Inspector West At Home

Cartier, Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge . . . 021 Cartier, Mrs Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge . . . 29 Cartier, Mrs Sylvester, 11, Bonnock House, Hampstead . . . 54012

Maude was contemplating Roger as he closed the book.

“Got what you want?”

“Yes, thanks. It’s all right, Sam,” he said as the latter looked up from the Street Directory. “What’s the time?” He glanced at a large clock on the wall and saw that it was a quarter to seven. He frowned.

“Ready?” Sam demanded.

“It isn’t quite time to go.” Roger tapped against the desk thoughtfully. “We’d better get some food, Sam, we might be working late.”

“Want anything more from me?” asked Maude.

“Not tonight, thanks.”

“Watch your step, Handsome,” said Maude; more ash fell from her cigarette.

As he walked down the stairs with Sam — the lift had stopped operating at half-past six — Roger found himself oddly affected by the attitude of the girl and the lanky fellow beside him. He had expected to find them gloating over the discomfiture of a Yard man; instead, their sympathy, cloaked by an air of indifference but nevertheless sincere, was heartening.

“Sam, you haven’t a gun, have you?” Roger asked suddenly.

“I been thinking about one,” Sam told him, earnestly. “I got one at home, Handsome; I didn’t think I’d need it, but if Pep’s been holed maybe I ought to get it.”

“I think you should,” said Roger. “Where do you live?”

“Fulham Road,” said Sam. “Not far. I can have some supper with my missus and tell her I’ll be late, as well as pick up the rod. Does that suit you ?”

Roger considered, then said : “Yes, that’ll do fine. I’ll be at the entrance of Bonnock House in Hampstead, at eight- fifteen. I’ll meet you there.”

“Okey-doke,” said Sam, “I’ll take a car — no limit to expenses, I hope ?”

Roger walked towards Fleet Street.

There was a small restaurant near the Cheshire Cheese where he could get a good meal, and where he might find one or two crime reporters of the London dailies. They would probably be helpful. He did not doubt that they had heard of his suspension and, when he entered the smoke- filled ground floor room he saw two men look up at him with evident surprise.

One pushed his chair back and approached him, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.

“Why, hallo, West! What’ll you have ?” He was a middle- aged man, nearly bald and rather shabby. He was one of the best crime reporters on the Street and was reputed to have more enemies in the East End than anyone outside the police force.

“Hallo, Charlie,” Roger said. “I won’t have anything except some food. Is there anything good on tonight?”

“Might be in time for some roast beef,” said Charlie Wray and turned to stare coldly at a younger man. He had close- cropped black hair which rose in a quiff above his forehead, a broken nose and a wide mouth with a most engaging grin. He walked with a pronounced limp. “That’s if Tamperly hasn’t had it all.”

“Share and share alike,” said Tamperly, swallowing the last of a mouthful. “I was coming to see you, Handsome.

I thought—”

“I have seen him,” said Wray, pointedly. “This is by ap- poinment. And don’t be familiar.”

“I don’t mind whether the Echo or the Cry gets a scoop,” Roger said. “I’m too worried to take sides in a newspaper scrap. I do want some help.”

“Say the word,” Wray said.

“All the organisation of the Cry will support you,” promised Tamperly. “As a matter of fat, Handsome, we’re running an article on you — we’ve whitewashed you thoroughly. Had to use the story,” he added, half apologetically. “It’s all over the place.”

“Of course it is.”

“Why waste time?” Wray demanded. They reached an empty table, Wray fetched his coffee to it and Tamperly brought the remains of a plate of roast beef and vegetables. A buxom woman came up with a bowl of soup for Roger, greeted him with a cheerful smile and told him there was a steak pudding, if he’d like it.

“You told me—” Tamperly began, indignandy.

“They’re kept for the popular customers,” Wray grinned.

Roger said : “I know you two would like to cut each other’s throats, but could you bury the axe for half an hour? Take fifty-fifty on anything that is thrown up from this job?”

“Yes,” said Wray.

“He’ll try to get sixty, but I’ll play ball,” said Tamperly, with his engaging grin. “What’s gone wrong, Handsome? I thought you were Chatworth’s white-headed boy.”

“I’m being framed. What I’m interested in now are two things — do either of you know anything about a man named Masher Malone with a gang in the East End?”

“I certainly do!” exclaimed Wray. “He was questioned today about Joe Leech’s murder.”

“Lessing was at Joe’s. I wondered if it was the same job,” Tamperly said.

“Did you know anything about Malone before today?” Roger asked.

Both men had heard of Malone but they had not regarded him as out of the ordinary. In their opinion, he would have his fling but one day would go too far and be put inside. Afterwards, he might gather the remnants of his gang together again but in all likelihood someone else would have taken over from him and he would fade into the background, considering himself betrayed. A big shot in his own imagination he would look back to the great days of the London gangs.

“See if you can find out more about him, will you?” Roger asked. “Next there’s a man named Pickerell.” He gave them Pickerell’s address and the fact that he had worked for the Society of European Relief. Tamperly’s grin widened and he said :

“You wouldn’t want us to probe into the affairs of the Society, would you ? How like you, Handsome! You don’t ask for the tiling you want most!”

“I haven’t got to it yet, because I don’t know what it is,” Roger said, “and in any case I don’t think the Society is connected with it. I think it’s Pickerell only. He’s a paid official. If you want to help me, concentrate on Malone and Pickerell.”

“Nothing else?” asked Wray.

“Not now,” said Roger.

He broke off, looking across at the door, which had opened to admit an all-too-familiar figure. It was Tiny Martin, lantern-jawed and thin-lipped. Roger’s heart leapt and he looked about him quickly, subconsciously thinking of getting away and fearful lest Martin had instructions to detain him. Martin, however, simply looked about the room and went to a corner table, where he called for scrambled egg and beer.

“What a stomach! But he’s on your tail,” Wray said. “Nasty feeling, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know a worse,” admitted Roger. “I want to shake him off.”

Wray and Tamperly exchanged glances.

Five minutes later — it was exactly a quarter to eight — Roger left the room hurriedly. Before he reached the door he saw Martin get to his feet. He slammed the door behind him and hurried along a narrow passage towards the street.

Upstairs, Tamperly and Wray went for the door at the same time as Martin. Tamperly knocked against the man and apologised profusely. Martin snapped at him angrily and was halfway out when Wray, already outside, swung round with a muttered imprecation and cannoned into the sergeant, who staggered back into Tamperly.

Wray’s expression was one of bewildered sorrow.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’ve forgotten my hat. Are you all right, Tiny?”

“You’ll be sorry for this!” Martin growled. He recovered his breath and hurried past them, but the two reporters grinned at each other.

Roger was already in a bus heading for the West End, where taxis would probably be easier to come by. He looked out of the window and made certain that Martin had not been allowed to follow him. Wray and Tamperly would back him up in spite of their rivalry. He smiled and sat back until he reached Haymarket. He preferred to make the journey by taxi, for he might want to leave Bonnock House in a hurry and he had no idea how far it was from the nearest station.

He found a taxi, then kept it waiting while he telephoned his home. Morgan’s man answered him. There had been three telephone calls, two from Scotland Yard and one from a lady who had asked for Mrs West and said she was her cousin. The taxi-driver named Dixon had not called.

Roger frowned when he returned to the taxi, surprised that Dixon had been out for so long. It was possible that the cabby had called when the Bell Street house had been empty. Roger sat back and smoked on the way to Hampstead.

It was already dusk when the cabby found Bonnock House. One or two uncurtained windows in the big block of flats looked very bright in the gloom. He saw Sam by the drive but did not speak to him. Sam patted his pocket. One flat on the top floor of the mansions was lit up, a beacon of light which could be seen for miles. The house was a massive edifice of concrete and looked ugly and forbidding in the half-light. There was a drive-in and ample space for a taxi to park but Roger sent his man to the end of the narrow street — which was on the edge of the common — then went on foot to the house.

Number 11 was on the first floor.

The flats were obviously in the luxury class. The corridor was carpeted, the lighting was concealed, the decorations were in keeping with the general atmosphere. All the doors were painted black, the walls were of cream mottled paper which showed up clearly in the lighting immediately above it.

He rang the bell at Number 11. The door was opened by a tiny maid, neat, faded-looking and reminding him, for some reason of Mr Pickerell.

“Is Mrs Cartier in?” Roger asked. “My name is West.”

“Yes, sir. She is expecting you.” The maid stepped aside and, as Roger entered, closed the door. It might have been accidental but it seemed to Roger to close with a decided snap. He glanced sharply at the maid, but she was walking sedately towards one of the black doors at the far end of the entrance hall. She tapped on it and entered. That door, also, closed with a snap.

“I’m being a fool!” Roger muttered.

He meant that he was being foolish to let himself think that there was anything even remotely sinister about the closing of the doors and the manner of the maid, but was he a fool for being here? Was Sam a sufficient cover? It was nearly half past eight, and Janet was not to call the Yard until ten o’clock.

An hour and a half suddenly appeared a very long time.

The maid came out.

“Mrs Cartier will see you now, sir.”

‘Mrs Cartier’, reflected Roger. A well-trained maid would have said ‘Madam’.

But his fears and forebodings soon faded.

Mrs Cartier rose from an easy chair in a room which set off her tall figure, perfectly gowned in black and gold. The room was pale blue, the luxurious chairs upholstered in maroon-coloured mohair, the furniture Louis-Quinze, and the carpet thick and muffling his footsteps. Roger took the extended hand, resisting an absurd temptation to bow over it, then looked into the smiling face of the woman.

“I’m so glad you came,” said Mrs Cartier. “I have so much to tell you. But first — have you forgiven me for pretending to wish to see your wife when I called ?”

CHAPTER 15

Mrs Cartier is Helpful

“I CERTAINLY haven’t forgiven you,” Roger said. “I beg your pardon.”

“Mrs Cartier, we haven’t time to fence,” Roger said. “I haven’t forgiven you for coming to me this morning with half a story. I might easily have been murdered; a friend of mine was in fact badly wounded. Had you told me what to expect that might have been avoided.” He thought that she was as shocked by his attitude as Malone had been by Tennant’s unexpected versatility. “I hope you’ll tell me much more than you have so far. A great deal is at stake — but you know that.”

“You mean your reputation ?” Mrs Carder’s voice was soft and her smile faintly mocking.

Roger looked at her steadily.

“I really don’t think that remark was worthy of you,” he said.

She threw back her head and laughed; her slender throat was flawless, her teeth very even and white.

“Come and sit down, Inspector ! I shall like you, I thought from the first that I would.” She lifted a carved wooden cigarette box from a table at her side and flicked a lighter into flame for him, but did not smoke herself. There was a small ashtray on the arm of the settee, kept in position by weights. She was still smiling, but there was a more sober expression in her eyes and she no longer gave the impression that she was hoping to influence him by her beauty.

“I can help you, Inspector, if you will help me.”

“So it’s conditional?”

“First, I want you to understand what has happened. My Society — and although you may not believe it, I have its interests very much at heart — has been used to conceal serious criminal activities. I discovered that just over a week ago. You can understand how shocked I was and how anxious to adjust the situation ?”

Roger did not speak.

“I should explain that I went to the office without telling Pickerell to expect me. He was talking with the girl receptionist — so charming, don’t you think?”

“I hardly noticed her.”

“Then you must take my word for it, Inspector. Lois Randall is a most charming girl!” Mrs Cartier went on. “She speaks several languages, which has made her invaluable, and her manner with those who come for help is extremely gracious. I should not like you to think badly of her.”

“Why should I ?” asked Roger.

“Because she has been going to your bank, calling herself your wife and making things so unpleasant for you,” said Mrs Cartier, softly.

Half-prepared for that, Roger was able to look as if the news was unexpected. He jumped to his feet and stared down at his companion.

“Please believe me. She has done all this against her will,” Mrs Cartier said earnestly. “You should be pleased to know the truth, so that you can convince your friends at Scotland Yard. Don’t you think so?”

Roger said : “If this is really true—”

“Oh, it is quite true and I think I could find the — what is the word ? — evidence, yes, evidence to prove it. The police are so particular about evidence, aren’t they? Please sit down, Inspector, and listen to what I have to say to you.”

Roger sat down, tapping the ash from his cigarette.

“I discovered all this because I visited the office unexpectedly and heard them talking,” Mrs Cartier declared. “Pickerell, the secretary with whom you appear to have had a difference of opinion” — she smiled her secretive smile — “and Lois Randall. She was being sent to the bank, and protested. Pickerell threatened her with some disclosure and after a while she agreed to go. I hurried out of the office and met her in the passage. I have rarely seen anyone so agitated. She was muttering to herself and when she saw me she what I believe is called “fell through the floor”. I pretended that I knew nothing of what had happened. I was shocked because I had heard enough to make it clear that the visit to the bank was intended to jeopardise your position. I only knew you as a name, then, but I realised the gravity of the situation for you.”

“Did you?” Roger asked, expressionlessly.

“I wondered how best I could warn you,” went on Mrs Cartier. “I decided not to telephone you or call to see you. I made inquiries among my friends and discovered that your wife is very active in voluntary work. That gave me an excuse to call. I was so glad that you were there yourself, but I had planned to arouse the suspicions of one or the other of you — suspicions which would take you to Welbeck Street. I hope you believe me.”

“Why shouldn’t I ?” Roger asked.

“Is it my imagination or are you being just a little difficult?”

“It’s quite a shock,” Roger reminded her.

“Of course, how foolish I am !” She leaned forward and rested a hand on his arm; her fingers were cool, soft and long. “I must tell you everything quickly. I realised from what I had overheard that Pickerell was not interested in the Society. I contemplated dismissing him but doubted whether that would be wholly effective. I wondered how I could help the girl and saw no way, but believed that if you discovered what was happening, you would be able to solve the problem.”

“Did you indeed ?” Roger said heavily.

She drew her hand away.

“Why do you disbelieve me?” Her voice was sharp and her expression angry.

Very flatly, Roger said : “All this happened a week ago, Mrs Cartier. Had it been two days ago I could have understood the delay, but you appear to have given Pickerell good time to make his arrangements. Why did you wait for so long? And how did you learn that I was already in trouble at Scotland Yard? You’ve implied that you did know.”

“But yes, of course,” said Mrs Cartier, her voice softer again. “I am not used to dealing with those whose life is spent in seeing the flaws in the statements of others! I will answer your second question first. I have friends, one of them on the Echo. I get a great deal of publicity for my Society through her and I asked her if she could get some information for me. She brought it to me yesterday, and told me that you were under suspicion and had actually been suspended. That was at dinner last night. She told me her informant was a reporter named Wray.”

Roger began to think she might be telling the truth.

“I know Wray, and he certainly knew about it.”

“As for the other point, Inspector—” Mrs Cartier shrugged. “It was clear that this had been going on for several months. It did not occur to me that there was any great urgency. I wanted to make sure that I did nothing which might jeopardise the activities of the Society. I gave the matter a great deal of thought and took a long time in reaching a decision. That is the whole truth.”

“I see,” said Roger. “I do believe you, Mrs Cartier.”

She eyed him without speaking for some seconds and then smiled with deep satisfaction.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “Now you know why I came to see you and you must realise my own problem. I need someone’s assistance to make sure that the Society does not suffer because it employed a rogue. Will you help?”

“Yes,” Roger said.

“I was sure you would.” She pressed his hand again but quite impersonally. He wondered what nationality she had been born. “Now I will help you,” Inspector. I’ve told you what you have probably known already, through Pickerell. I understand that you interviewed him this afternoon.”

“Who told you that?” Roger asked sharply.

“A German doctor, a refugee who called there and saw you. He was referred to me and I have since seen him.” She spoke confidently. “He is very observant. I knew he was there just before the shooting, so I asked him whether he had seen anyone else. He described a man whom I identified as you. The doctor’s name is Hoysen, Dr Karl Hoysen, once of Frankfurt-on-Oder. I will gladly arrange for you to interview him if you wish. In fact, you may have his address now.”

She jumped up and went into another room, to return quickly with a small black book. She opened it and pointed at an entry; her nail was varnished pale pink.

“There, Inspector. That will satisfy you.”

Roger took out a notebook and wrote the name and address of the Dutch doctor — Karl Hoysen, the Kronprins Hostel, St John’s Wood, N.W.8. He knew of the place, which had a good reputation.

Mrs Cartier looked positively gay. “I promised to help you in return for your kindness. That conversation I overheard was extremely interesting. I will not ask you to trust my memory. Come!” She took his hand as he rose, then rested her hand lightly on his arm and led the way to a small library, book-lined and warm, as impressive as the lounge. There was a small period desk and, unexpectedly, a tape-recorder. She opened a cupboard beneath the bookcases and took out several tapes.

Roger watched with great hope.

“You must understand that I am aware that some of the people who come for help are not displaced persons but Russian sympathisers., For some time I have suspected that Pickerell was not all that he seemed, so I arranged for this to be installed. It was not always used, of course. I went to the office whenever suspected individuals had gone to see Pickerell. By pressing a switch outside the door, I set the machine in motion. Clever, is it not?”

“Very.”

“Thank you! I must say that before hearing this recording I hadn’t heard a conversation which I thought was really suspicious. Until my call a week ago I began to think I was wrong, and had misjudged Pickerell.” As she spoke she was fitting the tape into the machine, then she pressed a switch.

There was a faint whirring sound as the tape began to revolve. Then softly came Pickerell’s voice, alternating with

Lois Randall’s. Roger heard Lois protest, with a note of hysteria in her voice, saying that she would not ‘do it’ again. Pickerell sounded suave and threatening, the girl seemed to get nearer and nearer to hysterics. Pickerell’s threats — always about something he did not name — increasing. Then with a quickening tempo :

“Why, why, why?” demanded Lois, “why must you try to ruin this man? What has he done to you?”

Roger stiffened. Mrs Cartier’s eyes showed a repressed excitement.

“My dear, that is no business of yours,” came Pickerell’s voice, “but I will tell you that a few months ago West happened upon a discovery which could do me and my friends a great deal of harm.” The man seemed to be speaking to himself and Roger could imagine Lois standing and staring at him, could picture his faded eyes and the thick lenses of his glasses. One day he will stumble upon the truth, my dear, and that would not do. It is one or the other of us and I do not intend that it shall be me.”

“What — what beastly work are you doing?” Lois demanded.

“That needn’t interest you,” Pickerell said. “What matters is that unless you do what you are told I shall deal with you severely.” His voice hardened. “Take the money, and do exactly as you have before. Don’t be foolish enough to try to betray me.”

The talking ceased. There was a rustling sound, sharp noises which might have been footsteps, and then the unmistakable banging of a door. A laugh, soft and gentle and somehow blood-curdling; Pickerell, of course.

“I must try to make sure that the bank cashier will be amenable,” Pickerell said. “I wonder whether it is all necessary? I wonder if West will ever remember what happened on that day?” His voice was barely audible and Roger bent down, his ear close to the tape-recorder. “The unlucky 13th,” Pickerell went on, and then there was a sound as if he snapped his fingers as he added in a louder, more angry voice : “This absurd superstition!”

The voice stopped. Mrs Cartier switched the machine off.

Roger straightened up and looked into her eyes. His were narrowed and yet glistening. December the 13th, the unlucky 13th. He did not remember what had happened that day but his files at the Yard would surely tell him and he would surely be allowed access to them. With this tape, he could end all doubts and all suspicions.

He could have kissed the lovely Mrs Cartier!

“You see how important it is?” she said.

“It couldn’t be more important,” Roger said. “May I have the tape ?”

“Of course,” said Mrs Cartier. “Be careful with it, it’s the only one.” She took the tape off the machine, replaced it in its cardboard container and handed it to him. “You will keep your part of the bargain, Inspector, won’t you? You will do all you can to make sure that the work of the Society is not interrupted ?”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Roger assured her. “Is there anything else?” He smiled. “No, I’m not greedy — I’m simply trying to make sure !”

“I should not like to be a criminal with you after me,” said Mrs Cartier.

The remark was fatuous, and Roger did not quite understand why it struck a wrong note. He only knew that it did, that with the tape in his hand and the evidence he needed to clear himself there in unmistakable form, he was suddenly doubtful of this woman’s sincerity. It was as if his mind had opened for a split-second, to allow him to catch a glimpse of something badly wrong, then closed up again and left him with an insistent, infuriating doubt. He did not think that he revealed it as she led him back into the other room.

The maid had been in; there was a tray with brandy and whisky, and a dish of fruit. Two large, bowl-shaped brandy glasses were warming in front of a single bar of an electric fire. The woman approached the tray.

“What will you have?”

Before Roger could answer, there was a sharp exclamation in the next room. The maid’s voice rose, then Masher Malone said harshly:

“Well? Where are they?”

CHAPTER 16

Situation Reversed

THE MAID did not answer.

There was no sound until a sharp report followed as if he had slapped her face, then the question again :

“Where are they ?”

“In — in there,” gasped the maid.

Roger could picture her pointing towards the door. He bent down and pushed the tape beneath a low table near the wall, then stepped to the door, getting behind it and motioning the woman towards the library. She took no notice but stood staring. It did not open immediately, but one opened elsewhere. There was an oath from Malone and a stifled scream from the maid. She had given her mistress a moment’s respite by misdirecting the man.

A thud — a cry — and silence.

Roger thought tensely : “Where the devil is Sam?”

He looked round the room. There were no fire-irons, nothing at all he could use as a weapon. He didn’t fancy his chances of facing Malone with the same confidence as Bill Tennant had done, even if Malone were not armed.

Doors opened and banged. Roger picked up a small upright chair and kept close to the wall. He saw the handle turn before the door was flung open.

Mrs Cartier cried : “No, no !”

Roger swung the chair on the head and shoulders of the man who stepped in, but before it landed he saw that it was not Malone but a smaller man. The chair crashed on the man’s shoulders and sent him sprawling, the force of the blow carried Roger forward, so that he almost ran into the overdressed figure of Malone. He saw the cosh in the man’s hand as it moved downwards and caught him a paralysing blow at the top of the arm, rose again and struck him on the side of the head. He staggered against the far wall, ears ringing, agonising pain shooting through him.

“This way,” Malone said.

Roger just heard the words but did not understand until two more men entered. The fellow whom he had hit with the chair was getting unsteadily to his feet; there was a trickle of blood on his cheek.

“We’ve got ‘em,” Malone said, with an economy of words which would have seemed remarkable at any time. He glanced at Roger and two of the men stepped to Roger’s side, one striking him with a clenched fist and sending him against the wall again.

Malone stood in front of Mrs Cartier.

His oily hair, dressed high so as to increase his stature, hardly came up to her mouth. She looked down at him, and even through the mists of pain and mortification Roger could see her draw herself up, disdainfully. Yet he believed that she was frightened — as any woman would have been frightened by such a man in similar circumstances.

Malone spoke in his husky voice.

“Listen to me, sister. You had a tape recorder at your office. Where is it?”

Mrs Cartier said : “I have no idea.”

Malone moved his right hand and snapped his fingers under her nose. She moved back involuntarily, and stumbled against the table. The tray of bottles shook and the whisky and brandy swayed up against the sides of the bottles.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Malone said. His vocabulary was grotesque in its limitations, its sprinkling of quasi-American slang. “Just say where it is, and you won’t get hurt.”

“I still don’t understand you,” she insisted.

Roger opened his mouth. “Don’t—” he began.

One of the others struck him a flat-handed blow across the mouth. He felt the warm trickle of blood from his lips. He had intended to tell the woman to let Malone know but could not speak.

Malone struck Mrs Cartier a savage blow on the right cheek, another on the left, a third and a fourth. Her head rocked from side to side, she would have fallen but for the rain of blows. Her hair spilled out from its elaborate coiffure, drooped over her eyes and face and then about her shoulders.

Malone gripped a handful and tugged at it savagely, making her gasp with pain.

Roger clenched his hands, but the men held him fast.

Malone stepped back, and Mrs Cartier brushed the hair out of her eyes. She looked older, her cheeks were red and already swollen and there was a scratch on the lid of one of her eyes.

“Tell him !” Roger cried.

He was struck again, but half-heartedly. Malone threw a careless glance over his shoulder, then looked back at Mrs Cartier.

“The guy’s got sense,” he said. “Where’s that machine?”

“In the other room,” answered Mrs Cartier in a voice that Roger could hardly hear. She pointed an unsteady hand towards the library and then swayed back against a chair and slumped into it, burying her face in her hands.

Malone turned to the larger of the men by the door.

“Tell him,” he said. “Keep your peepers open.”

“Oke,” said the man. He turned and crossed the flat. Roger heard the opening of the door and at the same time realised how little noise had really been made. It was doubtful whether anyone in the adjoining flats would dream of anything out of the ordinary. The tape which meant so much lay on the floor, behind a table, where he had kicked it when he had first heard Malone’s voice. Before long they would start to look for it.

Then Pickerell came in.

He walked furtively. He was not wearing glasses and his face had a hang-dog look. He averted his eyes from Mrs Cartier, who did not look up, and went with Malone into the room where the tape-recorder was.

“Bring in the slop,” Malone said.

Roger was hustled forward, unable to do or say anything to help the woman.

Malone stared at him, looking up with his narrowed, sultry eyes. Pickerell stood at one side of the tape-recorder, Malone at the other.

“Can you work this thing?” Malone demanded.

Roger said: “Yes.”

“Okay. Work it.”

Roger opened his mouth — and was struck across the face. He wiped a trickle of blood from his chin, then picked up a tape from the cupboard, which was open. He pressed the switch and voices came through — a conversation between Pickerell and a man who spoke in broken English.

“Is that it?” Malone asked Pickerell.

“No, that’s nothing.” Pickerell licked his lips.

“Try another,” Malone ordered.

He took the first tape from Roger’s hands and flung it against the outer wall, where it unrolled like a length of film. Roger fitted on the second with the same result — Malone flung that, too. There were perhaps two dozen tapes in the cupboard and he tried one after the other. Had Malone asked whether he knew where the tape they wanted was, Roger doubted whether he would have had the courage to keep silent. Malone’s thoroughness, the slow deliberation with which he worked, helped Roger to retain sufficient moral courage to say nothing.

Time was flying, but he did not give it serious thought. If Sam had been coming to help he would have raised an alarm by now. It seemed useless to hope for outside help.

The twelfth tape crashed against the wall before Malone said softly :

“You sure you’d know the one, Pickerell?”

“Of course I do,” Pickerell was as frightened of the man as anyone. “The only one that could do any harm was when I gave Lois Randall instructions. It would have our voices, Masher.”

“My name’s Malone,” the man said; “use it.” To Roger: “Go on, copper.”

Roger tried four more tapes.

“Why don’t you find out whether —” Pickerell began.

“Close your trap !” snapped Malone. He nodded to Roger, who put on four more tapes only to take them off and see them hurled away. The carpet was covered with the shiny, worm-like tapes, and the wall was marked where they had crashed against it. There were four more left in the cup-board and Malone seemed prepared to hear them all. Pick- erell opened his lips as if he were going to make another suggestion, but thought better of it. Two more tapes went the way of the others. Two more, and then there would be the inevitable questions.

Roger, his nerve steadier by then, was able to think more clearly. It was probable that they would start to question Mrs Cartier. It would be impossible to stand by and watch, he knew that he would have to speak. He knew, too, that having heard the record, he had the essential facts to work on; if he could not produce the record, Chatworth would have to take his word.

But when Malone found it he would guess what Roger had heard.

There was one tape left.

Suddenly from the outer room there came a shrill whistle, the sound which Mark had heard near the ‘Saucy Sue’. It was clear and distinct and Roger guessed at once what it was — the gang’s signal of impending danger. Malone jerked his head up and Pickerell gasped :

“What’s that?”

“Pipe down,” said Malone, “someone’s coming.” He moved past Roger and went towards the door. Roger could see Mrs Cartier still slumped forward in the chair.

Voices were raised, but not loudly enough for Roger to hear the words.

Malone came back and spoke softly and with that evil glitter in his eyes.

“The busies. So you’re clever, copper?” His teeth showed in an ugly sneer. “One day you won’t be, you’ll be kicking up the daisies. Where’s that tape?”

“I don’t know what —” Roger began.

“You know,” said Malone, “you know!” He moved his right hand with bewildering swiftness, and the cosh seemed to leap into it. He hit Roger over the temple, sending him lurching over the tape-recorder, which crashed down. He did not try to pick himself up. The room was going round and the blood was pounding in his ears. He thought he heard voices and a cry of pain but could not be sure. Doors opened and closed. There was silence, until slowly he became aware of a woman sobbing. He dragged himself to his feet.

It was not Mrs Cartier. She was on her knees beside the maid who was sitting in a chair and crying, just as Lois had cried, and her mistress was speaking to her in a soothing voice. The passage door was shut but footsteps were audible in the passage; then the bell rang. Only the three of them appeared to be left in the flat.

Mrs Cartier looked up at him.

“Please open it,” she said.

Roger went unsteadily to the door. The bell rang again as he reached it. He fumbled with the latch and pulled it open, stumbling as someone entered, as if to make sure that the door was not closed in his face. He thought he recognised the man but was not sure until a voice, for once lifted out of its habitual coldness, exclaimed :

“West! What has happened?”

It was Superintendent Abbott I

Tiny Martin and two plainsclothes men came into the room followed by the lanky Sam. Roger realised then what had happened. Pep Morgan’s operative was grinning rather sheepishly. Roger knew that Sam had seen the mob come in and had guessed what they were going to do. Realising that on his own he would be useless, he had telephoned the Yard and made the summons urgent enough to bring Abbott and these men post-haste.

Abbott put a hand on Roger’s arm and led him to the bathroom. Roger felt his face being sponged, warm water soaked into his cut lips, welcome and soothing. Abbott did not speak and his bony hands were surprisingly gentle.

. It was over at last.

Roger dried himself on a towel which felt as smooth as silk. There were a few pink bloodstains on it but the bleeding had almost stopped. He was sufficiently recovered to run a comb through his hair. His right eye was swollen but his left was all right and he could see Abbott clearly. The room was no longer going round and he felt all right except that his lips seemed to touch his nose, and his head ached.

“I’ve never been so glad to see you,” he said.

“I daresay,” said Abbott, his thin lips twisting in a smile. “I shouldn’t try to talk too much yet.” He led the way into the entrance hall and the lounge, where Mrs Cartier was sitting in an easy chair, with coffee by her side. The maid was stretched out on the settee, her face red and swollen with crying.

Mrs Cartier had tidied her hair. One cheek was also red and puffy and the scratch on her eyelid was lined with blood, but she looked more presentable than Roger or the maid — and she was smiling, although with more than a touch of bitterness.

“How it must hurt,” she said to Roger. “Will you have some coffee ?”

Roger croaked. “I don’t think I could drink anything hot.”

“Then some cold milk?” She rose and hurried out of the room, returning in a few seconds with a glass of cold milk.

Roger said to Abbott: “Sam called for you, did he?”

“Yes. But I think Mrs Cartier is better able to tell me what happened.”

“I will, immediately,” said Mrs Cartier. “Oh, I am so sorry that they took the tape —”

Roger snapped, his voice suddenly clear.

“Did they?” He stood up too quickly, for his head began to swim, and stepped to the cabinet beneath which he had kicked the record. He saw the cardboard container and beckoned one of the Yard men, who went down on his knees and brought it out. The tape was inside.

Mrs Cartier said eagerly.

“That’s wonderful! Now —”

Then she broke off and the others looked towards the passage door. Sam stood there ill at ease with one of Abbott’s men. There was a murmur of conversation before the door opened. A plainclothes man stood aside and revealed the tall, elegant figure of Mr Sylvester Cartier.

CHAPTER 17

The Air is Much Clearer

AFTER THE first shock, Cartier took the situation remarkably well. He exclaimed at the sight of his wife’s puffy face and looked at Roger without understanding. Then he gripped her hands and looked into her eyes as she said :

“It is all right now, cheri, quite all right now.”

Cartier took a blue and white spotted handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed fastidiously at his forehead. Roger saw him closely for the first time. He was too narrow-jawed to be handsome, yet was good-looking with an excellent, almost feminine complexion. His fair hair was thin and curly, his eyes blue, his lips full and generous. There was a foppish air about him, but Roger wondered whether it was affectation.

“Now perhaps someone will be good enough to explain this remarkable visitation,” said Cartier.

“Cheri, I should have told you something of it before,” said his wife. She looked contrite and Cartier stared at her in growing bewilderment. “Perhaps you will be patient?” She looked at Abbott and added : “I would like to tell my husband what has caused this.”

Cartier stepped to the tray. The fruit knives were crossed and he straightened them, then picked up an apple and toyed with it.

“I should like to know it myself,” Abbott said drily. The man was positively human and Roger looked at him, surprised by this revelation, puzzled also by something else in his manner.

“Then please listen,” said Mrs Cartier.

Roger liked her telling of the story, touching on all she had told him and elaborating only those details which needed fuller explanation. She mentioned her visit to Bell Street and explained that she had seen Roger waiting at the end of Welbeck Street and had hurried off to arrange for this visit. She admitted that she and her husband had quarrelled at Welbeck Street, and she made it clear that because of his antagonism to her interest in the Society she had hesitated to take him into her confidence. She gave Roger the impression that it would have to be settled between them and that she was prepared to make concessions. Her eyes seemed to caress the man.

Then she told them what had happened at the flat.

Tiny Martin, probably the most proficient shorthand- writer at the Yard, took everything down, occasionally forced to write so fast that his pencil seemed to slide across the page of his note-book.

“I would have refused to answer but the Inspector told me to,” Mrs Cartier finished.

“I should think he did!” exclaimed Cartier. “I’ve never heard anything so wicked.” He broke off, put the apple down, stared at Roger and then went on : “Had you any idea what Pickerell was doing before ? If you did, you should have advised me.”

“I hadn’t the faintest idea,” Roger told him.

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t think that the Inspector would lie about it, Sylvester,” said Mrs Cartier. “It is surely clear that as he was being victimised, he would hardly know.” She looked at Abbott. “The wrong can be righted, I hope.”

Abbott so far forgot himself as to smile.

“Yes,” he said. “And it will be.”

Roger no longer noticed his swollen lips or puffy eye. Malone had receded, even the ‘unlucky 13th’ did not matter. He was in the clear, and Chatworth would admit it as freely as Abbott.

Roger left Bonnock House with Abbott, half an hour later, when the flat had been scoured for finger-prints : there would be plenty of Malone’s on the fragments of the tapes, which were carefully collected and put in a big bag which the maid, now much more herself, brought from the kitchen. Cartier revealed himself to be acute and shrewd by his questions to Abbott, but he gave the impression that the main issue would have to be decided between him and his wife.

Although it was barely half past nine, Roger telephoned the Legge hotel to find that Janet and the others were there. He told an excited Janet what had happened, and rang off. He frowned, thinking of Lois and wondering whether the time had come to tell the Yard all that he knew about her. He thought it had, but as he left the flats with Abbott he felt undecided. Sam had gone ahead.

The moon was rising and casting a faint grey light about the heath and the large houses and mansion flats bordering it. It shone dully on the three police cars outside.

The thought of the taxi-driver who should have telephoned Bell Street by now entered Roger’s mind. He missed a step, and Abbott asked :

“What is it, West?”

“I ought to telephone my house,” Roger said.

“You can do that from the Yard,” said Abbott. “I called Sir Guy before I left and I expect he will be waiting for us. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

At the Yard, Abbott went to the AC’s office ahead, and Roger went into his own. It was dark and there was a smell of shag — Eddie Day’s tobacco.

Morgan’s man answered his telephone call to Bell Street.

“Have you had any calls?” Roger asked.

“No, it’s been all quiet,” the man replied. “Think there’s any need for me to stay, Mr West?”

“Yes,” said Roger. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go to bed in the room with a telephone.”

“If you say so,” the man said.

Roger replaced the receiver, then called the London Hospital. He was given a good report on Pep Morgan. He walked along to Chatworth’s office. One or two men passed, staring at him in surprise and one of them asked him what he had done to his face.

Roger grinned painfully. Tobacco smoke stung his lips and he knew that he was a fool to smoke but could not bring himself to throw the cigarette away. He tapped on Chatworth’s door and was bidden to enter.

Chatworth was sitting back in his big chair, Abbott standing like a statue beside him; the tape-recorder in Chat- worth’s office was near his hand, a tape — the tape — was in front of Chatworth.

“Hallo, West,” said the AC. “You’ve had a nasty time, I hear. Sit down.” Roger did so. “Anyway, the air is much clearer,” said Chatworth.

“Thank you, sir,” Roger said. It was difficult to speak and his words were inclined to run into one another.

Chatworth tapped the tape.

“I propose to take this as conclusive,” he said. “I must admit I’m bewildered.” For Chatworth that was a great admission. “I could not bring myself to believe that anyone would go to such lengths to frame you.” He hesitated, his round face sombre — “it remains hardly credible.”

“I suppose not, sir,” mumbled Roger. Was he still doubtful ? He decided that it was not a question of doubt but of sheer bewilderment, and he felt better although the mood of exhilaration had passed. “Have you heard about the unlucky 13th?”

“Yes.” Chatworth indicated two manila folders on his desk. “Here are your reports for December 13th — it can only be the 13th of December.”

“Of course,” said Roger, his heart beating faster. “Have you looked through them ?”

“I’m leaving it to you,” said Chatworth. “But are you up to it just now?”

“I ought to try,” Roger said. He pulled his chair nearer the desk, as the folders were pushed towards him. “Was there any other indication about my alleged misdemeanours ?” The question sounded absurdly formal. He knew that the evidence of the bank pass-book must have seemed conclusive enough and yet there was a lingering doubt.

“Yes,” Chatworth answered. “There were statements that you had conspired with the man Malone, to warn him if action were to be taken against him.”

“Who made the statements?”

“Joe Leech,” said Chatworth. “There were other things which we won’t worry about now. If I were you I would go home and get some sleep. You’ll feel much fresher tomorrow. But if you insist on looking through those files —”

“I would like to.”

Ten minutes later, puzzled and frustrated, he pushed them away. There was nothing which gave him any idea as to why he had been victimised because of a discovery made on December 13th. Certainly nothing he had put in his reports was important enough to have worried Pickerell so much. The only thing of importance on the day had been a visit to a house in Battersea, where a man had murdered his wife. It had been a miserable affair, brightened only by the solicitor who had taken on the murderer’s defence. He sat back after he had told Chatworth so and the glimmering of an idea entered his mind, only to fade again. It reminded him of his flash of doubt concerning Antoinette Cartier. It faded as swiftly but made him feel uncertain and a little irritable. His eyes felt as if they were filled with grit and his tongue was like a plum against his lips.

“I spent most of the day clearing up the Battersea murder,” he said. “The man Cox had murdered his wife and buried her beneath the kitchen floor of a hovel in Battersea. Oli- phant looked in while I was at the house. The other things were trivial, sir, just detail.”

“Get off home,” Chatworth said. “You’re too tired to think clearly.” He rounded the desk and held out his hand. “Your suspension is lifted, West.” His handclasp was very firm.

“Thank you, sir,” said Roger, stiffly.

“And I’m also sorry,” said Abbott, when they were walking along the passage outside. “I had my work to do, you know that. I thought there was no doubt at all.”

Roger smiled, painfully. “If there was even more evidence than I’ve yet heard, I can’t blame you.”

“I should have kept an open mind,” Abbott said. “I tried to trap you, West — I told you as nearly as I could that I was coming to see you that afternoon, then I sent Martin to shadow you. I expected you to make a call on the way.” The Superintendent broke off. Roger could understand how difficult he found it to make this admission.

“Forget it,” said Roger. “There is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you detain me?”

Abbott shrugged. “We wanted to give you plenty of rope.”

Roger said : “And you’ve no idea what I was supposed to be hiding?”

“None at all. I hoped we would get information from Leech.” They were walking down the steps of the Yard, then, towards the Embankment; the moon was shimmering on the sluggish Thames and the dark silhouettes of barges were moving down river. One hooted, mournfully. A car-horn sounded not far away and a lorry clattered along the Embankment, a ghostly thing with its faint lights. “You have no idea where to find Malone, I suppose?”

“No,” said Roger. “I wish I had !”

“I’ll drive you home,” said Abbott.

“Not home — Buckingham Palace Gate,” Roger said, and then stopped abruptly, remembering Lois; he had quite forgotten her while he had been with Chatworth. His mind was too clouded, he should not have tried to think, it only gave him a headache and depressed him. He went on : “There’s one other thing you should know. I’ve got the girl who helped Pickerell.” Hastily, he went on : “Oh, I haven’t kidnapped her! She is willing enough to take help, but she won’t make any statement. Pickerell was blackmailing her. I think it would be a mistake to interview her officially.”

Abbott did not answer immediately.

“She might be able to give us a line if she’s treated well,” Roger went on. “But I believe she’s so frightened of the police that she would stay dumb.”

Abbott gave a thin laugh; with a shock, Roger realised that he had never heard the Superintendent laugh before.

“We owe you some licence,” Abbott said.

He did not even ask where Lois Randall was staying. Nor did he get out of the car outside the hotel, but wished Roger good night and then drove off, after promising to send men to help guard the hotel. Roger watched the rear-light fade into the grey pallor cast by the moon, then stepped towards the front door. One of Morgan’s men said : “Good night, Mr West.” There was no night porter and he had no key, but

Legge, a rotund, jolly individual, came to the door promptly. After he drew back bolts there was a noise of chains being moved — Legge was taking no chances.

Roger felt a twinge of alarm.

“Is everything all right ?”

“Why, yes, Mr West,” said Legge. “Why shouldn’t it be? I believe your wife is in the upstairs lounge.” The light in the hall revealed his wide smile.

“Roger!” called Janet. She came to the head of the stairs and into his arms. “Darling, I get the most horrible ideas these days, I’m as touchy as —” she broke off, for he winced when she kissed him. “Roger, what is it ?”

“I — er — I banged into a door,” mumbled Roger.

“I don’t believe it!”

When she saw his face she refused to allow him to talk, although Mark and young Tennant, also in the lounge, were obviously disappointed. Roger said enough to make them realise that he had had another encounter with Malone.

Nothing was clear to him. He did not even realise that Janet sent a lugubrious Mark to an all-night chemist near Victoria Station for some zinc ointment to put on his lips. When he undressed his limbs felt like lead, his head throbbed. He was soothed by Janet, as she helped him, but half-asleep when the salve was rubbed in. Janet’s face was outlined against the electric light, which she had covered with a handkerchief to save his eyes from glare. It made her hair look radiant and her face soft and lovely.

When he woke up it was nearly ten o’clock.

Janet, in a dressing-gown, came in from the bathroom and the opening door disturbed him. He opened one eye; the other was stuck. He heard her exclaim. He tried to speak but his lips were far too swollen. Only after he had managed to swallow a cup of lukewarm tea and eat some porridge did he feel better in himself. Even then he had to admit that he would not be much good that day.

After twelve o’clock Janet brought in a lotion to reduce the swelling at his eye, which was badly discoloured, and his lips. Abbott telephoned to tell him not to come in. Later, he sent the two five pound notes from the £1,000 which

Morgan had found in his bedroom to the Yard, with a note asking if they could be traced; he might learn something from them.

He kept going over the case of the man Cox, who had murdered his wife and buried her beneath the floorboards of the kitchen.

He persuaded Janet to let him send for the complete file of the December 13th case and spent the afternoon brooding over it. It was sordid, unpleasant and unremarkable. The motive had been greed — the man’s wife had been on bad terms with her husband and had hoarded several hundred pounds in the house. Relatives had first suspected that something had happened to her and the case had followed its usual course — once suspicions were aroused, and the body found, it had been a mere matter of routine. There seemed no possible mistake, certainly nothing which had not been disclosed during the course of the investigation.

Mark Lessing and Bill Tennant went out during the afternoon, too restless to stay indoors. Lois Randall stayed in; during tea, she seemed unable to remove her gaze from Roger’s battered face.

Abbott, showing a solicitude quite out of character, telephoned to say that there was no trace of Malone, who had left his home in Stepney, nor of his men, nor of Pickerell. There was nothing to report from the office of the Displaced Persons’ Society except — Abbott seemed ill at ease when he admitted this — that the offices had not been guarded all the time after the fire and there was evidence that Malone had visited the place and discovered the tape-recorder. The overeagerness of Cornish doubtless explained the lapse, for the office should have been watched. It was reasonably obvious that Roger had been seen to go to Mrs Cartier’s flat, and that Malone or Pickerell had guessed it was her tape-recorder.

In spite of the quiet day, Roger was glad enough to get to bed just after eleven o’clock. His face was much better and Janet said, optimistically, that the scars would hardly be noticeable in the morning.

To their mutual surprise she was right. The lotion had performed miracles and his lips had healed, although he still found it difficult to eat or drink anything hot.

He went round to the Yard and saw Chatworth and Abbott, as well as an enthusiastic Cornish — his eagerness unaffected by the slip at the Society’s office, and an “I-told- you-so-Handsome’ Eddie Day, as well as a number of sheepish individuals who took the opportunity to say that they had always been sure it would all prove a mistake. Chatworth gave him chapter and verse of the ‘case’ against him, including reports that he had been to visit Malone (until then hardly known to the Yard). Joe Leech had given categorical evidence that Malone had boasted that he had West in his pocket. Cornish had assessed Malone merely as a nuisance, before his transfer from the Division to the Yard, and the Division had continued to make that grievous mistake.

There was a report on the two fivers. Leech’s fingerprints were on them. Leech had often been suspected of handling stolen money.

On two occasions, in the past month Roger had gone to the East End on inquiries which had given him an opportunity to see Malone. On both occasions Malone had come out of the house he had visited after he had gone. Tiny Martin and Abbott had seen that for themselves.

“Oh, there was a case all right,” Roger said to Janet, Mark and Tennant. “Apparently Leech told Abbott that he had heard that Malone was bringing a packet of money to Bell Street and that he was going to put it in the bedroom. Thanks to Winnie Marchant, Pep Morgan had learned of it. The only established fact is that Leech was bribed to lie to Abbott and then killed in case Mark forced die truth out of him.”

“At least I’ve helped a bit,” Mark said.

“Do you think that’s certain?” Janet asked. “I mean why Leech was killed?”

“Malone was afraid he would crack under Mark’s interrogation,” Roger said. “Malone knew Leech well — so did most people in the East End. We at the Yard had rarely found him to lie to us. He’s been a reliable squealer, otherwise

Chatworth wouldn’t have acted as he did. But when Leech told a categorical story it made ‘em sit up and take notice.”

“We know one or two other things,” Mark pointed out, sitting back in a. winged armchair, gaily loose-covered, his austere face set in concentration. Tennant looked at him curiously. “Pickerell is not even in authority over Malone, but Malone isn’t running the whole thing. Whoever is, knows him.” He startled Tennant by beaming at him. “Any ideas ?”

“Never was an ideas man,” declared Tennant. When Roger and Janet laughed, he went on : “What’s so funny?”

“Not funny — refreshing,” Janet hastily rejoined. “It’s a relief to meet a man who doesn’t pretend that he knows everything ! I suppose”—she looked very thoughtful—”Lois didn’t say anything that might help?”

“Nothing at all. When I discovered how badly she was feeling I had the shock of my life.” Tennant stood up and stepped restlessly across the room. “This doing nothing is getting me down,” he went on. “If I could get at the beggars and put the fear of death into them it wouldn’t be so bad.” He was troubled as well as impatient. “If only I knew why Lois is so scared ! I can’t understand it at all. She’s got no close relatives, and as far as I know she hasn’t any close friends. But if Pickerell was blackmailing her, she must have —” he broke off.

“How long have you known her?” asked Roger.

“Just over a year. She was running a mobile canteen for the NAAFI.” Tennant ran a hand over his curly hair. “She seemed as happy as could be.”

“What part of London?” Janet asked.

“Battersea,” Tennant answered.

Roger sat up. “Battersea? Are you sure?”

“Roger, you’ve got Battersea on the brain because you were there on December 13th,” Mark said. “Forget it, old man.”

“Did Lois live in Battersea?” Roger inquired.

“At the time, yes,” said Tennant, colouring. “As a matter of fact, I persuaded her to leave her digs — oh, it would be about six months ago now. I didn’t like the people she lodged with. He was a pretty nasty customer and he and his wife were always rowing. It’s a district where neighbours don’t worry about what happens in the house next door. She moved to the flat at St John’s Wood, and I think she likes it better.” He frowned, for Roger was eyeing him with a peculiar expression. “Well, what have I said wrong now?”

“Nothing,” Roger assured him, “nothing at all.” His voice was strained. “Did she lodge at a house in New Street?”

Tennant gaped. “Why, yes, how did you know?”

“Was the man’s name Cox — Benny Cox ?”

“Yes ! What do you know about him ?”

Roger spoke very gently, Mark’s eyes were startled, Janet stood up quickly, obviously guessing what was coming.

“Benny Cox was hanged for the murder of his wife,” said Roger in the same strained voice. “I was at New Street on December 13th, looking around the house. That can’t be simply a coincidence!”

CHAPTER 18

One Mystery Solved

“YES,” SAID Lois. “I knew.”

She stood by the dressing-table of the room which she shared with Janet. She had been sitting reading and had not undressed. Her hair was untidy and she had not made up — she looked pale and in her eyes was the familiar gaunt, distraught look. Her hands were clenched. The book she had been reading was on the floor by her feet.

“You mean you knew that Mrs Cox had been murdered,” Roger said.

“Yes.”

“Listen, Lois,” said Roger. “I’ve tried to help you and I’ve given you ample time to think this over. I’ve used my influence at Scotland Yard to save you from being officially questioned, all this on the assumption that there was a strictly personal reason why Pickerell and Malone were able to force you to work for them.”

“I didn’t say it was,” said Lois.

In the other room, probably close to the door, were Mark and Tennant. Janet sat at the foot of the bed.

As he looked at the girl, Roger wondered whether he would not have been wiser to have left this to Mark; probably she was more frightened of him because he was a policeman.

“What Roger means,” Janet said, “is that since he knows this he can’t stop the other police from questioning you much longer. You’d be much wiser to tell him what’s worrying you. He’ll help, you know, and the police aren’t ogres. They’ll take into account the fact that you’ve had such a bad time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lois said.

“I don’t want to have to send for a colleague,” Roger said. “If you tell me the whole truth I’ll do everything I can to make sure that they don’t hear every detail. I really shouldn’t make such an offer, but I’ll keep my word if you’ll tell me what you know.”

She said : “You won’t. You’re like all policemen, as soon as I’ve told you, you’ll use it against me.” She stopped, drawing in a deep breath.

“You think I’ll charge you,” Roger said. “I won’t. I’ll give you this firm undertaking — if what you tell me means that you ought to be charged and arrested, I’ll have Mark Less- ing and Bill Tennant get you away from here.”

The girl’s eyes were clouded as she looked at him, but Roger thought there was a glimmer of expression in them, as if hope were being reborn.

“I — I don’t believe you,” she said, but her tone suggested that she wanted to.

“You should, dear,” Janet said.

Lois swung round on Roger.

“I knew you’d worm it out of me. I knew someone would have to know, but — oh, don’t lie to me ! Don’t try to pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the police won’t take any action. Let me know the worst. I can’t bear the suspense any longer !”

Roger could hardly wait for her to go on :

“I — I’ve worked for Malone,” she said. “I knew he was a thief, and dealt in stolen goods. Do you see that?” She held up her hand, where the single diamond scintillated in the bright light. Her face was drawn and almost haggard. “I always said it was my mother’s. It wasn’t, I stole it from a shop after a fire. I don’t know what came over me, I—”

She paused, then said in a steadier voice :

“But what’s the use of lying? The jeweller’s shop had caught fire. I happened to be passing, and this was almost at my feet. I picked it up and put it on. The fire engines were making a terrible noise, there were flares over the building, it was a devil’s light and all the fire in the world seemed to be in that diamond. I told myself that I would give it up the next day, that I only wanted to wear it for a few hours, but I knew I was lying to myself, I knew I meant to keep it!”

She paused again but neither of the others interrupted her.

She went on : “I didn’t know that a man had seen me. It was Benny Cox, the man who owned the house where I lodged. He didn’t tell me at first but a few days afterwards he started admiring the ring, and I realised that he knew where I’d got it. I thought he meant to try to bargain for his silence — he was a beast of a man, always with different women. Instead, he told Malone.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Roger.

She did not seem to hear him.

“Cox worked for Malone although I didn’t know it then. Malone came to see me. You — you know what he’s like. He frightened me. I was so scared that I don’t think I could have refused him anything. He didn’t stay long, just said that if I wanted nothing said about the diamond I must do whatever Benny Cox told me to. I’d got the job with the Displaced Persons’ Society, and we have regular collections of jewellery for the funds. It was easy to keep valuables at the office. Benny was always bringing me things, sometimes jewellery wrapped up in paper, sometimes furs, oh, dozens, hundreds of different things! I hid them among our collection of cheap jewellery. There was always another helper with me, of course, and several times — on Benny’s instructions — I handed a trinket to the police, to make out that I was being honest. The only thing I’d taken was the diamond, I wasn’t given payment for what I did. I stayed at New Street and Benny made no approaches to me. He wouldn’t talk about Malone although I knew he worked for him. Then a year ago, Malone came again. He told me that someone was looking for a girl who could speak languages. I know French, Dutch and Flemish, that’s why I got the job. Pickerell was the manager, but I didn’t know for a long time that he was also involved. I thought it was a spy organisation, but soon I found that it wasn’t. I had to take messages to different people and sometimes to Malone. I knew that there was a lot of stealing. I had to take packages to different men, sometimes to jewellers. I realised that the Society was used as a distributing office. Mrs Cartier didn’t know, only Pickerell did.

“Then I met Bill,” Lois went on simply. “Soon I moved away from Battersea and no one raised any objections. It — it became just part of ordinary business. I didn’t think of it as crime for months on end, until — until they started to send me with the money to your bank. They didn’t tell me what I was really doing, you were known only as “West” and I didn’t realise that you were a policeman until Malone came one day and I overheard what he said to Pickerell. But — what could I do?”

“Nothing,” Roger said, quietly.

She stared at him. “Nothing ? You have the nerve to stand there and say “nothing”! I could have told you what was happening, gone to the police-station and made them understand it, I shouldn’t have cared what happened to me. Sometimes I thought that it would be a relief to get it all over and to come out of prison after serving my sentence knowing that there was nothing hanging over my head. But — there was Bill. And I couldn’t screw myself up to it, I just went on and on, until that day when you came in.”

She fumbled with her handbag and to Roger’s surprise she took out a cigarette-case. Her fingers were trembling. He saw several little tablets in the case — or rather — their reflection in the mirror; Janet could not see them.

Roger snapped : “Don’t be a fool!”

She swung away, making Janet stumble, and put her hand to her lips, but Roger knocked it away. The tablets flew across the room and struck against the far wail. Lois stood staring at him, wide-eyed.

“I — I don’t want to live !” she gasped.

Roger was looking into her face when the door burst open and Tennant strode in.

“What are you doing to her?” he demanded in a harsh voice. “You told me you wouldn’t do anything.”

Roger said, without looking over his shoulder :

“She has tried to kill herself, because she doesn’t think you’ll be interested in her when you know that she has mixed with thieves and rogues.”

“I don’t care what she’s done!” Tennant snapped.

“Do you mean that?” demanded Roger.

“Of course I mean it,” said Tennant, fiercely.

Janet caught Roger’s eye. He squeezed Lois’s shoulders and spoke without smiling.

“If the worst comes to the worst you might be sent to prison for six months. By telling everything you know, you’ll almost certainly be given a suspended sentence, and you’ll have paid for what you’ve done by giving information about the others. And you haven’t been so very wicked, you know.”

Then he turned and left her. Janet was already at the door and Mark in the other room. Janet closed the door firmly as Tennant asked :

“Lois darling, what is it all about?”

“That’s exactly what I want to know,” said Mark, eagerly. “What is it all about, old man ?”

Roger told him, glad of the opportunity of going over it again. He could see how carefully it had been built up, how the weight of Lois’s conscience had worsened her plight in every way and encouraged her to play into Malone’s hands. He had deliberately made comparatively light of it, believing that she had suffered enough already. He did not think she would hesitate to make a full confession now, but when he finished, Mark put into words one of the thoughts which weighed heaviest on his mind.

“Malone knows what she can do and won’t let her stay free for long without making a big effort to get her.”

“That’s the risk,” admitted Roger.

Janet said : “The best place for her is in a police-station. I won’t be happy until she’s in one.”

“I told Tennant so this afternoon, and I think she’ll be amenable,” Roger said. “When she’s had it all out with him, she’ll be a different girl. I don’t think he’ll let her or us down.” After a pause, he went on : “At least, we’re making some progress. I missed something at New Street, Battersea — I didn’t discover that Benny Cox was one of Malone’s gang, which was bad.”

“Do you think that’s the only reason they tried to frame you ?” Mark sounded incredulous.

“It’s probably one of them,” Roger said. “Friday the 13th. Pickerell sounded annoyed with superstition. I thought, when I first heard that record, that it meant he himself was superstitious, but I’m beginning to wonder if someone else didn’t give him his instructions, someone who was influenced by the 13th. The thing is, if I had seen a connection between Cox and Malone I would have been after Malone very quickly. We’ve always assumed that Cox killed his wife for her money, but supposing she had discovered what he was doing, supposing New Street was used for storing stolen goods and Mrs Cox threatened to tell the police?” Roger frowned. “Cox was a miserable little brute. I can’t imagine him going through the trial and letting himself be hanged, if by squealing on Malone he could perhaps have saved his life.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mark.

“On the other hand, he may have killed her and, knowing that he couldn’t save himself no matter what he did, he just let things go,” Roger said. “He acted dumb all the time. I once thought that the defence might try to prove insanity, Oliphant hinted at it once or twice, but Oliphant’s a good enough lawyer to know whether the plea would have a chance of success. Cox hardly said a word once he was caught, it seemed as if the shock was too much for him. Dull- witted,” he added, “very dull-witted.” His voice rose. “Too dull-witted ?”

“What the deuce are you getting at?” demanded Mark. Roger said, softly : “I’m wondering if Cox was drugged before we caught him, and whether that made him seem so dull?”

CHAPTER 19

Lois’s Whole Story

MARK SAID dubiously that it was a possibility, but wasn’t Roger allowing his imagination to run away with him? Roger went into the other room and took out the Cox-case files. He turned up the medical reports and scanned them. Three doctors had examined the man, one for the police, two for the defence. They were unanimous in saying that Cox had been a person of low mentality, very nearly subnormal. The police doctor said that there was no doubt at all that he knew what he was doing and he was fully responsible for his actions. Obviously medical opinion for the defence had not really thought it possible to prove otherwise, and so the defence, in the hands of Oliphant, had not tried to sway the jury on the grounds of insanity.

‘Reflexes, dull,’ Roger read, ‘pulse below normal, pupils enlarged . . .’ ‘A man who had been given one of the depressant drugs might be in that state for months after his last dose.’

“Well?” asked Mark, after nearly half an hour’s silence. “Have you found anything?”

Roger seemed to be thinking of something else.

“Er — no,” he said. “That is — no, it can’t be !”

“How brightly he goes on,” drawled Mark.

“Do be quiet,” said Janet.

Roger thought again of Friday the 13th.

The sordid little house, the floorboards, the nauseating smell, the ‘straightforward’ murder and the dull-witted Cox. He remembered him at the police-station awaiting the second hearing at the police court; he had been remanded for eight days at the first.

“I just can’t credit it!” he exclaimed, standing up and pushing his chair back.

Mark shrugged his shoulders and said in sepulchral tones :

The great policeman is slowly going insane.”

Janet said :

“Can we help, Roger?”

“No,” said Roger. “No. That is — I was at New Street collecting all the paraphernalia of evidence. The camerawork was done, and the fingerprints. I’d found the hammer which Cox used. There were bloodstains on the wood. He hadn’t cleaned it properly, and it certainly caused the wounds in his wife’s head. In short, all the evidence was there. I was going off, feeling fully satisfied although it was a nasty case—”

He paused.

Mark no longer acted the fool, but eyed him intently. The voices came from the other room in a steady ripple.

“A taxi drew up outside,” Roger said. “Oliphant came out. Oliphant,” he repeated, softly. “He said that he had been asked to act for Benny Cox.” He leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. He saw the portly solicitor, Mortimer Oliphant, a well-known lawyer who frequently acted for poorer criminals. He was ambitious and took on difficult jobs which a less forceful solicitor would have refused. He worked for the Poor Person’s Legal Society and was one of its brighter members.

Mortimer Oliphant had a man at the court regularly, and if a case appeared particularly tricky, or whenever there seemed to be the slightest chance of pulling off an odds- against case, he would volunteer to take it. He briefed young barristers who usually did well. His reputation was excellent and he often managed to win a case which the police thought was a foregone conclusion. A man of middle-age, he had a large private income. He always claimed that he specialised in criminal cases because he liked the excitement of matching his wits against the police.

Roger remembered the smile on Oliphant’s face when he had squeezed along the narrow passage and seen Roger in Cox’s kitchen. He had pulled a wry face and said that he hoped it wasn’t necessary to stay in that atmosphere for long. Roger had not thought twice about his appearance, for he had guessed why he had come.

“I’m going to look after Benny Cox,” Oliphant had said.

Roger remembered smiling. “You’ve backed a loser this time!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Oliphant had said. “I always enjoy a few rounds with you. You don’t mind if I look round?”

Roger remembered admiring his thoroughness. Few solicitors would have taken the trouble to come to the scene of the crime. He had thought nothing of it even when he had read through his report for the day — “Oliphant saw me at New Street and said that he was going to handle Cox’s defence.” He had not troubled to go over it again. It was the kind of thing that Oliphant did. True, he came to the Yard more often and asked for information. Being a likeable man one somehow always gave him what he wanted. Roger vaguely remembered another thing; that Oliphant had been called to the telephone one day at the Yard.

“You shouldn’t call me here,” he had rebuked the caller. “What is it you want, Mai—?”

That ‘Mai’ could have been short for Malone.

“Oliphant,” said Mark, quietly. “Didn’t you say that he handled Cox’s defence?”

Janet answered for Roger. “Yes.”

“You think—” Mark began, but his voice trailed off.

“I can’t think of anything else which might have made Malone and his leaders fear that I might have seen what was happening,” Roger said. “Oliphant doesn’t often visit the scene of the crime — he usually gets to the case when it’s too late — but he was very quick this time. Supposing he was briefed by Malone or whoever Malone is working for? Supposing he realised afterwards that his eagerness might have been suspect ? He would tell his client, of course. The client is superstitious. It happened on the 13th — “one of these days West is bound to see something funny in it, we’ll have to make sure that he can’t do any harm”. It would answer everything,” Roger said.

“Would Oliphant let anyone go for you, Roger?” Mark asked. He knew the solicitor well and found the suspicions hard to believe.

“He might,” said Roger. “He might even have thought that I was keeping something up my sleeve. I was feeling in a good mood that morning and made one or two cracks, the kind that come out when everything has gone well. Oliphant might have misread my attitude. He might have discussed it with his client. The framing was clever. Not too obvious, just enough to make sure that Chatworth would have to take notice of it. Whoever planned it knew Leech’s reputation with us. Malone might have known everything else, but he couldn’t have known that we relied so much on Leech. Oliphant would. I wonder—” he stood up slowly — “I wonder who the legal adviser to the Society of European Relief is? We’d better phone the Yard and find out.”

“I’ll do it,” said Mark, promptly.

Oliphant loomed so much in Roger’s mind that he did not notice the louder note of Tennant’s voice in the next room.

The door opened and Tennant strode out, holding Lois by the hand — and Lois seemed much more at peace.

“It’s all right!” declared Tennant.

“What’s all right?”

“I’ve fixed it — I mean, we’ve fixed it,” said Tennant. “She’s told me everything. There’s no need for you to question her again, I’ve got it all written down. You want the names of the people she went to see, don’t you?”

“I certainly do,” said Roger.

“I knew you would,” said Tennant. “She’s remembered a dozen — they’re all on the list, together with the gist of what she told you.” He put a small notebook in front of Roger and beamed widely. “All written in ink and Lois has signed it. But,” he added with a quick frown, “you’ve got to keep your side of the bargain. I don’t know much about the law but I do know there’s such a thing as Queen’s Evidence. If this isn’t Queen’s Evidence, I don’t know what is!”

Roger smiled. “Yes, you’re right.” He looked at Lois reassuringly. “It will all work out well. We’re far more interested in finding these people and stopping their crimes.”

Lois looked more rested.

Before he looked at the list, Roger said :

“There’s just one thing. While Malone is free—”

“I’ve talked to her about that,” Tennant said; “this afternoon you said the safest place for her would be a police- cell, didn’t you? Malone can’t get into one of those! Well, Lois agrees!”

Lois nodded.

“You couldn’t have made a wiser decision,” said Roger.

He did not know how Tennant had made the girl feel that it was safe to trust the police. She did not protest, nor did she try to stipulate any conditions.

Before going to Mark, who was still on the phone to the Yard, and taking over from him, he ran his eye down the list of names and addresses which Lois had dictated to Tennant, thinking that it would probably be enough to break the case wide open. The last entry but one made him start and look up eagerly into her eyes.

“Oliphant — Mortimer Oliphant, at Cheyne Walk, Chelsea?”

“Yes,” said Lois, quietly.

“Did you ever go there with stolen jewels?”

“No — only with messages about men whom Pickerell knew. He was the Society’s legal adviser, but these weren’t Society problems. Pickerell always saw him alone.” She hesitated. “I rather liked Mr Oliphant. He was always very friendly.”

“Oh, yes, he would be,” Roger said, “he would be very friendly indeed!”

Mark came back like a man with good tidings, but suddenly deflated when he learned that Lois had already given the information.

Roger felt on edge, in spite of the way the case was shaping. He wanted to see Oliphant, to report his discoveries, and to make sure that Lois was absolutely safe. He realised that few bad men had made such an impression on him as Malone. He did not feel sure that the short journey to the Yard could be negotiated safely and he went out, to see Pep Morgan’s men and the two police who were watching the hotel. They assured him that nothing suspicious had happened. He sent one of the police back to the Yard to get a car.

The policeman took the wheel.

Tennant had been persuaded, with some difficulty, to stay behind. Mark had accepted the inevitable with commendable fortitude, but Janet would have her hands full with the two men.

Lois was very quiet; at least she did not seem to share any of his fears.

As they turned into Parliament Square, he said :

“We won’t be long, now.”

Lois spoke quietly, unexpectedly using his first name.

“Roger, I — don’t know how to thank you. Those tablets were powerful.”

“Forget it,” Roger said. “I have.” As he spoke he realised what a fool he was, how the spectre of Malone and the dazzling prospect of outwitting Oliphant had driven other thoughts from his mind. “That is, I’d forgotten you were going to take them,” he amended hastily. “Where did you get them from, Lois ?”

“Pickerell,” she said.

“You know what’s in them ?”

“Yes,” she said. “Cyanide.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Did he tell you what was in them?”

“No,” said Lois, “I took some from a bottle he kept in a cupboard. He always had them by him. I’ve heard him say that he would rather die than be caught. I felt the same, so I took them.”

“How did you know what was in them?” Roger asked.

“He once told Malone in my hearing.”

Roger wished he could understand why she had been quite so determined to keep silent. She must have realised the gravity of the situation. Time and time again she had been compelled to face up to it, and yet until almost the last she had refused to speak. Then, for the first time, he wondered whether she had told all the truth. He was going to assure Chatworth that she had, meant to use his influence to make sure that she was not victimised. But could there be something else?

He was uneasy when he walked up the steps of the Yard and yet he did and said nothing to give Lois an inkling of his doubts. Although it was late, he took her to Abbott’s office. He wished some other Superintendent were in charge. Surprisingly, however, Abbott greeted her without a fuss, listened to the story, and then spoke reassuringly. Perhaps Abbott understood something of the nervous strain on the girl, and the importance of what might come from it. At all events, the man did nothing to make Lois regret her decision. Less than an hour afterwards, Roger took her across the dark square and through the gates to Cannon Row, where she was housed in one of the rooms, not a cell. Roger saw her smile, and could not believe that she had deceived him, yet he still remained uneasy.

Only when he was back in Abbott’s office did he realise that his anxiety about Malone’s actions had, for once, been unjustified.

Then he told Abbott about Mortimer Oliphant.

CHAPTER 20

Janet Delivers News of Importance

“WHAT DO you suggest we do, West?” asked Abbott.

“I don’t think we should act too quickly, do you?” Roger said. Abbott shook his head. “We’ve this list of names to investigate and when we’ve interviewed each man we should have a better idea of what it’s all about.”

Abbott looked surprised.

“The disposal of stolen goods, surely ?”

“Only that?” asked Roger.

“Do you think there’s something else?”

“They’ve gone pretty far for simple fencing,” Roger pointed out. “I think we ought to keep an open mind.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Theorising isn’t going to help much, but Pickerell wouldn’t keep tablets of cyanide of potassium handy because he was afraid of being picked up for trafficking in looted goods.”

“No,” admitted Abbott, “I had missed the significance of that.”

“And I think it knocks out the more straightforward crimes,” Roger went on. “It could be espionage very carefully hidden.”

“You’ve no hard and fast ideas?”

“I wish I had. All I feel is that it’s something of exceptional size. Malone’s gang, Oliphant, the Society — suggesting something which had been working for nearly three years — the murder of Joe Leech and, probably, that of Mrs Cox — add these things together and you have a formidable business, which no ordinary motive will account for.”

Abbott pressed the tips of his thin fingers together, admitting :

“I am inclined to agree.”

“And, of course, the Society is of primary importance,”, Roger said. “I wish I were more sure of Mrs Cartier. Perhaps she got in touch with me for some ulterior motive of her own and hasn’t told me all the truth. Have you had reports on her and her husband ?”

“Yes,” said Abbott. He pushed a file across. “Read the reports — there’s no hurry.”

The office, on the third floor of the Yard, was very quiet as Roger read through the report on Mrs Cartier. She was of French birth but had become a naturalised Englishwoman in 1946 — the year before her marriage to Sylvester Cartier. Daughter of a wealthy Lyons merchant, she had been educated in England for several years. She had been one of the first to offer hospitality to refugees from the iron curtain countries. According to the report, she had first thought of the League of European Relief when she had been approached by some East Germans of the professional classes. There were many cases of hardship. She had helped them and then extended her activities. The Society had been in being for a little more than a year and it had a great deal in its favour. Wealthy Europeans in England and on the Continent had contributed towards the funds. Apparently Mrs Cartier did most of the canvassing for money herself. There was nothing surprising in the fact that she obtained good results — most men would have found the way from their hearts to their pockets after a visit from Mrs Sylvester Cartier!

There was nothing beyond that and the fact that she had married Sylvester Cartier in 1947.

The second report, on her husband, was much more brief. Cartier had inherited a large fortune from his father, and Roger suddenly realised why the name was so familiar. Cartier’s Food Products, of course! They were known everywhere — the name was almost as familiar as Heinz, Chef or Brand. He felt annoyed with himself for having missed it.

Educated at Eton and Balliol, a dilettante, a collector of objets d’art and antique furniture, Cartier appeared to have lived a life of leisured ease. He was on the directors’ board of Carrier’s Food Products but apparently took little active interest in the company’s affairs. He had been prominent in polo circles, had travelled widely, had a much-renowned library, dabbled in philately, was a member of three exclusive clubs. ‘Correct’ was the word to apply to Sylvester Cartier; no man’s record could have been more in keeping with his elegant appearance. He always wintered in France. He had a house at Weybridge — Roger remembered seeing that in the telephone directory — as well as a flat in London under his wife’s name, and a large country house in Dorset.

Roger finished and looked up.

“There isn’t much to glean from those, is there?”

“Not a great deal about either of them,” said Abbott. “What the report doesn’t say is that Cartier has always mildly disapproved of his wife’s activities.”

Roger shrugged. “He would probably think that helping refugees was for the common people. Who are the family solicitors?”

Abbott smiled bleakly. “Not Oliphant! Rogerson, Keene, Keen and Rogerson, of Grays Inn Fields. Quite irreproachable.”

“Yes, I know.” Roger stood up and began to pace the office.

“They’re both so irreproachable that it seems almost too good to be true and yet I can’t help feeling that I am spreading suspicions too widely. Mrs Cartier might have meant everything she said. If Malone had the slightest suspicion that she was one of his employers, he wouldn’t have treated her so roughly. We’d better concentrate on the list of names and addresses.”

“Yes,” said Abbott. “Especially Oliphant.”

“Will you leave him to me?” Roger asked.

“To you?” asked Abbott, slowly, and then more briskly. “Yes, perhaps that’s wise, West. You won’t encourage Lessing or this friend of Miss Randall’s to do too much off their own bat, will you ?”

Roger smiled. “They’ll be good, I assure you !”

Two taxis passed him but were occupied. It would not take him twenty minutes to walk to the Legge Hotel, yet the fact that he could not get a cab annoyed him, and he thought longingly of his car. There was a garage at the hotel; it might be a good idea to go to Chelsea and drive to Buckingham Palace Gate.

Where was that taxi-driver, Dixon ?

Roger had telephoned the house several times, but Morgan’s man had nothing to report. He had asked Cornish, earlier in the day, to try to trace the man; no news meant that Cornish had failed. Dixon had followed Carder’s Daimler; the fact that he had not returned was peculiar.

He reached the hotel and told the others what had happened but was still preoccupied. There was no answer when he called Bell Street, but just before he went to bed the telephone rang. It was an apologetic Cornish who hoped he hadn’t brought Roger out of bed.

“Oh, no,” said Roger. “Have you found that cabby for me?”

“You mean Dixon?” said Cornish. “No, I haven’t, Roger. In fact, I meant to tell you earlier in the day that I was put on to another job and couldn’t follow it up myself. I did find out that he worked from a small Peckham garage, and I’ve just had a word with the night duty foreman. He says that Dixon hasn’t been home since yesterday morning. His wife had called only a few minutes before I did.”

“That’s odd,” Roger said.

“Yes,” Cornish dropped that subject and went on : “I’ve been with Smith of AZ Division most of the day, trying to find Malone and Pickerell. We haven’t had any luck. Malone’s reputation is worse than I thought it was. I should keep my eyes open, if I were you.”

“I’ve just about sized him up,” Roger said.

“I hoped you would. How are things?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t grumble,” Roger said.

Cornish rang off and Roger returned to the lounge. He stood in front of the fireplace with his hands deep in his trousers pockets. Mark contemplated him with a frown of concentration on his forehead. Janet had gone to bed and Tennant was pretending to be immersed in an evening paper.

Roger looked at him.

“Do you feel tired ?” he asked.

“Who, me?” Tennant dropped the paper and jumped up. “I’m never tired.”

“Who, me ?” asked Mark, forlornly.

“Both of you,” said Roger. “I think we’d better keep an eye on Oliphant’s .house. Do you know where it is, Mark?”

“He’s in Cheyne Walk, just round the corner from a flat I used to have,” said Mark. “Any instructions?”

“Just keep a lonely vigil,” Roger said with a grin.

The others seemed glad of the opportunity to go out, but when they had gone Roger wondered whether it were wise. Abbott had been generous when he had asked to be allowed to handle Oliphant, but it might have been better to have put Yard men to watch him. The danger was that Oliphant would probably recognise a Yard man at sight.

Roger went to bed; Janet, now that Lois had gone, was less on edge and she looked very tired and spoke sleepily from the pillows.

“Back home tomorrow,” she said; “we needn’t stay here now, darling, need we?”

“No,” said Roger.

An Irish maid brought morning tea at eight o’clock. The sun shone through the net curtains at the window and made even the grey slate roofs of adjoining buildings look bright and cheerful. Downstairs, the BBC announcer reading the news had bright things to say about the economic state of the nation.

Janet was fresh-eyed as she sat up in bed, but when she got up she felt dizzy and sat down again abruptly. Startled, Roger said :

“Are you all right ?”

“Er — yes, I’m fine,” said Janet. She was smiling, although she looked pale, the change in her since she had got out of bed was astonishing. “Darling,” she said in an unsteady voice, “sometimes you’re as blind as a bat!”

“Oh,” said Roger. “Am I?”

“I’ve suspected it for some time but I wanted to be really sure. I was sure on my birthday, but I couldn’t worry you after Abbott came.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Roger, completely mystified.

Janet’s eyes were dewy. “Darling,” she said, “doesn’t morning sickness mean anything to you?”

“Morning —” Roger began, and then his expression altered, he stared incredulously, started to speak but stopped, tongue-tied. He moved and looked down at her as she stared at him, smiling. He gasped : “No ! No, darling, not a baby!”

“Well,” said Janet. “It’s five years since we were married, or had you forgotten? The marvel is that it didn’t happen before.” She laughed. “What shall we call him, if it’s a boy?”

Roger felt like a man in a dream.

He should have realised it for several days past, or at least suspected it. Everything which had puzzled him was explained, her excitability and quick changes of mood, the ease of her tears, her occasional moments of acerbity.

His first reaction was of delight tinged with anxieties about the little luxuries that he would not be able to provide because of the war. A more urgent matter was the possibility that in his amazement he had made her think that he was lukewarm about it. Had he been sufficiently enthusiastic? Or had he depressed her ?

He had left her to do the packing while he went on to open the house, to get the car and to get in touch with Mark before going to the Yard. He had only vaguely outlined his own programme and he hardly gave a thought to Malone and Oliphant. His mind could not grapple with those problems as well as digest Janet’s news. He travelled by taxi and now and again caught himself grinning inanely; when he did so he closed his mouth firmly. Once, when he lit a cigarette, he began to grin so widely that it dropped from his lips. He smothered an exclamation of annoyance, then surrendered himself for five minutes to an orgy of self- congratulation.

It would be easier to make a detour and drive along the Embankment where he expected to find either Tennant or Mark. He saw young Tennant, and wondered what had possessed him to give a job which required an expert to Lois’s fiancé, and he was relieved that Mark must be somewhere in the offing.

Tennant started.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the tousled young man. “I thought it was another policeman. I’ve been asked what I’m doing here twice already.”

Roger smiled and Tennant went on :

“What are you so pleased about?”

“Oh, I’m not pleased,” said Roger. “Where’s Mark?”

“At the other end of the street.”

“Has anything happened ?”

“No one’s gone in or out of the place.”

“They will,” said Roger. “It’s a tiresome business, but don’t get impatient. This is what you worried me for, after all!”

“I didn’t think a policeman’s job was so dull !”

“Tell Mark I’ll have you relieved at half past ten, will you? And then perhaps you’ll come to my place and sleep there ?”

“If it’s all right with you, it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Tennant.

Roger returned to his taxi and his good spirits gained the ascendancy. Nothing could go wrong on such a morning.

He paid off the cabby outside his house and hurried along the path, whistling. He opened the front door, stepped through and closed it, then frowned, because the house was in darkness. He groped for the hall switch and pressed it down; still there was no light.

“The bulb’s gone!” said Roger. He went forward a step and put his hand inside the lounge door, pressing that switch down. This time the light made him narrow his eyes, and blinded him with its flare. Then his features stiffened and he stared about him in growing stupefaction.

Nothing was in order.

Against the wall, the piano was in pieces, gaping open, every string broken and hanging loose. The carpet had been slashed across and across, and left in little strips. An armchair had not only been ripped open but the wooden framework had been chopped to pieces. Everything breakable was broken, everything tearable was torn, pictures were down, the wallpaper was covered with great daubs of red paint. It was a scene of such devastation that at first he did not realise its significance.

Then Malone spoke from behind him.

“How do you like it, copper? And what do you know?”

CHAPTER 21

Tennant Loses His Temper

ROGER STARED round at the man.

Malone wore a suit of a blue that was bordering on heliotrope. His marcel waves were dressed with great precision and the grease from his hair made his forehead glisten. He stood with his hands in his pockets and the winged shoulders of his coat were so wide that they nearly touched the door posts on either side. His thin red lips were set in a sneer which he doubtless considered intimidating.

Roger saw all that vaguely.

Far more vivid in his mind’s eye was Janet — a composite picture of her gaiety that morning, her joy, the happiness with which she looked forward to coming home, and an imaginary picture of her when she saw the chaos in the lounge. He wondered whether the other rooms had been wrecked; Malone had probably made a thorough job of it.

“Keeping your mouth shut won’t help you,” said Malone.

A wave of cold anger passed through Roger, visible in his expression. The sneer faded from Malone’s face and was replaced by a wary look.

“Listen —” he began.

Roger said : “Malone, I charge you with causing wilful bodily harm to a number of persons, with conspiring to defraud, with theft and looting. I arrest you in the name of the law and warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. Do you hear me ?”

Malone said : “You’re crazy!”

“You’re under arrest,” Roger said. “Anything you do now will be an attempt to resist arrest. I don’t know whether we can get you for murder, but even if we can’t, be very careful. Next to murder, violence to a policeman will be the most serious charge on the calendar.”

“You’re off your nut,” Malone said, still very wary. “You can’t do a thing, West.”

“You poor fool!” said Roger, scathingly. “You really think you can get away with it? Every policeman in this country is after you. You haven’t even a hope of keeping away from them for the rest of the day. Whatever you do will only make it worse for yourself. If you give yourself up and make a statement, you might get a lighter sentence. It’s your only real hope.”

“Shut your trap!” snapped Malone, “I didn’t come here to listen to talk from you.”

“I’m not interested in why you came,” said Roger. “I’ve told you the truth and if you like to play the fool, that’s up to you. I don’t know how many men you’ve got with you —”

“I brought plenty,” Malone said, his eyes narrowed. “Quit the spieling, West. No one can touch me. How much do you know?”

“As much as everyone at the Yard knows,” Roger said. “We’ll be moving later in the day.”

Malone said thinly : “West, I reckon your wife will be coming here soon. Once before, I took her away to warn you what would happen if you stuck your head out too far. Now it’s coming. If you don’t talk, I’ll deal with her different.” He kept his hands in his pockets, where Roger sus-pected that he had a knife, perhaps a gun. Mention of Janet brought a revival of the cold fury; it made him tremble from head to foot and he had to fight against throwing himself at the gangster — the one fatal thing to do. “You saw me deal with that Cartier dame,” Malone continued, “that was nothing to what I’ll do to your wife. Tell me what you know.”

“Why Cox killed his wife,” said Roger.

Malone moved.

His trick of ending immobility in a sudden cyclonic movement succeeded in taking Roger by surprise. He backed away but caught his foot against a part of the broken chair and staggered against the mantelpiece. Malone struck him with the flat of his hand. It did not account for the sharp, stinging pain in Roger’s cheek nor the warm trickle of blood. He saw the man’s hand in front of him, a razor blade held between the middle and index fingers. He knew that Malone would gladly batter him as he had the room; yet he was less afraid than angry.

“That’s just a little idea of what’s coming to you,” Malone said thinly. “Did the Randall dame talk?”

“She didn’t need to.”

“That’s a lie. Did she talk?”

Roger said : “I’ve warned you, Malone.”

Malone sneered. “I’ve heard busies before. Talk, that’s about all they can do. If you caught me you couldn’t keep me.” He raised his hand threateningly. By a sleight of hand he moved the blade so that it was held between the tips of his fingers. He made a sweeping movement and the blade passed within an inch of Roger’s eyes. For the first time Roger felt only fear of what could have happened.

“I’ll give you two minutes,” Malone said.

From outside there came a shrill whistle, similar to the one that Roger had heard at Mrs Cartier’s flat and that Mark had heard in the ‘Saucy Sue’. Malone stiffened and half turned his head. Roger kicked at him, aiming for his groin. He caught the man’s thigh and Malone lost his balance, just as two of the gang came into the room.

They ignored him as Malone, recovering his balance, said : “Who is it?”

“Lessing,” a rat-faced man said. “And the yob with the curly hair.”

Malone’s eyes narrowed. “Tennant, Huh? I’ve been wanting to talk to him. How far away?”

“The end of the street.”

“Walking?”

“Yeah.”

Roger wondered : “Why have they come so soon?”

Malone did not look at Roger, but one of his companions stayed close. He had a knuckle-duster in his hand, an ugly, spiked weapon which would tear a man’s face to pieces.

“Don’t even squeak,” Malone flung at Roger, savagely.

Footsteps sounded on the pavement and then the gravel drive. There was a pause and a heavy knock at the front door. Malone did not move except to put out a hand towards the light switch as if he were going to plunge the room in darkness. If he did—

The man with the knuckle-duster moved swiftly, caught Roger’s right wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back. Whoever was outside knocked again; then Mark called :

“Anyone at home ?” There was a pause before a key scraped in the lock — Mark had a key to the house.

Malone flicked his finger; the light went out.

“What the—” began Mark, as if startled by the darkness. Actually it was broken by light streaming in from the open front door. “Roger !” Mark called. “Are you in?”

The pressure at Roger’s wrist increased and he felt the scraping of the knuckle-duster on his cheek. The veins swelled up in his neck and on his forehead, his breathing was heavy. He knew exactly what would happen if he called out. Damn it, he must call! He opened his lips.

Malone switched on the light. Mark gasped. Roger saw two men standing in the hall and guessed that one of them was showing a gun. Malone stepped into the hall with the sliding, swaggering gait which characterised him.

“Come right in, Lessing,” he said. “You’re very welcome.” He grinned. “Where’s Tennant?”

“Here’s Tennant!” a man called. It was Tennant himself. There was a flurry of movement, a gasp and a shadow which loomed in the hall. It happened so suddenly that Roger felt his captor relax. He took the opportunity and wrenched his wrist away, back-heeled and caught the man’s shin. Two men crashed down in the hall, carried to the floor by Bill Tennant, who had leapt past Mark and sailed through the air. He landed on his feet, crouching, and looked at Malone and the other man. Malone held a knife now. There was a split second of silence, a hush while the two men weighed each other up. Malone was crouching now, and Tennant standing upright with his hands a little way in front of him. The men on the floor began to move.

Roger took a step forward.

Tennant jumped, feet foremost. His heels landed on Malone’s stomach, and Malone’s hand, holding the knife, swept round aimlessly. There was a squelching sound as Tennant’s feet sank into him and he fell backward, cracking his head against the floor. The man whom Roger had kicked drew back his fist with the knuckle-duster ready, but Tennant came on, keeping his balance by some miracle. He gripped the wrist which held the knuckle-duster, and Malone’s man gasped and was thrown against the wall with a thud which shook the house. Malone, scrambling to his feet and with no fight left in him, shouted for help, but no one came.

Tennant turned on him and laughed into his face.

“This is what you hand out, Malone,” he said. He struck the man with great power and Malone toppled backwards. “That,” Tennant said, “is for Lois. That is for Mrs Cartier.” He bent down and yanked Malone to his feet.

There were men’s voices, heavy footsteps and the sound of scuffling in the kitchen. Roger wondered who else had come. Mark was standing just in sight, with a gun in his hand; the two men whom Tennant had first attacked were backing towards the stairs. A familiar voice called :

“Is West all right, Lessing?” It was Cornish!

“Yes,” Mark called.

“Mister Malone,” said Tennant, softly, “I never did like you.” The gangster was helpless, hardly able to stand on his feet, but Tennant lifted him by the waist and flung him against the wall.

Then Cornish and two or three plainclothes men came in with a rush. Tennant drew back. Roger could not look at Cornish, only at Tennant, to see the way he relaxed, the sudden fading of the glitter in his eyes, and the half-ashamed smile which curved his lips.

“It looks as if I lost me temper,” he said.

“Temper!” gasped Cornish.

Roger drew a deep breath. “What brought you?” he demanded.

Mark sauntered into the room, looking pleased with himself.

“Malone sent one of his men to see Oliphant,” he said. “I recognised him from the ‘Saucy Sue’, and we had a little talk with him on the Embankment — Tennant didn’t take long to make him open his mouth! He said Malone was waiting here -for you or Janet so I phoned the Yard.”

“You see, it was simple,” said Tennant. He looked into Malone’s face. “I hope I haven’t killed him,” he said. “I’ve been giving unarmed combat lessons for two years and as I haven’t fought in earnest yet, I thought Malone would do for some real practice!” He put his hands into his pockets and then, for the first time, seemed to notice the chaos of the room. “By George!” he exclaimed. “What a mess!” His eyes widened and he stared at Roger. “What have you done to your face ?”

Roger fingered his slashed cheek, surprised to find blood on his fingers.

“I’d better wash this off,” he said, and went to the bathroom. As he dabbed at his cheek, which kept bleeding, and while Mark began to dress the cut, things began to take on a proper perspective. ‘Simple’ was the operative word. He remembered seeing the vaguely familiar man near the Em-bankment and remembered that he had been at the Carders’ flat, but for once Mark had had the better memory for faces. By sending Mark and Tennant to Oliphant he had done the right thing, after all. No one at the Yard would have recognised the messenger.

“Feeling better?” Mark asked, when sticking plaster was in position.

“I’m all right,” Roger said. “So we’ve got Malone.”

“And most of his men,” Mark said. “But — what utter swine! I — what’s the matter? Roger, what—”

“The other rooms !” snapped Roger.

Two minutes later, he had been in every room in the house and felt better, for only the lounge had been touched. He even found himself wondering whether it would be possible to make Janet come in the back way so that she would not get the full force of the shock that the lounge would be bound to give her. He looked at Mark, and explained what had suddenly preoccupied him; at that moment a Black Maria drew up outside. There was a crowd of people waiting and staring, a few dogs at the heels of the crowd, some schoolboys and two or three uniformed men. Masher Malone’s party was taken to the van, handcuffed together in twos. Malone, only just able to stagger, went last. Two plainclothes men climbed in, the driver started the engine and the van moved off.

“Any more for any more ?” boomed Tennant.

“You’ve had enough for one day,” Mark assured him. “Don’t ever take a dislike to me, will you?”

“That depends,” grinned Tennant. “Well, what are you going to do next, Roger?”

“Who did you leave to watch Oliphant?” Roger demanded.

“Now come off it,” said Mark. “We had our work cut out to rescue you from a dreadful fate, we had to take a chance somewhere. Shall we go back there?”

Roger said : “No.” He looked at the silent, rather subdued Cornish and there was a faint smile on his face. Cornish probably felt grieved because he had missed the fight. “It’s time I remembered I’m a policeman and worked by regulation.”

“You mean, interview Oliphant yourself?” Mark asked.

“Yes. I’d better have a word with Abbott first,” said Roger. “Mark, will you stay up until Janet arrives?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. “I think I’ll get the car out,” he went on. “You’d better stay around for a bit, Corny.”

“All right,” said Cornish.

Roger went out by the back door. The police had forced a window but Cornish had entered using the back door key which had been replaced in the tool-shed by Morgan’s man. There were signs of the struggle when the police had first entered but the kitchen looked in perfect order compared with the lounge. Roger scowled as he took out his keys, yet realised he had a great deal to be thankful for; when he thought of Malone he touched his cheek.

A single slip had finished Malone. It was difficult to believe that the man was on his way to the police-cells, that the striking arm of the Pickerell-Oliphant organisation had been paralysed. The quicker he interviewed Malone the better; not that he expected the man to squeal, although probably some of his gang would. Roger forgot his anxieties and the disappointment awaiting Janet in a sudden burst of confidence. If anything puzzled him at the moment he opened the doors of the garage, it was that Tennant had behaved in a peculiar way, to say the least.

The garage doors were wide open when he looked inside. His car was there, bonnet towards him. Sitting at the wheel, eyas wide open and mouth hidden by a scarf tied very tightly, sat a man with a peaked cap pushed to the back of his head, and with his hands tied to the steering wheel.

CHAPTER 22

Interview With Chatworth

IT WAS Dixon, the missing taxi-driver.

He could not speak even when Roger removed the scarf, and his mouth would hardly close; great red ridges showed on either side. His hands were so stiff that Roger had to prise them from the steering wheel. He had called for help, and Mark and Cornish, Tennant and two other policemen were outside the garage.

Roger helped the man from the car. They carried him into the house, put him on a settee, then began to massage his lips and legs and wrists. Mark laced strong tea with brandy and spoon-fed the man. The tension, which had relaxed after the disappearance of the Black Maria, was more acute than ever. Roger was desperately anxious to find out what had happened to Dixon, and who had brought the man here.

It was half an hour before the man could speak, and then only in a voice a little above a whisper.

Dixon had followed the Daimler to Bonnock House. Soon after he had parked his cab at the end of the road, another had arrived, bearing Mrs Sylvester Cartier. With her had been a man whom the taxi-driver knew by sight because he had worked a great deal in the East End and had often been to the Old Bailey for a free entertainment. The man’s name, he said, was Oliphant.

“Oliphant!” Roger exclaimed.

“Sure — and the lady.” Dixon moistened his lips. “Maybe I got too curious, mister. I went too close. I was hanging around and Malone arrived — you know Malone? He’s poison, he—”

“He’s at Cannon Row,” Roger said.

Dixon’s eyes glittered. “I wish I could have had a go at ‘im first. Well, I just stayed around. Malone was watching. The toff who had been with the lady came out and got into the Daimler again and I started to follow but before I got far Malone came on the running board. Know Hampstead Heath, mister? Well, it’s lonely enough an’ I couldn’t do a thing about it. There was four of them. They — they” — his voice was hoarse with anger — “they tied me up an’ put me at the back of me own cab an’ drove it ‘ere!”

Roger said : “Have you been here ever since?”

“Every ruddy minnit,” said Dixon. “They never even give me a drink o’ water. They tied me ‘ere an’ told me I’d be lucky if anyone came before I was stiff.” He gulped. “I couldn’t move me ‘ead, Guv’nor. Wouldn’t I like—”

“Did they talk much?”

“Talk — they never did nothing else!” said Dixon. “They arst me ‘ow long I’d been a squealer, me — me, a perishing nose! They wanted to know if I’d been told to watch the lady, an’ whether you had said anything about her. I said you said I was to watch the toff, Guv’nor. I didn’t see no sense in giving them what they perishin’ well wanted!”

“Good man,” said Roger.

“That tickled Malone,” Dixon said. “He laughed as if it was the best joke in the world, Guv’nor — but I had the laugh on him, because he didn’t know you was really after the dame.”

“And is that the lot?” asked Roger.

“Seems plenty to me,” said Dixon. “If I don’t get some shut-eye soon I. shall drop dead, that’s what I shall do.”

“We’ll get you home,” Roger said.

“Guv’nor, if you’ve got a bed here, I’ll be asleep in a couple of jiffs.”

“Yes, of course.” Roger left Mark and Tennant to put the man to bed, smiled at the thought of Janet’s homecoming, then drove in his own car to the Yard. There seemed nothing to do but detain Mrs Cartier and Oliphant and hope that one or the other would make a true statement. The woman might break down. Some things continued to puzzle him. If Malone had known that the woman was implicated when Dixon had arrived, he must have known later that evening, yet there had been nothing phoney about the way he had assaulted her.

“To make me jump to the wrong conclusion,” Roger mused. “It couldn’t mean anything else.”

He reached the Yard and immediately gave instructions for Mrs Cartier and Oliphant to be shadowed. He learned from Eddie Day that Abbott had put a man on Oliphant after all; so Abbott was still capable of being two-faced. Until he saw Abbott, he thought that Mrs Cartier had no watcher, but he was wrong. The Superintendent was apologetic; Chatworth had ordered him to have Oliphant watched, as well as Mrs Cartier; the AC had not been prepared to leave it to Roger. And :

“I think he was right, West.”

“So do I, by hindsight,” admitted Roger. “Any sign of Pickerell?”

“No.”

“Have you heard about Malone?”

“I’ve just come from him,” said Abbott. “He will not talk — but then, he is hardly in a condition to talk, he will be in hospital for several days. Who dealt with him? Was it Cornish ?”

Roger smiled. “No. There was a bit of a scrap. I can’t say who hit who.”

He expected to be pressed on the point, but a buzzer rang on Abbott’s desk and the Superintendent stood up quickly.

“That will be Sir Guy. I told him you had arrived and he promised to ring for us as soon as he was ready.” Abbott led the way up to Chatworth’s office and they went in immediately.

“You’re having quite a week, aren’t you, West?” The question was almost aggressive.

Roger grimaced. “Yes, aren’t I ?”

“It looks as if the worst is over,” said Chatworth. “Abbott’s told you that we’re watching everyone?” Roger nodded. “All the people whom the Randall girl named have been interviewed except Oliphant,” Chatworth went on. “We’ve been very busy all through the night.”

Roger smiled with relief. He should have realised that the Yard would act swiftly and thoroughly. He had not yet got it out of his system that he was working this case on his own.

“And we have a very remarkable story,” Chatworth said. “You haven’t told him, Abbott, have you?”

“No, sir.”

Roger stared. “What is it, sir?” he asked.

“It is a combination of things. First, many of the stolen jewels have not been disposed of. Pickerell sold others to some of the people to whom Miss Randall took the packages — she actually took the stolen goods. The proceeds of many jewel thefts, here and on the Continent, passed through the hands of Pickerell and Lois Randall. Pickerell was the fence, always working from Welbeck Street.”

“Yes?” said Roger. Chatworth’s manner told him there was more to come.

Chatworth gave an almost smug smile.

“And then there was the real purpose of the Society of European Relief, West! Relief!” He threw back his head and uttered a short laugh. “Oh, it had its genuine side, but the chief angle was very clever indeed. Jewels were brought in from the Continent, sometimes by refugees, who owned them, others by thieves posing as refugees, and more — the largest proportion — jewels hidden away during the last war, and discovered. There’s been a lot of smuggling, we’ve known that for some time. Jewels flooded the Society from all sources and they were all handled at Welbeck Street.”

Roger thought: “Smuggled sparklers, so that’s it.” He felt annoyed with himself for being disappointed.

“Most of them came from Germany and Italy,” Chatworth said, gently.

Roger stared : “Germany?”

“You’ve heard of the fortunes which Goering, Goebbels, Himmler and the rest of them are supposed to have wafted away?” asked Chatworth. “Of course you have! But other well-placed Nazi officials and German business men weren’t able to do it. They wanted to save something from the wreckage, so they put their money in jewels — many of them pillaged from the occupied countries — and they sent them over here. The Society of European Relief became an organization” — Chatworth laboured over the words — “which relieved a great many people of their jewels, took jewels from others for services never fully rendered, and was a gigantic world-wide sales organisation. Some of its members, posing as refugees, travelled abroad and sold stolen jewels. Follow that, West? The Society of European Relief did all that.”

Roger said gruffly : “So it was as big as that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Chatworth. “And think how clever it was. They actually had a genuine organisation ready for distributing the jewels, which were never allowed to remain in one country for long. For every genuine applicant for relief there was one who was a party to this scheme. There were people with friends behind the Iron Curtain prepared to help when Mrs Cartier persuaded them — men who wouldn’t touch the jewels for themselves, but were prepared to hold them. I don’t know what precious argument the woman puts up — she probably told a lot of them that they were jewels belonging to refugees from Russia, Poland — all of Eastern Europe. There are some very big names on the list of patrons of the Society — oh, it will prove quite a scandal! Beginning to understand how important it was that you should not connect the murder of the woman Cox with this?”

Roger said : “I certainly do. But it’s doubtful whether I ever would have done.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Chatworth. “I think Oliphant must have been afraid that you had seen something. I’ve heard from some of the people concerned that they have been afraid of a raid for several months. They had the wind-up all right and” — he laughed —”Friday the 13th worried .someone !”

Roger said : “Ye-es. It couldn’t have been that alone. You’ve enough on Mrs Cartier and Oliphant to arrest them, I suppose ?”

“We can pick them up whenever we want to,” said Chatworth. “It is now established that Oliphant has been to see Malone on several occasions. Also — he was at Cox’s house with Malone just before you arrived on December 13th.”

Roger caught his breath.

“They assumed you’d seen or heard them together, and one day you were bound to realise the significance,” Chatworth went on. “Well — I’ve left Oliphant and Mrs Cartier to you ! It’s your job to charge them.”

Roger sat back in his chair and said after a pause:

“Thank you, sir. I wonder if we would be wise to defer arresting Mrs Cartier.”

“Now, West!”

“I see it this way,” said Roger. “She came to see me and first awoke my interest in the Society. If she hadn’t pretended that she wanted my wife’s help, I would probably never have gone to Welbeck Street. We might have traced Malone to Bonnock House, but even that’s doubtful. After a long time we might have realised that the Society was a cover for crime, but I’m not sure. But for Mrs Cartier we wouldn’t have been able to make a move and — I would still be under suspension.”

“Come, West, come! Grow up!” Chatworth’s sarcasm was heavy as a spade. “She has been a very smart — clever woman, no doubt about that.” He looked over the tops of his glasses. “Why, she even got five guineas out of me for her precious Society !” He hurried over that evil memory and went on, scowling : “She told you some things and she meant to be sure that whatever else, you would not suspect her.”

Roger said : “I don’t know about that. I saw Malone strike her. I saw the way her head went from side to side. That wasn’t faked — he hurt her. I can’t be wholly sure that she has told me everything,” he admitted, “but I can’t believe that she would have been fool enough to have given me quite such a direct lead if she were guilty. Then there are the tapes. If you’re asking me to believe that Malone went there to get one just to create effect and to distract attention from her — well, sir, I can’t believe it.”

“Oh,” said Chatworth. “Well, what do you think?”

“If she did lead me there and is a party to the crimes it would only be because the Society is no longer useful and that she has taken up the second line of defence — or the people who work with her did. On the other hand, if she were genuinely interested in the Society as a relief organisation and had reason to believe that it was being used for something else, she acted rationally.”

“I see your point,” Chatworth said.

“So do I,” said Abbott.

“I’m simply trying to imagine whether anyone else could be behind it,” Roger said. “If we have the list of the supporters of the Society we’ve plenty to choose from. We may only be at the fringe of the affair yet. Seriously, sir — I ask you to pull Oliphant in if you must, but leave Mrs Cartier.”

Chatworth said after a long pause :

“I’ll think about it. Have a couple of men ready to go with you to Chelsea, for Oliphant, in case we act at once. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

“Very good, sir,” said Roger, formally.

He wished he could hear what Abbott said to the AC as he went to his own office. It was empty, and he was glad that he could sit back at his desk and stare ahead of him without being harassed by curious officers. He hated the thought that had come to him, he wished that it had not.

Supposing a man at the Yard was taking bribes?

Supposing the whole thing had been built up so that suspicion, which would be inevitable, had fallen on him, not on the real culprit.

Abbott?

Malone had said the Yard couldn’t keep him if they got him. Was his confidence founded on the fact that he was sure of help from inside the Yard ?

The telephone rang and he answered it quickly, surprised to hear Chatworth so soon on the line — he had not yet even detailed the sergeants. Then Eddie Day came in breezily, his prominent teeth bared in a smile of welcome.

“Eddie, get two sergeants here for me — I’ll be back soon,” Roger said. “I’m going to see the Old Man.”

Mention of Chatworth was quite enough to prevent Eddie from trying to delay him. He walked quickly along the corridor and up the stairs, entering on Chatworth’s gruff ‘come in’.

Abbott had gone.

“Close the door, West,” said Chatworth. “Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind ?”

“I think I’ve told you ev—” Roger began.

“No you haven’t!” Chatworth barked. “Something is worrying you, I saw your change of expression. What is it?”

Reluctantly, Roger said : “I still can’t understand why I was framed. The Oliphant-Malone coincidence might bo enough and yet it doesn’t make sense.”

“Ah !” said Chatworth. He leaned forward, pressing the backs of his hands against the side of the desk. “Does anything else puzzle you? Or have you allowed yourself to be dazzled by your change of fortunes and forgotten to think?”

“Do you mean — the manner of my suspension?” Chatworth simply glared. “You were so sure that I was involved—” his mind kept probing. “You took it for granted that I was, didn’t you?”

“We knew someone was accepting bribes and shutting his eyes to a lot of things. We thought it was you.”

“You mean there’s still someone?” Roger asked tensely.

“Yes,” said Chatworth, and exhaled with a noise like a collapsing toy balloon.

Before Roger could speak after the silence which followed, the telephone rang. Chatworth frowned, and lifted it promptly. His frown disappeared in an expression of amazement. He said : “Yes, I’ll come.” He put the receiver down and got up slowly. “Come with me, West,” he said. “Malone nearly escaped from his cell. He got a key from somewhere.”

Roger exclaimed: “A key!” The significance of that crashed into his mind. “That proves someone here is trying to help Malone.”

“It proves it, yes,” said Chatworth.

A sergeant and three policemen at Cannon Row had managed to overpower Malone, after he had unlocked the door of his cell and tried to fight his way out of the police station. Cornish had brought Malone and the others here to Cannon Row, and then gone on to the East End. Afterwards, Malone had been visited by Abbott, and later by both Abbott and Tiny Martin.

CHAPTER 23

Dishonour Among Police

CHATWORTH BEGAN to speak in a low voice.

He had long suspected that information was leaking from the Yard. Two or three arrests of men wanted for various crimes — all in the East End — had been prevented because the suspects had been warned and had managed to escape; they were now in hiding. After the first two, in the November of the previous year, he had kept a careful watch, and had given Abbott and Tiny Martin the task of trying to find the leakage. There had been other leakages only slightly less serious. Raids on West End clubs had failed because the proprietors had been warned in advance. Two small fences had been able to get rid of stolen jewels before their premises were searched. As far as Roger and the rest of the Yard knew, these were incidentals, cases which had failed at the last moment — as many did, there was nothing unusual about it. Chatworth had drawn a line between them all.

Abbott had worked quietly. Malone’s name had been heard more often and Roger’s associated with it. Abbott had tried the obvious thing, and approached Leech.

“And from then on it appeared to be a clear-cut case against you,” said Chatworth. “You know what happened after that. The tape-recorder proved that you were not the man. However, there is someone involved. Malone getting the key proves that beyond doubt. You suspect Abbott, don’t you?”

“He’s an obvious possibility. He told me that he had seen Malone, and only a policeman could have given Malone the key. But I don’t always trust the obvious, sir.”

“Charitable of you,” growled Chatworth. “Who else?”

“It could be Sergeant Martin, who is familiar with all that Abbott does — and he was at the cell. But — it needn’t be either of them.”

“You think it is but you’re trying to be fair,” said Chat- worth. “All right, West! Abbott was very anxious that you should arrest Mrs Cartier immediately, wasn’t he? He tried to persuade me to give those instructions, but your case, for her, was a strong one. She must be watched, but there is no need for immediate action. We’ve uncovered the main plot, we must now find who is letting us down so badly.”

“Have you any action in mind, sir?”

“Yes. To use Oliphant as a bait. We won’t go for him yet, but will broadcast the fact that it’s only a matter of time before we do. I’ve already given Abbott those instructions. If Oliphant remains where he is—” the AG shrugged. “It might be that whoever has been selling us out, thinks it will be too dangerous this time. On the other hand, if he tries to get away we can pick him up. In a police force several thousand strong there are bound to be some rogues, but I don’t like to think that any of them reach a position of responsibility. There’s another thing we have to admit — it has completely disrupted our organisation. I’ve never known so many things go awry at the same time because I haven’t felt that I can wholly trust anyone.”

Roger had a curious sensation; he felt sorry for the AG! Of all the men whom he had imagined able to stand alone Chatworth was the strongest. Now he was confessing that the situation had got beyond him.

Roger smiled. “You know, sir, we aren’t doing too badly! Malone and his mob under arrest, the Society racket is uncovered, most of the agents, guilty and innocent, known to us. At another time we’d be congratulating ourselves. Within forty-eight hours we should know whether Mrs Cartier is the brains behind the scheme, or whether it’s Oliphant or someone whom we don’t yet know.”

“Yes,” said Chatworth, relaxing into a smile. “Comforting common sense, West. Do you think it possible that whoever is giving information from here is the real leader?”

“Vaguely,” Roger said. “Are you having any individuals in the force watched ?”

“Difficult to set the police to catch the police,” Chatworth said, “especially after our one failure. I shall leave it to you.”

“With full authority?” Roger asked, quietly.

“With full authority to act. You must tell no one here what you are doing. If you want anyone followed without his knowledge, whoever you use must believe that there is some danger for his quarry and that he’s acting as a bodyguard — you can arrange that, of course?”

“Of course, sir,” echoed Roger.

Ten minutes later he was sitting at his desk. The office was empty but for himself and he was grinning much as he had done in the taxi.

The quick changes of mood which he had felt that day were natural enough.

The telephone rang. “Mrs West is on the line, sir,” the operator told him.

“Put her through,” Roger said. “Hallo, Jan ! Are you all right?”

“I would like to wring Malone’s neck !” said Janet. “But I’m told that Bill Tennant didn’t do a bad job! Darling, I wanted to tell you not to worry about the lounge. They have left us some furniture, and well, it doesn’t really matter all that much. How are things going?”

“Not badly,” said Roger. “How could it, with a wife like you? Ask Mark and Tennant to meet me at the Green Cat — Mark knows it — at half past two, will you? Unless they’re both too tired, that is. I think I can find something for them to do.”

“Mark’s here,” said Janet.

Mark’s voice sounded on the line almost at once. He confirmed the arrangement to meet at the Green Cat, and rang off. He was smiling widely when the door opened and Eddie Day bustled in.

“Now what’s the matter with you, Handsome?” demanded Eddie. “Strike me, you look as if you’d lost a tanner and found half a crown! Been promoted?” he added, almost fearfully.

Roger laughed. “No, Eddie, I won’t be able to go any higher until I’m in the middle forties, if at all, so cast the green mote out of your eye !”

Eddie looked relieved.

“Things going all right, then?” he asked.

“Not badly at all,” said Roger. “You haven’t seen Abbott, have you ?”

“Just come from him,” replied Eddie. “Cold fish all right, he tried to tick me off. Me ! He doesn’t look as if he’s come into a fortune, if you ask me he looks as if he’s got something on his mind.”

“Does he ?” asked Roger, innocently.

He made one or two phone calls, wishing Cornish were at the Yard. But the fair-haired Inspector was working in AZ — his old Division — which he knew thoroughly, trying to find out more about Malone and keeping an eye open for Pickerell. Pickerell, Mrs Cartier and Oliphant, Roger thought, might give him the answer to the major problem, that of the renegade policeman.

“Seen Sloan ?” asked Eddie Day, looking up from his desk.

“Sloan ? No!” Roger was eager. “Is he back ?”

“I saw him coming in, half an hour ago,” Eddie said. “Looks as if he’s been in a place where the sun shone.”

Detective-Inspector William Sloan, until recently Sergeant Sloan and Roger’s chief aide, was a tall, not bad-looking man, with mousy hair and a rather speculative expression in his brown eyes. Roger sent for him. He said that he had come back early because he had heard a rumour of Roger’s trouble.

“Oh, it passed,” Roger said, as Eddie Day bustled out. “But the AC feels pretty sure that there is a leakage here.” He looked at Sloan steadily. The other did not answer, except with a nod.

“What I want to do,” said Roger, “is to make sure that no one has a crack at Abbott or Martin.” He paused, thinking that Sloan was probably the only man at the Yard, Cornish possibly excepted, who would be able to read between his words. “They’ve been up to the neck in this business and they might be in danger even though Malone’s finished. But then, you don’t know what’s been happening?”

“I’ve heard all about it,” said Sloan. “I’ve been in the canteen.”

“Good ! Take a couple of reliable men, and guard Abbott and Martin with their lives!” Roger smiled. “Don’t let Abbott know what you’re doing, or he might get annoyed. Phone me if there’s anything urgent. Oliphant is Suspect Number I at the moment — had you heard of that?”

“Everyone here seems to have heard,” Sloan told him.

“Nice work,” Roger said.

But he believed that it was a mistake and was glad it was Chatworth’s responsibility, not his. If Oliphant were warned, anyone at the Yard might be responsible.

In the next hour, several reports were telephoned to him. The men watching Oliphant had nothing to report. The solicitor had not left his house but had been seen at the front window. He had had no callers. Mrs Cartier was at her flat, but her husband had gone to the City and had last been seen entering the building which housed the head offices of the Cartier Food Product Company. There was no trace of Pickerell, but Cornish, telephoning personally, said that several more of Malone’s men had been located and there were rumours that a man answering Pickerell’s description had been seen in the East End the previous evening.

“Good man. Go to it!” Roger said.

“Ought I to have a word with Abbott?” Cornish asked.

“Why not?” asked Roger, putting Cornish through.

He telephoned the letting office at Bonnock House, talked for some time, and at half past twelve, went down to the canteen, had a snack, then left for Pep Morgan’s office. He had telephoned to say that he would be there about one o’clock and asked for Pep’s chief operatives to be present. Maude greeted him with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She told him that she had been to see Pep that morning and that he was making a good recovery.

“That’s fine,” said Roger. “Where are the men ?”

Maude cocked her thumb over her shoulder towards Pep’s private office.

Lanky Sam was propping himself up against the window. A stolid, chunky individual — the man who had been at Bell Street and who had left soon after dawn that day — was sitting on Morgan’s desk. He swore that he had heard nothing of the taxi-driver’s arrival in the garage; Dixon had been put there before Pep’s man had arrived on duty. The other men, middle-aged with jaundiced looks in their eyes and the world-weariness which comes to men whose life is bound up with the sordid business of domestic disruption, were sitting on upright chairs. All of them eyed Roger hopefully.

“Okay, Boss,” Sam said. “Shoot.”

Roger smiled. “I’m no longer the bad boy of the Yard, but I still want some help.”

“So you really admit there are detectives outside the Yard?” Sam said, admiringly. “You learn quick, Handsome !”

“I hope you will,” Roger said. “Listen.”

He told them exactly what he wanted.

He thought Sam seemed disappointed but the men went off cheerfully enough.

He telephoned the Cry and the Echo from Morgan’s office, speaking to both Wray and Tamperly. He gave them a resume of the developments and promised them further revelations later in the day. Both men worked for evening as well as daily papers in the same combine, and he said to each :

“If you can get a paragraph in hinting at startling developments in .the next twenty-four hours, it would help,” he said. “But don’t say that I’m cleared.”

Each man agreed.

Roger replaced the receiver and saw Maude looking up at him narrowly.

“Have you got something, Handsome?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised !” Roger said.

He reached the Green Cat, a small restaurant off Piccadilly, at half past two precisely; he had to wait for ten minutes before Mark and Tennant arrived. At a corner table, where they had coffee, Roger outlined the situation, naming Abbott and Tiny Martin.

“I’m not at all surprised,” Mark said.

“Where do we come in, Roger?” asked Tennant.

Roger said : “I’m going to telephone Oliphant and tell him that Mrs Cartier wants to see him at her flat. Then I shall telephone Mrs C. and tell her Oliphant is coming — let’s say at four o’clock. That will give us time to work.”

“Supposing they don’t bite?” Mark said.

“Then we’ll have to try again.”

“Supposing they do bite?” demanded Tennant.

Roger smiled. “There’s my man ! You’ll be at hand. There is a flat next to the Cartiers which we can use — the tenants will be out but I’ve had their permission to use the flat. It has a lounge window next to the Cartiers. Outside Bonnock House there are little balconies — a man of your agility can easily climb from one to the other. I’ll be in the Cartiers’ lounge and you’ll be on the balcony. I’ll leave it to you when you come in ! They’ll probably try to be violent, but that won’t worry you ! Er — have you ever jumped through a pane of glass ?”

Tennant beamed. “I’ve jumped through every tiling!” he declared.

“Don’t cut yourself,” Roger said. “Well now — I’ll have to be busy. As soon as the message is phoned to Mrs Cartier I want her phone disconnected. Then you’ve got to be installed next door . . .”

He continued, outlining his plans; and by half past three everything was settled. Then he telephoned the Yard, to learn that reports showed no developments except that Sloan had left a message to say that Abbott and Martin had left the Yard, and had gone to AZ Division — that part of the East End which included Rose Street and Leech’s pub. Then, before he rang off, he was told that Oliphant had left his Chelsea house at three-fifteen.

Roger was at Piccadilly when he made the inquiries and he drove immediately to Bonnock House. Crossing the Heath, the quickest route, he remembered Dixon’s story of its loneliness.

He reached the Cartiers’ flat at four-fifteen.

The maid who had reminded him of Pickerell opened the door and told him, a shade too quickly, that neither Mr or Mrs Cartier were at home.

“I’ll wait,” Roger said.

“I don’t think —” the maid began.

Someone in another room said : “No, I don’t!”

Roger smiled. “Take my card in, please. Don’t make it difficult for yourself.”

The maid looked reluctant, but she took the card, approached the door from which the voices were coming and tapped, gingerly. Cartier’s voice was sharp.

“What is it?”

“Excuse me, sir, but a gentleman from —”

Roger put his hand to the door and opened it wider. He almost banged into Cartier, who was coming forward. Behind Cartier was his wife, sitting on the settee where she had greeted Roger on that evening which now seemed an age ago. She looked startled; there was hardly any sign left of the rough treatment from Malone.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Cartier demanded.

“I am a police officer,” Roger said, formally. “I would like you to answer a few questions, sir.”

“Why, West!” exclaimed Mortimer Oliphant, rising from an easy chair and smiling widely. “Well, well, how small a place London is!”

The solicitor’s interruption seemed to startle Cartier, who closed the door on the maid. Mrs Cartier extended a hand which Roger carefully ignored; that made her frown. Oliphant, well dressed, smiling, handsome in his dark fashion, spoke heartily.

“I’d no idea that you knew West, Mrs Cartier !”

“Only in the way of business,” said Roger. He glanced at the set tea-table, seeing that there was early lettuce, jam, what looked like real cream and cakes and pastries. Mrs Cartier rang a handbell and the maid appeared.

“Bring another cup for the Inspector,” said Mrs Cartier. “You will have some tea, won’t you ?”

“Thank you,” said Roger, formally.

“We were just discussing a remarkable thing,” said Oliphant, who seemed too anxious to talk. “I received a message asking me to visit Mrs Cartier on Society business and she received one purporting to come from me — but neither of us sent such a message !”

Roger smiled. “No,” he said, “I sent them.”

Cartier exclaimed : “Mr West, you may be a policeman, but I insist on an explanation.”

“Don’t get impatient, darling,” urged Mrs Cartier.

Oliphant said curtly: “That’s a surprising admission, West.”

“I knew that you and Mrs Cartier did a great deal of business together and wanted the opportunity of meeting you at the same time. I couldn’t think of any other way of arranging it.” He smiled pleasantly. Oliphant was wary, Mrs Car- tier’s smile was obscure, and Cartier appeared to be really bewildered.

Oliphant demanded : “Is this visit official ?”

“Haven’t I made that clear?” asked Roger.

“In that case —”

“But not necessarily aggressive!” Roger assured him. He settled back in his chair and waited for the maid to bring in another cup and saucer, knife and plate. When she had gone, he went on : “I think I ought to be frank with you, Mrs Cartier. Your organisation had been used to hide the activities of a criminal organisation which —”

“But of course !” she said. “I told you it had !”

“I wonder if you realise quite how widespread and powerful an organisation it was,” said Roger. “We have been able to find most of the active supporters and many of the people who helped in the work. Unfortunately, we haven’t found who was really directing the organisation unless it was someone in this room.”

He beamed.

“You have no right to make such slanderous suggestions !” said Cartier angrily, but he turned to his wife. “From the very beginning I disliked the idea. If you had not interested yourself in such a charity, this would never have happened !”

“Now, darling,” said Mrs Cartier. “I don’t think —”

“You’re behaving very aggressively, West, aren’t you?” asked Oliphant.

“How much did you know about this yourself?”

For the first time the solicitor looked really worried. “Are you suggesting —”

“Hasn’t your usual informant sent the warning?” asked Roger. “Yes, Oliphant, you, personally. I have a warrant for your arrest. Also I have one for —”

“If you think my wife —” Cartier began, starting violently. He knocked over his cup, which fortunately was empty. The spoon struck a salt-cellar standing near the lettuce, and salt spilled over the table. “Damn !” ejaculated Cartier. He took a pinch of salt and threw it over his left shoulder, talking as he did so. “If you have the impertinence to suggest that my wife was a party to this criminal business, I shall insist —”

He went on and on and Roger eyed him steadily.

In his mind’s eye he saw Cartier about to follow his wife and stepping into the road to avoid walking under a ladder. He had another picture of Cartier uncrossing dessert knives in this very room. He saw the man throwing salt over his shoulder.

Cartier stopped and Oliphant said : “This is outrageous, West.”

“Is it?” asked Roger grimly. “Mr Cartier, you are obviously very superstitious. Did my meeting with Oliphant on the 13th of December really upset you so much ?”

OLIPHANT broke the silence, making a good show of

Cartier stiffened, Oliphant uttered a sharp exclamation, and the room was very quiet.

CHAPTER 24

A Man Brings a Warning

OLIPHANT broke the silence, making a good show of annoyance and yet pretending not to show it in front of Roger.

“I’m afraid West is getting rather beyond himself,” he said. “If he has developed peculiar ideas about unlucky dates, we need hardly treat his visit seriously.”

“Oh, but you should,” Roger said.

“Damn your impertinence!” snapped Cartier. “I demand a full explanation and an unqualified apology.”

Roger shrugged. “You’re trying hard, aren’t you? Oliphant, we knew last night that you were up to your neck in this, but we waited for you to make a move. You didn’t make it so I forced your hand. I expected you to hear from your informant at the Yard, but he’s been very remiss, hasn’t he?”

“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Oliphant.

“I’m not being,” Roger insisted. “I’ve told you that I have a warrant for your arrest. I have one for Mrs Cartier, too. I can take Cartier away with me, too.” He laughed at them all, but the only one who seemed unaffected was the woman. “I thought this little talk would clear the air,” he added, cheerfully. “You see, before it’s really finished, as far as we are concerned at the Yard we want to find out who has been selling you information and who has been condoning your crimes. Who is it?”

“I have nothing to say, except that this is a grotesque abuse of your authority,” Oliphant snapped.

“Who is it, Cartier?” Roger demanded.

“You must be quite mad !” Cartier was almost shrill.

“You wouldn’t know, Mrs Cartier, would you?” asked Roger. When she made no answer he went on : “This isn’t working out very well. Everything pointed to Mrs Cartier but she first gave me reason to suspect the Society, and I couldn’t see her deliberately attracting attention to herself. Superstitions played an obvious part, and when I saw a manifestation of superstitiousness on your part, Cartier, I wondered whether your hostility towards the Society was really sincere. I thought if I could get you all here together, with the telephone wires disengaged, and that’s easy, for a policeman ! — and we had a heart to heart talk, I might be able to put everything in order. If Mrs Cartier has been an innocent victim of the conspiracy, I don’t want to make trouble for her. Mrs Cartier, you began to suspect what was wrong when you put in the tape-recorder, didn’t you? You hoped to find out whether your worst fears were realised. You knew Oliphant was in it, as well as Pickerell and Lois Randall, but you only suspected your husband’s complicity.”

“West, stop this !” Cartier shouted.

“Be quiet!” snapped Roger, and he was surprised when the man subsided. “Mrs Cartier, you knew all that was being done. Your husband — as well as you yourself — had friends all over the Continent. You probably started the Society to help those friends who escaped, but I don’t think you had any desire to extend the scope of it. It was extended however, and then you became afraid of it. You would not take any direct action until you were sure. You heard that I was being framed, and so you came to see me, hoping that I would add two and two together. Well, here’s your answer. Your husband was in it.”

“There is not a scrap of truth in anything you say,” declared Oliphant.

“I’m waiting here for the proof,” Roger said. “You’ve worked through one of the officials at Scotland Yard, that is definitely established. He will move, he’s bound to because he is afraid that when you are arrested you will betray him. He will come to warn Cartier to get away. He will be told that you, Oliphant, left Chelsea and came here and he’ll be equally anxious to warn you. He’ll know that in handling the matter I made a significant omission. I didn’t have police protection at Bonnock House. He will probably think that I can’t handle it on my own.”

“Perhaps he does,” murmured Oliphant, but Roger ignored him.

“He’ll be fairly confident because he has the authority to remove any police who might come to the flats,” Roger continued, “that is one of his advantages, isn’t it?”

Oliphant said in a queer voice :

“Is it, West?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And do you think you know this individual?” asked Oliphant.

“I do,” said Roger.

“Perhaps,” said Oliphant. “Perhaps you’re right, West.” He looked at Cartier and said with a twisted smile : “You were certainly right, Sylvester. The 13th undid us.”

“Don’t be —” began Cartier.

“There’s no need to worry,” Oliphant said, slowly. “West came alone. He was so anxious to make sure that his colleague didn’t become suspicious, and has grandiose ideas about bringing off a coup by himself. He’s here alone. We can handle him. If he has a warrant for me, it will be exe-cuted, either by him or someone else.” There was a curious smile on his face. “West is no fool. He knows that I have been a party to more than one murder — don’t you, West? The police have a case for murder against me — as an accessory. There’s no hope for me.”

“I’m glad you realise it,” Roger said.

“But I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” said Oliphant. He put his hand to his pocket and drew out an automatic, levelling it casually at Roger. “If I shoot him,” he said dispassionately, “it will put the finishing touches to the case, but you and Antoinette need not suffer. You can tell the whole story — how West thought you were in it, how he accused me, but I confessed to being the leader and how I shot myself after shooting him. It will be quite convincing, won’t it?” He looked at Mrs Cartier, and in spite of his tension, Roger understood why Oliphant should behave like this.

Oliphant was in love with the woman!

“Well, West, what do you think of your scheme now?” Oliphant said.

Roger said slowly : “You told me that I wasn’t sane.”

“Meaning that I’m not? Oh, I don’t know,” said Oliphant. “I have been feeling the strain lately. Nothing has worked out as I expected, and this will be the most satisfactory end. Don’t imagine that I am sacrificing myself for Cartier. I think it is the only way in which —” he drew a deep breath — “everyone can be happy?”

The woman was looking at him.

“Don’t make such admissions !” Cartier cried.

“It can’t do any harm,” said Oliphant. “Only West is listening and he won’t be able to talk — but his men will come before long.” He stood up and backed towards the window. “Don’t try to stop me, Sylvester. Curious,” he added. “I wonder if it would have worked out differently but for your inhibitions? The unlucky 13th — it always frightened you, didn’t it? And it seemed so easy to divert suspicion to West, and satisfy you. With West in jail, our real informant would have been quite safe, which was much more important than easing your mind about the 13th ! But we don’t need to tell West everything, he can fill in the details himself — in the next world!” Oliphant laughed, softly. “When our man comes from the Yard to warn us, he’ll find West and me dead. You can tell him what has happened, and he will be able to wind up the case most satisfactorily. You’ll say that West came here alone to try to extort more money. You’ll make it plain that he is the renegade after all, the tape was a trick. Then you can start all over again.”

He smiled and levelled the gun.

Roger thought: “Hurry, Tennant, hurry!” He fancied that he had seen a shadow at the window, but was not sure. He wondered whether he had relied too much on ‘unarmed combat’ and the remarkable agility of Bill Tennant. Then he saw the shape at the window, of Tennant standing on the ledge.

Cartier gasped : “Oliphant, look!”

Tennant launched himself against the window, smashing the glass with his elbows and knees, keeping his chin tucked well down; he wore a crash-helmet. The crash made Oliphant swing round, and Roger jumped to his feet and overturned the table. At the same time there was a banging at the door, then footsteps in the hall. Tennant, with a scratch on his right cheek and another on his hand, fell upon Oliphant. They hit the ground together.

The gun flew from Oliphant’s hand. Cartier made a movement towards it, but his wife held his wrist.

“No,” she said in a tense voice. “No, not that!”

Roger watched this tense drama of human emotions as if he were standing a long way off. It made no difference to the issue, all but one thing was over, now — yet there was a fascination in the relationship between the man and his wife.

Cartier said : “You started this, you bitch ! If it hadn’t been for you this would never have happened.”

The door opened and the maid, frightened and trembling, admitted Mark.

Mrs Cartier said : “I couldn’t let it go on, I simply couldn’t. But you’ll be free one day. Don’t do anything to

Jet them hang you. You know nothing about the murders.”

Cartier struck her savagely across the face. She turned away and Roger put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

Tennant was brushing himself down. Oliphant was sitting on the floor, looking up stupidly.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Tennant said, almost wistfully. “Anyone else coming, West?”

“Soon, I hope,” Roger said.

Neither Oliphant nor Cartier spoke again. Roger handcuffed them to each other in another room, with Mark and Tennant to watch them. He gave the maid careful instructions, then returned to the lounge. Mrs Cartier was standing by the window, her face expressionless and her cheeks colourless. Roger looked out and saw one of Morgan’s men at the street corner, just walking out of sight.

He wondered whether Abbott would come. He did not feel like talking, although he wished the woman would break the silence. Suddenly, she turned and took a cigarette from a box on the table. She looked at him levelly as he lit it for her.

“How long have you known that my husband was involved in the crimes?”

“Not very long,” Roger said.

“Did I so much as hint at it?”

“You did not,” Roger assured her. “You did all you could, Mrs Cartier, to hide that. I wish —”

“Please!” she said, then went on slowly. “I have always been afraid of it, but what could I do, what could I do? He — is my husband. I could not bring myself to believe it. Gradually, I learned what was happening, how they worked, what Pickerell did, what poor Lois Randall was forced to do. But for the agonising fear that Sylvester was concerned, I would have told the police much earlier. When I learned about you —” she drew a deep breath. “You know what I did. I told him, also, to warn him. When he did not show any resentment I thought, I prayed, that I was wrong. But that record — the 13th — I knew how superstitious he was, how everything worried him — spilled salt, ladders — a hundred things.”

Roger said : “How much more do you know, Mrs Cartier?”

“Not much more than you must know already,” she said. “Oliphant arranged most of it, I think. My — my husband knew the people whose goods were sent here. He was always friendly with those in authority on the Continent, but so were many others. I knew a little of Malone. I learned much from tapes which you have not heard; I hid them, but you will be able to use them now.” She went on tonelessly. “They showed up everything, Inspector. One says that the man Leech was to be killed, the ‘Chief’ had ordered it — always they talked of the “Chief”, never did they give him a name. I tried to pretend that there was hope even if it were my husband. I should have known better. I knew that Malone and his men were employed sometimes, that there was a policeman who gave information away — he had done so for several years. When it appeared that some policeman suspected it, it was decided to make out that you were the man. That satisfied — superstition, as well. Malone introduced this policeman to Pickerell. I do not know who it is.”

“Do you know where Pickerell is hiding?” Roger asked.

“No,” said Mrs Cartier.

“You’re sure you’ve not heard the name of the policeman ?”

“I have not,” said Mrs Cartier. She drew a deep breath. “Do you think he will come?”

“Yes.”

The woman fell silent. Roger stepped to the window and looked out — and, after a few minutes, saw a taxi draw up. Close behind it .there came a private car. He saw Sam and another of Morgan’s men approaching, closing in as he had instructed. His jaw stiffened when he saw Abbott climb out of the second car with Tiny Martin. He could not see who was in the taxi, it drew up too close to the building. Abbott and Martin disappeared from his sight, another car, doubtless with Sloan inside, came down the street.

Morgan’s men waited.

Roger turned and looked towards the door. The waiting seemed unending but at last there was a tap on the passage door; the maid opened it and a man stepped through.

“Is Mr Cartier in?” he asked.

“No,” said the maid, repeating a lesson, “but Madam is in.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the man said and Roger’s mouth dropped. He could not really believe the evidence of that voice. He knew it well, but it was not Abbott’s. “As soon as your master returns, tell him to go north, as arranged. Do you understand? Tell him to go north. And tell him there is the possibility that someone will have to travel from Chelsea, also.”

The maid said : “I will tell him.”

“All right,” said the man; his voice was unmistakable — it was Cornish !

Seeing him through a gap in the door Roger hardly recognised him, for Cornish had dyed his hair, was wearing a mackintosh with the collar turned up and looked disreputable. Only the voice condemned him. “Tell him to hurry,” Cornish repeated.

There was a pause followed by a gasp.

“Look out, Martin !” Abbott called out. . Cornish pushed his way into this room, slammed the door, and demanded :

“Where’s the back door?”

“It’s no good, Cornish,” said Roger.

The man swung round. His mouth gaped open, his hand seemed to sag in his pocket. There was a moment of utter silence before Cornish stiffened. Roger moved swiftly to one side, but he had never been more glad to see Tennant launch himself forward with his bewildering speed. Cornish fired once from his pocket, but the bullet hit the floor. Then he went down underneath Tennant, who kept his balance and stood over his victim. He put his heel on Cornish’s wrist, forcing the gun away. Roger kicked it aside.

Mark opened the front door, to admit Abbott and Martin.

“Well?” Abbott said, flatly. He looked at Tennant’s victim. “Is it Cornish?”

“Yes,” Roger said gruffly.

“I was afraid so from the time Malone tried to escape. Only Cornish could have given him that key.” It seemed an effort for Abbott to speak. “He went to Leech’s public house but did not come out as himself — Martin and I thought he looked like Cornish. So we’ve reached the end of the hunt, West?”

“Yes, it’s over,” said Roger heavily.

He realised that Cornish had been transferred comparatively recently from AZ Division. When on the Division itself, he had worked only in the East End, where he had ample opportunity to work with Malone. The failure to keep constant guard at Welbeck Street had been his responsibility. The time taken tracing Dixon, were all explained. So was Malone’s confidence.

Yet even the day when Cornish had been the first Yard man to offer him friendly help, Roger had not given him a thought.

It proved that Cornish had telephoned the Yard several times, and had eventually heard about Oliphant. He had acted quickly, not knowing that he himself was followed. No Yard men had been stationed at Bonnock House. Cornish had felt quite safe to come in person, when he discovered that Carder’s telephone was out of order.

Cornish tried to save himself by making a complete confession. That, the tapes and the other evidence made the case damning .against all three men. Lois Randall had been a victim of circumstances, precipitated by her own lapse. Malone’s part as the ‘strong man’ of the organisation was fully disclosed; ordinary theft had gone on side by side with the distribution from the Society.

Pickerell had been the intermediary, approached by Car- tier to handle the distribution. He had known Malone, and had linked the two organisations.

In Chatworth’s office late that night, Roger told his part of the story. Abbott was there, thin-voiced and aloof as ever.

“So we have it all,” Chatworth said with deep satisfaction. “You didn’t need to use Morgan’s men very much, either. I must say you handled that part of it well; even without Abbott you would have got Cornish.” He smoothed his hair, flattening it against the sides of his head. “What of Pickerell?”

“His body was found in Leech’s public house,” Abbott said.

“Do you know who killed him ?”

“Malone did just before he left for Fulham. I think Pickerell was losing his nerve,” said Abbott.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Chatworth. “Well, West, you seem to have had the thick end of the stick most of the time. Not a nice story about Cartier. There’s no case against his wife, though,” Chatworth said. “Have you got the full story of the Cox murder?”

“Cornish says that Cox murdered his wife and that there was no motive apart from that we already knew,” said Roger. “Oliphant defended Cox because he was afraid of what the man might say, but Cox only knew the Malone end of the organisation. I once believed that Cox was drugged but I was wrong. He knew he would hang, anyhow, and saw no point in ratting on Malone. He believed that Malone was paying Oliphant, and so doing his best for him. Cox didn’t know about Cornish. Only Malone, Pickerell and Cartier knew him.”

“What about the Randall girl?”

“We know how she came to get mixed with them,” said Roger. “I shouldn’t think we could get a conviction even if we charged her.”

“One of your troubles is that you’re an incurable romantic,” Chatworth growled. “Oh, you’re right, West. One of these days you’ll be right too often. It’ll do you good to have a failure. Eh, Abbott?”

Abbott considered. “It might,” he admitted, frostily.

Roger smiled. “Very good of you to say I’ve never had one, sir!”

“Eh?” barked Chatworth. He laughed. “All right, West, you’ll do! I hear that you’ve got some tidying up on hand at your house. Oh, that reminds me — the taxi-driver, Dixon ?”

Roger grimaced.

“He was used to try to make us concentrate on Mrs Car- tier and to head us off Cartier himself,” he said. “I think it was that which first started me thinking of the man — Malone’s effort to make Dixon implicate the woman was too clumsy. Malone was always too clever; I’ve never seen a man with such conceit.”

“You won’t see him much longer,” Chatworth said. “All right, off with you !”

When Roger had gone, the AC looked thoughtfully at Abbott.

“What’s your opinion of West?” he demanded.

“Much brighter than it was a week ago, sir,” said Abbott, with wry humour. “I always found it a trifle difficult to believe his guilt. I ought to say this, however. The money was left at his house. Morgan did take it away.”

“Are you sure ?”

“Yes,” said Abbott. “The man who put it there has said so. Also, West asked a sergeant to trace two five-pound notes which proved to be two of two hundred sent by Leech on Malone’s orders. Leech’s prints were on some of the notes. The balance reached us by post this evening — the wrapping paper is bare of prints. I suspect that one of Morgan’s men posted it, on West’s instructions.”

“Hum.” Chatworth looked over his glasses. “Can we really prove it? And if we can, do we want to? Morgan has been very helpful.”

Abbott smiled thinly. “I don’t think we can and I don’t think we should, sir.”

“Then we agree,” said the AC. “Well, you’ll have to start clearing up, Abbott. Give West a couple of days to get over his home troubles, and then get him busy, too.”

Roger meanwhile telephoned Wray and Tamperly, delighting the pressmen, and made a comprehensive report. He was still in his office when Abbott telephoned to say that he need not come in for a day or two. Roger put on his hat and coat and left the Yard. He drove to Fulham, where he found Mark and Tennant sharing one spare room, the small room being occupied by Lois Randall who, said Janet, was asleep. Dixon had gone.

Janet was waiting in the dining-room. She looked a little tired and troubled. The wrecking had affected her far more than she had let Roger think, but she brightened up soon.

The Echo and the Cry and their associated evening papers gave the case enormous publicity. One of the Sunday newspapers tried to run a series of articles on Mrs Cartier but failed because they could not get any information of great interest.

She gave her evidence, at the trial, against some of the men but not against her husband. She was in court when the jury returned the verdicts, the black cap was donned and the sentences were passed. Then she left. Outside, she saw Janet and Lois.

Janet smiled, uncertainly.

Mrs Cartier approached, shook hands, and hurried off”.

Soon afterwards Roger was able to tell her that the Society was working again, that Lois was reinstated as secretary but as Lois Tennant, not Lois Randall. Tennant was back in the north, finishing his Army service.

Mark said that nothing would ever satisfy the boisterous energy of that tough young man.

In midsummer a furniture van drew up outside the Bel Street house. Roger was at the Yard and Janet opened the door. She thought that there must be some mistake, until she read the note that the foreman remover had brought with him.

“Roger!” breathed Janet into the telephone, five minutes later. “Darling, it’s incredible, but — Mrs Cartier!”

“What about Mrs Cartier?” asked Roger, startled.

“She’s sent us all the furniture from the lounge at her Weybridge house. She is giving the place up. Darling, it’s twice as good as anything we ever had ! I know the sentimental value isn’t the same but do you think you could get home early and help me put the room straight ? And shall I ask Mark?”

“My sweet, I’ll be home by four sharp!” promised Roger.

THE END