wouldn’t. Ha-ha-ha!” His voice cracked halfway through the laugh and he glanced towards the whisky bottle, giving Mark the impression that he would like to pour the lot down his throat. “Why, what’s happened to the Inspector?”

“Talk quickly, Joe,” urged Mark.

“I can’t tell you a thing, Mr Lessing ! If someone has been spreading lies about Mr West, it wasn’t me. I’m no squealer. Listen to me, Mr Lessing, I might be able to help you !” He raised the bottle high, in a grand gesture. “What about that?”

“Who gave you information about West?”

“I tell you I don’t know what—”

“Look here, Joe,” said Mark, reasoningly, “you’re frightened of your own shadow. Have you upset the Masher?”

He uttered the name ‘Masher’ simply because he had heard the old man outside use it and had wondered what it implied. But he was astonished at its effect on Leech, who dropped heavily into his chair, his hands shaking. He raised the bottle to his lips and gulped; a trickle of whisky escaped them and ran down his chin, soaking into the neck of his pyjamas. When he put the bottle down he almost knocked it over.

“So the Masher frightened you,” murmured Mark.

“You — you don’t understand,” muttered Leech, “you don’t understand, Mr Lessing! There’s a fella they call the Masher who thinks I welshed on him. He says he’s coming after me.” Leech’s colour was grey. “He’ll learn the truth one of these days and then it’ll be all right. Mr Lessing, if I was some people I’d ask the police for protection, that’s what I would do, but I wouldn’t sink so low. I’ve got a headache this morning. The Masher tried to beat me up last night and made me nervous.”

“If the Masher is who I think he is, you’ll get more than a beating up.” Mark shrugged. “I might be able to help — in return for information.”

“How do you know the Masher ?” gasped Leech.

“I’m very interested in you and your friends.” Mark stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Leech did not smoke. “What name does he go by to you?”

Leech’s little eyes narrowed.

“You sure you know him, Mr Lessing?”

“I know him well enough to have him put inside, Joe, and if he were inside he couldn’t do you any harm, could he?”

Leech rose unsteadily from his chair, rounded the table and approached Mark. When he was a yard away the stench of whisky was nauseating. He stretched out a podgy hand and gripped Mark’s coat, peering up into Mark’s eyes.

“Mr Lessing, you wouldn’t lie to me,” he said hoarsely, “you wouldn’t play such a trick on a man in my condition, would you? Look at me! Look at me hand !” He held one hand out, shaking violently. “If you can put Malone inside I’d do anything for you.”

“Where did you get the information about West?” demanded Mark. “I’ll look after Malone if you tell me that.”

“I’d have to look up some records. I didn’t get it direct,” said Leech, backing away and narrowing his eyes craftily. “It would take me two or three days, Mr Lessing. If you could put Malone away first.”

“After you’ve said your piece,” insisted Mark.

“Now, listen, Mr Lessing—”

From the street, floating clearly through the open window, there came the shrill blast of a whistle, not full enough for a police call. It broke the quiet outside and cut across Leech’s words. He swung round and rushed to the table, pulled open the drawer and snatched up the automatic. His fingers were shaking so much that Mark stepped hastily to one side.

“That’s him!” gasped Leech. “That’s the Masher!”

There was a scurry of footsteps in the street. A woman cried out in alarm, someone swore, someone else laughed unpleasantly. A clattering sound followed and the swish of water and then a thud and a volley of oaths suggesting that someone had kicked over Lizzie’s bucket. A heavy bang on the bar door was followed by several others and footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and deliberate — the approach of Clay.

“Don’t let them come in !” gasped Leech.

Downstairs, a door crashed open and footsteps clattered in the bar. A single loud crack, the breaking of a bottle, was followed by a pandemonium of breaking glass and strident, jeering laughter. Clay burst in, his grey face a sea of perspiration. He closed the door and shot home the bolt but before he reached Leech someone was hammering on the door. The uproar continued downstairs; judging from the sounds bottles were being flung into the street.

“Open up, Joe,” a man said. Mark was surprised by the clearness with which the voice sounded above the din. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you don’t.”

“Keep them out!” gasped Joe. He pointed the gun towards the door, and his finger was unsteady on the trigger. After a pause a heavy blow splintered two of the door panels and the sharp point of a pick showed; it was wrenched away, then used again. By levering the pick, a hole was made. A hand poked through and groped about for the bolt.

Leech fired at the hand.

He missed by inches; the bullet struck the wall on the side of the door but the hand was not withdrawn. The steadiness with which its owner sought for the bolt was an object lesson. Mark stepped swiftly to Leech and pushed his arm aside.

“Do you want to be charged with murder?”

“Leave me alone!” Still holding the gun, Leech jumped away from him and fired again. By chance, he scored a hit and blood welled up on the man’s finger, but the bolt was pulled back and the door flung open. A man strode in, small, neat and flashily dressed. His dark, wavy hair was glistening with brilliantine, his narrow-featured face, handsome after a fashion, was twisted contemptuously. For a long time he stood looking at Leech, who held the gun in trembling fingers but did not fire again.

“So you thought you’d keep me out,” the newcomer said. His voice was cold and harsh. He strode across the room, a swagger in every step, padded shoulders of his suit swaying. Clay reared up against the wall and stared at him, terrified. Leech drew in a shuddering breath and levelled the gun but the newcomer brushed it away, contemptuously. He held up his hand, from which the blood was streaming. “That’s something else I owe you, Leech.” He struck the bookmaker across the face and the blood from his wounded finger splashed into Leech’s eyes and dropped on his pyjama jacket.

The pandemonium downstairs was increasing. A crowd had gathered outside, and Mark thought there were several brawls in progress; the police would surely arrive before very long. Mark stepped towards the newcomer.

“Do you really have to do this?”

Malone turned and looked at him insolently.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Not a friend of Joe’s,” said Lessing.

“It’s a lie, it’s a lie !” screeched Joe. “He said he could put you inside, Masher! He said he knew you and could put you inside! That’s what he said !” He pointed a quivering finger at Mark, who was acutely aware of the menace in Malone’s eyes. He knew that, true to his nature, Leech had seen a chance of buying safety with information. The snide went on shouting until Malone shot out a hand and struck him across the lips. Although he still held the gun, Leech made no attempt to use it. He backed against the wall.

“Is that true?” Malone demanded.

“Do you often believe him?” countered Mark.

“Don’t try to be funny.” Malone suddenly shot out his hand. Apparently he expected Mark to be as hypnotised as Leech; certainly he did not expect Mark’s quick evasive action, nor the clenched fist which knocked his hand aside. He did not change his expression, nor did he strike out again.

“I came to see Leech on private business,” Mark said. “He was frightened out of his wits by you. I told him I could put you inside to make him give me some information. Take that or leave it.” He spoke with praiseworthy nonchalance.

Leech moaned : “It’s a lie, Masher. He come to ask me about you, wanted to know more about you, said he could—” From the landing there came a sharp report. Mark heard it and turned his head. He thought he saw a movement by the door but could not be sure; he did hear a man running down the stairs until the sound of his progress was drowned by the new outburst of noise below. He looked round — and there was Leech sliding down the wall, eyes wide open and terrified, hands clutching at his chest.

The Masher asked : “Who did that?” but stood sneering at the bookmaker as he slid to the floor and began to gasp for breath.

CHAPTER 8

The Taxi-Driver’s Memory

MARK WAS fascinated by the sneer on Malone’s face. He felt quite sure that the man had arranged the shooting so that he could not become personally involved. Mark turned away from him and knelt beside Leech, pillowing the man’s head in his arm.

“It’s all right, Joe. Clay, fetch a doctor, and send someone here with some water and a towel.” He opened the front of Leech’s jacket, tightening his lips when he saw the oozing blood just above the heart. He doubted whether a doctor could save the man’s life. Malone stood there until Lizzie came in. She flounced past him, carrying an enamel pail of water and a towel. Mark glanced up in time to see Malone pinch her waist. She jerked her head away, deposited the pail and towel and went out, making a wide detour to avoid the flash crook. At the door, she turned and put her tongue out, then disappeared.

Joe Leech was muttering but Mark could not distinguish the words. He knew that he would learn nothing from the man — who had paid him to frame Roger. He stopped the bleeding by folding the towel and holding it over the wound but he felt helpless and out of his depth. He caught Malone’s eye and the overdressed man grinned at him. It was quieter downstairs but a shrill voice called : “Police!” The Masher made no attempt to get away but pushed his hands into his pockets and watched Leech’s face, distorted in pain, with an inhuman curiosity. The plump body grew convulsed, Leech began to struggle and tried to shout — only to relax, gasping for breath before becoming very still. His eyes closed — opened again — and became fixed, the fear reflected in them.

“He’s dead,” said Malone. “There isn’t much I don’t know about Leech, and I’ll sell what you want to know — at a price. Just ask for Masher Malone.” He walked across the room and went out, without glancing behind him, as a stentorian voice bellowed up the stairs :

“Leech ! You up there, Leech?”

Clay, who was nearer the door, called stiffly :

“He’s been shot.”

“Cripes !” exclaimed the man with the stentorian voice and he hurried up the stairs. Mark was not surprised to see his uniform as he entered. “So Joe’s got it,” the man said and looked curiously at Mark, as out of place there as a peacock in a poultry run. “Malone, don’t you go,” he called.

“I should worry,” came Malone’s voice.

“How’d it happen?” the policeman asked, taking it so calmly that Mark knew he was not even mildly surprised. “Was it Malone?”

“Malone was in here when the shot came from the door,” Mark said. “He didn’t fire it.”

“And doesn’t know who did fire it, copper,” Malone said from the door. “I came to ask Leech some questions but before the louse could answer someone who didn’t like him got busy.”

More policemen arrived and statements were taken. While Mark was making his, an ambulance and two police cars drew up, finger-print and cameramen invaded the ‘Saucy Sue’.

It was an hour before Mark was given permission to leave. None of the Divisional men recognised him or his name, to his satisfaction, for he did not want this affair linked with Roger West yet. He was glad, too, that the situation was taken out of his hands.

Clay spoke slowly when questioned. Several times he looked towards the dead body of his master. Mark wondered what queer twist of loyalty had bound Clay to the bookmaker. Mark asked no questions and kept himself in the background; consequently he knew nothing of the extensive inquiries, although when he reached the bar, he saw three plainclothes sergeants talking to three members of the pub’s staff, recently come on duty.

The broken glass had been swept to either side of the bar so as to make a path. The floor was swimming in beer and spirits and the stench was overpowering to Mark’s fastidious nose. The shelves were wrecked but one empty bottle stood untouched near the end of the bar — it seemed to be the only whole one left. The beer-taps had been opened and kept open, otherwise so much beer could not have escaped. Mark hurried across the room, crunching glass underfoot. Rose Street, that morning, was a place of fresh air and beauty compared with the interior of the inn.

An excited crowd had gathered and half a dozen policemen kept the gangway clear. At the front of the crowd was the old man, still in shirt and trousers and worn boots, chattering to himself. Mark looked at him narrowly, decided that it was not the time to ask him questions, and stalked off. Loud hoots of derision followed him.

He did not go to the river but towards Mile End Road and, near Aldgate Station, he found a taxi. He went straight to Chelsea and when the cab drew up outside the Wests’ house he saw Roger at the window. Roger came hurrying along the path as Mark paid off his cab.

Mark turned and then missed a step, he was so startled by the expression on Roger’s face.

“What—” he began.

“Have you seen Janet?” Roger demanded. His eyes were hard and glittering.

“No,” Mark said, and sharp alarm cut through him.

Roger drew a deep breath. “I hoped she’d decided to come and give you a hand,” he said. “She should have been here about twelve. It’s half-past one now and there’s no sign of her.”

“Have you done anything?” Mark asked as they reached the front room.

“I’ve told Pep and phoned Cornish,” Roger said. “Janet left Cornish at half-past eleven and as far as he knew she was coming straight back here. Mark, last night you suggested that they might be trying to get at Janet as well as me. What made you think so? Was it anything more than the fact that she was supposed to have made those payments?”

“It was a passing idea, that’s all. Confound it, nothing could have happened to Janet!”

“Couldn’t it?” growled Roger.

“She’ll turn up. She’s probably had a brainwave and gone to try to solve the mystery herself ! It’s not two hours yet, old man, you’re worrying yourself over nothing. Did Pep have anything else to say ?”

Roger pursed his lips and stared, his eyes filled with shadows. The ticking of the mantelpiece clock seemed loud, the sound of people passing in the street was very noticeable. They did not speak for fully three minutes; then Roger moved, snapping his fingers.

“What did you say?”

“Did Pep tell you anything new ?”

“No. I rang him up because Cornish had identified the taxi-driver for me and I’ve sent him to interview the fellow.” His tension appeared to relax as he smiled at Mark and added : “You’ve had a morning on the tiles, haven’t you ?”

“Do I smell of beer?” asked Mark.

“You smell as if you’ve been swimming in it!” Roger declared, and then : “What about Leech?”

Mark in turn looked so grim that Roger broke off. He had to wait for what seemed a long time before the other, speaking quietly, told him what had happened to Joe, and the smashing up of the ‘Saucy Sue’ and the character of Masher Malone.

When he finished, Roger said, slowly :

“Malone impressed you, didn’t he?”

“He made me look over my shoulder all the way here from the pub,” Mark admitted. “Do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Roger. “He leads a gang but he’s never been inside. Racecourse stuff and probably some fencing. I didn’t know he was big.”

“If he isn’t, he will be,” Mark said. “He might be big- headed but he’s also got guts.”

“It’s Corny’s old Division, he’ll know what there is to know about Malone,” Roger said.

“Can’t you pull him in for today’s trouble? Malone sent his gang on to wreck the pub beyond doubt.”

“I’ll bet you the actual wreckers weren’t caught, and no one will identify them — the locals will be too scared of the Masher. He undoubtedly arranged for the murder to take place when he was in the room, so that the police couldn’t touch him for that, although they might get him for disturbing the peace. He would probably admit that the gang got out of hand and smashed up the place but” — Roger was frowning and moving to and fro on his heels — “the very fact that he was behind the wrecking would suggest that he knew nothing of intent to murder.”

“Why?”-

Roger said : “He, or his gang, had a grievance against Leech, probably because he’s squealed and put one or two of them inside. The Masher’s retort was to break Leech’s place up — an eye for an eye. But if he intended murder, would he trouble to do the wrecking?”

“Would the court accept that argument?”

“Not if we could prove anything else against Malone, but I think he’ll have made sure we can’t. What did you actually see him do?”

“Unbolt the door and strike Leech,” Mark said.

“It’s hardly a crime to strike someone who’s threatening to shoot you,” Roger said.

“Surely the Division will hold him for questioning.”

“Oh, yes, but with a good lawyer he’ll get off even if he is taken as far as the court, but I doubt whether it will be allowed to go so far. If the Division arrests and charges him and he gets off, it would be more difficult to get him on a similar charge afterwards. Even the biggest rogue can claim that he’s being persecuted and get a lot of public and judiciary sympathy!” He laughed, rather acidly. “Never become a policeman, Mark!”

After a pause, Mark asked quietly :

“Is that as far as you’ll go?”

“Except for questions.” Roger was brisk. “Why did it coincide with your arrival? Pub wrecking is a pastime that’s indulged in often enough, but usually it’s done after dark, when the pub is open. In the confusion the gang can escape and the police get tangled up with the innocent customers who’ve joined in for the fun of the thing. A morning mob is rare.”

“It surely can’t have had anything to do with me.”

“I think it almost certainly had. You probably saw no one on the way to the pub, but a hundred people saw you go in. If Malone wanted to make sure Leech didn’t squeal about him he’d have lookers-out everywhere and he’d know within five minutes that you’d arrived. You say there was a whistle and Leech knew immediately that it was a sign of Malone ?”

“Yes. But how the dickens could he have known of me?”

“Mind not working well this morning?” Roger asked. “If Malone was connected with the attempt to frame me he would know that you’ve often lent me a hand.”

Mark stared. “I can’t believe—”

The telephone rang. Roger started, and stepped swiftly forward. “There is a call for you,” said the operator. “Hold on, please.” Roger heard her speaking to the caller. “Press Button A, please — you’re through.”

“Roger!” cried Janet.

“Thank God you’re all right,” said Roger, sitting down heavily on the arm of a chair. Mark saw perspiration on his forehead and an inane grin on his lips. “Jan, where—”

“I’ve had the very devil of a time!” Janet said. “I’ve never been so scared. I’m at Chertsey.”

“Chertsey!”

“I left Cornish and thought I would walk across St James’s and get a bus from Victoria Street. I was in the park when two men came alongside me.” Janet spoke breathlessly.

Roger’s smile faded and his lips set in a grim line. “They told me to obey them if I wanted to be unhurt — Roger, it was fantastic! There were hundreds of people about and there was I walking between them, not daring to raise my voice. They hired a taxi, made me get in, and they climbed in after me. Then — Roger, they just didn’t speak! It was awful. Whenever I started to speak they told me to be quiet.”

“Go on,” said Roger, tautly.

“It seemed an unending journey,” Janet said. “I felt sure that I was being kidnapped. Once I thought I might jump out, at a traffic jam, but one of them gripped my arm and I couldn’t do a thing. We reached Hounslow, and they made me get out, took me to another taxi and — brought me here.”

“And then ?” Roger asked.

“Nothing!” exclaimed Janet.

“Nothing at all ?” Roger sounded incredulous.

“Absolutely nothing. They stopped the taxi outside one of the houses by the river — the phone number of the kiosk is Chertsey 123 but it’s not far from Staines — and told me to get out. Then they drove off! I walked along the river and came to this kiosk.”

“Well, thank God it’s no worse,” Roger said. “Get to Staines and come to Waterloo. I’ll meet you there. I’ll find the times of trains.” He turned to a writing cabinet but Mark was already at it, taking out a time-table. He turned the pages and gave the times of the trains and Roger repeated them.

“I’ll catch the three something,” Janet said. “I haven’t had any lunch and I’m starved. Don’t trouble to meet me, I’ll be all right.”

“Get a snack at the station buffet and catch the two something,” Roger said firmly. “I won’t be happy until I set eyes on you . . . Yes, I do mean it! . . . Oh, we’ll have a snack here, Mark has had an alarming morning, too . . . Yes, I will. . . Good-bye for now.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to Mark.

“Warning Number 1, or 2, or 3, choose which you like!”

“Warning?” ejaculated Mark.

“They’ve demonstrated that they can make Janet do a disappearing trick,” Roger said. “It can’t mean anything else. At least we know that they mean business !” He smiled more freely and led the way to the kitchen. “We’d better get a snack.”

It was a quarter to two and Janet’s train was not due to arrive at Waterloo until after three. Nothing happened meanwhile and Roger set out for Waterloo. He reached the station ten minutes before the train arrived and could hardly wait. When the train came in and Janet was not among the first passengers, he peered along the platform anxiously, trying to distinguish her tall figure. He was about to push through the barrier when he caught sight of her, quite outstanding amongst the motley crowd.

They gripped hands and Roger pulled her towards him and kissed her.

“I’ve never known a journey take so long,” Janet said.

“You are all right?” Roger demanded.

“Bruised only in spirit,” Janet said, and laughed with relief. “What on earth did they do it for? To show what they can do if they make up their minds?”

“Probably,” Roger said. “But we aren’t going to let it worry us now, and I’m going to keep you on a piece of string until this is over!” He looked at her and saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “Oh, my sweet!”

“No, don’t fuss me !” Janet said, sharply for her.

He walked quietly by her side, thinking that the experience had affected her more than he would have expected. Soon, she tucked her arm into his.

“Sorry,” she said, “I feel so jumpy.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Roger asked.

They said little as he drove home, except that Janet did her best to describe the two men who had forced her into the taxi.

As they turned into Bell Street they saw a taxi waiting outside the house. Roger’s thoughts were diverted. He gripped Janet’s arm and hustled her along.

“Who do you think has called ?” demanded Janet.

“A cabby with a good memory, I hope,” said Roger. “Ah, there’s Pep ! It’s my man of last night all right!”

CHAPTER 9

An Address in Welbeck Street

THE CABBY was a gruff individual, as Roger remembered from their brief encounter in the black-out. He was also stolid and solid. He wore a dirty collar and tie but only one overcoat; he was with Pep Morgan and Mark in the lounge and glared at Roger as he entered with Janet, but he managed to smile when he saw Janet, and touched his forehead. He even removed his cap.

“Now p’raps you can tell me what it’s all about?” he said, eyeing Roger aggressively. “I dunno wot you think I am. Got to be earning me living, I have, not like some people.” He sniffed.

“Do you remember taking me to Scotland Yard last night?” Roger asked, taking out his wallet and extracting two pound notes. The cabby sniffed again, and answered more affably :

“Yes, Guv’nor. I remember.”

“And you let another man share the cab?”

“I don’t ‘ave to tell yer what you already know, Guv’nor, do I?”

“I’m talking as a private citizen,” Roger said. “How far did the other man go?”

“West End,” said the cabby.

“Do you remember where you dropped him?”

“Yers — end of Welbeck Street.”

“Did he say where he was going from there?”

“No,” said the cabby. “He just said the end of Welbeck Street would be all right for ‘im. He went down the street. I know that, ‘cos I saw him disappear into a house. I wanted to lay orf for an hour so I follered ‘im along to the nearest rank.”

Roger’s heart began to beat fast.

“Was it far along?”

“I don’t exactly know, but it wasn’t so far, Guv’nor. I couldn’t say for certain which one it was. Tell you what,” he added, his eyes on the two pounds. “There was an island in the middle of the road just erbaht where he turned into the house. I know that place like the palm of me hand. It might have been the second island or the first, but it was an island.”

“That’s a great help,” said Roger. “Take us to Welbeck Street, will you? Pep, will you come with me?”

“Why, of course,” said Morgan.

“But —” began Janet.

“Mark will look after the house,” said Roger. “He’ll also keep an eye on you. I won’t be long.” He was followed by the cabby and Pep.

“Now what’s got into you, Handsome?” demanded Morgan. “That’s the trouble with you, I never know whether I’m coming or going.”

“Oh, we’re going,” said Roger, expansively. “And I’m full of ideas. How did you get on at the Yard last night?”

“I didn’t like it much, Handsome,” Morgan said frankly. “I never did like Abbott, and after the way he talked to me I’ll never have a good word to say for him. Sarcastic swine. But I didn’t give anything away and you put me all right your end, Mr Lessing says.”

“They also know you’re working for me,” Roger said. “Have you heard what happened to Mark this morning?”

“A bit of it,” said Morgan. “The driver was with us most of the time; he couldn’t say much. What did happen?”

Roger told him but did not add why he had suddenly become animated and left the house in such a hurry until they reached the end of Welbeck Street. The cabby explained at some length where he thought the passenger had gone. It was into one of the houses near the second island in the middle of the street.

“Thanks,” Roger said. “If you care to wait, I’ll probably want to go back to Chelsea soon.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” said the cabby.

“Would you mind telling me what you think you can do at a house where this man might have come?” demanded Morgan. “I can’t help you if I’m in the dark all the time, Handsome, can I ?”

“Pep, you missed a vision this morning,” said Roger, in high good humour. “A Daimler pulled up outside my house and out she stepped.”

“Now be sensible.”

“Oh, I am being! She was beauty itself and there was money oozing from her. She came, she said, to solicit Janet’s help for the Society of European Relief. Oddly enough,” he added, offhandedly, “the offices of the Society are in Welbeck Street.”

Morgan looked at him sharply.

“So I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t find many interesting things here,” said Roger. “We’ve plenty to go on, Pep. How do you like working for an ex-policeman ?”

“Now don’t talk like that,” remonstrated Morgan. “What are you going to do now ?”

“You take the next house, I’ll take the one beyond it,” Roger said. “See if you can find the name of the Society of European Relief on one of the boards.” He smiled as Pep went up four steps leading to an open door and whistled to himself as he viewed the next-door house. It had been taken over as offices but none of the name boards mentioned the Society. To refresh his memory, he looked at Mrs Sylvester Cartier’s card : Welbeck Street was right but there was no number. Pep passed him, shaking his head. They were opposite the island and the cabby had pulled up on the other side of the road.

The next house was a blank also, but when Roger walked down the steps he saw Morgan standing on the porch next door, waving. Roger joined him quickly.

“Got it!” exclaimed Morgan. “You’ll make quite a detective when you grow up, Handsome!” He led the way into a darkened hallway and pointed to the notice board, which had the names of four different firms or institutions; on the third floor — the top — was the Society of European Relief. “But there’s no lift,” Morgan said.

“I couldn’t ask you to walk up all those stairs,” Roger said. “Stay down here and keep your eyes open.”

“Now listen —”

“You can’t have it all your own way,” Roger told him. He made for the stairs, going up the first flight two at a time but then proceeding more calmly. Pep shook a fist at him but did not attempt to follow.

The landings were darkened but windows were open and allowed some light in. On the third floor a typewriter was clattering and one door was ajar. It was marked ‘Inquiries’ and had the name of the society underneath. Roger stepped in. Behind a wooden partition he could hear a typewriter going at great speed. He pressed a bell in the counter and started at the loud, harsh ring. The typewriter stopped at the first sound, a chair was pushed back and a girl rounded the partition.

She was pretty; she wore a white blouse and a dark skirt; her hair was dark, like Janet’s, and she was about Janet’s height. She appeared very self-possessed, and smiled pleasantly. On her right hand was a solitaire diamond ring, a beautiful thing.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?” Roger liked her voice.

“I think you probably can,” he said.

“In what way, please ?”

Roger smiled disarmingly. “I wonder if you would take £250 in notes to the Mid-Union Bank and put it into my account ? My name is West.”

He knew at once that he had scored a hit. The girl backed away, her eyes narrowed, and he thought she groped behind her as if for help. As he gave his name, her lips — red but not heavily made-up — parted slightly and her breathing grew agitated.

“What — what are you talking about?” she demanded.

“Don’t tell me that I have to say it again,” said Roger. “After all, you’ve done it often enough to know how easy it is, haven’t you?”

“You’re talking nonsense!”

“I wonder how long you’ll continue to think so? But I’m not an ogre.”

“If you have any business to discuss, please state what it is,” said the girl stiffly. She stood a foot away from the counter with her hand clenched by her sides; the ring glittered like fire; she was badly frightened, but she tried hard not to show it and her voice was steady. “I haven’t time to waste.”

“You know,” said Roger, “the cashier will be able to identify you.”

“I have no idea what you mean. Please go away.”

“What, so soon ?” asked Roger. “I’ve only just —”

A door behind the partition began to open; he could see the top of it. Someone moved towards the reception office and a middle-aged man appeared, his kind face looking faintly puzzled. He had grey hair and a gentle voice.

“Lois, my dear,” he said, “I thought you were going to — oh!” he broke off at sight of Roger. “I beg your pardon, I did not know you were engaged. Can we help you, sir?”

Roger beamed. “Can I give you a lift? I’m going as far as Scotland Yard.”

“I beg your pardon !”

“Do you know, I think you are both being wilfully obtuse,” Roger said, as if wonderingly, “but you’ll have to change your attitude.”

“I dislike your threatening manner, sir !”

“No threats,” Roger said, “just a little jogging of your memory. Last night you begged a lift in my cab, and —”

“I was at home all last night,” interrupted the man, giving sufficient emphasis to the ‘all’ to make it clear that he was confident of his alibi. “Lois, has this person been threatening you ?”

The girl said, hesitantly : “He seems to think he knows me.”

“Do you know him ?”

“No.”

“You will both know me in future,” Roger said. He looked them up and down, then turned and left the office. The door, which was fitted with a vacuum-type doorstop, closed behind him with a gentle hiss.

He was no longer smiling. He had bungled a golden opportunity, and allowed himself to be carried away by a bright idea, in a way which would have disgraced a raw sergeant. He should have made a tentative inquiry and then engineered an opportunity for the bank cashier to see the girl; now, he had warned them of their danger, had virtually invited them to get away.

He had made another mistake, too; he should have brought Morgan up with him, the little man should now be waiting outside the door, ready to slip inside and listen-in to the conversation in the inner office. He reached the head of the stairs, then stopped — for Morgan was smiling at him from halfway up the stairs !

“You were away so long, that I thought —”

“Hush !” warned Roger, beckoning. Morgan drew level. “Try to get inside the office, the first on the right, and hear what’s being said next door, Pep. They won’t hear you go in if you’re careful.”

Morgan hurried past him.

Easier in his mind, Roger went to the first landing and stood by the bannisters, lighting a cigarette. He was really angry with himself; had it been Mark, he could have forgiven it. He had been wrong to come here, Mark should have handled this part of the inquiry. He admitted ruefully that from the moment when the idea of the Welbeck Street association had first entered his head he had been carried away by it and, on finding that he had scored a hit, had let himself be dazzled by the success of the visit.

He heard someone coming up the stairs.

He thought at once of Mrs Sylvester Cartier and looking round hastily, saw a door, marked ‘Inquiries’, of another suite; he slipped inside. Keeping the door open an inch or two he looked out, but as the newcomer drew nearer he felt sure that he had been wrong. Mrs Cartier would walk with a brisk step and her heels would tap sharply on the bare wooden boards. This walker came slowly.

It was a man, whose careworn face was lined with the marks of great suffering. His sad eyes and the dejected droop of his shoulders startled Roger. He watched the man walking wearily towards the next flight of stairs and then realised that the newcomer would almost certainly discover Pep.

An exclamation behind him told him that he had been seen and he stepped swiftly out of the office, closing the door. He hurried after the haggard man.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes ?” The man’s European accent was strong.

“I thought I would save you wasting a journey,” Roger said. “There is no one in upstairs — I have just been trying to get in myself.”

Sad, disappointed eyes regarded him, making him ashamed of the lie.

“T’ank you, sir, t’ank you so mooch.” The man ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “I vill vait, I t’ink. I ‘ave come for an app — appointment.” He looked along the bare passage and, at the far end, Roger saw some benches. “I weel sit down, please.”

“Oh, by all means!” said Roger. “I’ll wait with you.”

The benches were at the far end of the passage. Roger thought he heard a mutter of conversation but could not be sure. The old fellow shuffled along beside him, weary and broken. Roger offered him a cigarette but he refused it.

He received no encouragement when he tried to start a conversation. After a quarter of an hour he began to wonder whether anything had happened to Pep. He grew alarmed and excused himself and moved towards the doors. One opened, and Pep came out on tip-toe. He hurried along the passage but faltered when he saw Roger, who shook his head. Pep took his meaning and hurried down the stairs.

“Well, that’s surprising!” exclaimed Roger. “No one answered when I knocked.”

“It ees — your turn,” the old man said, in a tone of infinite patience.

“I’m in no hurry,” said Roger. “You go first.”

“You — you weel not mind?” The man was startled, but when Roger reassured him he walked more briskly towards the end of the passage and disappeared into the office. Once he had gone, Roger hurried in Morgan’s wake. The private detective was standing on the pavement, near the taxi, and the cabby was speaking bitterly to him of the lack of consideration displayed by some people. He stood to attention when Roger arrived and asked sarcastically :

“Any more waiting, sir?”

“No,” said Roger, briefly. “Back to Bell Street.” He looked at Morgan.

“Bell Street’s all right for me,” said Morgan. When they were sitting together in the cab he shot a sideways glance at Roger, full of meaning. “Handsome, have we found something !” he breathed.

Roger said tensely : “What ?”

“That was the girl who paid in the cash, and you’ve scared the wits out of her,” said Morgan. “The old man did most of the talking, but I couldn’t hear all of it. He tried to pacify her at first but didn’t have much luck. But —” Morgan’s little eyes were rounded with concern — “he put the fear of death into her then, Handsome !”

“Well, well!” said Roger, softly.

“When she kept saying that she couldn’t do any more he told her she knew what he could do to her if she didn’t behave herself and ordered her to go back to her work. I came out then, I didn’t think she’d be long after me.”

“Pep, we ought to have waited, I can’t do anything right. We’ll have to follow her.”

Morgan grinned. “I’ve got her address ! Her handbag was on her desk, so I had a look inside it. I think I’ve got his private address, too — she called him Pickerell; you couldn’t mistake a name like that, could you? I found a ‘Pickerell’ in an address book on her desk and made a note of it. Her name is Randall.”

Sitting back at ease and copying the addresses in his notebook, Roger said :

“You’re teaching me my job, Pep !”

“Who’s surprised?” asked Morgan, heavily. “Handsome, what have we struck? I didn’t catch a glimpse of the girl but I don’t mind telling you I felt sorry for her.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Well, as we know who paid the money in — it lets you out,” said Morgan, “but they know you know and that makes it awkward, Handsome. Then, why did that vision you talked about tell you to go there? I know she didn’t actually tell you, but she went pretty near it, didn’t she?”

“She did,” admitted Roger, frowning. “And — Pep, we’re crazy!” He leaned forward and rapped on the glass partition, opening it as the cabby automatically applied his brakes. “Get back to Welbeck Street!” Roger snapped, startling the man so much that he was unable to find a comment.

“She’s our evidence,” Roger said to Morgan. “She’s close to breaking-point; Pickerell knows it. I wouldn’t like to be responsible for what will happen to her if we leave her with him for long.”

“Oh my God !” gasped Morgan.

“He knows that if I bring Yard men along and question her persistently enough the place will be closed down, the whole racket might be broken open,” Roger said. “He’ll see that she’s the weak link, and —” he broke off, not needing to explain further, and sat on the edge of the seat, tight- lipped.

They reached Welbeck Street sooner than he expected; he pulled up with a jerk outside the house where the Society had offices. He looked round with an expression which said: “Does that satisfy you?” but Roger was already getting out. He ran up the steps and disappeared up the stairs. As he neared the top landing he heard voices, including that of the girl. Breathing hard, he turned the corner and saw the old fellow who had gone in ahead of him. There was a brighter expression on the careworn face, and he smiled at Roger, not widely but with some gaiety.

The door was closing.

Roger opened it and made so much noise that the girl, who could hardly have sat down after seeing the old man off, came round the partition.

Her face dropped. He could see the signs of strain in her eyes and knew that Morgan had been right, that she was afraid. Yet something in Roger’s expression seemed to affect her and she did not cry out.

Roger spoke quietly :

“Don’t take risks, Miss Randall. Get out while the going’s good.”

She gulped. “I — I don’t understand you.”

Roger said : “You do, you’re as frightened as you can be. I heard the conversation and —”

“Did you?” asked the man named Pickerell. He was at the partition, his face still looked gentle and his eyes were half hidden by his glasses, but nothing hid the automatic in his right hand. “You are very impetuous, Mr West, aren’t you ? I think it’s time that we reached an understanding. Go into my office, Lois. Mr West, don’t do anything foolish, I am quite capable of shooting you. Just follow Miss Randall.”

CHAPTER 10

The Mistake of Mr Pickerell

DISOBEYING a desperate man with a gun was not Roger’s idea of common sense. He obeyed without looking behind him, hoping that Pep had followed close enough to have overheard.

“Stand over by the window,” ordered Pickerell.

“I hope you realise that you’re asking for trouble,” Roger said.

“Am I ? Perhaps not the first, I know how far I can go.” The thought seemed to amuse him. “And you are no longer a policeman with authority, Mr West; I have heard of your discomfiture.”

“Oh,” said Roger, softly : “You learned very quickly, didn’t you?”

“It doesn’t do to lose time,” said Pickerell. “We won’t waste any now, either. Let me sum up the situation. You think that by exerting enough pressure you can persuade Miss Randall to clear you of the suspicion of paying money into your account at the Mid-Union Bank. You think that by so doing you can regain your position at Scotland Yard and use the forces of law to attack me. Think again, Mr West!”

Roger did not speak. The girl stood by the desk, her troubled eyes narrow and looking at Roger intently. She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the corner, making the diamonds in the engagement ring scintillate.

“Think again,” repeated Pickerell. “Miss Randall was the actual messenger, but someone gave her the money. She might be persuaded to say that it was you. In fact I think I can rely on her to do that. Can’t I, Lois?”

The girl said nothing.

“Can’t I?” insisted Pickerell, sternly. “After all, my dear, you have so much at stake. Nothing will happen to you, although West obviously thinks that you are in danger. You would be, if you could go free and say what you liked, but I. know you will obey instructions now as you have in the past. Won’t you?” His voice grew silky.

“I —” began the girl, and then turned away, exclaiming: “Oh, God. Yes, I will.”

Pickerell smiled : “You see, Mr West? If you tell your friends what you have discovered, or pretend to do any such thing, when Lois is questioned she will tell them exactly what they want to know. I hardly know how you have succeeded in staying free for so long — but if you want to retain that freedom, be discreet about this visit. Do you understand?”

Roger leaned back against the wall, not speaking.

“I see that you do,” said Pickerell. “There is another question and I insist on an answer. If you refuse one I shall arrange for Miss Randall to tell her story whatever you do. How did you come to find this address ?”

“You were traced here.”

“Yes, yes, but how?”

“Your habit of slipping messages into coat pockets betrayed you. The taxi-driver was traced, and all the offices here and in the adjoining buildings were searched. Your voice is unmistakable.”

“Now don’t lie to me,” said Pickerell. “You didn’t hear my voice until after you had identified Lois.”

“I talked to all girls on the premises who might have been mistaken for my wife,” Roger said, plausibly. “Pickerell, there is a powerful organisation at the Yard and you won’t get away with this. Your gun won’t help you.”

“Perhaps not,” said Pickerell. “But you’re not a fool, West. You won’t take the risk of Lois committing perjury. Are you sure that is the way you discovered this office ?”

“Yes,” lied Roger, shortly.

The man seemed relieved.

“Now be sensible and go away. I suggest a long holiday in the country. I think I can assure you that when I have finished my job you will have nothing to worry about. The truth can be told afterwards, and you will be back at your desk without a stain on your character !”

Roger said : “You’ve made one mistake.”

“Bluff will not—”

“It’s nothing to do with bluff,” said Roger. “You’ve assumed that only I heard your conversation with Miss Randall. Someone else did, too. My word might not be sufficient but the testimony of two people will. When Miss Randall realises that her evidence will be rebutted she’ll see that the only way out is to tell the truth.”

The man seemed to stiffen.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Roger raised his voice.

“Pep, are you there? Be careful, this man’s armed.”

“I’ve rung the Yard, Handsome,” came Pep’s voice. “They won’t be long.”

The girl gasped. Pickerell backed to his desk and, keeping the gun trained on Roger, the girl and the door, who were all in line with one another he pulled open a drawer and took out some papers. He felt inside the drawer as if to make sure that it was empty, then stuffed the papers into his pocket.

Then he took out a box of matches.

Roger guessed what he intended to do, but the threat of the gun kept him still. Clumsily with one hand, Pickerell broke two matches before one ignited. He held it to the corner of a paper on the desk. It flared up. He set light to other papers. Smoke and flames rose up and began to spread.

“Don’t do it!” Roger cried.

“Stay where you are!” ordered Pickerell. He moved towards a door leading to the passage as the flames took a fiercer hold. A ring of them ran along the cable of the telephone and a draught from the open window sent two pieces of burning paper sliding along the desk where they caught others; the desk and its contents were soon ablaze, and the smoke was beginning to make Roger cough. The girl turned towards the window but Pickerell ignored her. Step by step, he reached the passage door, took a key from his pocket, inserted and turned it.

“Pep!” Roger exclaimed, moving forward, “he’s —”

Pickerell stretched out a leg and kicked a chair, standing near the wall. He pulled the door open and stepped swiftly into the passage. Morgan’s voice was raised and Pickerell fired. The gun had no silencer and the shot echoed loudly, followed by a sharp exclamation from Morgan. Roger leapt over the chair and reached the passage in time to see Pep leaning against the wall, holding one foot off the ground, and Pickerell disappearing down the stairs. He ran past Pep and might have caught the man up when the ‘Inquiries’ door opened and Lois Randall appeared. She got in his way, blocking his path by accident or design. He pushed past her and sped on, calling :

“Put that fire out!”

He could not see Pickerell when he reached the street. The stocky cabby was lounging against his taxi, staring towards the Piccadilly end of the street.

“Some people!” he was saying. “Swore at me just because I said —”

“Did he get a cab?”

“Yers. “Arf way up the road.”

“You didn’t hear where he was going?”

“Nar what do you think I am?” demanded the cabby, with a vast, triumphant grin. “A human walkie-talkie?”

“One day you’ll learn when to be funny,” Roger said savagely. “Telephone Scotland Yard from the nearest call- box, ask for Inspector Cornish and tell him that West — have you got that, West?”

“Yes.”

“West says that he should send men to this address at once,” Roger said. He turned and hurried upstairs, wondering whether he was too late to stop the fire from spreading. He had been forced to attempt too many things at once. There was no sign of the girl, but Pep Morgan was disappearing into the end office, from which smoke was billowing in great choking gusts. Roger hurried after him, to find him wincing as he dragged himself towards the desk, the top of which was all ablaze. He picked up a heavy ledger with one hand, and began to beat at the desk.

“All right, Pep,” said Roger, “I’ll get a fire extinguisher.”

He was surprised to see no one else on that floor; he called out for help. Someone had smelt the fire and was on the landing below; he hurried up. He was a middle-aged man, followed by two girls and an old lady; all of them sized up the situation quickly and began to help. A cloakroom was handy for water, and within five minutes the evil smelling foam from the extinguisher covered the desk while the two girls were going round the office, beating out little fires started by the burning paper which had blown off.

Pep was sitting on a chair against the wall with his right leg stuck out in front of him. Roger turned to help him but Pep shook his head and pointed to the other door. Roger went into the room where Lois had been working. He ran through the papers on her desk, picking up an address book and a telephone index. He pushed them under his coat, and made sure there was nothing else of interest. He opened a small account book and saw that the pages were headed with copperplate handwriting, admirably executed in black drawing ink. The entries were not all the same, some being in a neat hand which he imagined to be the girl’s, but others, in drawing ink, had exactly the same characteristics as the letter from ‘K’.

“So I don’t need to look much further for him,” he muttered.

He looked through the address book, found the name ‘Pickerell’ and an address in Lambeth. He picked up the telephone, dialled the Yard and asked for Chatworth. He was told that the AC was not in. He knew that Eddie Day would shrink from taking any action without Chatworth’s express wishes; Cornish was the only man to try, but Cornish had left. Accepting the inevitable, Roger asked for Abbott.

The Superintendent’s voice sounded far away.

“What is it, West?”

“I have the address of a man named Pickerell,” Roger said. Whatever else Abbott did he would take the message correctly. “He has admitted arranging for the payment of the money into my account, and using an employee to impersonate my wife. Pickerell has just escaped from his office. He might have gone to his home, at 81 Bligh Street, Lambeth. Is that clear?”

“Yes. But—”

“Thanks.” Roger rang off, giving Abbott no chance to ask questions, and hoping that he had forced an issue.

He heard men approaching and saw Cornish passing the open door. He called out, and Cornish hurried towards him.

“Much excitement,” said Roger, “but I’m afraid the bird’s flown.”

“Flown?” Cornish’s voice rose in disappointment.

“I’ve just phoned Abbott and told him where he might be, so you’d better stay here,” Roger said, “Abbott will probably resent it if you usurp his authority.”

“I don’t give a damn for Abbott!” said Cornish roundly.

Roger persuaded him to stay at the office of the Society. The fire and Roger’s and Morgan’s evidence were enough to justify Cornish making a search. Roger kept the address book and telephone list tucked under his coat. Eventually, Roger found that the two girls of the fire-fighting party had given Pep Morgan first aid. A bullet had entered the fleshy part of his thigh. When an ambulance arrived, the doctor said confidently that it would do perfectly until the patient reached hospital.

Roger saw the little private detective off.

“Got everything you want, Handsome?” Morgan asked as he was being lifted on to a stretcher.

“Everything,” Roger assured him. “I’ll look in before the day’s out, Pep.”

“Don’t you worry about me, you look after yourself,” urged Morgan. “Oh, there is one thing, Handsome — if you wouldn’t mind telling my wife. Don’t want some idiot putting the wind up her.”

“I’ll go straight from here,” Roger promised.

Pep said “Ta!”, and the doors were closed on him.

Roger felt a strange independence in his freedom from the obligation to go immediately to the Yard and report — and he was appreciative of Cornish’s ‘forgetfulness’ in not telling him to stay long enough to make a full statement.

He found the cabby waiting nearby.

“Anywhere else, Guv’nor ?” he asked, and then eagerly: “Your pal copped it, didn’t he?”

“Oh, that was nothing to what might happen next. Shall I hire another cab ?”

“Don’t you leave me aht o’ this,” snapped the cabby with quick resentment. “I drove all through the blitz, didn’t I? What’s a little thing like this to the blitz? Where to?”

Roger said : “Clapham Common.”

Then he broke off. Looking along the street, he saw a Daimler limousine turn the corner and approach slowly. He did not know whether Mrs Sylvester Cartier was inside but recognised her chauffeur, the man with the name of ‘Bott’.

CHAPTER 11

The Strange Behaviour of a Beautiful Woman

AS ROGER stepped away from him, the cabby drew himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest and thrust forward his square, unshaven chin, narrowed his shrewd eyes and spoke with deep feeling.

“Guv’nor, will you make up your mind? Are you a fare or aren’t you— Do you want to go to Clapham Common or don’t you?”

Roger took out a handful of silver, thrust it into the cabby’s hand, and said :

“Give me some change. Make it look as if I’m paying you off”.” He waited only for the man’s startled expression to change to one of understanding before going on : “Drive along the street and wait where you can follow the Daimler when it moves off. When you’ve finished that, telephone a report to my Chelsea house — Chelsea 0123. Keep the chase up all night if necessary.”

“Okay!” The cabby delved and found a penny. “There’s your change, Guv’nor!”

“I’m relying on you,” Roger said. “What’s your name?”

“Dixon.”

“All right, Dixon. I’ll make the job worth your while.”

The Daimler had drawn up and chauffeur Bott was standing, stiff as a ramrod, by the door. A man stepped out, tall, elegant, impressive-looking. He turned to assist Mrs Sylvester Cartier from the car, and the two of them, a fine pair, stood together eyeing the crowd which had gathered, the policemen and the evidence of a fire.

“Now what has happened ?” demanded the man. His voice low-pitched but audible to Roger. “Has one of your sorrowing gentlemen lost his head.”

“Probably,” said Mrs Cartier, distantly.

She looked at Roger. There was no sign of recognition on her face but she beckoned him — it was an imperious gesture. He moved towards her, as if reluctantly. Her eyes held an expression to which he could not put a name, yet he read warning in it — the fact that she did and said nothing to suggest that she knew him might have accounted for that. She had been instrumental in bringing him here — obviously that had been the real purpose of her visit to Bell Street, and he was prepared to play her game for the time being.

“Can I help you ?” he asked.

“Can you tell me what is happening here?” she asked.

“There’s been a fire.”

“Where?”

“On the top floor,” Roger said. “No great harm was done, they soon got it under control. I think there was some other trouble,” he went on. “A man was shot.”

“Shot!” ejaculated the elegant man. “Great heavens! Seriously ?”

“He isn’t dead yet,” Roger said drily.

“You see, Antoinette !” The man turned to Mrs Cartier, his large, expressive eyes filled with concern. “This is what happens when you indulge in such whims. A shooting affray!” He turned on Roger. “Are the police up there?”

“Yes,” said Roger.

“My dear,” said the elegant man, sadly, “I have always told you that if you allowed your social conscience to rule your head you would one day regret it.”

The woman smiled at him. “You are always so helpful, darling !” Her words and her smile held barbs. “We must go upstairs and find out what has happened. Thank you !” She smiled at Roger and then swept towards the door.

“Strewth !” exclaimed the cabby, appearing from nowhere. “Did you see ‘er ?”

Roger turned abruptly. Bott stood rigidly by the closed door of the Daimler, looking past Roger.

The behaviour of Mrs Cartier did nothing to help. If the cabby did a good job, however, Roger would soon know where Mrs Cartier lived and what calls she made that day. He would not have been surprised had she decided to hurry away from the scene when she had learned what had hap-pened but, apparently, as President of the Society she was determined to see it through. If he believed all the inferences possible from the brief conversation between her and the man — was he her husband ? he wondered — the Society was a hobby which she took seriously and of which he disapproved.

He wished that he could place the man.

He strolled towards the end of the street and smoked two cigarettes before the woman reappeared, followed by her escort.

Mrs Cartier stood outside the house and looked in either direction. Roger crossed the end of the street, seeing her out of the corner of his eye. She turned on her heel and began to walk towards him. Her escort took a few steps in her direction but she looked over her shoulder and said some-thing which made him stop, at the side of a ladder reared against the wall. The woman had passed under it, the man stepped to one side. Then she swept along the street, tall, graceful.

Roger walked back across the road, and they reached the corner together. She stared straight ahead but as she passed she whispered :

“I must see you tonight, at 11 Bonnock House .”

She went past. A man nearby must have heard her speak, but Roger doubted whether he had heard everything. He continued walking. Mrs Cartier raised a hand to a taxi, climbed in and was driven off. Roger did not hear what address she gave. The cabby would follow the Daimler, though, and would surely report. The elegant man had entered the Daimler which was already moving in the opposite direction. Roger saw the taxi come out of a side-street and follow it.

He hoped that Abbott would have Pickerell’s home visited but decided that there was no point in going there himself. As things dropped into perspective he realised that his first job was. to find Lois Randall. He toyed with the idea of telephoning Mark, but decided that it might lose precious time. He looked at his note of the girl’s address — 29 Chapel Street, St. John’s Wood — and found a taxi.

Twenty minutes later he entered the Chapel Street house.

A board in the gloomy hall told him that the place, a large one standing in its own grounds and with an untidy garden and drive, was divided into furnished flatlets — two, said a notice, were vacant. Cards pinned against other numbers told him the names of the occupants and he found ‘Miss Lois Randall’ opposite Number 9. Another sign told him that was on the third floor.

He walked up the stone steps, his heels ringing and making the quiet of the rest of the house seem ominous. He heard no other sound until he reached the door of Number 9. There were two flats on that floor, opposite each other. He heard movements inside, flurrying footsteps, voices. One was a man’s, youthful and persistent — it sounded more frequently than the girl’s, but hers was unmistakable.

Roger rang the bell.

The man stopped talking as the bell rang. There was a brief, startled silence before the girl said :

“Don’t open it! Don’t open it!”

“Lois, you can’t —”

“I tell you not to open it!” she said urgently. “It might be —” she broke off.

In a low-pitched voice, the man said :

“Lois, if you won’t tell me what’s frightening you, how can I help?”

“You can’t,” she said. “Oh, Bill, please.”

Roger raised his voice.

“Don’t let her go out the back way. It might be dangerous for her.” The words sounded melodramatic but that didn’t matter. There was another short silence and then ‘Bill’s’ decisive voice.

“I’m going to see who it is.”

“Bill! If you do I’ll never —”

She did not finish, for ‘Bill’s’ footsteps sounded in the room and the door opened. A young man stood squarely in front of Roger. He was well-built with untidy hair and clear blue eyes. He wore a tweed coat which had seen better days, baggy flannels and an open-necked shirt; he looked as if he had just stepped out of a bath.

“Well?” he demanded. “What’s all this about?”

“It’s not him !” The girl cried.

“Do you mind if I come in?” Roger pushed past ‘Bill’, who seemed so startled by the girl’s reaction and the obvious relief in her voice that he made no protest. Roger closed the door and stood regarding the girl.

“Who are you?” demanded ‘Bill’ gruffly.

“He’s a policeman !” Lois exclaimed. “He came to the office to make inquiries. Bill, send him away! I won’t say anything.”

‘Bill’ growled : “You heard her.”

Roger said briskly : “Supposing we behave like sensible human beings. Miss Randall will be hysterical in a few minutes if you let her go on like this and you won’t help matters by threatening to punch my nose.” He took out his cigarette case and offered it to the startled ‘Bill’. The diamond ring on the girl’s finger caught his eye. “I am a policeman but I am not on duty and my inquiries this afternoon were private ones. Miss Randall can help me; I hope she will.”

“Send him away !” gasped Lois.

“Lois, surely you’re not afraid of the police?”

“Will you tell him to go?” she flared. “Or do you want to send me to jail ?”

“Nothing you have done under pressure will send you to prison,” Roger said. “I’ve made it clear that I’m here in a private capacity, nothing you say now will be used in evidence against you.”

He heard a sharp movement in the room behind them, as if something had been knocked over. The girl turned and stared at the other door, terrified. Roger stepped to the door while ‘Bill’ darted to the girl’s side.

Roger stretched out a hand, but before he touched the handle the door opened.

He did not know why he was quite so shocked, although at the first glimpse he identified the man standing in the doorway. The man had a twisted smile on his narrow face. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he was clad in a narrow-waisted suit with padded shoulders, a gaudy tie and wide trousers. He wore no hat and his hair was carefully marcelled.

Roger thought: “Malone, for a fortune!”

“What’s all the noise about?” demanded Masher Malone, swaggering .forward and eyeing first Roger, then ‘Bill’ and finally the girl. “Hallo, honey, aren’t you pleased to see me? I’ve just come to take you for a little ride.” He looked at the men again and his lips curled. “Beat it,” he said. “You’re in the way.”

He stared at them insolently and with astounding confidence.

CHAPTER 12

“Why so Frightened?”

MALONE EXPECTED them to go. It did not seem to occur to him that they would refuse. In his wide experience, Roger had met nothing quite like this swaggering confidence.

‘Bill’ stared open-mouthed at him, but the expression in his eyes suggested that his temper was rapidly coming to boiling point. The girl looked only at Malone; obviously she knew him, and was terrified.

‘Bill’ made the first move, stepping forward and speaking in a high-pitched, wondering voice :

“Who the devil do you think you are?”

“Bill, don’t argue with him!” exclaimed Lois. “Go away, please, both of you go away ! I shall be all right. He’s — he’s a friend of mine. Yes, a friend,” she repeated in a pitiful effort to sound convincing. “Don’t worry about me, Bill.”

“You heard her.” Malone cut across her words; he put his head on one side and peered at ‘Bill’. “I’m a friend of hers. Be on your way, boys.”

Roger watched the younger man and saw the slow metamorphosis. At first he had felt impatient with ‘Bill’, who seemed absurdly naive and young for his age, but the man’s eyes narrowed and his expression grew more shrewd. He closed his mouth and a wary expression filled his blue eyes. Then — the most surprising thing — he smiled faintly.

“So you’re a friend of hers.”

“You heard me the first time, I don’t want to get rough, so be on your way.”

“Bill’s’ smile widened.

“Come on, get rough,” he invited. “Lois isn’t leaving here with you, now or at any other time.”

“Bill!” cried the girl.

Malone’s eyes narrowed. He moved forward, sliding his feet over the carpet and taking his hands from his pockets slowly. ‘Bill’ stood without moving, body relaxed, hands loose by his sides. Roger felt as if he were outside the situation; the girl had obviously decided that she was helpless now.

Malone stopped in front of ‘Bill’, stared at him for an appreciable time, then moved his right hand swiftly and snapped his fingers under Bill’s nose. Bill blinked. He did not move, he did not back away hastily nor raise his hands. Then Malone moved his knee up sharply towards Bill’s groin.

Roger went forward, expecting ‘Bill’ to be taken by surprise and stagger away. He did nothing of the kind. He swerved to one side so that Malone’s knee caught him on the thick part of the thigh. At the same time he raised his hands and struck Malone on either cheek, flat-handed blows with the reports like pistol shots. Malone backed away, dumbfounded. Dark red marks showed on his cheeks and into his eyes there sprang an ugly glitter, the evil look which Roger had seen before.

Malone whipped his right hand to his waistcoat and drew out a knife.

The swift movement would have deceived most men, but ‘Bill’ moved his right hand and chopped Malone’s wrist. The knife dropped to the floor. ‘Bill’ seemed to move his arm negligently and Malone gasped and went flying against the wall. He came up against it with a thud which shook the room and made his oily Marcel waves fall over his eyes and face. ‘Bill’ stepped forward and trod on the knife; the blade broke into several pieces.

“Would you like some more?” he inquired.

Roger chuckled, but no one took the slightest notice of him.

Malone. straightened himself up, brushed his hair out of his eyes and shrugged his coat straight. More wary and with the evil glitter in his eyes enough to frighten most people, he approached, crouching, his hands outstretched and fingers crooked, like, a wrestler. ‘Bill’ kept quite still, relaxed and yet giving an impression of latent strength.

“Come on,” taunted ‘Bill’, “I’m waiting.”

Malone flew at him, relying on speed of the movement to carry him backwards. Bill swayed to one side, gripped the man’s arm again and repeated the first manoeuvre. This time he did not stand back after Malone hit the wall, but grabbed his left wrist and brought it behind him in a hammer-lock. He dragged Malone upright, and for the first time acknowledged Roger’s presence.

“Open the door, will you ?”

Roger hurried to obey.

“Thanks,” said Bill, politely. He ran Malone forward, and the man could not stop himself. Roger watched them go out, saw Malone stagger down the first steps. ‘Bill’ was clearly determined to make a thorough job of it, for he pushed the Masher down the stairs, their footsteps echoed clearly and the heavy breathing of Malone could be heard.

The girl stood rigid in the centre of the room. Roger stepped swiftly to the window and drew aside the curtains. Malone was walking unsteadily in the road, obviously crossing to the opposite pavement to get further away from the human cyclone which he had released. His shoulders slumped and he was so dejected that Roger could not repress a chuckle.

“It’s not funny!” cried Lois. Her eyes were blazing with anger but she was close to tears.

“Miss Randall, your friend can look after himself very well.”

“You don’t know what Malone will do to him !” she cried. “He’ll never forgive him, it couldn’t have been worse. You — you’re a policeman, aren’t you? You’ve got to help Bill, you’ve got to make sure that he doesn’t get hurt! Malone won’t forget. He’ll—” she broke off.

“Go on,” Roger said, “what will he do ?”

“Oh, what’s the use of talking! I’ve warned you — why didn’t you stay away, why did you have to come here? I might have persuaded Bill to be sensible !”

“I doubt it,” said Roger. “Who is he?”

She stared. “Who? Malone?”

“I know Malone. I mean “Bill”.”

“He — he’s just a friend of mine.”

They heard ‘Bill’ coming up the stairs, running the last few steps and coming breezily into the room, smiling with deep satisfaction. He had eyes only for Lois, although he spoke to Roger.

“My name is Tennant, and I’m more than a friend of Lois’s, I am her fiancé — although sometimes she doesn’t seem very sure about it!” He grinned, looking twice as confident as he had before Malone’s arrival. “Sweetheart, this has got to stop, you know. I can see you’ve been in trouble while I’ve been away but it can’t be as bad as you seem to think. Don’t let an over-dressed lout like Malone frighten you.

“Should you ?” he appealed to Roger.

“You certainly shouldn’t. Do I gather that you’ve been away and come back to find Miss Randall in this spot?”

“Yes. I’ve been up north for several months and had no idea that this was happening until—” he paused, as if doubtful whether it was wise to go any further. “But that’s none of your business. Do you mind leaving, so that Lois and I can go into things privately?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t see why.”

“You will, in time,” Roger assured him. “Miss Randall has been persuaded to contribute one or two things towards ruining my reputation at Scotland Yard. I’ve a deep personal interest.”“

“I don’t believe it!” Tennant said. He looked at Lois with a puzzled expression in his eyes. He was more like he had been when Roger had first arrived.

Tears filmed her eyes. She turned away, her shoulders shaking, and blindly walked into another room. She did not close the door after her and Roger saw her fling herself, face downwards, on a single bed.

“Oh, lord !” exclaimed Tennant, stepping towards her.

Roger laid a hand on his arm.

“I shouldn’t,” he advised. “Leave her for a few minutes. Is there a telephone in the flat ?”

“There’s one on the next floor — a public call-box.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Roger said. “Tennant, don’t let Lois leave here. Don’t encourage her, don’t let her persuade you to take her out the back way. If you’re gone when I come back there’ll be more trouble than you expect, and she won’t be safe unless she’s with friends all the time.”

Tennant looked steadily into his eyes, then nodded and said :

“I’ll keep her here, don’t worry.”

“Good man!” Roger hurried downstairs. He found the phone on the landing and took out some coppers. There was no sound of movement in the house. He kept his eyes on the stairs leading to the street, not convinced that Malone would accept even temporary defeat. He dialled his own number, grew worried because there was no immediate answer, and was already imagining disaster at Chelsea when he heard Janet’s voice.

“This is Chelsea 0123.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs West,” said Roger. “I am in great need of feminine assistance to take charge of a damsel in distress. I cast my mind round and after much deliberation decided that I knew no one better qualified for the post than you, so—”

“Oh, you fool!”

Roger heard Mark’s voice, Janet telling Mark to be quiet, then he went on :

“I’m at 29, Chapel Street, St John’s Wood, and I think Mark had better come with you. Will you hurry, darling?”

“I’ll come like the wind ! I — oh, I had the wind up thoroughly, Cornish telephoned and said that Pep had been shot and he wanted to speak to you. Has he been shot?”

Roger sorted out the confusion.

“Yes, but I haven’t! Jan, just a moment. A quarter of an hour won’t make any difference, so before you come here go to Pep’s home, will you? Tell his wife that he’s been shot in the leg but I’m not sure what hospital he’s at—”

“It’s the London,” Janet said in a strained voice. “Cornish told me.”

“Oh, good ! You’ll let her know and tell her not to worry?”

She rang off and Roger replaced the receiver, scratched his ear, then walked slowly up to the top flat.

Pennant was still in the outer room, looking bewildered and peering through at Lois, who was sobbing less violently but who had not moved. Roger looked about the poorly- furnished bedroom. There was a small window, fairly high up — he did not think there was any chance of her getting out that way, nor of anyone breaking in. He closed the door and turned to Tennant.

“You do take things into your own hands, don’t you?” Tennant remarked.

“In this case I must,” Roger said, offering a cigarette. “How much do you know?”

“Nothing. I’ve been in Scotland for four months. I’m—” he grinned — “an unarmed combat instructor! Before I left, Lois was — well, she was just her normal self. As a matter of fact,” he added with some embarrassment, “we’d got engaged during my last leave and I was rather in the clouds, you know. Her letters didn’t say anything about what’s been happening but a friend of mine wrote and told me that she seemed to be worried stiff. He didn’t know what it was about. I didn’t say anything about coming down, but I managed to wangle a week’s leave earlier than I’d expected. I found — well, she’s as jumpy as a cat! I thought she .would fall through the floor when she saw me. Then I realised that some brutes are pestering the life out of her. She’s absolutely terrified,” Tennant added. “I can’t make her say why. Do you know why she’s so frightened?” demanded Tennant.

“No,” admitted Roger, “but I hope to, soon.”

CHAPTER 13

Strictly Unofficial

JANET AND Mark arrived just inside the hour. Janet seemed to have recovered her composure completely.

Lois was in the bedroom with Tennant, who had gone in a few minutes before and who seemed to have been talking ever since. Janet looked radiant, with a high colour in her cheeks — probably the glow of excitement.

Mark looked slightly peeved, doubtless because he had been so inactive.

“Well, darling?” asked Janet. “What’s on?”

“The thing to accept first is that we’ve found the girl who paid in the money.”

“What!” cried Mark.

“We can’t do anything at all about it yet,” Roger said. “She’s been acting under compulsion and is so frightened that she doesn’t know what she’s doing or saying. Also she’s had a visit from Masher Malone,” he added, gently.

Mark said weakly : “No.”

The voices continued from the other room, Lois’s occasionally raised above Tennant’s; it was clear that she was still refusing to explain. Roger told the others what had happened since he had left Welbeck Street and found time to explain the visit of Mrs Sylvester Cartier and the Society of European Relief. They heard him out without comment, although Mark was scowling and Janet frowning.

“So we’ve got to nurse the girl to a better frame of mind,” Roger said, “because she can probably give us the key to much of it, although she’ll almost certainly be in some danger.”

“That’s fairly obvious,” Janet said. “Are you going to ask for police protection for her?”

“I don’t think so, yet. I think if she were to be interviewed by Abbott she’d collapse. He would be the finishing touch. For the time being I think it had better be unofficial. We won’t be able to get any help from Pep, but we can use one or two of his men. Then there’s this chap Tennant. That should be enough.”

Mark said thoughtfully : “I rather like the sound of Tennant. I wish I’d seen him handle Malone !”

Soberly, Roger commented :

“He’s made a bad enemy there; if only for the sake of revenge, Malone will come after him.”

“Roger,” said Janet, “I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Where?”

“By not telling the Yard everything. No, wait until I’ve finished!” she added as Roger was about to interrupt. “You’ve admitted that Malone is dangerous, and I think if you told them what happened here this afternoon they would arrest him.”

“Even if they couldn’t prove much, they would be able to keep him out of harm’s way,” Mark said, quickly.

“After all, they should be able to do something about what happened this morning,” Janet put in. “You and Tennant can say that he actually attacked him.”

Roger smiled.

“On the evidence of the three of us — always providing Lois would give evidence, which I think is doubtful, we could probably put Malone inside for a week or two, if we could find him. But he’ll know that we might lodge a complaint and he’ll probably keep out of the way. That apart, do we want him under charge?”

“And you’re a policeman!” exclaimed Mark, shocked.

“You know as well as I do that you’ve often been a tower of strength because you could do things which a copper couldn’t. If we put Malone away we may not find a way of getting in touch with the higher-ups in this business, but if we let him run loose we’ll be able to work through him.”

“I suppose that does put a rather different light on it,” Janet conceded. “All right. We’ll do it your way.”

“Thank you,” said Roger, with mock politeness.

“What are you going to do with the girl?” Mark inquired.

“We’ll take her home,” said Janet.

“I see a snag if we do that,” Mark said. “Roger isn’t out of the wood yet and there will be Yard men watching until he is. The Yard will know that the girl is mixed up in the case and I wouldn’t put it past Abbott to demand an interview with her. Besides, you’ve already told him that you’ve found who paid in the money. He’ll jump to conclusions. This isn’t simply an attempt to frame you, old man. It’s a pretty big show.”

“You’re right, of course, but where can we take her?”

“You could use my flat,” Mark said, hopefully.

“Of course, the police wouldn’t think of going there,” Janet said, sarcastically. “That’s no good.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t go to a hotel,” Roger said. “One of the glitter palaces would be a good idea.”

“Nonsense!” said Janet. “Those places are all doors, and I couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t run away or that someone wouldn’t come and take her away. Don’t you know of a small place where we could confide in the manager and put one or two of Pep Morgan’s men to guard it? The more central the better, because we’d be close by. I’d stay with her, of course. There must be such a place.”

“I am duly humbled,” said Roger. “It’s a good idea. I think I know a place where they might be able to fix you up. Mark and I would stay at Chelsea.”

“The young woman might have something to say about it, as well as her young man,” Mark observed.

“I think we’ll be able to persuade them,” said Roger. “If they come out before I’m back, introduce yourselves.” He moved towards the door.

“Where are you off to?” demanded Janet.

“Only to the telephone,” Roger told her.

He was back in ten minutes. No one had come from the bedroom but the voices were quieter — whether the couple had decided that it was not worth further argument, or whether they had reached an agreement, Roger could only guess. He told Janet and Mark that he had been able to make arrangements with the proprietor of the Legge Private Hotel, in Buckingham Palace Gate. It was a good-class family hotel where they would be comfortable and where, if necessary, Roger and Mark could stay for the night.

Roger went to the bedroom door and tapped.

“Just a moment,” Bill Tennant called.

There was another murmur of voices before the door opened.

Apparently Lois had realised that she had made a wreck of herself and she had made-up her face quickly. She seemed to take their presence more for granted.

“I have nothing to say,” she declared.

“I’ve tried to make her tell you everything,” Tennant said, awkwardly, “but no luck.”

Roger said : “It will all work out, I think. If Miss Randall doesn’t feel that it’s time to talk freely we’ll have to accept that. Other things are more important. In the first place, both of you are in acute danger.”

“Now, come off it, I—”

“Malone is a bad enemy,” Roger said. “His temper won’t be improved by the way you smacked him down. He has friends, and you can’t handle a bunch of them in the way you handled him.” He rubbed it in, conscious of the increasing anxiety in Lois Randall’s eyes. “They won’t stop at using knives and razors. Will they, Lois?”

Startled, she said : “No.”

“How the devil do you know?” demanded Tennant.

“We’ve decided not to press that point,” Roger told him, but he was puzzled by the girl’s admission that she knew how Malone would fight. “Both of you are on Malone’s list, so while he’s free you’ll be in danger. What I’ve arranged is—” he told them, briefly, of the Legge Hotel.

He expected the girl to protest but he was pleasantly surprised. She gave him the impression that she was pleased and relieved. Tennant raised the only objection.

“I don’t see why I can’t look after Lois. Anyhow, why are you so determined to hide her away?”

“Tennant, Lois will admit that she has impersonated my wife and as a result of it I’m in trouble at Scotland Yard — accused of accepting bribes. If anything happens to Lois, and I seriously think it will unless we take great care, one of the witnesses in my defence disappears. Why don’t you take my word that the only sensible course is for you both to stay at the hotel, coming out only after dark until it’s blown over?”

“I’m not going to hide from a punk like Malone !”

“When there’s a chance for you to throw your weight about I’ll tell you,” Roger said, “but don’t be obstructive now.”

Again he was agreeably surprised, for Tennant shrugged his shoulders and said that he supposed Roger knew what he was talking about.

“So that’s settled ?” Janet asked, eagerly.

“It — it doesn’t matter what you do, I can’t tell you anything,” Lois insisted. “I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t be glad to hide away, but I just can’t talk.” Her eyes were bright with defiance.

“Haven’t we agreed that the subject’s not to be discussed now?” Roger said.

“It won’t be any use saying that I came with you under false pretences.”

“It wouldn’t enter our heads!” declared Mark, brightly and with his head on one side. “When are we moving, Roger? Now, or after dark ?”

“After dark.”

“Do you seriously think there is danger in daylight?” demanded Tennant.

“Oh, no,” interrupted Mark. “He’s going to all this trouble because he likes being melodramatic! Don’t be an ass. This business is serious and we haven’t got anywhere near the bottom of it yet. Lois is in danger because she has information which might cause a lot of trouble to her so-called friends.”

“I’ve said I’ll work with you, haven’t I?” Tennant was aggressive.

“That’s fine !” said Roger. “All four of you go to the Legge Hotel. I’ll join you as soon as I can.” He had been edging towards the door casually, and with no apparent motive, but now he picked up his hat from a chair and opened the door quickly. “Tell them as much of the story as they don’t know,” he added. “I’ll be seeing you !”

Janet stared at the closed door, then hurried across to it, pulled it open and stepped out. The door was pushed to gently as an arm slid about her waist. She gasped as Roger kissed her.

“You scared me!” she exclaimed.

“And I intended to,” said Roger. “That’s the kind of thing that is liable to happen in the next few days, don’t run risks. I had to slip out quickly or Mark would have wanted to come with me and I’m not happy at leaving you and Lois Randall to young Tennant on his own.”

“Roger, I’m really beginning to get frightened,” Janet said. “There are so many complications. Mark told me about this man Malone before.”

“You’ve much more to worry about than him,” said Roger. “Some time this evening I’m going to see one of the seven most beautiful women in the world, a Mrs Sylvester Car- tier. If I started to call her Antoinette you would have cause for pointed questions ! I haven’t placed the beauty yet, she may be leading me into an elaborate trap. On the other hand, she betrayed the Refugee Society and Pickerell, so I’m taking a chance with her. This is what I wanted to tell you about. And I do not want Tennant or Lois to hear you tell Mark.”

“What is it ?” asked Janet.

“I’m going to Number 11, Bonnock House,” Roger said. “I don’t know where it is, I’ll try to find out from Cornish — he’ll get the information for me. If I’m not back by ten o’clock, tell Cornish you know I was at the Mansions with Mrs Cartier. Will you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Bless you!” said Roger. He kissed her fiercely, and then hurried down the stairs. Turning at the landing and looking up he saw her standing quite still, with her eyes very bright. He felt a little choky as he reached the front door.

Before he stepped into the street he looked either way and by the time he reached the end of the street Janet was in the back of his mind.

He expected some sign of Malone’s gang, but there was none. Perhaps Malone was still brooding over the indignity. Roger was lucky in picking up a stray taxi and sat back in the corner, he concluded that Malone was more use to him free than he would be in jail.

The complications were increasing fast, yet there was a single common factor to which he clung with eagerness and which rather troubled him; there was a hint of desperation in it. He was no longer possessed by doubts about the reason for the Masher’s arrival at the ‘Saucy Sue’. Malone had heard of Mark’s visit and his gang had been summoned. There was nothing unusual about a racecourse gang haunting the East End. There was nothing surprising in Malone’s activities except that he obviously did work for Pickerell.

Roger considered that meek and faded little man.

Pickerell had arranged the payments to the Mid-Union Bank. Lois Randall was probably a pawn, important now because he had discovered her part in the affair. Pickerell himself almost certainly knew the reason for the attempt to frame Roger.

Lois had been all right until four months ago. Her trouble had started about the same time as Roger’s. He was still without a clue, but it was rapidly becoming clear that it was the result of something he had done or discovered the previous December. The fact that Pickerell employed Malone proved that it was a criminal conspiracy of some conse- quence. The fact that Malone had twice revealed himself suggested that the time for surreptitious action was past. It might mean that the culprits were getting worried — they were acting too hastily and openly, so increasing the risks.

Thanks only to Pep Morgan, the attempt to frame Roger had been no more than half successful; enough had broken open to convince even Abbott and Chatworth that their suspicions were groundless.

Pickerell’s swift volte face and the use to which he was prepared to put Lois’s evidence proved that; if Lois came again under Pickerell’s direct control she would probably be prepared to swear Roger’s reputation away. She was quite frightened enough to do so, but he regarded her fear as incidental, something to be dealt with when the main problem was solved.

Still pondering over the connecting links as Roger sat back in the taxi — he had directed the driver to Pep Morgan’s office in the Strand — he mused aloud.

“So Pickerell and Malone are working together and Joe Leech knew something which he could have betrayed. Pickerell works or worked for the Society, and Mrs Cartier either knows something of his other activities or suspects them and decided to warn me. Which implies that she must have known of the effort to frame me.”

He stopped speaking aloud when he thought of the elegant gentleman who might be Mr Cartier. For the first time for some hours he wished that all he had to do was telephone the Yard and start inquiries into the Carter manage. By now, Abbott and Cornish would probably be investigating the activities of the family, and of the Society, but Roger would get only what information Cornish could safely pass on.

The taxi pulled up outside Pep’s office.

CHAPTER 14

Tiny Martinson the Trail

ROGER PAID the driver off and, walking to the lift, thought that the other taxi-driver might be telephoning Bell Street at any time. It would be wise to send one of Pep’s men to the house, to take possession and receive messages.

The door of the general office was open.

Inside, a long-faced girl with lank, mousy hair was sitting in front of a typewriter on a tidy desk and looking up at one of Morgan’s operatives. He was a tall, lanky man whose trilby was pushed to the back of his head and who, Roger knew, considered himself a brilliant detective. His name was Sam; the girl’s was Maude. Both of them looked at Roger, the man with a grin which irritated him, and Maude ex- pressionlessly.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said; “if you’d been any later you’d have found the office shut up. We can’t stay open all night.”

“S’right,” said Sam.

“Can’t you ?” asked Roger. “Pep’s in hospital with a bullet in his thigh. What are you going to do? Go home and forget about it ?”

“That’s not true,” Sam exclaimed.

“Really?” asked Maude, narrowing her red-rimmed eyes.

“If Pep’s caught a packet that’s different, Handsome,” Sam said.

Roger said : “He has. He was working for me.”

“We know,” said Maude.

Roger knew that all the staff had a remarkable loyalty to the twinkling little man and was relieved that he would have no further trouble in getting them to do what he wanted. Morgan employed four regular operatives and had others who would do what he required of them — legmen who specialised in more humdrum affairs. These outside agents would be brought in to carry on with the routine work of divorce cases, and the salaried operatives would be switched over to the more urgent matter.

He made arrangements quickly.

One of the operatives, called by telephone, left for the Bell Street house before Roger left the office. Roger had given him a key to the back door. Two were to be sent to the Legge Hotel. Sam was to accompany Roger. Roger would have given a lot to have had a sergeant and a plainclothes man with him, but despite Sam’s mannerisms and irritating self-conceit, he was useful. There were others who would also probably help.

From the Strand office, Roger telephoned the Yard. He asked for and this time was able to speak to Chatworth. He thought that the AC sounded less hostile than on the previous night but he gave no news of importance although he did say that Pickerell had not gone to his Lambeth flat. When the police had arrived there, they had found signs of hurried departure.

“Are you sure that he was the man who arranged for those bank credits?” Chatworth demanded.

“Yes, sir,” said Roger. “But until he’s found I won’t be able to prove it.”

“What about the girl he employed?” Chatworth asked.

“What girl?”

“Didn’t you see one there?”

“There was a receptionist, yes.”

“Oh,” said Chatworth. “West, what were you doing at that Society office ?”

“Making inquiries, sir, on my own behalf.”

“Don’t ignore the circumstances,” Chatworth warned him.

“I’m not likely to, sir,” said Roger coldly. “Good night.” He replaced the receiver and looked into Sam’s narrowed eyes.

“Comes to something when your own boss don’t trust you,” said Sam, with unexpected understanding; “they must be crazy, Handsome! Well, where are we going?”

“I’ve another call to make,” Roger said. “You have a look in the London Street Directory for Bonnock House, will you? Cornish might not be able to tell me where it is offhand.” He dialled the Yard again and spoke to Cornish, who did not know where the house was but promised to find out and to call Morgan’s office. Meanwhile Maude, a cigarette drooping from her lips and a smear of ash on her soiled woollen jumper, leaned back and jerked the telephone directory from the shelf.

“ ‘S’matter with looking at that ?” she demanded.

Roger stared, then smiled.

“Never overlook the obvious — you’re right, Maude!” He turned the pages over, came to the ‘CAR’ columns and ran his forefinger down the ‘Cartiers’. There were several in the book and he found three entries immediately beneath each other.