Triumph For Inspector West

JOHN CREASEY

Triumph For Inspector West

Copyright Note

This e-book was created by papachanjo, with the purpose of providing a digitized format of the books written by John Creasey without the least intention of commercial gain of any sort. This e-book should hence be utilized for reading only and if you like it and can buy it, please do to support the publishers.

I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.

If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:

Scan the book in greyscale

Save as djvu - use the free DJVU SOLO software to compress the images

Send it to my e-mail: papachanjo@rocketmail.com

I’ll do the rest and will add a note of credit in the finished document.

from back cover

West wanted Raeburn— and he wanted him badly

For two years Chief Inspector West had been watching Paul Raeburn — millionaire and racketeer, a man with a great capacity for evil . . .

Now, after the killing of a small-time crook, West began a one man crusade to put Raeburn where he belonged — behind bars.

Table of Contents

Copyright Note

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER I

A LITTLE MAN DIES

THE POWERFUL car moved swiftly and quietly along the road which led across Clapham Common. The beams of its headlights caught the grass and trees, making them a vivid green. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and the driver had not seen a soul since he had turned on to the Common road. He was humming under his breath.

Suddenly a man appeared.

The driver saw him dart forward, and took his foot off the accelerator. The man stopped in the middle of the road, his feet wide apart, his hands held above his head. The driver trod heavily on the brake and the car jolted to a standstill. As he did so, the man who had caused the emergency came quickly towards the car, and opened the door.

“Well, well,” he said in a sneering voice, “if it isn’t Mr Raeburn. The great Paul Raeburn himself! How’s it going, Mr Raeburn?”

In the light from the dashboard, his face showed thin and pale. His hands, gripping the side of the door, were white. Despite the sneer, his nervousness was unmistakable.

The driver showed no signs of nerves. “Who are you, and what’s this all about?” he demanded.

“What a question to ask, Mr Raeburn,” jeered the little man. “You don’t forget your old friends as easily as all that, surely. Just think back a few years. Perhaps it will help you if I say ‘Southampton’. You ought to have a good memory.” He now sounded breathless, as if he had been running. “Driving about in a Rolls, too. You’ve come up in the world, haven’t you?”

The driver took a cigarette case from his pocket.

“You’re Halliwell,” he said in a flat voice.

“Well, isn’t that marvellous!” exclaimed Halliwell. “You’ve remembered your old pal! You didn’t think I was alive, did you, Paul? You thought you were safe from me, but what a mistake. Supposing you get out and we have a little chat?”

“Supposing you get in beside me.”

“I’m not falling for any tricks like that, Paul,” Halliwell said. “I’m older and much smarter than I was, and I want a chat with you.”

Raeburn sat quite still, watching the other, seeing the indications that Halliwell had screwed himself up to a great pitch to do this. He had a pinched, hungry look and his eyes were watering.

Then, suddenly:

“How much do you want?” Raeburn asked.

“How much do I want?” Halliwell stretched out his hand and clutched Raeburn’s wrist. “That’s easy to answer. I want half of everything. I’m after a fifty-fifty partnership. I’m going into partnership with a millionaire! You are a millionaire, Paul, aren’t you? One of the great ‘I ams’. But if I were to tell all I know, where would you be?”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” asked Raeburn softly,

Halliwell began to laugh, but the laugh turned into a fit of coughing. Raeburn waited, quite impassively, but his fingers were tight on the cigarette case. Once he raised it, like a club.

Some distance ahead, the wavering light of a cycle appeared; Halliwell was still coughing when the cyclist passed, but soon managed to speak again.

“I’m going to have my share back, they’re my only terms—full partnership, or I talk. I’ve served my sentence, three bloody years in jail. Years you owe me, Paul. If I talk, nothing else can happen to me, I’ve paid in full, but you—well, just you think about it.”

“I’m thinking,” Raeburn said. “Get in, and we’ll go to my flat and have a drink.”

“We’ll talk where I want to,” insisted Halliwell. “I’ve worked it all out, to the last comma. I’ve watched you night after night, driving across the Common. Do you know I didn’t recognise you at first? I saw the Rolls, and used to think if my partner had acted rightly by me I’d be in a car like that. Then I recognised you, and saw how right I was.”

“If you won’t come and talk it over, I can’t help you,” Raeburn said flatly.

“You’ll come and talk with me,” said Halliwell. “I’ll give you my address, and I’ll have some friends as witnesses. Don’t think you’ll get away with anything but a partnership, Paul.”

Raeburn said: “We’ll see about that.” He flipped open the cigarette case and pushed it under Halliwell’s nose, and Halliwell backed away in alarm. Raeburn glanced into the driving mirror, and saw no light reflected on it. He leaned out, and punched Halliwell savagely in the stomach, bringing his head forward; then he struck Halliwell behind the ear with a corner of the case. Halliwell grunted, and slumped against the car. Raeburn pushed him away, and he fell, dazed if not unconscious.

Raeburn turned off the headlights, stabbed the self- starter, slapped the gear into reverse, and drove the Rolls back a few yards, until the sidelights picked out Halliwell’s face, and even showed the mark of bleeding just behind his ear.

Raeburn moistened his lips as he looked at the offside wheel, then at Halliwell’s head. He clenched his teeth, put the car into forward gear and trod on the accelerator. The Rolls Royce surged forward, and jolted.

Raeburn changed gear and drove on, his lips still set very tightly, and he stared into the driving mirror. He saw no light; nor did he see a little man with a wriggly nose, who appeared from some bushes near the spot where murder had been done; he did not look at Halliwell, just stared after the disappearing car.

The man began to walk in the other direction, smiling faintly. The Common seemed completely deserted, until a cyclist appeared, fifty yards in front of him. The little man moved back into the shadows, and drew in his breath sharply when he saw a policeman’s uniform.

Several nights a week, Paul Raeburn drove from a club near the Common to his Park Lane flat. When feeling in the mood, he would drive for twenty miles out of London and return along the deserted roads, revelling in the speed of his car and the power under his control. It was a kind of relaxation. Tonight, he drove to Battersea, crossed the Thames and swung the car left, towards Fulham and Putney. Once at the top of Putney Hill, he turned towards Roehampton. Little traffic was about. Now and again he saw a policeman and his lips tightened, but his hands were steady.

Near Roehampton he pulled into the side of the road, leaned over to the back of the car, and took a flask from a pocket behind his seat. He unscrewed the cap, and put the mouth of the flask to his lips. He took three or four gulps, then took the flask away, and screwed on the cap.

He took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette and examined each corner of the case; there was a faint red stain on one.

He got out of the car, wiped the case on the grass, slipped it back into his pocket, tossed the cigarette away, and took the wheel again. He sat still, thinking intently, then moved suddenly, rubbed his pigskin gloves over the door where Halliwell had touched it.

He was reversing when he saw the headlights of a car coming from Roehampton, and was in the middle of the road when he noticed the blue-and-white sign: POLICE.

He waved the driver on. The police car passed, only to swing across his hood. He put on the brakes, staring at the two uniformed policemen who jumped out and hurried back.

He opened his window.

“Good evening, sir,” said one of the men. “Are you Mr Paul Raeburn?”

“Eh?” On the instant Raeburn’s voice became thick and hoarse, and he looked bleary-eyed as he peered at the man. “Whassat?”

“I said, are you Mr Paul Raeburn?”

“ ‘Smy name. No business of yours.” Raeburn hiccuped. “Every right to drive if—hic—I want to.”

“Of course you have, sir,” said the policeman, soothingly. “You’re not feeling well, are you?”

“Feel wunnerful,” muttered Raeburn. “Wunnerful party—hic. Want to go home.”

“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll drive you,” said the policeman, with careful politeness. “You don’t want another accident, do you?”

“ ‘Nother what?” asked Raeburn, thickly. “Never had an accident in my life! Clean record—hie.” He glared at the man, who began to push him to the other side of the car. “Oh, well, drive the dam’ thing if you want to.”

When the car pulled up outside Clapham Police Station, half an hour later, Raeburn was breathing heavily, and seemed to be asleep or in a stupor.

Chief Inspector Roger West, in shirtsleeves and without a collar and tie, was having breakfast in the kitchen of his Chelsea home. The kitchen was warm because the domestic boiler was roaring away while Roger read the Morning Cry and devoured sausages, bubble-and-squeak and scrambled egg. In the scullery, a daily woman was washing up; upstairs, Janet West was in the bedroom shared by their two sons, who had left for school half an hour ago.

West’s fair hair was untidy, and his careless, casual air gave an almost swashbuckling look to a face which earned him his nickname: ‘Handsome’. The telephone bell rang in the hall, and West finished a paragraph about a film star and her husbands, went out, and called: “I’ll answer it,” and went into the front room, where the telephone was on a table near his large armchair. It rang again as he sat on the arm.

“West speaking.”

“It’s the Yard, sir. Mr Turnbull would like a word with you.”

“Put him through,” said Roger.

He reached forward for a cigarette from a packet left on the table the previous night. He could reach the cigarettes but not the matches near them, and his lighter was in his coat pocket in the kitchen. He put the receiver down and grabbed the matches, and was striking one when he heard Turnbull’s powerful voice.

“Handsome?”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I promised myself a day off.”

“This won’t keep for five minutes.” Turnbull seldom allowed himself to be excited, but he did now. “We’ve got something you’ve been waiting for since the year Methuselah was born. Paul Raeburn’s under arrest.”

Roger said: “Say that again.”

Turnbull spoke with great deliberation: “Paul- Raeburn’s-under-arrest.”

Roger drew on the cigarette, and rested it carefully on an ash tray. He could hear Turnbull speaking impatiently to someone in the office; Turnbull was impatient by nature. Roger stared at the fireplace, his lips set and his eyes half closed.

Turnbull’s voice became loud again. “Are you still there? Did you get it?”

“Yes, I got it,” said Roger. “It isn’t April 1st.”

“It isn’t a joke, either. Raeburn ran over a man on Clapham Common last night. A divisional copper found the body. He’d seen Raeburn’s Rolls pass him near the Common, and had stopped because of trouble with his lamp. He says he thinks the Rolls stopped after the collision, then went on. The copper knew the Rolls belonged to Raeburn, who was picked up an hour or so afterward blind drunk.” Turnbull was still elated. “They kept him at Clapham overnight. We’ve got the swine on a hit-and- run-charge. Better than nothing anyhow.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Roger, but none of Turnbull’s excitement sounded in his voice. “Who did he knock down?”

“We haven’t identified the poor devil yet,” said Turn- bull. “We’ll get Raeburn for manslaughter, though, it’s in the bag. No doubt that it was his car, there’s blood on the offside wheel and a splash or two underneath the wing. He was on the Common about the time of the accident, too. How about it?”

“Where’s the body?”

“At the Clapham morgue,” Turnbull answered. “You sound as if it couldn’t matter less.”

“Just remembering all I know about Raeburn,” Roger said, carefully. “Sure it was manslaughter?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like Raeburn to be tight at the wheel, and he’s a better than average driver,” Roger replied. “Ask Gubby if he can go and sec the body at once, will you? I’ll be there in half an hour’s time. And—are you listening?”

“Yes, but —”

“Never mind the buts.” Roger was suddenly sharper. “Get that dead man identified, and go all out to find evidence that he and Raeburn were acquainted. Have you tried Records yet?”

“No.” Turnbull sounded subdued.

“Try ‘em, and ring me at Clapham,” said Roger, briskly. “Get hold of the doctor who examined Raeburn and certified him as drunk last night, too, and trace Raeburn’s movements for the earlier part of the evening.”

“See what you’re driving at,” conceded Turnbull. “Never satisfied, are you? But I can answer the last question off the cuff. He’d been to a little club near Clapham Common, The Daytime. Had plenty to drink, too.”

“Raeburn has quite a reputation for holding his liquor,” Roger said. “I want you, personally, to go through everything we get on the dead man as if this were a murder case. Has Raeburn sent for legal aid?”

“Yes. Abel Melville.”

“Don’t give Melville an inch of rope,” warned Roger, urgently. “If there’s any trouble, get Abbott cracking. Abbott’s about the only man who can really freeze Melville.” He paused, then went on almost like a machine. “By twelve o’clock, I want to see the copper who found the body, and to know the name of everyone who was on the Common about one o’clock last night. Ask the Division chaps to give it priority. Then check at The Daytime, to find out if Raeburn had really been drinking heavily. Try to find at least two people who’ll say he was sober when he left. Okay?”

“Slave driver,” Turnbull growled. “I’ll fix it.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” said Roger.

He rang off, and put the cigarette between his lips; it had burned half way down, and he had to draw several times to get it going again. In his mind’s eye was a picture of Paul Raeburn, smiling, handsome and self- assured.

Roger stood up, and the door opened and Janet came in.

“Got to go?”

“ ‘Fraid so,” Roger said. “I never did believe I’d get a whole day off, anyhow.” He moved, slid an arm round her waist, and squeezed. “Big stuff, poppet.”

“It would come today. How big, darling?”

“Paul Raeburn.”

“If you had two wives, you wouldn’t stay home if it’s Raeburn,” Janet said, resignedly.

Roger stood her away from him, and studied her for a moment; his gaze moved from her dark hair, with some grey to add a touch of distinction, to her clear grey-green eyes, and to her face. Not every man would call her beautiful, but he did. Then his eyes glinted, he glanced at the V of her green jumper, poked a finger down, as swift as lightning, and said: “If I had two wives, I’d never be home at all.”

He hurried upstairs for his coat and collar and tie.

CHAPTER II

A CHANCE IN A THOUSAND

ROGER LOOKED up from the badly mutilated corpse into — the eyes of Gubby Dering, a Home Office pathologist who was fast making a name for himself. Gubby was cheerful, a rotund man, with thick iron-grey hair, and horn-rimmed glasses which partly hid his grey eyes.

“Well?” asked Roger.

“No murder to prove.”

“Not a hope?”

“The safe thing is to assume that it’s what it seems, accidental death,” Gubby told him. “The offside wheel of the car went over the top of the head, and the legs were crushed by the other wheel. There’s a small wound just behind the right ear which I can’t make out, it might have been made by something projecting from the car.”

“What kind of a wound?” asked Roger.

“Have a look,” said Gubby, and pointed.

Roger had to bend down to see. “It might have been done just before or just after death, but you can’t hope to say which.” He sounded disappointed.

“I’ll consult Haddon, but don’t think you’ll have any luck,” Gubby said. “Apart from that, you’ll have to accept medical evidence that the wheel crushed the top of his head, and was the direct cause of death. I saw him less than an hour after he’d been found, and he was still warm. The stomach and intestines are quite normal. He’d had a meal of fried fish, probably about two hours before death. No sign of contamination.”

“Drink?”

“Whisky.”

“Much?”

“Probably a couple of doubles, but I don’t see what that matters,” Gubby added. “Raeburn had been drinking the whisky, hadn’t he?”

“If we believe all we’re told, Raeburn was drunk, ran this fellow down, and didn’t trouble to report it.” Roger shrugged, and added dryly: “But I don’t believe all I’m told. I’ve checked up on Raeburn so often that I can almost tell what he does every minute of the day. I know his habits, I know what he likes for supper, and I know the kind of bed warmer he likes best.” Roger gave a short laugh. “I’ve never had a report which suggests that he ever drank too much, and I’ve never known him even slightly tipsy. He isn’t the sort. And if he wasn’t drunk, I don’t believe he’d drive on after running a man down by accident.”

“Deadeye Dick, the detective with a difference. Neat theory, Handsome, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”

“I can bank on one thing,” Roger declared. “The Yard’s going to work overtime for a month so as to pin another on him while he’s waiting for the charge of manslaughter: If the Legal Department’s awake, it’ll stop him from getting bail. See Haddon soon, won’t you? I’d like to know for certain if that ear injury was caused by the car, or whether there’s a ghost of a chance of proving that it was from a blow received before death.”

“I’ll do what I can,” promised Gubby. “Where are you off to?”

“The Yard,” said Roger. “I’ve one or two people to interview.”

“One or two!” jeered the pathologist. “There’s probably a ‘full house’ notice on the waiting-room door.” He offered cigarettes as he added: “You’d give your right hand to get Raeburn, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d give a lot,” affirmed Roger, quietly. “I think Raeburn’s the ugliest piece of work I’ve come across in years, and what he doesn’t know about making money dishonestly wouldn’t cover his thumbnail. If he’s not involved in a dozen rackets, I’m losing my grip. Thanks for the help,” he added briskly. “Can I give you a lift?”

“No, thanks,” said Gubby, “my car’s outside.”

As he drove across Clapham Common, Roger gave little thought to his driving, but a great deal to Raeburn. He turned into the gateway of Scotland Yard, acknowledging the salute of the two policemen on duty, and pulled up in the parking place near the steps. He did not get out at once, but sat looking towards the Embankment and watching the traffic whirling past. He was about to open the car door when Big Ben boomed the quarter.

“A quarter past eleven.” He checked his watch, and found it half a minute fast. He hurried out of the car and up the steps, and as he walked along the cold stone passages, he passed several CID men.

“Now you’re all right, Handsome,” one called.

Roger grinned.

He entered his own office, a large, square room with big windows overlooking the Embankment. There were five yellow desks here, and his was at the back, near the window. Although it was a warm, bright day for October, a coal fire burned sluggishly in the grate.

From a desk in front of his, Chief Inspector Eddie Day looked up.

“Morning, Handsome.”

“Hallo, Eddie!”

“Pretty pleased with yourself this morning, aren’t you?” asked Eddie, with a sniff. “Some people have all the luck. You’ve been trying to pin something on Raeburn for a couple of years, now the silly mug goes and gets himself caught on a manslaughter job. They ought to call you Lucky, not Handsome.”

Roger chuckled. “All right, Eddie. Have you seen Turnbull lately?”

“He’s with the AC, I think,” said Eddie. “That reminds me, the AC rang up twice for you. You ought to get in earlier. One of these days you’ll catch a packet for not being in when he wants you.”

“I dare say you’re right,” said Roger. He sat down and pulled the telephone towards him, and when the exchange answered, he said: “Put me on to the Assistant Commissioner.”

As he waited, he glanced at a pile of reports on the desk. Then he heard Sir Guy Chatworth’s voice.

“Hallo. West?”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Come along right away, will you?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Bit sharp, wasn’t he?” asked Eddie, hopefully, as Roger replaced the receiver.

“Proper bit my head off,” Roger said, solemnly.

Chatworth’s room, on the second floor, was unique in the history of the Yard. The furniture was made of black glass, chromium and tubular steel, and had a cold, unfriendly look. Yet no one could be friendlier than Chat- worth when he was in the mood. Just now, he was talking to Turnbull, who was sitting in one of those tubular steel chairs. Turnbull was a big, handsome man, with ruddy complexion and auburn hair; a bold, self-assured man, too.

Chatworth was also big and burly, with a fringe of grizzled curly hair at his temples and at the back of his head; the top of his head was completely bald and glistened in the light from the window. He had round, heavy features, deep grooves ran from lips to chin, and his jowl hid part of his stiff collar and tie. He was dressed that morning in a suit of shapeless brown tweed.

“Come in, and pull up a chair,” he invited. “As you weren’t here, I sent for Turnbull over this Halliwell business.”

Roger stopped, with a hand on cold steel.

“Who, sir?”

“The dead man, Halliwell. He served three years for fraud, and had been out about three months.”

Turnbull was grinning.

“I can guess what you’ll think about that,” Chatworth remarked, as Roger sat down. “If Raeburn is what you think, he’d have good reason for killing any man who could shop him. So I want you and Turnbull to concentrate on Raeburn, but don’t let it get round that you think it might be anything but manslaughter. The Legal Department doesn’t think we can get him remanded in custody, but at least you’ve an opportunity to dig.”

“I’ll dig deep,” promised Roger. “Where’s the Rolls now, sir?”

“At the Clapham Police Station,” Turnbull answered.

“Wonder if it’s been run over for prints. I ought to have checked while I was there,” Roger said, aloud. “The constable who found Halliwell said that he thought the car stopped, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Turnbull said.

“So Halliwell might have been in the car, and if he had, his fingerprints might be on it.” Roger shook his head. “That would be too good to be true. Any special instructions, sir?”

“Yes,” said Chatworth. “Prove the manslaughter case, whatever you do. Don’t let Raeburn get away with this.”

“Not if I can help it,” Roger said, fervently.

He left the AG’s office with Turnbull, spent ten minutes checking what had been done, then went down to his car again, and drove to Clapham. And still only Raeburn was on his mind, for Raeburn was not just another suspect: Raeburn was an obsession, a man with a great capacity for evil.

Arkwright, the constable who had found Halliwell, stood in front of Roger at the Clapham Police Station, holding his helmet in his hands. He was young and intelligent-looking, although obviously nervous.

“What made you think the Rolls Royce stopped?” asked Roger.

Arkwright was safe with that question. “Well, sir, first time I saw the car the headlights were on. I’d just turned on to the Common. The road’s a bit twisty, and my lamp wasn’t working properly, some dynamo trouble. I couldn’t see much, because of the trees and bushes, but I noticed that the headlamps went out, although I could see the rear light. I said to myself the driver was in trouble, and I was going to see if I could lend a hand when my lamp went right out, so I had to get off and get it working again. If only I’d known—”

Roger grinned. “No one gave me second sight, either.”

Arkwright looked as if he could purr. “You know how it is when you’re doing a job like that, sir,” he went on. “It might have taken me a minute to fix the lamp, or it might have taken me five. I managed to get a little light, and started off again. The headlights came on just after that, so I said to myself he’s all right again. I wouldn’t like to swear that he stopped and got out, but I’m pretty sure.”

“Pity, but it’s a lucky thing you got what you did,” said Roger. “Meet anyone else on the Common?”

“A cyclist went by just as I was turning off the main road,” answered Arkwright. “I certainly didn’t see anyone else until the car had disappeared and I was across the Common.”

Roger let him talk for a couple of minutes, then sent him off. Immediately, a sergeant came in to report that Dr Anstruther Breem was waiting downstairs. Breem was the doctor who had been called in to examine Raeburn at die station. He was tall, well-dressed, suave, and determined not to be overimpressed by Chief Inspector West. Yes, in his opinion Raeburn had certainly been incapable of driving. He had not been able to walk along a straight line, his pronunciation of simple words had been distorted, his breath had smelt strongly of whisky.

“He was undoubtedly drunk, Chief Inspector.” Breem held a cigarette between his fingers, and his eyes were half closed.

“Could you swear that he wasn’t putting on an act?” asked Roger.

“I do assure you that I know when a man is drunk.”

“Yes, of course,” said Roger, politely. “Thank you, Dr Breem.”

Back at the Yard, he went down to the canteen with Turnbull, Who had only one piece of news. Halliwell had owned a wholesale grocery business in Southampton and had set fire to warehouses which he had claimed held ten thousand pounds worth of canned and packet goods. The police had proved both arson and fraud.

“He was lucky to get away with three years,” Turnbull declared.

“Yes. You’d better go to Southampton, be pleasant to the local police, and find out what you can about Halliwell’s general activities,” Roger said. “I’ll tackle The Daytime, and the people who were there last night.”

The telephone bell rang, and he picked up the receiver, listened, grunted thanks, and banged it down. “Raeburn’s been remanded on bail for eight days, on two sureties of five hundred pounds,” he said grimly. “Get going, Warren.”

The Daytime Club in Clapham had twice been raided by the police, without results, although undoubtedly gaming and drinking after licensed hours went on. Ostensibly it was owned by a syndicate, but actually Paul Raeburn owned it. Roger knew that Raeburn owned many similar clubs, but his name did not appear.

Members of The Daytime staff, who had been on duty the previous night and during the early hours of the twenty-third of October, gave Roger no help. Some said they thought Raeburn had been mixing his drinks, others were sure that he had drunk very little. Statements from members who had been present were equally contradictory.

Raeburn left London on the afternoon of the twenty- fourth and stayed at a hotel in Guildford; the local police watched his movements. Roger made several calls at the millionaire’s Park Lane flat, where Warrender, Raeburn’s secretary, and Ma Beesley, his housekeeper, were outwardly anxious to help, but actually evasive. Neither of them had been at The Daytime on the night of the ‘accident’. They said they had never heard of Halliwell, and asserted that as far as they knew Raeburn had never done business in Southampton.

Turnbull telephoned a negative report from Southampton next morning.

Roger went over Raeburn’s known record with a patience which was wearing thin, looking for the odd factor of importance that he might have missed.

Raeburn had first become prominent four years ago, as the owner of several greyhound racing tracks. The first time Roger had suspected him of criminal activity was after a series of dopings and an outcry among backers and bookmakers. No case had been proved, but the Yard had become very interested in Raeburn. He was wealthy, and had been wealthy before he had opened his greyhound tracks. He had bought small house property in country and coastal areas when it was cheap, and sold at a large profit. He had dealt first in land, then in various commodities, but no groceries. He had soon prospered enough to buy several provincial newspapers; it was freely rumoured that he was now the chief shareholder in The Cry Newspapers, Ltd., proprietor of the Morning Cry and the Evening Cry, each of which had a mammoth circulation. Recently he had bought up small circuits of provincial theatres and cinemas, owned several super-cinemas in London, and was behind two large independent television companies. Odds-on pools were his, and everything he touched made money.

One very interesting factor emerged: Among Raeburn’s acquaintances were several men, rather like Halliwell, who had been caught and convicted of insurance and other frauds. The latest to be caught was a builder who had dreamed up a brilliantly clever scheme to defraud building societies. This man had done a great deal of work for Raeburn, but always on licence. The builder was not cap-able, in the Yard’s opinion, of organising the fraud; he was simply a front. The same was true of many of the other men, but the police always came up against a blank wall, and invariably the wall seemed to be built around Raeburn.

His legitimate interests were controlled by Raeburn Investments Limited. Warrender was Secretary of the company, and its Legal Adviser was Abel Melville, an expert in company and criminal law. Such a man could advise Raeburn just how far he could go without running into trouble.

“But he won’t get Raeburn off this manslaughter charge,” Turnbull declared, on the day before the second hearing. “He’ll get six months or a year.”

Roger made no comment.

Before going to court, he went over every piece of evidence, and then reported to Chatworth.

“Think we’re all right?” the AC asked.

“Short of a miracle, we’ll get him committed to the Old Bailey, sir,” said Roger. “I don’t think there’ll be much difficulty after that. But I’ve drawn a blank with everything else. It’s certain that two or three people were on the Common that night, but we can’t get tabs on anyone. If we could prove that the car stopped—”

“Just get him on this charge,” Chatworth advised. “Stop worrying about any other.”

There was little choice, but Roger was uneasy when he went to court. The case had aroused a lot of interest, big crowds were gathered outside, and the public gallery was packed with friends and acquaintances of the millionaire. Roger’s disquiet increased when he saw Melville smiling confidently, and Raeburn as immaculate and self-assured as ever.

Roger was with Turnbull just before the preliminaries, when die door of the room set aside for the police burst open and Eddie Day rushed in.

“ ‘Andsome. you ‘eard?” Excitement always made Eddie falter on his aspirates.

“Heard what?” demanded Roger. “They’ve got a surprise witness, a girl named Franklin —some dame, too. No wonder Melville’s grinning all over his face!”

That sent Roger’s spirits to a record low.

CHAPTER III

SURPRISE WITNESS

MELVILLE WAS a big, round-faced man, with sleek dark hair and tufts of dark eyebrows which gave him a comical appearance. His voice was soft and seemed friendly. He sat patiently until evidence of arrest and other formalities were over; when Roger took the oath, his smile broadened and he rubbed his hands together.

Roger gave his evidence concisely to a hushed court. Raeburn’s friends took in every word, obviously impressed, and once or twice even Raeburn looked anxious. But nothing disturbed Melville.

He rose to his feet as Roger finished. “I wonder if I may put one or two questions to the witness, Your Worship?”

“You may, Mr Melville.”

“Thank you, sir.” Melville stood in front of the witness box, still rubbing his hands together. “Knowing your excellent reputation, Chief Inspector, I take it for granted that on behalf of the police you exerted yourself in every way to endeavour to find an eyewitness of this occurrence?”

“I did,” said Roger.

“Did you succeed?”

“No.”

“Did you succeed in finding anyone who was on Clapham Common at the time the incident occurred?”

“Yes,” said Roger.

“May I ask if you intend to produce that person as a witness?”

“Yes.”

“And may I ask who he—or she—is?” went on Melville, with a glance at the magistrate.

“Is that necessary, since we are told that the person will be called to give evidence?” interrupted the magistrate.

“I think perhaps we shall progress more rapidly if the witness would answer the question,” said Melville.

“Very well—you may proceed.”

Roger said: “A police constable was cycling across the Common about the time of the incident.”

“A police constable. I see. Wasn’t it a remarkable coincidence that a constable should happen to be on the Common at the crucial time—unless, of course, he was patrolling in the course of his duty? Is that the explanation?”

“He was returning from duty,” said Roger, coldly.

“Did he actually see the car?”

The magistrate leaned forward. “The witness will be able to answer for himself, Mr Melville.”

“Of course, Your Worship, of course. I am considering only the precious time of the court,” said Melville smoothly. “Setting aside the question of the fortuitous advent of the policeman who—er—happened to be crossing the Common at this time, but did not see what occurred, did you find any other person who was near the scene at the time?”

“No,” answered Roger.

“Remarkable!” Melville actually allowed his voice to rise, and turned to the magistrate. “Your Worship, I think I should state at this juncture that there was an eyewitness of the unhappy occurrence. The police were unable to find the person, but the task presented no insuperable difficulty to the defence. I propose, with your permission, to call this witness, because I believe it can be proved that there is no case to answer.”

“I will hear the evidence for the prosecution, Mr Melville.”

“As you wish, Your Worship. I have no further questions to ask the witness.” Melville looked positively delighted, and Roger was quite sure what would happen now.

When Melville called Eve Franklin as the first witness for the defence, the court was hushed. And the witness did not disappoint. She wore a silk suit of navy blue, which would have been acceptable in any cathedral, but somehow made her figure a thing to marvel at. Her dark hair was a cluster of demure curls. Her face was pale, and she wore little makeup. Her voice was low-pitched, but she was completely self-assured.

She was sworn.

“Now, Miss Franklin,” said Melville, “I want you to understand that the court is interested only in your evidence. You must not speak of anything you did not actually see. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“You were on Clapham Common on the evening of October the 22nd—or, more accurately, the early morning of October the 23rd?”

“I was.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t that rather late for a young woman to be out alone?”

“I’m not so young.”

Someone tittered.

They’re going to believe her, Roger thought, and he felt an even greater tensing of his nerves. Here was a man he knew was guilty, about to get away with it again, unless the police solicitor could throw serious doubt on this girl’s evidence.

“I don’t think positive accuracy about your age is a matter of great importance to the court,” murmured Melville, suavely. “Will you object if I ask you what you were doing at that time?”

“I was walking home,” answered Eve.

“I see. There is no public transport at that time of night and you couldn’t get a taxi. Is that it?”

“The witness will give us all the relevant information,” interrupted the magistrate severely.

“I am sorry, Your Worship. I am anxious only to make this ordeal as bearable as possible for the witness. Why did you walk home, Miss Franklin?”

“Because I couldn’t get a taxi.”

“Why did you walk across the Common?”

“I often do. Some friends of mine live on the other side of the Common, you see.”

“Had you been with these friends that night?”

“Yes.”

“What time was it when you left?”

“About one o’clock.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” answered Eve, apologetically.

“Perhaps it is immaterial,” conceded Melville. “Did you walk along the sidewalk or along the road?”

“I cut across the Common, on a path.”

“Did you see anything coming along the road?”

“I saw a big car,” answered Eve. “I don’t know what make it was; there wasn’t very much light. I know it was a light colour, though—white, I should say. Its headlights were on.”

She moistened her lips.

She’s lying, Roger thought, desperately, but they’ll believe her.

“Go on, please,” murmured Melville.

“Just as it turned a bend in the road, a man ran out from the bushes,” asserted the girl. She looked as if the moment of horror still affected her, the lying bitch! “He didn’t seem to look where he was going, just ran across the road. The car swerved, and I quite thought it would crash. I remember standing still and staring. I couldn’t even cry out.”

“We quite understand,” soothed Melville. “And what happened then?”

“I saw the man fall,” said Eve, simply. “He—he simple didn’t get up again.”

“Did the car stop?”

“It slowed down, then went on.”

If she was lying, would she admit a thing which didn’t show Raeburn up in a good light, even though it made her testimony seem still more reliable?

“I see,” said Melville, quite untroubled. “Now, you saw an accident, one of many sad fatalities which occur on the road, but you did not inform the police. Why was that ? “

“I—I was so frightened,” answered Eve, uneasily. “I could never stand the sight of blood; it always makes me faint. I just stood staring, not knowing what to do. Then a man came up on a bike—on a bicycle.”

“Did you see him?”

“Not very well,” said Eve. “He startled me, because I didn’t see him at first, his lamp was so dim. He got off his bike and bent over the man in the road. I went a little nearer, and saw he was a policeman. Obviously, there wasn’t any need for me, so I hurried away.” Her voice was hardly audible.

“You now know that you should have made yourself known, and told this policeman what you saw, don’t you?”

“Yes. I—I’m sorry, really. But I was so scared, and I didn’t want to become involved with the police.”

“I don’t think we should blame you for that,” murmured Melville, and flicked a glance at Roger. “What time did you arrive home?”

“Just before a quarter to two.”

“Do you live with your parents?”

“No, I’ve a flat.”

“Did you see anyone when you reached the flat?”

“No. No one was up in the other flats as far as I know. I’d a terrible headache, and took some aspirins, and went straight to bed. My head was still awful next morning, and I stayed in bed all day. It was horrible! I haven’t been really well since, but if I’d known how important it was I—I would have come forward, I mean that.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Melville, glancing at the magistrate. “I have no more questions to ask this witness, Your Worship.”

The Police Solicitor made the best of a bad job, but could not shake the girl’s evidence.

Two men and a girl were put into the box, and testified that Eve Franklin had been with them on the night in question until nearly one o’clock, but Melville still wasn’t finished.

“Your Worship,” he said, after the last witness had left the box, “I would venture now to make a statement which I hope you will agree is timely. It is evident that the accident was quite unavoidable. There remains, however, the charge that my client was drunk and incapable at the wheel of his car. I do not think that was the case. I intend to bring witnesses who will testify to his sobriety not only on that night, but at all times. He himself will tell you that he thought he had avoided the man who ran across the road, and

Melville poured ridicule on Dr Anstruther Breem’s evidence, and even shook the assurance of the mobile police who had found Raeburn near Roehampton.

An hour later, Raeburn was almost mobbed by sycophantic admirers when he left the court.

Roger opened the front door of the Bell Street house, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him. He stood still, listening. No sound came from the kitchen. Janet was probably out, and the boys not yet home, although it was nearly six.

He had come straight from Scotland Yard, after a gloomy post mortem with Turnbull and Chatworth. He decided to change into slacks, and turned to the stairs. As he put his foot on the bottom stair, the kitchen door opened, and Janet stepped out.

“Oh! Oh, darling, you seared me.”

“Sorry, sweet. Boys not back?”

“They’ve gone swimming.” Janet’s quick smile faded when she saw his expression. “He didn’t get off?”

“He’s as free as the air,” said Roger, bitterly. “I’m sick and tired of the whole damned business. The man’s so rotten that he stinks. I feel that if I even hear his name mentioned again, I’ll throw a fit.”

They stood staring at each other, until suddenly he grinned. “Sorry, sweet! No more hysterics. Any hope of an early supper? I didn’t get more than a sandwich at lunch.”

“I’ll have it ready by the time you’ve changed,” promised Janet. “Why don’t you have a drink first?”

A whisky-and-soda, sausages, eggs and chips, and a boisterous half hour with the two boys when they came in, damp-haired, bright-eyed, and ravenous, drove gloom away.

At nine o’clock Martin, called Scoopy, a massive fourteen, and Richard, called Richard, an average thirteen, came away from television, rubbing their eyes.

Janet said: “Bed now, boys, and don’t take all day to get ready.”

“No, Mum. I just want to ask Dad something.” Scoopy eyed his father, while Richard watched from the door; this was obviously a put-up job, probably schemed to win ten or fifteen minutes’ respite from bedtime. “I was reading about that man, Raeburn, who got off, Dad. Didn’t you think you’d got him?”

“I did,” answered Roger.

“What happened?”

“Either I’m a bad detective, or a witness lied.”

“You mean that Eve Franklin?”

“The pretty woman,” Richard put in.

“We were reading about it in the evening paper,” Scoopy explained. “Do you really think she lied?”

“Between these four walls, yes,” Roger said, “but if you breathe a word outside, I’ll never confide in you again. Now, off to bed!”

“I jolly well know one thing,” declared Richard, his blue eyes looking enormous, “you’re not a bad detective.”

“Come on, Fish, no need to say the obvious,” Scoopy said, and dragged his brother off.

Roger slept soundly, woke in a more cheerful mood, and was even prepared for a few knocks in the morning newspapers. Scoopy, five feet ten and absurdly powerful, bounded up the stairs with them, announcing: “You’re starred again in the Cry, Pop!”

A good photograph of himself stared up at Roger from the morning paper which Raeburn owned, but Roger was interested only in the caption:

CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, THE YOUNGEST CI AT THE YARD, WHO WAS IN CHARGE OF THE CASE AGAINST MR PAUL RAEBURN.

The case had big headlines, and, as he read, a subheading caught his eye: WASTE OF PUBLIC MONEY.

Richard called out: “Have a game of darts, Scoop? Mum’s only just started cooking breakfast.”

“Do you more good to check your homework,” Scoopy said, but went off.

Roger read on: “Another important factor is the waste of public money. Had the police exerted themselves to find Miss Franklin, a case of such gravity would never have been brought. A man of exemplary character was pilloried in public because of an unavoidable accident. Even the charge of being drunk in control of a car was not established. Mr Raeburn will be a generous man if he does not sue the police for wrongful arrest.”

“All right, Mr Ruddy Raeburn,” Roger said softly, “if you’re not satisfied with getting off, I’ll give you plenty to think about.”

“The worst of it is you can’t answer back,” Janet complained, angrily.

“Perhaps I can get Eve Franklin to answer for me,” Roger grinned. “If I know Chatworth, this will make him hopping mad. It’d be funny if Raeburn’s cooked his goose, after all, wouldn’t it?”

* * * * *

“You can have as long as you want to prove that Franklin woman was lying,” Chatworth growled. “Concentrate on that. If Raeburn wants to have a fight, let him have it.” He glared up, and his shaggy eyebrows made him look ferocious. “You agree?”

“All the way, sir.”

“And you’ve a personal interest, after this smear campaign,” Chatworth said. “Concentrate on the job, Roger.”

The Yard’s attitude was almost identical with Chat- worth’s. “Get the so-and-so, Handsome, we’ll take care of the rest.”

Janet said, uneasily: “You make it sound like a crusade, darling.” Then she added: “Raeburn’s rich and clever, that’s the worst of it. Be careful!”

CHAPTER IV

EVE

EVE FRANKLIN drew sheer silk stockings over her slim legs, fastened her garters, and stood up in front of the long mirror. She stretched her arms above her head voluptuously, as a cat roused from sleep. She looked at herself with a pensive smile, as if she were practising seduction. When she moved her head, the bright lamp above picked out the lights in her dark hair. Her arms and shoulders were bare.

She sat down on the dressing-table stool, and reached for a cigarette; every movement studied. She lit the cigarette and blew smoke against the mirror, obscuring her reflection. As the smoke cleared, the brightness of her eyes and the sparkle of her teeth showed up through the greyness.

She did not notice the door begin to open, but suddenly a man’s face appealed in the mirror—a long, sallow face.

His gaze lingered on her shoulders and her body as she swung round in alarm.

“Not bad.” He came in and closed the door, then leaned against it. “Going places?”

“I’m—I’m going out,” Eve said, sharply. “What are you doing here?”

“Just feasting my eyes,” said the man. “You’re quite a dish, Evie.”

“Don’t be so crude!”

“Getting refined, are you?” The man slid his right hand into his pocket, drew out a silver cigarette case, flipped it open and lit a cigarette from a lighter fitted into the end of the case. He put the case away before speaking again, and all the time Eve stared at him with an edge of fear. “You don’t have to worry, Evie, I’m not going to strangle the life out of you yet.”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“Well, you expected trouble, didn’t you?” He moved forward with a slow movement. He was wearing a brown suit which had padded shoulders, and beautiful straight lines; he was dressed to kill. His oiled black hair swept back from his forehead; there were lines in it, made by the comb. His small lips were rather like a woman’s and his eyes were a smoky brown.

When Eve made no comment, he went on softly:

“You didn’t think Tony Brown would let you go without making a fight for it, did you?”

Now she spoke, gaspingly: “You—you’ve no right here! Get out! I don’t want—”

“You don’t want your Tony any more,” interrupted Brown. “I’m all washed up, aren’t I? You’ve cost me plenty, Evie, more than I could afford, and now you’ve found someone with mere money, and you don’t even want to say goodbye.”

He touched her shoulders. She flinched, but did not try to get away. His long, slender fingers caressed her skin softly, moving nearer and nearer to the slim white neck. He could see a little pulse beating beneath her chin.

He moved his forefinger and touched the pulse, feeling its fluttering.

Eve kept absolutely still, as if petrified.

“Scared to death, aren’t you?” the man said.

“I—no! I’m not frightened of you.” She could hardly get the words out.

“You ought to be,” said Brown. He pressed more firmly, his hands right round her neck. “Just think of what I could do to you, Evie. Just think of what Paul Raeburn would say if there were dark bruises on that lovely neck, if your face was swollen and purple and—”

“Get away from me!” she screamed, and sprang up, freeing herself. “Get away!”

“You don’t have to worry,” Brown repeated. “I didn’t come here to kill you. I’m a fighter, Eve, and I haven’t lost yet. I’ve come to talk to you. Sit down.”

She stood where she was, her hands clutching her throat.

He leaned over, pulled a wrap from a chair and draped it round her shoulders. Then he pushed her towards a divan which was close to the blue-papered wall. “I said sit down.”

She obeyed now, fought to regain her poise, and drew her legs up, curling them beneath her. Brown pulled up a chair, turned it round, and sat astride it, leaning on the back as he looked towards her.

“Eve, you’re making a big mistake,” he said.

“I know what I’m doing.” She was less frightened.

“You don’t know a thing, and you’re asking for trouble,” Brown said. “Raeburn thinks the police have burned their fingers so much they they’ll stop trying to get him, but they won’t. I know the police better than he does. They mean to get Raeburn sooner or later. They’ll probably find out your evidence was perjury, too, but whether it happens now or later, one of these days Raeburn is going down with a hell of a bump. When he goes, he’ll drag his friends with him. He’s like that, Evie. He takes you up, but he doesn’t stick to you.”

“He’d never let we down.”

Smoke curled up from Brown’s cigarette into his right eye, and he screwed it up. “Eve, even if you were the only woman in Raeburn’s life, which you aren’t, and even if he married you, which he won’t, you’d still be making a mistake, because the police will get him. But before that, maybe a long time before that, he’ll get tired of you. When he does, he’ll know you could go back on your testimony, and he wouldn’t like the risk of being blackmailed.”

Eve caught her breath.

“Don’t be a fool! I didn’t commit perjury. I saw the man—”

“You saw nothing,” retorted Brown, and added sharply: “You were with me that night.”

“That’s a he!” But she was terrified again.

“It happened so long ago you thought I’d forget,” Brown sneered. “Or maybe you told Raeburn’s friends that you were alone all evening, so that no one could prove you were lying. Well, someone can. I can. But I know when to keep my mouth shut and when to talk. Right now I’m keeping it shut.” Brown paused, and demanded sharply: “How much did he pay you?”

She could not find her voice.

“Whatever it was, you ought to retire on it,” Brown said. “A thousand pounds? It wouldn’t be less, anyhow. That’s a lot of money, and you ought to be satisfied with it. Turn Raeburn in, Eve, and let me look after you. We could go out to Australia—”

He broke off at a new expression in her eyes: repugnance. “So that’s the way it is,” Brown said, softly. “Okay, Evie, have it your own way, but don’t forget one thing: I know you didn’t see that man or that car. I know that Raeburn ought to be inside. One of these days, when he gets rough with you, maybe I’ll tell the police what I know.” He let the cigarette drop from his lips, and trod it into the carpet. “Maybe it won’t be so long, either.”

He got up, put the chair aside, and tossed a key into her lap. “I won’t need that again.”

She lay where she was with her legs curled beneath her. Her head was tilted back and her hair touched a cushion behind her. The wrap had fallen off one shoulder. Brown leaned forward and snatched it off, pulled her to him, his fingers biting into her arms. He kissed her with a fury of passion which won no sign of response. Then, as suddenly as he had taken her, he thrust her away. There were red marks on her lips and on her arms.

He turned and went blindly across the room. The tiny hall of the flat was in darkness. He stepped on to the landing, where there was a dim light. He slammed the door behind him.

He stood quite still, his heart thumping, a mist in front of his eyes, and he did not see the man who moved in the hall downstairs. He smoothed down his coat, straightened his tie, and went slowly down the stairs and into the narrow street, near the Thames at Battersea.

The man he had not seen followed him, on the other side of the road.

Brown soon began to walk more quickly, glad of the cold air which made his cheeks sting. He did not notice anyone near him. He walked aimlessly, not caring which way he turned, down this street and that until he reached Battersea Park. The street lighting was poor, but he did not want lights. He walked across a dark, unlit road near the Festival Amusement Park, still and silent, and reached the river. ‘

He was followed all the time by the man whose footsteps made no sound.

At last he slowed down, left the park, and turned into a brightly lit pub. He ordered a whisky-and-soda, tossed it down, and ordered another. By ten o’clock his eyes were glazed and his sallow cheeks tinged with red. He left the pub, and kept reasonably steady as he walked back to the single room where he lived.

Once inside, he kicked off his shoes, tugged off his collar and tie, and dropped on to the bed. He lay in a drunken stupor for some time, then fell into a deep sleep.

It was a small room with a single bedstead, a wardrobe, a dressing table, two chairs and a few oddments. A gas fire with two broken filaments was near the head of the bed; a slotmeter was in the corner.

For half an hour the only sound was Brown’s heavy breathing. Then a scratching sound came at the door. Brown slept on. The scratching sound continued for some minutes, then stopped, and the door opened slowly. A little man came in, closed the door behind him, and switched on the light. Brown did not stir. The intruder looked about the room, pushing at the fingers of his thin leather gloves. He went to the gas fire, taking some coins out of his trousers pocket; three shillings were among them. He inserted the shillings into the meter, pausing after each one dropped, and listening in case anyone came up the stairs.

No one came.

He turned on the gas, which made a gentle hissing sound. The smell began to fill the room as the man went out. He made no attempt to lock the door, but crept downstairs, unobserved, and walked off towards the park.

Brown slept on. . . .

Paul Raeburn’s Park Lane apartment overlooked Hyde Park, but was high, so that all sound of traffic was muted. There were seven rooms, each luxurious. The decor by Lintz was a masterpiece; rich tapestry curtains, rooms in different periods, thick pile carpet everywhere to deaden the sound of movement: this was a millionaire’s dream.

In the study, a formal room of carved walnut furniture, leather-bound books and brown hide chairs, a dumpy, middle-aged woman sat at a desk. The desk lamp was on, making crooked shadows of her hand as she wrote in a small book. There was hardly a murmur of sound.

A bell rang, breaking the stillness. She lifted her head and listened, until the maid spoke at the front door.

“Good evening, Mr Warrender.”

“Hallo, Maud. Is Mr Raeburn in?”

“No, sir, only Mrs Beesley.”

“In the study?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring me something to eat in there,” said the man.

The woman in the study closed the book and put it away, then turned towards the opening door. Her short, fat figure was wrapped in black silk; there was a deep V at the neck, where white flesh bulged. Middle-aged and plain to a point of ugliness, she had opaque brown eyes and clear pale skin. Whenever she smiled, she showed discoloured, widely spaced teeth; they made the smile seem false.

The man who entered, George Warrender, was short and dapper. He flung a black Homburg hat into a chair and took off his dark overcoat and scarf. Then, pulling down his coat sleeves, he strolled towards the electric fire, rubbing his hands in front of it.

He took one quick glance at the woman. “Hallo, Ma. How are things?”

“Is it cold out, George?”

“Perishing.” He rubbed his hands more briskly. “You don’t take much time off,” he remarked, and turned his head to look at her.

“I’ve plenty to do.”

“Don’t overdo it,” advised Warrender. “The way he’s going on, we’ll have to use our wits again before long. We mustn’t take any chances of being tired.”

“I think we’ll manage,” she replied, smoothly.

“Got to,” said Warrender. “How about a spot?”

She got up’ at once, walked heavily to a cabinet, and poured out a whisky-and-soda. He took it, raised his glass to her, and sipped.

They were about the same height, but in bulk Ma Beesley made two of George Warrender, and they were incongruous contrasts in appearance. He was as lean and hard as a whippet. Where her eyes were brown, dark and beady, his were a light grey. Her lips were full and soft, his thin and tightly set. She was ugly; to some women, he would have seemed handsome in a sharp-featured way.

He finished his drink, and said abruptly: “I don’t like the way Paul’s behaving.”

“He won’t go too far, George,” Ma Beesley seemed quite certain.

“I’m not so sure. He out with Eve again?”

“Yes.”

“I told him he was a fool to be seen out with her, but he laughed at me,” said Warrender. “The trouble is he’s got away with too much. It would have done him good to cool himself inside for a year.”

“I almost agree with you,” Ma Beesley showed her bad teeth.

“I was almost sorry that we got him off,” said War- render, “but perhaps it was as well. If he keeps going round with Eve, though, there’s bound to be talk. He doesn’t own every newspaper in the country, and he can’t stop all the columnists.”

“Aren’t you taking it all too seriously?” asked Ma Beesley, easily. “He has plenty of reason to be grateful to her, so why shouldn’t he take her around?”

“That’s his pet line, but West and Company are bound to think it’s fishy.”

“They haven’t been very bright yet, have they?” Ma murmured. “But be quiet, here’s Maud.”

Maud, a tall, angular woman in a severe, dark grey dress, came in with a loaded tray containing sandwiches, a Welsh rabbit, and coffee. She put the tray on the desk and went out briskly, closing the door softly behind her.

“No, West and Company haven’t exactly shone.” War- render took up the conversation as if there had been no interruption. “But Paul made a mistake when he let that attack go through in the Cry. Cops don’t like being smacked down. Paul ought to have been all forgiving, and more careful than ever. Instead, he’s taken Eve out three times, and had her to dine here twice.”

“Well, we can’t stop him, and I shouldn’t worry too much,” Ma Beesley said. “She’s an empty-headed little tart, and he’ll soon get tired of her.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” mused Warrender. “She’s his type, he’s always liked the 38—26—38 kind. She’s quick-witted in some ways, too, even if she is a fool. She might hold him for a long time. I’m not happy about her ex-boyfriend, cither. Tenby says that he haunts her rooms.”

“Well, Tenby’s watching him, isn’t he?”

Warrender said: “Yes. And if it comes to that, I’m a bit worried about Tenby. He was watching Halliwell for us, and may have seen exactly what happened. Paul seems sure of him, but Tenby’s always erratic, and a damned sight too fond of practical jokes.” Warrender smiled, almost reluctantly, and Ma Beesley chuckled. “Paul doesn’t make many mistakes,” Warrender admitted, “but he could ride for a fall like any other big-time man.”

“We mustn’t get too critical, anyhow,” said Ma, briskly. “I somehow don’t think Paul would like it if we did.”

She went to the desk and began to eat a sandwich, making three chins where there had been two, as she munched.

“If you keep eating so much, you’ll get fat,” said Warrender.

Sitting down by the fire with the tray between them, they ate the Welsh rabbit, cleared the sandwiches, and were drinking coffee when the telephone bell rang. Ma put down her cup, rose, and stumped towards the desk.

“Hallo,” she said, in a deceptively pleasant voice. “Yes . . . Yes. . . . Well, I don’t see what we can do about it.”

From the way she looked straight ahead of her, and from the hardening of her voice, Warrender could tell that she did not like whatever news this was. She rang off, but did not return to her chair immediately. The only sound came from the faint ticking of a clock. Then Ma sighed, walked across, and picked up her coffee.

“I hope you’re not right,” she said.

“What’s up?”

“Paul’s at the Silver Kettle with Eve, and Melville has just told me that West is there. That would happen, wouldn’t it? They both chance on the same place on the same night.”

“Chance,” echoed Warrender, and he looked very anxious. “That wasn’t chance. West wouldn’t go to the Silver Kettle, except on business.” He stood up. “I’d better go over there. I’ve got to the point where I daren’t trust Paul on his own.”

CHAPTER V

ENCOUNTER

THE SILVER KETTLE was large for a night club, and brightly lit. The West Indian band was playing softly, and a dozen couples were jogging rhythmically on the tiny polished floor. Over the head of each member of the band hung a gleaming, glittering silver kettle, five in all. Other kettles hung on brackets on the walls. Here were good taste and luxury without ostentation. The waiters wore tails, the patrons were well-dressed and, at this hour, decorous. In one corner, a party gave promise of things to come, with gusts of shrill laughter.

Roger West in a dinner jacket, and Janet in a wine-red gown with lace over satin, were in another corner. With them was a tall, good-looking man, a year or so younger than Roger, with smooth brown hair, brown eyes which smiled easily, but could also give his whole face a supercilious expression. Now he was smiling, and beating time with a fork.

“Believe it or not, I think you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he said to Janet. “No policeman’s wife should let it be said.”

“No policeman should have a friend who’s a member,” Janet retorted.

“Who called him a friend?” asked Roger, lazily. “I’ve only known him for twenty years, and half the time he’s written books pointing out how the police ought to do their job. So naturally I consulted him about the illustrious Paul Raeburn.”

Mark kept a straight face. “Lucky I came back from my lecture in the Americas in time. You’re making a pretty fine mess of things. You even suspect dark doings at a respectable club like the Silver Kettle, which is strictly lawful.”

“Nothing Raeburn owns is strictly lawful,” Roger said.

“I doubt that,” responded Mark. “This place is hedged about by rules and regulations, all based on instructions from the police. Five hundred pounds wouldn’t buy you a membership if you weren’t properly introduced. You two certainly couldn’t have got in without my member’s ticket. Entering here is lily white.”

“As mud,” retorted Roger.

“That’s the trouble when you get a bee in your bonnet,” Mark complained. “A man must be all black or all white. Raeburn can’t afford to be openly associated with anything that isn’t properly run, and you know it.”

Roger picked up his glass. “Here’s to the day when we close the Silver Kettle down.” He drank.

“That’s sheer vindictiveness.”

“I am vindictive,” admitted Roger, lazily, but his eyes were hard.”

“I have a nasty feeling that if he gets too powerful, he’ll hurt a lot of people when he falls.” He was looking towards the corner where Raeburn and Eve Franklin were sitting. “Given a nice long piece of rope, he’ll hang himself.”

“When he does, I hope you’ll acknowledge your debt to amateur criminologists,” said Mark. “What have you discovered about this Eve?”

Roger lit a cigarette and continued to stare at Raeburn’s table; Raeburn pretended not to notice.

“She’s always looked for the big chance, and seems to have thrown over a faithful boy friend, one Tony Brown.

Turnbull’s been checking on him. He’s a gambler, racing tipster, Smart Alec and lady-killer, the type you’d rather expect Eve to fancy, always with a few pounds to fling about. But he hasn’t a chance against Raeburn, and might turn sour on her.”

“I’ll turn sour on you two, unless someone asks me to dance,” Janet interpolated.

“My turn!” Mark jumped up.

He was tall and good-looking, and Janet stood out as really something to look at in twenty-three of Roger’s hard-earned guineas. Mark was probably now pleading earnestly with Janet to persuade him, Roger, to tell him more about the Raeburn case. It would be worth doing, too. Mark might see an angle which the Yard had missed; it had happened before. He was a serious student of criminology, had written three books which were on the desk or the shelves of any really progressive police office, and he had just returned from twelve months’ lecturing in the States, his most popular lecture being: ‘Police in the USA and Great Britain: A Comparison.’ His hobbies were music and old china, and he had money enough to live as he liked.

Janet looked as if she wanted this dance to go on for a long time.

Roger inspected the people about him. The City and the Mayfair Set were about equally represented in this mixed gathering of the upper crust of commerce and society, an upper crust which remained thick and unyielding in parts. The people present could put up more millions than he could hundreds of pounds; some were fabulously wealthy. One plump old harridan, with a tall, miserable-looking man, was loaded with diamonds; a dozen others carried fortunes on their fingers, at their ears or on their breasts.

Eve Franklin, on the other hand, was wearing little jewellery. She wore a long-sleeved gown of bottle green, and a green chiffon stole. When Raeburn led her to the floor, her body moved with easy grace, but she seemed to have difficulty in turning her head.

He was a head taller than Eve, very broad-shouldered, particularly distinguished in evening dress. His hair was dark, with a touch of iron grey at the temples; he wore it rather long. He had an unusually striking profile, with a good chin and a high forehead; it was easy to imagine him to be an intellectual. Full face, he was handsome enough; add his money to his looks, and he had everything.

Roger saw a small, dapper man wearing a dark lounge suit come in, nod to the headwaiter, and walk to Raeburn’s table. He was noticeable because he was the only man not in evening dress. He walked with his shoulders squared and his back very straight, and was looking towards the crowded dance floor.

It was George Warrender, Raeburn’s chief aide in all his activities.

Raeburn spoke to Eve, and they left the floor at once. The band played on, the dancers were circling in a slow waltz; no one else seemed to notice Raeburn.

Warrender glanced towards Roger, and Raeburn did the same. Roger did not look away.

Eve was speaking, and when she finished, Raeburn shook his head. Then Warrender put what seemed to be a restraining hand on Raeburn’s shoulder.

Raeburn laughed, shrugged it off, and came towards Roger. He stood by the table as Roger started to get to his feet.

“Don’t get up, please,” said Raeburn. “I’m very glad to see you here, and sorry I hadn’t recognised you before. Are you with friends?”

“With my wife and a friend.”

“I’d very much like to meet your wife,” said Raeburn. “May I?”

The band had stopped, and couples sauntered back to their tables. Mark and Janet, still on the dance floor, looked across undecidedly, until Roger beckoned.

Whatever she felt, Janet’s smile was bright as she came up.

“Darling, Mr Paul Raeburn would like to meet you,” Roger said. “My wife . .. and Mr Mark Lessing.”

“I have heard so much about Chief Inspector West’s professional activities,” murmured Raeburn. “One forgets that policemen have time to be ordinary family men.” The admiration in his eyes was certainly not forced, and his gaze was bold but friendly; he hardly glanced at Mark.

“Is Roger so ordinary?” inquired Janet.

Raeburn chuckled. “I don’t know him well enough to answer that, Mrs West.” He glanced towards the band, which began to play at once, stubbed out his cigarette, and asked: “May I ask your wife to dance, Mr West?”

“By all means.”

Janet seemed to hesitate, and then turned away with Raeburn, while in her corner Eve sat like a beautiful image, and Warrender sat stony-faced beside her.

Mark sat down and said: “I think I need a drink.”

“Have two, I’m in a generous mood,” said Roger. “My chief hope is that he’s so swollen with conceit that he’ll overreach himself. Warrender knows it, too.”

“The chap with Eve, pretending to be happy?”

“Yes,” Roger said. “I know him better than I do Raeburn, and he’s very clever. He and a woman named Beesley look after Raeburn’s private affairs, and a lot more. With Abel Melville, they make a powerful team, and they’ll aim high.”

“How high?”

“Too high,” Roger said. “I’ll bet Raeburn’s trying to pump Janet, and he’s got as much chance as I have of getting information out of Warrender or Ma Beesley. If I had to choose between dealing with Warrender or Beesley, I’d take Warrender every time,” he added thoughtfully. “Ma’s like a great fat slug; you can push as many pins into her as you like and she won’t notice.” He stood up suddenly. “Sauce for the goose,” he said obscurely, and made his way over to Warrender and Eve. He saw a glint of interest, perhaps of nervousness, in her eyes.

Warrender jumped up. “Why, Mr West!” His bright smile failed to hide his alarm. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I bob up all over the place,” Roger said, and his eyes lit up as he turned to the girl. “Hallo, Miss Franklin, I had a feeling we’d meet again.” He saw her flinch, and recognised the anxiety in Warrender’s eyes. “Would you care to dance?”

“I—oh, I’d love to!” She was overeager to get up, and fear and uncertainty did not affect her dancing; she was like quicksilver, her movements had a natural rhythm, and as she grew bolder, she drew closer. If she gave Raeburn this treatment, it was easy to understand why he liked her around.

“I’m ever so glad we had a chance to meet socially,” she said, as the music stopped.

“We never know when we’ll meet next, do we?” Roger asked.

She wasn’t quite sure how to take that, so she giggled.

Roger took her to her table, where Warrender was all false smiles, then went to find Janet with Raeburn and Mark.

“Your wife is a delightful dancer,” Raeburn said, as if he meant it.

“I have luck in some things!”

Raeburn chuckled, and wished them goodnight, all with easy courtesy.

“I trust you didn’t bounce off that creature too often,” Janet said coldly, when he was out of earshot.

“Only when we turned the corners,” Roger said. “Was Raeburn a brilliant conversationalist?”

“I don’t know,” sakd Janet. “I talked all about the boys and their examination, and how big Scoopy is, and how Richard thinks you’re the best detective on the force. At least he knows I think you’re wonderful.”

“Did he try to pump you?”

“As a matter of fact, all he really said was that he hoped you wouldn’t waste your talents,” Janet said, and she was a little uneasy. “I had a feeling that he was really asking me to warn you that if you didn’t stop working against him, you’d get hurt. He didn’t put it into words, but—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Roger squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, sweet. Mark’s on our side now, Warrender is scared, while the little lady was positively jumpy.”

“If she’s a lady—”Janet began.

“How about dancing with your husband for a change?” Roger suggested.

“You are taking Raeburn seriously, aren’t you?” Janet asked, when they were in bed that night. “I had a feeling that he would try to squash anyone who got in his way.”

Roger didn’t say: “As he squashed Halliwell,” but he knew exactly what she meant.

At nine o’clock on the dot next morning, Roger entered his office. He looked at his laden desk, grinned, rubbed his hands and sat down, glad that no one else had arrived. He opened the files and started running through the cases —all concerned with routine matters.

The visit to the Silver Kettle had given him a bigger fillip than he had realised. Warrender’s jumpiness and the girl’s unease might be encouraging straws in the wind.

The door opened.

“Morning, Eddie!” greeted Roger.

“What, you ‘ere?”

“All fresh for the fray,” said Roger. “Why the look of astonishment?”

“Thought you’d be out at Battersea,” Eddie said. “Turnbull’s over there, ‘e asked me to tell you if you came here first. A man named Tony Brown, Eve Franklin’s ex, was found dead in his room this morning. Gassed.”

“My God!” ejaculated Roger, and grabbed a telephone. “Give me Superintendent Pinkerton of Clapham, quickly, please. . . . I wonder if Eve knows? . . . Hallo, Pinky! I’ve just heard about the Flodden Road job, and I’ll be on my way in a few minutes, but there are one or two oddments you could get cracking on before the official report’s ready.”

“Always a jump ahead,” jeered the Divisional Superintendent. “Tell me what they are, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Ta. If you could get me Brown’s history, going back to his first tooth, it would help. Then see if he’s ever had anything to do with The Daytime, the night club Raeburn owns in Clapham. This could be suicide because of unrequited love, but if it’s murder, we might find a double motive.”

“Jumping a bit fast, aren’t you?”

“I can’t jump fast or far enough to get Raeburn,” Roger said. “See you at the morgue.”

CHAPTER VI

HOW DID BROWN DIE?

TURNBULL, MASSIVE and frowning, watched the pathologist who was examining Tony Brown’s body, which was cherry pink except where it had been in contact with the bed. His face was as red as a cherry trodden by a clumsy foot. The smell of gas had now almost gone, although in die corners of the room there were still traces. The tap of the gas fire, the door and the brass rails of the bedstead were covered with a film of grey fingerprint powder, and a detective officer was on his knees in front of the fire, brushing the tap gently with a small camel’s- hair brush.

The pathologist straightened up.

“Isn’t much more I can do,” he said. “He’s been dead since late last night. No signs at all of violence. There’s the usual pink coloration of the body, and the flesh is flattened where he was lying. He’d been drinking heavily,

I’d say—tell you more about that after the post-mortem. You needn’t keep him here any longer.”

“Right,” said Turnbull.

“Nothing more you want me for?”

“No, thanks.”

“All right.” The doctor nodded and went out, leaving Turnbull alone with the body and the man who was on his knees. Photographs of the room and the body had already been taken, and an ambulance was waiting outside.

The officer in front of the fire stood up and dusted his knees. “Nothing at all suspicious,” he said.

“Sure?” Turnbull was hard-voiced.

“The only prints on the tap are Brown’s. I took an impression off his fingers, sir, and they’re identical with all the others in the room. He looked after himself; no one else in the house ever came in here. Looks as if he did himself in all right.”

“He may have,” conceded Turnbull. “Raeburn might be an honest man, too.”

The detective pretended not to have heard. “Shall I send the ambulance men up?”

“Not yet, Symes,” Turnbull said. “Have another go at the people across the landing and the woman downstairs. We want to know exactly what time Brown came in last night.”

“They all say—”began Symes.

“Try them again,” ordered Turnbull, brusquely.

“Right, sir,” Symes, who so obviously thought that Brown had committed suicide, turned to the door, which was ajar. It opened wider, and Roger came in.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning,” Roger said, waited until Symes had gone, and said to Turnbull, without rancour:” If you talk to men like that, you’ll make them hate your guts, and you’ll never get the best out of them.”

“Morning, preacher,” Turnbull said.

It was a touchy moment. Turnbull, a rank below Roger, was always aggressive, often nearly insolent, as now, for they had clashed before. Roger bit back a sharp retort, and bent over Tony Brown, but soon turned away and looked about him. The telltale evidence of police work was everywhere. He did not ask questions, although, when he looked at the fire and glanced up, Turnbull shook his head. Roger went to the window, overlooking a terrace of grey houses, three stories high, mostly shabby, but some of them resplendent with new paint. At intervals along the street were plane trees, their branches spreading upward, dotted here and there with dry leaves hanging on tenaciously. Three stone steps led up to the front door of each house.

Leaning forward, Roger could see a cluster of trees in Battersea Park; not very far from this spot, Raeburn’s victim had been run down.

“Found anything useful?” Roger asked at last.

“Not a thing.”

“Know much about this fellow yet?”

“Not much,” Turnbull answered. “He didn’t do any particular job, but managed to make a fair living. Fond of whisky and women, and”—Turnbull paused deliberately —”in love with Eve Franklin.”

“Or just a boy friend?”

“I’ve talked to one of his friends who lives next door, and I’ve seen his brother, who lives in Tooting. At one time Brown had a different fancy every few nights, but he’s been steady on Eve for some time. His friends thought he was making a mistake. She isn’t popular . . . too expensive.” After a pause, Turnbull asked: “Are you going to see her?”

“I am,” said Roger.

“Room for me?”

“Why not? But I want another look round here first. What did he have in his pockets?”

Turnbull pointed to a bamboo table on which were a variety of oddments, some taken from the dead man’s pockets, and some from drawers in the old-fashioned dressing table. There were two photographs of Eve

Franklin, one a snapshot of her dressed in cheap, tawdry clothes; the other a recent studio portrait which showed her as she had looked at the Silver Kettle. There were no letters from her; in fact there was not a letter of any kind, but there were betting slips, several copies of The Winner, and other pointers to Brown’s habits. Standing in a corner was a saxophone case.

“Wonder if he played that?” Roger picked up the case, and asked casually: “Has the sax been tested for prints?”

“It’s so dusty I didn’t think it worth while,” answered Turnbull.

It would have been easy to say: “Everything’s worth trying.” Instead, Roger opened the case. The saxophone was bright and shining, as if it had been well tended.

“We’d better find out if he ever played in a band; Eve used to sing with a third-rate dance band, remember.” Roger tossed a cigarette stub out of the window. “We certainly shan’t get much more from here.” He looked up as Symes came back, obviously empty-handed. “Any luck?”

“They all say they didn’t hear a thing, sir.”

“Keep at it, especially among people who live near by,” urged Roger. “Tell the ambulance men to get the body away, then you stay on duty outside. We want the name and address of anyone who comes to visit Brown, especially of anyone who’s already heard that he’s dead. All understood?”

“I won’t miss anything,” Symes promised.

“Handsome,” said Turnbull, as they drove back to the Yard, “I’ve got this Raeburn bug even worse than you. Sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“Thanks. Where now?”

“I want a word with Gubby Dering,” Roger said.

The pathologist was at the large laboratory with several other white-coated men, busy at Bunsen burners, tripods, burettes and evil-smelling liquids, testing bloodstains, oil stains, some pieces of fabric, and—where Dering was concerned—the organs of a dead child.

“Hallo, trouble?” greeted Gubby. “I’m told you’ve a carbon-monoxide corpus on the way.”

“I’d like to find evidence of culpable homicide, too,” Roger said.

“Bloodthirsty devil,” growled Gubby. “You’ve got murder on the brain. But you didn’t come in to tell me to look for signs of violence. What exactly do you want?”

“Some blood,” said Roger.

“Eh?”

“Blood—human blood, preferably, in a small container which I can slip into my waistcoat pocket and open easily.”

Gubby looked at Turnbull. “Never follow his example,” he advised. “He’s daft.”

“My state of mind apart, can you find me what I want?” asked Roger.

“There’s some blood we were testing from that arsenic job; we’ve finished with it,” said Gubby. “I can make you a thin glass phial you can break easily enough. Or a small bottle.”

“I’ll have the phial,” said Roger.

Outside, with the phial in his pocket, he looked at Turnbull. “Got the idea?”

Turnbull looked fierce. “No, but let me keep trying. We’re going to see Eve, are we?”

“Yes, and we’re going to act dumb with her—for a start, anyway. I’m taking that line with all of them.”

“Why?”

“I think they’ll be eager to underestimate us,” answered Roger, quietly. “We’ve got to make them slip up, somehow.”

Billinger Street, where Eve Franklin lived, was only a few minutes away from Brown’s apartment. The street was very much the same as Flodden Road, but the houses were larger and most of them had been recently painted. The wind blew straight up the street, and a few dead leaves floated from nearly bare trees.

As the ear slowed down, a little man came out of one of the houses and walked away quickly, glancing once or twice behind him.

“He came from her house,” Turnbull said quickly.

“Never mind about him,” Roger said. “We’d rather see Eve alone, anyhow.”

The hall of the house was painted a bright green. A penetrating smell of frying onions came from one of the ground-floor flats, as they studied a notice board, on the wall, on which the names of the tenants appeared in gilt lettering. The sign: MISS EVE FRANKLYN, FLAT 3 had a fresher look than the others. Roger knew that the girl had lived here for only a few weeks; it was a better apartment than her previous one, and was probably part of her reward from Raeburn. It was already established that she had been ‘ill’ since her arrival, for everyone in the house had told the police so.

The two Yard men walked quietly up the stairs. The door of Flat 4 was ajar, and the whine of a vacuum cleaner came from inside. A shadow darkened the doorway, and a woman with a dust cap on her head looked at them curiously, then closed the door.

The two men seemed to fill the small landing as Roger rang the bell of Eve’s flat.

After a long pause, footsteps sounded inside. Roger rang again. Almost immediately the door was opened, and Eve faced them. She wore a pale, gold-coloured dressing- gown, and her hair fell to her shoulders. She stifled a yawn, but her eyes were bright and clear, not those of a woman who had just waked up or was sleepy.

Then she seemed to jump. “What, you again?”

“Sorry to have to worry you,” Roger began.

“You’re not sorry a bit,” retorted Eve, “but you’d better come in.”

She drew back to let them pass, and Turnbull closed the door. The girl walked into the room immediately in front of her; she seemed to float along, the dressing-gown billowing behind her, slim ankles very white, heels baby pink in gilt mules. The room was a large one, but not expensively furnished. It looked out on back gardens, and another row of houses.

“Well, what is it you want?” demanded Eve. She was keeping her fears in check very well.

“Miss Franklin,” Roger said deliberately, “a man named Brown, a Tony Brown, was killed last night. He was a friend of yours.”

Eve caught her breath.

“I’m sorry to bring bad news,” Roger went on. “When did you last see Mr Brown?”

“Why, last ni—” she began, and broke off. Then, as if realising that she had said too much, she went on: “Only last night, he just looked in to see how I was.”

“What time was that?”

“Time? I—I don’t know.” The shock was beginning to take full effect, and she sat down on an easy chair. “Tony dead—it—it doesn’t seem possible!”

“What time did he call? It’s important, Miss Franklin.”

“It must have been about—about seven, I suppose. I went out at half past, and he—he was here before then. But there must be a mistake. He was all right last night, I’ve never seen him looking better!” She was talking to cover her increasing agitation, and suddenly burst out: “What do you mean—killed?”

“He died in somewhat mysterious circumstances,” Roger said ponderously. “We are anxious to find out where he was just before his death, and what was his state of mind—”

“No!” she exclaimed, now almost beside herself. “No, he didn’t kill himself because of me. Say, it wasn’t suicide, it wasn’t! He—”

“Why, had you quarrelled?” Roger flashed.

She stopped, and turned her head away. Tears welled up into her eyes, of shock or grief, it didn’t much matter which. When she didn’t speak or look up, Roger touched her shoulder.

“Leave me alone!” She brushed his hand away. Her eyes were filled with tears, but they blazed at him. “All you do is to pester me, you and your bloody detectives! It’s a lie, that’s all, you’re lying.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Roger, brusquely. “Brown’s dead, and we want to find out why he died.”

“I don’t know anything about it, I tell you. You’ve no right to come here and torment me.” Eve sprang up, pushed him aside, and rushed towards the door.

She caught them both on the wrong foot, and slammed the door. As Turnbull opened it, Roger saw her rushing into a bedroom across the tiny hall. That door closed, and they heard the key turn in the lock. There was a creaking sound, followed by a brief silence, and another outburst of crying.

“One to her,” Turnbull said, “and about ten to you. She’ll soon crack. Think she thinks Brown was murdered?”

“I think we might break that door down,” Roger mused.

“I’m the rash one of this party,” Turnbull said, dryly. “Ought we to take a chance of being rapped for forcing entry?”

“In that hysterical state she might do anything,” Roger said, “such as commit suicide! Come on.” He put his shoulder to the door, but it did not yield. He took a knife from his pocket, opened a thin blade, inserted it into the lock of the door, and twisted, then pushed.

The door swung open. Eve was lying face downward on a divan bed, quite beside herself with shock.

Roger said: “You’d better get her a drink,” and stepped to the dressing table as Turnbull went out. He found a bottle of smelling salts in a top drawer, turned round to the girl and, sitting on the edge of the divan, put one arm about her shoulders, and raised her head. She rested on his arm like a dead weight. He held the smelling salts under her nose, and she must have taken a deep breath involuntarily, for she gasped and sat upright.

Roger got up. When Turnbull came in with a whisky or brandy in a glass, she waved him aside.

“Now pull yourself together,” said Roger, “we’ve work to do. Do you know whether Brown had any enemies?”

She was sullen now, as she answered: “No.”

“Quite sure?” Roger took out his penknife, casually, opened it, and poked at the quick of his thumbnail.

“Of course I’m sure!”

“Then what are you so worked up about?” demanded Roger. He closed the knife one-handed, and suddenly cried out: “Oh, damn!”

He swung round, shaking his hand. His back was towards Eve when he thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and squeezed the glass phial. Blood covered his hand and streamed up his arm when he turned round.

“Here, we must stop that bleeding,” Turnbull said, as if in alarm.

All Eve Franklin said was: “Mind the carpet!”

Roger, holding up his hand, went to a basin, and thrust his hand under the cold water tap.

“Take my handkerchief out,” he said to Turnbull.

Eve, who had told the magistrate how she always fainted at the sight of blood, showed no sign of being upset. Turnbull made a professional-looking job of bandaging Roger’s finger, as if it were a genuine wound, and was finishing as the front doorbell rang.

“I’ll go,” said Turnbull. He went into the hall, and Roger peered out to see George Warrender push past Turnbull into the hall.

Ma Beesley lifted the receiver of the private line between the flat and Raeburn’s city office, and said: “Yes, who is it?”

“Tell George I want him.” It was Raeburn.

“I can’t just now,” said Ma. “I’m sorry, Paul, but George has gone out. You know that woman who lives across the road from Eve? Tenby dropped her a few pounds to keep an eye on the child—”

Raeburn’s voice became sharp. “Well?”

“Well, she told Tenby to say that that handsome man has gone into the flat,” said Ma. “The very handsome one, you know. Tenby got away before he arrived, so George thought he’d better get along at once.”

When Raeburn did not answer, she went on: “Just in case of any difficulty, I’ve asked Abel Melville to stand by, but I think it will be all right.”

“So Mr Handsome won’t take a warning,” Raeburn said. “I’ll have to deal with him.”

CHAPTER VII

MR WARRENDER OBJECTS

EVE SAID: “Who is it?” and stood up, pulling the dressing-gown tight about her waist. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her face was blotchy.

“A friend of yours,” Roger said.

“That’s right,” agreed Warrender, “and Miss Franklyn obviously needs friends. Where is she?”

A hand brushed Roger’s arm behind the door.

“Don’t let him come in,” whispered Eve. “Don’t let him see me like this” She turned to the dressing table, dropped on to the stool, and began to dab a powder puff into a bowl; heavily scented powder flew up in a cloud.

“Chief Inspector, I insist on being told what has happened.” Warrender strode forward.

Roger made no attempt to stop him from entering the bedroom. If the girl did not want to see him, it seemed a good time to let them meet. She was looking over her shoulder, her face covered with powder. Her red-rimmed eyes were staring out of a grotesque white mask.

“My dear Eve,” Warrender exclaimed, stepping forward, “what on earth’s the matter? What’s distressed you like this?” He put a hand on her shoulder; his voice was gentle and friendly. “Have these men been worrying you?”

“They—yes, they won’t go away! I locked the door, but they broke it open. I just can’t stand any more of their questioning.”

“You certainly won’t have to,” said Warrender, and his voice became harsh and clipped. “Is this your special form of third degree, Chief Inspector?”

“Don’t talk nonsense. We—”

“You appear to have forced your way into this room, and made yourselves objectionable. We shall find out whether it is lawful. Eve, I think you had better stay with friends for a little while. You know the people in Flat 4, don’t you?”

“I can’t go there like this,” she protested.

“Oh, don’t worry about makeup.” Warrender took her elbow and helped her to her feet. “The police will have no objections to this, I’m sure.”

Roger said, stonily: “By advising Miss Franklin not to answer questions, Mr Warrender, you are obstructing us in our work.”

“She’s in no fit state just now to talk about anything,” Warrender retorted, “certainly not until she’s seen her lawyer. Come along, my dear.”

The Woman with the dust cap was now standing on the landing, and exclaimed as Warrender led Eve out: “Why, Eve, aren’t you well?”

“I wonder if you will let Miss Franklin rest in your flat for half an hour?” Warrender asked. “The police have upset her badly again.”

“So that’s it.” The woman shot Roger and Turnbull a searing glance, and took Eve’s arm. “Come along, my dear, come and have a nice cup of tea.”

Turnbull whispered: “What is this?”

“Warrender is trying to establish the fact that we’ve been ill-treating the girl,” Roger answered as softly. “But let him think he’s got us worried. He’s got a witness; all he wants now is a reporter from the Cry!” He stopped as Warrender came back, and the door of Flat 4 closed on the two women.

“Is it not true that she locked herself in her room and that you forced your way in?” Warrender demanded.

“Yes.”

“I shall see that the matter is reported at once. It is outrageous that a young woman should be victimised simply because she has given evidence proving that the police fell down on a job.”

“Warrender, you’re riding for a fall,” Roger said, quietly. “Miss Franklin had a faithful boy friend. That boy friend was with her on the evening when she is supposed to have seen the accident. He was going to make a statement, but he died in mysterious circumstances.”

Warrender cried, as if genuinely astonished: “What’s that?”

“So you didn’t know,” sneered Roger. “The one witness needed to prove a case of perjury against Eve Franklin is dead. We can’t bring the case—yet. But if Eve and her dead boy friend were out together that night, someone must have seen them. We’ll find that someone. Once it’s proved that she could not have seen the accident, not all the Abel Melvilles, Ma Beesleys and George Warrenders will keep Raeburn out of jail. And remember this: if you ever stop me or my colleagues from carrying out our duties, I’ll detain you and charge you with obstructing the police. The charge would stick.” Roger turned to Turn- bull. “Inspector, tell Miss Franklin that we’re ready to take her to Scotland Yard for questioning.”

“You can’t do it!” Warrender cried but all his confidence had gone.

“Miss Franklin had the opportunity to make a statement here, and refused,” Roger said. “She will now have to come with me to Scodand Yard, and I shall not allow you to be alone with her before we leave.”

“Raeburn can break you over this, and he will,” War- render said savagely, and turned and went out of the room.

Eve was sullen, but she dressed and went downstairs to the car with Roger and Turnbull. Warrender was not in sight. The girl got into the back of the car, and Turnbull sat beside her. Roger drove towards the park, taking the long way round along Flodden Road. As they passed Brown’s apartment house, the girl glanced at it, then looked straight ahead.

When they reached Scotland Yard, she went up the steps in front of the men. In the doorway she stopped short. The big, round-faced solicitor, Melville, was standing in the hall.

Turnbull whispered: “They moved damned quick.”

“Didn’t you expect it?” asked Roger.

Melville was smiling expansively.

“Hallo, Miss Franklin, you’re in difficulty, I’m told.” The solicitor took Eve’s hand, and turned to Roger. “What is it you want from my client, Chief Inspector?”

Roger didn’t hesitate. “I want a statement from Miss Franklin about her meeting with her friend Tony Brown last evening.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be difficult. If you ask Miss Franklin nicely, I’m sure she will oblige. Brown was accidentally killed by gas poisoning, wasn’t he?”

“You might wait for the result of the inquest before deciding.”

“Now, now, Chief Inspector, we needn’t get heated about it,” protested Melville. “I’m only talking as a friend. Did Brown come to see you last night, Miss Franklin?”

“Yes, but he didn’t stay long,” Eve said, hurriedly. “He wanted to take me out, but I had another engagement, so I couldn’t go.” As the words spilled out, Melville’s man-in-the-moon smile grew broader. “He didn’t like it, and we had a few words, that’s all.”

A quarter of an hour later, she signed a statement, and flounced out of the Yard.

“Handsome,” Turnbull said, when they had gone, “they’ll try to take the skin off your back for that. You took a hell of a chance to make the girl crack, but it didn’t come off.”

“I’m looking forward to the Cry’s next edition.” Roger glanced at his watch, as he spoke dryly. “Do you remember the little man who left Eve’s house just before we arrived?”

“You bet I remember him.”

“Someone went to warn Warrender, and that little man was the most likely one,” Roger said. “Try to get tabs on him, will you? Melville smiled and Warrender blustered, but they were scared in case Eve talked too much.”

Turnbull, known as the toughest man at the Yard, said deliberately: “I’m getting scared because she didn’t. Watch your step, Handsome.”

For the second time Roger saw his own photograph staring up at him, this time with a caption: THE MAN RESPONSIBLE. The Cry had not spared him; the term third degree was freely used, and Eve was built up as a victim of police persecution. It was wholly scurrilous, but one inevitable consequence was that his personal stock would fall.

Next morning, two other newspapers took the same line as the Cry. It was difficult to go about the Yard looking as if nothing was the matter, but Roger managed it.

He did not go to the inquest on Tony Brown, at which the verdict was Death by Misadventure. Eve’s evidence of Brown’s visit made splash headlines in several newspapers. He and Eve, Roger thought ruefully, were sharing press prominence. He checked every incident, everything new and old about Halliwell, his arson and frauds, and his associates; he checked the Raeburn manage closely; he had every stage of Eve Franklin’s life checked, and especially her recent activities. Nothing helped. Deliberately, he kept away from Tony Brown’s sister, but he had her watched, and he kept a sergeant at work on Brown’s activities.

Turnbull put in every spare minute he could on the case. Mark Lessing studied every report, and spotted nothing new.

Two days after the inquest, Roger was dealing with some routine work when the door was flung open.

“What’s all the hurry?” Eddie Day demanded, and when he saw Turnbull, he sniffed. “Some people would knock on the door before bursting into a superior’s office.”

Turnbull grinned at him as he strode across to Roger, and announced: “We’ve got a line.”

The way Roger’s heart pounded told how vitally important this case was to him; it was not only a personal challenge, with his future at stake, but at the back of his mind was fear of the great damage Raeburn was already capable of doing through his newspapers and with his money.

“It’s the man we saw coming out of Eve’s house when we called,” Turnbull went on. “We’ve got tabs on him at last. His name’s Tenby, and he’s got a record. How about that?”

“What’s he been in for?” Eddie’s curiosity overcame his annoyance.

“Counterfeiting, seven years ago. Since then he’s been fined a few times for passing betting slips. He was broke until a few months ago, but recently he’s started throwing money about, and he’s supposed to have a taste for practical jokes. Shall I have a go at him, or will you?”

“Who found him?” asked Roger.

“I’ve been through twenty thousand photographs in Records, and came across him there,” said Turnbull. “The minute I recognised him, I put Symes on to make a few inquiries, and I’ve just had his report.”

“Think Symes can handle this?”

“He’s dead from the neck up. I—”

“You and I want to keep out at this stage,” Roger said. “We need a good, youngish chap. How about young Peel ? “

“He’ll do,” Turnbull conceded, reluctantly. “Never keen on using him, as his brother’s a CI, but you know them well enough to slap the young one down if necessary, don’t you?”

“He might not need slapping down,” Roger said. “Get him, will you?”

CHAPTER VIII

PEEL v. TENBY

THE LITTLE man named Tenby sat in a corner of the Red Lion, in the Fulham Road, with a whisky-and- soda in front of him and a blackened cigarette dangling from his lips. He was red-faced and long-nosed, with a habitually fretful expression. He looked searchingly at the dozen men and women in the saloon bar, rather as if he were sizing each one up.

Detective Officer James Peel stood against the bar, drinking beer from a tankard. He was tall, broad- shouldered, and slim-waisted, with narrow hips, and he looked in the pink of condition. His light grey flannel trousers were newly pressed, and his brown tweed sports coat hung open. He laughed easily, showing big white teeth. People were usually attracted to him on sight.

The barmaid was no exception.

“You’re not so busy tonight,” observed Peel.

“Busy enough,” retorted the barmaid. “We’ve got to keep our eyes open when there are people like you about, you know.”

Peel laughed, dutifully.

“Coming again?” she asked.

“I think I will.”

A large party came into the saloon bar, as a tankard was put in front of him. He paid for his drink, and moved away to make room for the newcomers. His gaze roamed about the room; he looked at and past Tenby, and then went over and sat near by.

Tenby’s bright eyes were turned towards him.

“Good evening,” said Peel, civilly.

“Evening,” said Tenby. “Better in than out.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad tonight.”

“Bad enough,” said Tenby. “Perishing.” To Peel’s surprise, he took a bag of chocolates from his pocket and popped one into his mouth, then began to sip his drink.

Peel took out a pipe and filled it. There were two other men from the Yard outside, ready to follow Tenby to his room, just off the Fulham Road. Peel had some idea how much depended on his success with this miserable-looking little man. As far as he could judge, Tenby was here simply to drink and enjoy himself. The crowd at the bar came over to the chairs, but there was not room for them all to sit together.

Peel stood up. “Mind if I join you, and make room?” he asked, and sat down by Tenby.

“Mixed crowd,” remarked Tenby, gloomily.

“Well, live and let live,” said Peel.

“That’s all very well, but why don’t they?” Tenby’s voice was thick, and he did not seem to know what he was saying. “Look at this,” he added, and tapped his glass. “Two-an’-a-kick for a bloody nip.”

“Got to pay for the peace,” said Peel.

“Peace? Who said anything about peace?” Tenby sipped again, and put down a nearly empty glass. “Don’t you come the old soldier over me. It’s nothing to do with peace or war, it’s the flicking government. Waste millions, don’t they? ‘S’awful, that’s what I say.”

“They ought to economise,” agreed Peel, solemnly.

“You’re right they should, but take it from me they won’t. Civil servants, look at the perishers, running around everywhere. Waste . . . and paper. Look at the waste paper. A lot less forms and a bit more progress, that’s what we want.”

“You’ve never said a truer word.”

“ ‘S’right,” said Tenby. “I never will, neither.”

He turned his head and looked straight at Peel for the first time. Behind his narrowed lids, his small blue eyes were very bright. They seemed to hold no expression, although their directness was completely at variance with his muddled talk and his wet cigarette.

“Have another?” he asked.

“Well—”

“On me this time.”

“Well, thanks.” This seemed like progress, Peel thought.

Tenby got up and waddled to the bar. He looked tipsy, but he had not been here long, and had made one drink last for over half an hour. Was he following up some hard drinking at home, or was he putting on an act?

He came back with a foaming pewter tankard for Peel, and his own short drink, and dumped them down on the table.

“Never mix me drinks,” he said earnestly. “Good rule.”

“None better,” agreed Peel.

“Talking of the government,” Tenby said, “what about the police?”

“Ah.”

“That feller West.”

“West?”

“ ‘Andsome, they call him,” said Tenby. “Don’t you read your papers? Shocking! Wastes a lot o’ government money—that’s our money, chum—an’ then he has a go at a girl in her flat. Shocking,” he added, shaking his head. “More in that than meets the eye, if you ask me. Ought to be slung out on his neck, that’s what.”

“You’re probably right,” agreed Peel.

Tenby leaned forward.

“You’d never believe it,” he declared, “but I’ve been inside.”

“You have?”

“ ‘S’right. I was framed. And I been fined. Twice. Betting slips. What harm does a bit o’ betting do a man, that’s what I want to know. The government has premium bonds, ain’t they? They’ve got the pools, ain’t they? Tote, too. But they has to pay a lot of big, fat, slab- sided coppers to go about picking on the likes of me for taking a few slips. If I had my way with the police, do you know what I’d do with them?”

“No.”

“Drown ‘em!” declared Tenby.

Peel chuckled. “A bit drastic, old man.”

“Maybe it is,” growled Tenby. “But it’s painless, that’s more than they deserve. The way they treated that girl, and the way they tried to pretend Raeburn was a crook when he’s a bit of all right—’Strewth, I know what I’d do with ‘em.” He looked straight into Peel’s eyes. “Drown ‘em,” he repeated, and sipped his drink.

“There are some poor coppers about,” Peel agreed.

“Poor!” Tenby exclaimed. “They get paid, don’t they? That’s more than some people. I was trying to keep body an’ soul together when they nobbled me. Don’t mind telling you, mister, I haven’t forgotten, and I haven’t forgiven them, neither. If I can do them a bit of dirt, that’s me—Bert Tenby’s the name.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” said Peel.

“I don’t care whether you blame me or not,” said Tenby. “Why, I’d be hard put to it to keep body and soul together, if it wasn’t for a bit o’ luck I had.”

“Ah,” said Peel.

Tenby opened his eyes wide. They looked so innocent, in spite of his manner, that Peel hardly knew what to make of him.

“You struck lucky, did you?”

“Penny pool, nearly five thousand,” announced Tenby, “and I didn’t pay no tax. A cool five thou’.” He gave a slow, childlike smile. “Bit of all right, eh? Do you know what? A rozzer come up to me in the street just afterwards. ‘Bert,’ he says, ‘I want to know where you got your dough from.’ ‘Dough?’ I says. ‘Dough,’ he says. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘you can bloody well find out, copper.’ That’s what I said, and walked away from him. Proper mad, he was. More pools and less policemen, that’s what I’d like to see.”

“Well, it’s all a matter of opinion,” Peel said.

“So what?” asked Tenby, and ate another chocolate.

Peel could find nothing more to say, and not altogether because he was now sure that this man was toying with him. It was something else, even more worrying. He felt hot—much too hot. There was a pricking sensation in his hands and feet, and his neck and face were beginning to tingle. He looked at Tenby, whose face seemed to be going round and round. The little bright eyes were staring.

“You okay?” asked Tenby, leaning forward.

“I—I—yes, I’m all right.”

“You look bad,” said Tenby, interestedly. “Take it easy.”

Peel felt that he could not get up from his chair if he were paid for it. The tingling had become a scorching sensation, his face and head seemed to be on fire, and his back and chest were burning. He knew that he was beetroot red, and people were staring at him.

Tenby’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Sure you’re all right?”

Peel did not answer, just stared at him.

Tenby’s lips were parted, showing uneven, discoloured teeth in an expression which was more leer than grin; obviously, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His face seemed to come very close to Peel, and then to recede to an immense distance. The saloon bar was going round now; the murmur of voices was louder in Peel’s ears. He tried to sit upright, but could not.

He had been poisoned. He had let Tenby get those drinks; watched him, believing he was doing well, and he had been poisoned.

He tried to think logically and coolly. No one would poison him fatally like that; it wouldn’t be safe; if anything happened to him, Tenby would be under suspicion immediately. But there was Tenby grinning like a cat, and the other people staring at him.

The barmaid came across. “Are you feeling okay?” She sounded anxious.

Tenby said smoothly: “He came all over like that just before he finished his drink, he did. Looks bad, don’t he?”

“He looks terrible.”

“Better get a doctor,” Tenby suggested.

Peel forced himself to shake his head. He was actually feeling better, not right, but better. His arms and legs seemed more normal, and only his face and head were troubling him.

“He looks a bit less red,” remarked Tenby, judicially.

“I’m—I’m all right,” insisted Peel. “Don’t worry about me.”

The barmaid obviously agreed, and went back to serve her customers, while Peel sweated, and Tenby sipped his drink.

“You’ll be right as ninepence soon, chum,” he declared.

“Yes,” muttered Peel. “Thanks.” His thoughts were clearer, and one thing was certain: he must get the rest of the beer in the tankard analysed. Tenby’s trick could be turned into a boomerang. He stretched out his hand for the glass.

“That’s the ticket,” said Tenby, “another little drink won’t do you any harm. Hair of the old dog, eh?” He giggled. “Lemme help you.” He grabbed at the glass, and it fell to the floor.

“Cor strike me!” gasped Tenby.” Look what I’ve done !”

Peel glared, but did not speak, while Tenby popped another chocolate into his mouth.

Mark Lessing was with Roger and Janet at Bell Street when Peel telephoned his report. A doctor had told him that he had been dosed with nicotine, but had fully recovered. Tenby, the practical joker, had won another round for Raeburn.

But supposing that poison had been lethal?

Was it another, deadlier warning?

Would Raeburn kill again, if he were goaded too far? Would he kill any Yard man who seemed to get too close? Could any man be as ruthless as that?

Only a man who believed that he could really put himself above the law would be. Did Raeburn think he could?

CHAPTER IX

WARRENDER v. RAEBURN

WHEN WARRENDER entered the study of the Park Lane flat, Raeburn did not look up from his desk. War- render walked slowly towards an easy chair and stood by it, watching his employer closely. Raeburn was reading Ma Beesley’s diary of events, leaning forward, and turning the pages with his right hand. The movements of his hand were curiously graceful; he was smiling, and now and again he chuckled to himself; it was a studied poise, and he had a film-star handsomeness.

Warrender’s face was expressionless.

Raeburn seemed determined to keep him waiting. He reached the last entry, read and reread it, then turned back to an earlier page. Still Warrender did not move.

At last Raeburn looked up. “Well, George, what are you after?”

“I’m sorry if you’re so busy,” Warrender said, heavily.

“Must we have sarcasm?”

“If that was sarcasm, we need it. Paul, I work my guts out for you, and the least you can do is to listen when I give you advice.”

“I don’t always like your advice.”

“It’s time you learned to listen to things you don’t like,” Warrender retorted. “And stop grinning at me like a god; you’re made of flesh and blood, and you’re not infallible.”

Raeburn closed the diary, and stood up.

“I’m glad you admit that I’m human,” he said, still smiling. “George, we’re both busy men, and we both need relaxation. I take enough, but you don’t. Just now I like going about town with Eve Franklin. The girl did me a good turn, and there’s no reason in the world why I shouldn’t show my gratitude. You’re worrying too much because you work too hard, and your nerves are on edge. Why don’t you take a holiday?”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing about you,” Warrender retorted.

Raeburn was startled into silence.

“There’s no need for you to stay in England,” went on Warrender. “You’ve a dozen good reasons for going abroad. There’s enough business in America to keep you busy over there for six months; your interests in South Africa and Australia could do with a personal visit. You could take the girl with you, too, although I doubt if she’d last the voyage.”

“George,” Raeburn said, “I don’t want any more sneers at Eve.”

Warrender kept his poker face, but with a great effort.

“Paul, I don’t care what you think about it. I’m talking for your own good. I’ll tell you again that she’s a gold- digging little tart whose head’s as empty as a drum. No, don’t interrupt for once. I wouldn’t care a damn if she wasn’t dangerous, but the police are watching her, and she’ll crack if they keep it up. Get away, and let things quieten down a bit.”

“One would think we’d suffered a heavy reverse,” said Raeburn, unexpectedly mild, “instead of pulling off a big success.”

“If you think it’s clever to rile the police, you’re crazy. West won’t let up, and he means to get you. I’ve just heard from Tenby,” Warrender added, abruptly.

“Where does he come into this interesting lecture? Tenby did very well over Brown.”

“Well be damned! It was a big mistake to kill Brown; it gave West the opening he was looking for,” Warrender declared. “Tenby ought to have reported before taking a chance.”

“Now, George, he didn’t take a chance worth thinking about.” Raeburn was determined to be reasonable. “He saw he could get rid of a dangerous man without serious risk, and I think he was right to take it.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Warrender, flatly. “We could have kept Brown quiet; money will always shut mouths. If we rub out everyone who begins to look dangerous, we shan’t last a month. Paul, there’s such a thing as over-confidence ; we simply can’t blot out everyone who might let us down.”

Raeburn sat on the edge of the desk, and said:” Perhaps you would be happier with Halliwell alive.”

“He had to go,” Warrender agreed, “but you were wrong to do it yourself. That was the first thing that worried me. Tenby could have looked after him. If he had, we should have been able to deal with Tenby; we shouldn’t have needed to find Eve; Brown wouldn’t have been a menace, and you wouldn’t be under pressure from the Yard.”

“All right, it was a mistake,” Raeburn conceded, very slowly.

“Anyone can make one, but now we’ve got to cover up, instead of leaving ourselves wide open,” Warrender said.

“That is where we disagree,” responded Raeburn, now his most suave. “George, you will underrate my influence in high places.”

“Or you rate it too high.”

“You’re wrong,” Raeburn said, quietly. “We had a brush with the police and had a narrow escape, but that’s all. I have powerful friends everywhere and they are making sure that I am shown as a victim of police persecution. Every time West tries to be clever, as with Eve, that will be shown up. The Home Secretary has taken the affair up strongly with the Commissioner at the Yard because West has made too many mistakes. The Cry is winning a great deal of sympathy over its persecution campaign, and other newspapers are taking it up. West and the police will soon be so busy getting themselves out of trouble that they won’t have time to worry about us.”

“You simply don’t know West or the Yard,” Warrender said, stubbornly.

“You forget that West has to obey orders,” Raeburn countered. “He will be told to get on with his job, and stop harassing a highly reputable citizen, such as I!”

Warrender took a step forward, and spread his hands in a kind of pleading.

“Paul, you’re starting a vendetta with the police, and I tell you that you’re bound to lose,” he said. “No friends can help if they prove Eve lied. Why don’t you see my point? You’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted. Why, ten years ago, you couldn’t lay your hands on a thousand pounds; today you’re as rich as Rockefeller.” When Raeburn didn’t answer, Warrender went on desperately: “There must be something eating you. What’s behind your attitude, Paul?”

“I want and intend things to happen my way,” Raeburn declared. He opened the cabinet and poured out drinks, and when he turned round he was his smiling self. “Don’t worry so much, George. Take a week off, and enjoy yourself.”

“I don’t trust you on your own,” Warrender said, flatly. “I daren’t go.”

“All right, I’ll take a week off, too,” said Raeburn, briskly. “I’ve got to make sure you get a break, somehow; you’re building this thing up too much. You’ll see I’m right when you realise that, in the public eye, I shall figure as a defender of the rights of the people.”

Warrender took the drink. “So that’s it!”

“That’s it,” agreed Raeburn.

“You see yourself as a great public figure.”

“I do, George! This country’s never had a real strong man. Moseley tried, but—”Raeburn broke off. “But we mustn’t run before we can walk! Whatever it leads to, I also see you as my right-hand man.” Raeburn pressed his shoulder. “When I ran Halliwell down, I did myself more good than I realised. Instead of going to prison, I raised my stock sky-high. I don’t want to quarrel with you or Ma, but I’m going to do things my way. You just stand by to pick up the pieces. Drink up, George, and forget it!”

Warrender said, flatly: “I haven’t finished telling you about Tenby. He was tailed home tonight. A Yard man was trying to get him to open up in a pub, but Tenby was too quick for him. He dropped a tablet of nicotine into his beer.”

Raeburn looked amused.

“I’m getting really fond of Tenby.”

“He’s got a high opinion of himself,” Warrender said. “I don’t like men in his position who get ideas.”

“So you suggest that we get rid of Tenby now? George, don’t let yourself get carried away. If the Yard is showing an interest in Tenby, just send him away for a while. He won’t mind a holiday, even if you do.”

“You personally can’t take a holiday from police attention unless you go abroad,” Warrender insisted. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And I’ve already told Tenby that if he does anything else without consulting me, there’ll be real trouble.”

“I’m quite prepared to leave him to you,” said Raeburn, carelessly. “Send him some chocolates!” He finished his drink and stifled a yawn. “George, I’m getting tired of this. Let’s call it a day.”

When Warrender was in his bedroom, undressing, there was a tap at the door. He called: “Come in,” and Ma Beesley plodded in. “So it’s you,” he remarked, glumly. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

“Most of the time I was outside the study door,” said Ma.

“Think that surprises me?”

Ma gave a little clucking laugh, crossed to the bed and sat down, patting his cheek as she passed him. It was a bleak room with ultra-modern furnishings in black and cream, and against that background Ma looked old- fashioned. Her long skirt spread out over the bed; on her plump little ankles were rings of fat caused by shoes that were too tightly laced. She took some pins out of her hair, and two long plaits fell over her shoulders.

“Paul is right about one thing—you worry too much,” she observed. “But you’re right about another: he must be stopped from going about with Eve.”

“What’s made you change your mind?”

“Paul has,” said Ma Beesley, simply. “He’s getting much too fond of her; he isn’t just amusing himself any longer. I thought he was, until I saw him after she’d left tonight. Tcha-tcha! I’d hoped he’d grown out of that kind of thing. If she gets her claws in too deep, they won’t be so easy to pull out.”

“How do you propose to stop her?” inquired War- render.

“I thought we might put her in a compromising situation with another man,” cooed Ma Beesley. “I’m sure Paul wouldn’t stand for that.”

After a long pause, Warrender began to laugh, and to look less worried than he had all evening.

“You old devil!” he said. “Ma, you do me good!”

She gave her little clucking laugh, and patted his cheek again as she passed him.

“Just a minute,” Warrender went on, as she reached the door. “Paul said something about going away for a week. D’you know whether he was serious?”

“I’ve already booked a suite for him and a room for her at die Grand-Royal, Brighton,” answered Ma. “He says he wants to be alone.” She winked. “We’ll let him have this week to enjoy himself, and then we’ll look after him.” She went out, closing the door softly behind her.

The luxury flat was quiet. All was quiet outside, too; only occasionally did Warrender hear a car change gear. He lay awake, looking at the faint light which shone from the street on to the ceiling. It made the darkness a ghostly grey, and he found no comfort from it. He felt wakeful and restless, and kept going over the talk with Raeburn.

Raeburn’s overeonfidenee worried him, and his overriding ambition worried him even more. Did he really see himself as a kind of dictator? Or the real power behind the political and economic scenes? Was he mad? Or was he simply drunk with success?

The stimulus of Ma Beesley’s visit had faded; as always, she had been ready to pour oil on troubled waters, soothing and flattering, so as to make everything run smoothly. Warrender could not be sure that she had meant what she said, was not even positive that she would not tell Raeburn that he was so agitated. He was never sure that he could trust Ma.

Probably no one knew Raeburn as well as she did; she was always at his side, suggesting, prompting, even influencing his thoughts. Had she the same grandiose dreams? She seldom left the flat, and never failed to appear when Raeburn rang for her. Her attitude never varied, either, and Warrender had never known her to lose her temper. She had worked with them for ten years; only he had served Raeburn longer than that.

All three had worked smoothly together, defrauding elderly widows at small continental resorts, never aiming too high, or attracting the attention of the local police. For who would suspect fat, friendly Ma Beesley of swindling?

The currency problems of the neighbouring countries proved another fruitful source of profit, and Raeburn had begun to spread his wings. He always had the bright ideas. Both at home and abroad, he had turned property buying, made a fortune, and begun to study the Stock Exchange. Now he controlled a financial empire, was beginning to enter the industrial and commercial spheres, and seldom put a foot wrong.

Then Halliwell had come, as a ghost. In the early days, they had found him in Southampton, managing a successful wholesale business, exactly the type of going concern Raeburn had then wanted to control, for he provisioned many ocean-going ships. Halliwell, easily bribed, had been used to handle smuggled goods, and later to plant a fire bomb on board a sea-going tramp, which was heavily insured at Lloyds. The ship, with a largely fictitious cargo, had sunk.

Afterwards, Halliwell, doing a smaller job, had been caught, convicted, and jailed. Not until he came out of prison had Raeburn realised that Halliwell knew who was behind the organisation.

Warrender had always feared something of the kind. He had been the go-between in the early deals, but had soon employed others, making his own arrangements by telephone, and keeping in the background. Ma Beesley also proved to have a genius for organisation. A few agents caught by the police had been well paid for their silence; the number who knew either Raeburn or Warrender rapidly decreased. So did their criminal activities, for Raeburn now found money making money. There had been rumours about his financial activities until he had bought the Cry, and really appeared in the public eye.

They went from success to fabulous success, until a letter had come from Halliwell. Warrender had told Tenby .to watch Halliwell, and Tenby had seen Raeburn seize the chance to murder the man.

For years, Tenby, a distant relation of Raeburn, had been used for small jobs, without realising how frequently he had made himself remarkably useful. He had started out as an assistant to a pharmaceutical chemist in the East End, where he had learned a great deal about dispensing and drugs; soon he was practising various forms of crime. For a time he had specialised in doping greyhounds, and had fixed several races for Raeburn in the early days. Humble, willing, and unscrupulous, any unpleasant little job went his way. He was the last direct connection between the days of crime and the days of legal plenty.

After Halliwell’s death, he had offered to say that he had been an eye witness and the accident had been unavoidable, but Melville had objected strongly to calling a witness with a police record.

Then Tenby had suggested using Eve Franklin. True, he had warned them that Brown might cause trouble, but no one had dreamed how bad it would be. But to Warrender, the real danger was less in Tenby than in Raeburn’s attitude towards him; in his general attitude.

Now he was losing his head over Eve. If Ma was seriously determined to part Raeburn from her, undoubtedly the surest way would be to make him jealous.

Warrender grinned.

He had been lying between waking and sleeping for some time when he heard a faint scratching noise which kept on and on, until he realised that someone was moving in the flat. He eased himself up on one elbow and strained his ears, and the sound kept on.

He sat upright.

The noise was coming from the hall, and he realised that someone was trying to pick a lock.

Only Raeburn locked his door at night.

CHAPTER X

NIGHT ALARM

WARRENDER PUSHED back the clothes and got out of bed. The springs creaked faintly, but the scratching noise still went on. He groped for his slippers, straining his ears to catch every sound. He stretched out his hands to put on the light, but withdrew it quickly; a light might show under the door.

He could just make out the shape of the door, and touched the handle. He turned it carefully, in case it should squeak, but it made no sound. He opened the door and saw a faint light in the hall. This came from a torch which stood on a small table and shone on to Raeburn’s door. In the light he could see a man’s hands working at the lock, and the figure of the man crouching down with his back half turned towards him.

Warrender began to creep forward. There was no need for a weapon, a surprise attack should suffice, for the other was intent upon his task. Three more steps and he would be on him.

He heard a rustle of sound and his heart seemed to turn over. He swung round as a man came at him, and shouted at the top of his voice. He saw the man at the door leap, and felt a blow on the side of his head which sent him reeling towards the wall.

Then a door opened and light streamed into the hall, but Warrender was protecting his face with his upraised arm, and could see nothing. A terrific crack on the elbow made him feel sick, and he dropped to his knees.

A shot rang out.

Then a scream pierced the silent darkness which was closing down over his mind, and he collapsed. He did not lose consciousness, but was only vaguely aware of what was going on. There was a confused babble of sound, voices, another shot, scuffling noises, the thumping of feet. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and got to his knees. The light dazzled him, but he could see Ma Beesley in the hall. The front door was standing wide open.

Two men were rushing towards it.

Warrender saw a small gun in Ma’s hand, and croaked: “Ma, don’t! Ma!”

Flame from the gun showed clearly, but the men ran on to the landing, their footsteps echoing. Suddenly Maud appeared, her angular figure framed in a doorway.

Ma Beesley stood in the middle of the hall, wearing a huge white nightgown which made her look like a balloon.

“Ma!” Warrender gasped.

“Lend Mr Warrender a hand, Maud,” Ma said, as she crossed to Raeburn’s door and tapped on the panel. “It’s all right, Paul,” she called. “You can come out.”

Raeburn had been hiding from the danger!

Warrender realised this, as Maud helped him to his feet and into a chair. He was sitting down, his head in his hands, when Raeburn’s door opened.

In a blue silk dressing-gown, his hair tousled and his face pale, Raeburn stood staring, for once neither poised or suave. “What the hell’s all this? I heard shooting.”

“You heard shooting, all right,” Ma Beesley agreed. “I wounded one of the pair, too.”

“Wounded?”

“That’s right,” Ma said, and held up her gun. “George thought he could be a hero and deal with them with his bare hands, but I didn’t take any chances.”

“Who—”began Raeburn, hoarsely.

“Thieves,” Ma Beesley interrupted quickly. “Just thieves, Paul, there’s nothing to worry about. Maud, dear, go and make some coffee, will you?”

The maid went off, closing the kitchen door behind her. Ma stood looking from one man to the other, her fat face wreathed in smiles, as if all this were a huge joke.

“Thieves, I don’t think,” she said. “Someone came after you, Paul. They were trying to get into your room. I have been wondering lately whether you oughtn’t to have a bodyguard.”

“But who was it?” demanded Raeburn, no longer a great man. “Who would want V

“That’s one of the things we’ll have to find out,” said Ma, smoothly. “We’d better stop discussing it now; someone is coming up the stairs. It’s another story for the Cry, anyway. Paul. Isn’t it a pity you can’t blame West for it?” She chuckled, then hurried towards the door, to find a porter in the doorway.

The telephone bell rang in Roger’s ears and he stirred, without at first realising what it was. He felt Janet move. The ringing persisted, and almost on the instant he became wide awake. He stretched out his hand, and lifted the receiver from the instrument by the bed.

“What is it?” began Janet, drowsily.

“You go to sleep,” said Roger. “Hallo?”

“Hold on, please,” came a man’s voice.

Roger hitched himself up more comfortably, and glanced at the window. It was still pitch dark, except for a faint glow from a street lamp. The illuminated dial of his watch showed up on the bed table. It was nearly half past three.

Then the night-duty Superintendent at the Yard spoke: “Handsome, there’s been a burglary at Raeburn’s- flat, just been reported. Thought you’d like to know. Here’s a chance to look round.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Roger said, very softly. “Do me a favour and call Turnbull, will you?”

Roger was wide awake when he got out of his car outside the block of flats in Park Lane. A policeman told him that the lift was waiting at the ground floor; he hurried inside, and found another constable on duty at the lift.

The front door of the flat was standing open, and light streamed into the passage. A porter was outside, whispering to a third policeman; the Yard DI, who was in charge, had left nothing to chance. Inside the flat, men were talking, and Roger paused in the doorway, looking into the study where Raeburn, Turnbull, Warrender and Ma Beesley were gathered. Turnbull, always a fast worker, lived only a minute’s drive from here. On the desk was a silver tray, and the whole group was drinking coffee.

Roger Went in. “Good morning,” he said, briskly.

Raeburn, standing opposite him, saw him first. There was only hostility in his eyes, but he smiled and raised a hand. “Good morning, Chief Inspector.”

Warrender’s right eye was puffy and nearly closed up, and his lips were swollen. Ma Beesley, in a blue dressing- gown, overflowed from an upright chair, her grey plaits hanging over her huge bosom, her bright little eyes turned towards him.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Roger.

Turnbull winked.

“I hope it isn’t serious,” Raeburn said. “In fact I wouldn’t have worried you, Chief Inspector, but the porter thought it necessary to send for the police. I’m sorry you’ve been brought out in the early hours.”

“It’s happened before,” Roger said, dryly. “Is anything missing?”

Ma Beesley heaved herself up. “You must have some coffee, Mr West. I’ll get another cup.” She waddled out at once, deliberately leaving the men together.

“Now, let’s have it,” said Roger.

“We’ve already told Detective Inspector Turnbull everything,” Warrender growled. “Two men broke into the fiat. I caught them red-handed, and was attacked while I was trying to detain them. Mrs Beesley got out her gun and frightened them away. Nothing is missing.”

“Quite sure?”

“They didn’t have time—”began Warrender.

“We can’t be positive,” Raeburn interpolated, coolly, “but nothing of importance is missing, you can be sure of that. The fools are probably licking their wounds now.”

“Wounds?” Roger was sharp.

“There are some spots of blood outside,” Turnbull said. “It looks as if Mrs Beesley wounded one of them. I’ve taken a quick look round, and there’s nothing to suggest that anything’s been stolen.” Pity, he seemed to add. “I’ve sent for men from Fingerprints.”

“That is quite unnecessary,” Warrender was taking this very badly.

“We won’t keep you any longer than we have to,” Roger said, “but we can’t have influential citizens attacked in their homes, can we, Mr Raeburn?”

“How true,” cooed Ma Beesley, coming in with another cup. “Isn’t it a pity I’m not a better shot?”

“Apparently. May I see your gun?”

“The other inspector has it,” said Ma Beesley.

“Have you a licence?”

“Of course I have.” Ma was laughing at him openly. “Everything was quite in order, Mr West. I think you will find that the thieves thought the safe was in Mr

Raeburn’s room, whereas it is in Mr Warrender’s. We have to expect such outrages, haven’t we? There are so many criminals about, and die police have so much to do.” She gave a wide, toothy smile. “Not that they would have found much had they searched every nook and cranny; we keep nothing of value here.”

She was saying that the police could turn the flat upside down, and find little which might help to build up a case against Raeburn.

“I see. Excuse us a moment, will you?” Roger said. He went with Turnbull into the hall, where the man from Fingerprints and another detective had started work. “Anything doing?” he asked.

“There are scratches at both doors, but I think the front door was opened with a key,” Turnbull answered. “We ought to take the lock down and have a good look at it, to make sure. It could be important.”

“If they had a key, where did they get it from?” Roger examined the lock of Raeburn’s door, then glanced into the beautifully furnished bedroom.

“Just made for two, but only one in it tonight,” Turn- bull said.

“They wore gloves,” the Fingerprint man reported, factually. “There isn’t a trace of a print.”

“A professional job, all right, and with luck it will help to make Raeburn jumpy,” Roger said. “What have you started doing outside?” he asked Turnbull.

“I’ve seen the sergeant on duty on the beat, who’s making local inquiries, and I’ve been on to the office. A copper on his beat saw a car leave about half past two; that was probably the one the burglars came in. Think they were after money?” he asked.

“Don’t much care what they were after. If we play our cards right, and show Raeburn that we’re going to go to a lot of trouble to catch the burglars, we could get Raeburn and Company on one foot. Warrender’s edgy already, and Ma’s too slimy. Has she shown you the licence for the gun?”

“It’s in order.”

“It would be,” Roger said. “Right—just worry ‘em!” He turned back to the study, where the trio looked rather as if they had been caught in some prank. “It doesn’t look as if we’re going to get any immediate results, Mr Raeburn,” he said. “I’m going to have the lock taken off the front door, to see whether it was opened by a key or a tool—”

“There is no need for that,” protested Warrender.

“We must do our job,” Roger said, flatly. “We shall put the lock back within twelve hours, I promise you. Meantime, we can put you on a temporary fastening. Mrs Beesley, would you recognise either of the men again?”

“I shouldn’t like to say.”

“What about you, Mr Warrender?”

“I hardly saw them, just saw one man’s hands.”

“Since no harm was done, why make such a business of it?” said Raeburn, and now he wasn’t even pretending to smile.

Roger beamed. “You can never tell how much harm has been done until you’ve checked everything, and I’d hate the Yard to be accused of being careless, sir. We might get some surprising results before we’ve finished, too. Thieves and burglars are like most criminals: they have a long run of success, get overconfident, then make one little slip, and we get ‘em. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “There are so many criminals about now, as Mrs Beesley reminded me, we can’t let these men get away with this.”

Raeburn was hard-faced and angry-eyed.

“Anyhow, I think we can safely leave you for tonight,” Roger added. “I’ll have an officer stationed on the landing, in case the men should try to come back, and have another man in the street. Many thanks for the coffee; it’s done me a world of good. Good night.” He nodded, and went out.

Turnbull followed him, grinning.

There was a hush in the study after they had gone, broken by a restless movement from Warrender. Then the front door was closed, and silence fell.

“This is the worst thing that could have happened,” Warrender said, savagely.

“Don’t make too much of it.” Outwardly, Raeburn was more himself now. “West’s very pleased with himself, but this can’t get him anywhere. The important thing is to find out who broke in. I think we’ll telephone the Cry, George.”

The Night Editor, in his office off the newsroom of the Daily Cry, sat back in his chair, yawning. The last editions would be on the machines in half an hour’s time, and he would be through.

The door opened, and a boy entered bringing him pulls of a new set-up of the front page. He stretched out his hand to take them, and as he did so the telephone rang.

“Put ‘em down,” he said, and lifted the receiver. “Night Editor . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes, put him through at once.” His voice grew sharper and he pressed a bell- push. “Yes, Mr Raeburn? . . . What?” He grabbed a pencil and began to write.

Five minutes later he rang off. By then the Chief Subeditor was lounging about the desk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, an eyeshade covering his tired eyes.

“Barney, put the UN story on an inside page. We want space for a new one on the front. Raeburn’s flat has been burgled, and West’s on the job. Build up the story this way: is the Yard wise to give this case to this particular man? Is there a risk of personal antagonism and consequent inefficiency? Then case off a bit, and be conciliatory. It could be a chance for West to make a comeback, as it should be a simple job. We look to him to make an early arrest. Got it?”

The Chief Sub-editor said: “Yes. But—”

“There isn’t any time to lose.”

“This won’t take a minute. Sam, how long are we going to keep needling West and the Yard? You’re going to build up so that if he doesn’t pull the burglars in quickly you’ll be able to smack him down hard. I know Raeburn’s the owner, but we keep sailing pretty close to the wind.”

“You may be right,” said the Night Editor, “but write up the story from these notes and make sure we catch the late editions. We can’t argue, and it might even give West a break. If he does make an arrest, we’ll have to give him a good write-up. One day Raeburn might cut his own throat; but, if he did, where would our jobs be? Better hope he’s the winner!”

“I see what you mean,” the Sub-editor said.

CHAPTER XI

THE MAN WITH THE INJURED ARM

REPORTS ABOUT car movements between two and three o’clock were reaching the Yard from all parts of the West End and neighbouring districts, when Roger arrived at his office. The chief interest centred on three: a large Austin, a Fiat, and a Hillman Minx, all of which had been seen in Park Lane about the time of the burglary. This was established by half past four. At a quarter to five B Division rang through to report that a Hillman Minx had been found stranded in a side street in Brixton. “Go over that car with a fine comb,” Roger urged. “We hardly need to,” said the Divisional man at the other end of the line. “There’s blood on the floor, and blood on the inside of the near-side front door. That means there was a passenger who was probably wounded in the left arm.”

Roger’s heart leaped. “Nice work! Was the car stolen ? ““We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”

“Turnbull will come and have a look,” Roger said, and grinned when he saw that Turnbull, as lively as by day, was slapping a trilby on to his thick auburn hair.

At half past five, it seemed certain that the Hillman had been stolen from a private car park at a hotel in Tooting. By six o’clock, this was proved. Late in the morning, a man who had seen the Hillman driven off was found. He was a nervous little man who claimed to be a waiter in a Soho restaurant; he had missed the last bus and walked home.

“I was just turning the corner when the car came out of the park,” he said. “Nearly knocked me down, it did. I shouted at the driver to be careful.”

“Did you see him?” asked Roger.

“Clear as I can see you,” the waiter declared. “There’s a street lamp on that corner. I’d recognise him again if I saw him. I’m sure of that, but—”

“But what?”

“I don’t want to get no one into any trouble,” the waiter said, uneasily. “It was only chance that I saw him.”

“You won’t get anyone into trouble unless they’ve asked for it,” Roger said. “How many people were in the car?”

“Two men.”

“Did you see them both clearly?”

“I only got a good dekko at the driver, a little dark bloke, he was. He didn’t half give me a nasty look, too.”

“Which way did the car turn?”

“Clapham Road, toward Brixton,” asserted the waiter. “It wasn’t ‘arf moving, too; the road was quite clear. You—er, you won’t put me in the box, will you?”

“Not if I can help it,” Roger promised.

C Division, which controlled the Tooting area, worked at high pressure, and fragments of information brought in were quickly piece together. The movements of two men seen walking near the car park were checked. Turnbull discovered a policeman on his beat who had seen two men leaving a house in Hill Lane, Tooting, at about one in the morning; they had returned there at about four o’clock.”

“Anything definite known about them?” Roger asked.

“We haven’t found anything yet,” said Turnbull, “but there’s one queer thing.”

“What’s that?”

“One of them is named Brown.”

Roger sat back in his chair. Eddie Day, who was making a pretence of working but was actually listening, exclaimed: “Crikey!”

“Another Brown, is he?” murmured Roger. “Tony Brown’s brother lived out there, remember.”

“I remember. Where shall I meet you?” Turnbull asked.

“C Division Headquarters,” Roger said.

He was there in half an hour, and Turnbull drove him to the home of Mr Brown. He had already picked up some information about the man. Brown was married, and had just moved into a flat which he and his wife shared with a man called Deaken. Little else was known about him, and it was not even certain that Brown was still at the flat, which had not been under observation until nearly five o’clock that afternoon. Brown might have left at any time during the day.

A plain-clothes officer from the Division was strolling along the street. He recognised West and saluted, but walked on.

The house was a modern villa, turned into two flats. Roger and Turnbull walked up a short path to the front door which was unlatched; there were two doors inside a tiny hall, and one of them stood open.

A girl of three or four came solemnly towards them, stared, and asked shyly: “Do you want to see my mummy?”

“It’s the upstairs flat, sir,” said Turnbull.

“Not just now, thanks,” said Roger, smiling down, and pressed the bell of the upper flat as the little girl stood watching. A woman called out to her, but she ignored the summons. Roger wished the woman would keep quiet; it was impossible to hear any movement on the stairs.

He rang again.

“Mary, come along in!” A flustered, sharp-faced woman appeared at the door of the ground-floor flat. “I’m sorry she’s so disobedient. I simply can’t do anything with her.”

“I’ve two boys of my own, so I’m used to children.” Roger made himself smile. “Do you know if anyone’s in upstairs?”

“Well, I think Mrs Brown is.” The woman tidied her hair, and looked at the bell. “I should ring again if I were you; that bell doesn’t always work properly. I do hope there isn’t anything the matter.”

“What makes you think there might be?” asked Roger.

“Well—I think Mr Brown hurt himself last night; he was out late, I know,” the woman answered. “And it was quite early this morning when Mrs Brown came downstairs to borrow my first-aid kit. That’s right, sir, keep your finger on the bell. Listen.” She craned her neck towards the door. “There it is now. I can hear it.”

Footsteps on the stairs became audible, too.

The woman showed no inclination to go, and as soon as die door opened she burst out: “Oh, Mrs Brown, this gentleman couldn’t make the bell ring, so I told him to keep his finger on it. I do hope Mr Brown is better.”

The girl in the doorway said, “Sure, he’s all right.”

She was a plump little creature with a mop of fair hair, a good figure, and round blue eyes. She looked tired, and the sight of the callers obviously alarmed her. She licked her lips, glancing from Roger to Turnbull, and then asked sharply: “Well, what is it?”

“I’d like to sec Mr Brown, please,” Roger said.

“He’s out.” The words seemed to leap from her.

“Then perhaps you can spare me a few minutes, Mrs Brown?”

“Oh, you’d better come in,” she said at last, and stood aside, glaring at her neighbour and the child.

Roger and Turnbull stepped inside, and followed her up a flight of narrow stairs which were carpeted in plain green. Mrs Brown walked quickly, and Roger could see the back of her knees and half way up her sturdy, bare thighs, because her linen frock was too short. She had very full calves, arid ankles which tapered away to small, sandal- clad feet. Turnbull made a smacking motion with his big right hand.

“Is he in?” asked Roger.

“I’ve told you: no, he isn’t! I wouldn’t have let you in, either, if that damned busybody downstairs hadn’t been gawking; she never could keep her nose out of our business!” Mrs Brown turned to face them, her lips trembling, her voice hoarse with emotion. Fear? “I can’t tell you anything, it’s no use asking me!”

“So you know who we are?” asked Roger.

“You aren’t the first policemen I’ve seen.”

“I don’t suppose we are,” Roger said, dryly. “We want to ask your husband a few questions about what he was doing last night.”

“I don’t know where he was.”

“You know what time he got in.”

“—was asleep. I’m a heavy sleeper, and I didn’t notice. It’s no use asking me.”

“Three of you share this flat, and the two men were out last night. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Mrs Brown moistened her lips, and said nothing.

Roger said: “Sit down, Mrs Brown.”

She was so nervous that she collapsed into a chair.

Roger glanced about the living-room, pausing to give her a chance to collect herself. Some band instruments, drums, two trombones, and a trumpet in a corner instantly reminded him of the saxophone at Tony Brown’s flat. Beyond them were several photographs on the top of a cabinet.

“Docs your husband run a dance band, Mrs Brown?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Why the hell don’t you say what you’ve come about?”

“You don’t want to get your husband into trouble, I know, but it isn’t your fault if he has broken the law,” Roger said. “If he has, the sooner he admits it and starts afresh, the better for both of you. Where—”

He broke off. He had caught a glimpse of one of the photographs again, and it had put him off balance. Turn- bull looked puzzled. Mrs Brown turned to see what had attracted him, as Roger moved past her chair towards the cabinet. There were five photographs, three of men and two of women. Mrs Brown was one of the women; the dead Brown was one of the men.

“What the hell are you staring at?” screeched Mrs Brown.

Roger picked up the photograph of the dead man; across one corner was written: “To Katie and Bill from Tony.”

“Who is this?” He was very harsh now.

Turnbull had a look that was almost smug.

The woman put out a hand to touch the picture, then drew it back. Her eyes were brimming over with tears. She brushed them away, sniffed, blew her nose vigorously, and then sat back with her lips set.

“You know damn well who he is,” she retorted.

Roger pulled up an easy chair, and sat on the arm. “Mrs Brown,” he said quietly, “this, is a serious affair, but as far as I know your husband is only on the fringe of it, and hasn’t committed any serious crime. He is suspected of having been in enclosed premises last night. A sympathetic magistrate might let him off with three months—and three months isn’t very long. Magistrates are usually sympathetic, if we tell them there’s reason to be. Don’t you think your husband might be better off inside prison than out and about, now that this has happened?”

She was terribly pale. ‘What—what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Roger took out cigarettes and offered them. She took one, and her fingers were trembling when she leaned forward for a light. “Who is the man in that photograph, Katie?”

“Bill—Bill’s brother, Tony,” she muttered.

“The man who died in a gas-filled room.”

“Died be damned, he was murdered\ You and the coroner can call it an accident, but he was murdered, do you hear me?” She was fast losing her self-control. “The swine murdered him because he knew too much, that’s what happened, and you bloody cops call it an accident! It’s always the same: just because a man’s a millionaire, you don’t care a damn what he gets away with, but my Bill—”she broke off.

“Your Bill thinks his brother was murdered,” said Roger. “Does he think he knows who murdered him?”

“Raeburn did, of course.”

Roger said: “Katie, the police go for their man, whether he’s a millionaire or a pauper, but Raeburn couldn’t have killed Tony. He was somewhere else during the whole of that evening. Every minute of his time has been accounted for by independent witnesses.”

“Anyone with money can buy witnesses.”

“This wasn’t bought evidence.”

“If he didn’t do it himself, he paid someone to do it for him,” Katie Brown asserted, gruffly.

“If I could get any evidence to prove that, I’d arrest Raeburn at once,” Roger said, “but I don’t think there is any evidence. Do you?” When she did not answer, he insisted: “Let’s have it. Do you seriously think you or anyone else can prove that Raeburn hired a man to kill Tony?”

After a pause, she muttered: “He’s too clever for that, but he was behind it all right.”

“If Tony Brown was murdered, we’re going to find out, and we’ll get the man who was behind it,” Roger assured her, “but we need all the help we can get. Why should Raeburn or anyone want to murder Tony?”

“Don’t you know that?”

“I want to know what you know.”

“It’s all because of that whore he was in love with, that Eve Franklin.” Mrs Brown stubbed out her cigarette, stung her fingers on the glowing end, and winced. “Tony made a proper fool of himself over her; he even gave up the band, because she was tired of it. He couldn’t see anything wrong in her, the little bitch! If I had my way, I’d tear the skin off her face! All she ever cared about was money. Tony never had a penny for himself when he was with her. Always buying her expensive presents, taking her places, spending money like water on her—and what did he get for it? She dropped him the minute she got her claws into a man who could spend more money on her. If I could lay my hands on her I’d poke her eyes out! Don’t talk to me!”

She stopped, gasping for breath. Roger kept quiet, and Turnbull, standing near, picked up the photograph.

“Oh, what’s the use?” Mrs Brown went on, in a quieter voice. “I didn’t want Bill to do anything about it, but he was always a fool over Tony. He wanted to bash Raeburn’s face in, that was all he was going to do; he wasn’t going to kill him, he was just going to mark him. There, now you know.”

“A lot of people would like to see Raeburn have a thrashing,” said Roger. “But why is your husband so sure that Raeburn’s behind Tony’s death?”

“Listen, copper,” said Mrs Brown. “Eve saved Raeburn from going down for a stretch, didn’t she? She said she saw the accident, and that Raeburn couldn’t help it. That night she was out with Tony, so she couldn’t have seen it.”

Turnbull raised his clasped hands, and shook them vigorously.

“You don’t believe me, I know,” Mrs Brown said. “You don’t really want anything on Raeburn, that’s the truth. You just want to put Bill inside, you just want to close his mouth. You damned coppers are all the same.”

Roger said: “Why didn’t you tell us about this after Raeburn’s trial, Katie?”

She bit her lips.

“You knew the case broke down because of false evidence, but you held your tongue,” said Roger. “That certainly didn’t help us to get Raeburn. Now you talk about him being behind Tony’s murder, and say you know Eve Franklin committed perjury, but can you prove either?”

“It’s all true! Tony told Bill it was.”

“When did he tell him?”

“What’s the use of asking all these questions?” she demanded, almost sobbing. “I don’t know when he told him, I only know he did.”

“Did he tell anyone else?”

“I don’t know, but we all know it’s true.”

“Whom do you mean by ‘all’?” Roger persisted.

Katie Brown began to talk more calmly. All three people who shared this flat knew what Tony had said, and it was clear that they believed that Tony had been killed to stop him from talking. Katie Brown did not say so, but obviously her husband had some good reason for avoiding the police, and had decided to punish Raeburn himself. One thing shone out clearly in her story: a deep attachment between the two brothers.

Roger let her talk while Turnbull made notes. When she had finished, she sat up, with her plump, shapely legs crossed, and looked at Roger nervously, as if afraid that she had said too much.

“You won’t regret any of this,” Roger assured her, “but I’ve got to find your husband, Katie. If Tony was killed because he knew where Eve Franklin was that evening, it’s possible that anyone else who knows is also in danger.”

She realised that all right, and said stubbornly: “If you think you can get anything from me about where Bill is, you’re making a big mistake, because I just don’t know. He and Frankie Deaken have gone off for a few days, but I don’t know where.”

“I don’t believe you,” Roger said flatly.

“I don’t care whether you believe me or not, it’s the truth,” she snapped. “You’re only trying to scare me, that’s all. There isn’t any danger for Bill.”

Roger said slowly: “There was danger for Tony.”

“Raeburn doesn’t know that Bill knows anything!”

“If Raeburn doesn’t know already, he’ll soon find out that Bill tried to attack him last night. Bill was seen by two people, and the resemblance between the two brothers is so great that they’ll soon guess who Bill is.” Roger’s voice was softly insistent. “I can’t force you to tell me where to find him, but you’re making a big mistake by keeping silent.”

“I tell you I don’t know!” she cried.

CHAPTER XII

THE BRIGHTON ROAD

THEY COULD get nothing more from Katie Brown, and Roger gave up trying after a quarter of an hour. She was still scared, but not really resentful when they left.

“What now?” demanded Turnbull. “Going to have another go at her, at the Yard, or keep digging?”

“Watch her, and keep digging,” said Roger.

One early result of the spadework was the discovery that Raeburn was going to Brighton for a week, staying at the Grand-Royal, and that Eve Franklin would be in the same hotel. Roger promptly telephoned the Brighton police.’

“Are you coming down yourself?” asked the Brighton Superintendent.

“Not yet,” said Roger. “I’m sending Turnbull and a younger brother of Peel. You know Turnbull, so don’t let him get too cocky. I’ll leave it to him to get in touch with you.”

“Right-ho,” said the Brighton man. “We’ll help as much as we can.”

Roger rang off, not sure whether to be pleased or sorry that Raeburn would be out of London for a few days. At least it would give an opportunity to concentrate on Katie, Bill Brown, and Tenby, but he had a feeling that he ought to find a new angle of approach. Brown was a possible angle, but might be in hiding for weeks, and Eve was the big chink in Raeburn’s armour. How could he widen it?

Months ago he had sent out a general request for information about Warrender, Ma Beesley, and Tenby, and now he took out the files which he checked every day. A report that must have come in that morning was on top of Ma Beesley’s file. It was from the Surety Nationale, typed indifferently, and with several misspellings.

The door opened, and Eddie Day came in.

“Watcher, Handsomer’

“Good afternoon, Mr Day,” Roger said with exaggerated politeness. “Since when have you been my office boy?”

“ ‘Oo, me? Not on your Nelly! If you mean that Paris report, it blew off the desk, so I put it in Ma Beesley’s file for safety. It’s about her, ain’t it? Says they think she was with a gang of confidence tricksters working the French coast ten years ago, and was married to a Frenchie who died after taking on British nationality. How does that help?”

“It might, later.”

“It might!” Eddie was magnificently sarcastic. “And one day you might tell your pal Lessing that he didn’t ought to come straight into the building; he ought to send his name up, like everyone else. I’ve just seen him talking to Simister.”

“Mark is? I wonder what he’s after.”

“As if you didn’t know,” Eddie sniffed.

Roger didn’t, but word would soon come. He turned back to the Paris report.

Ma Beesley had been suspected of working with two men on confidence rackets in the less fashionable resorts on the Brittany coast. The Surete had prepared a lengthy dossier on her. After marrying a Frenchman, she had lived in France until 1946, when the whole family had come to England. The husband had become a naturalized Englishman, taking the name of Beesley. There were three children of the marriage, two boys and a girl.

Roger rang through to the shorthand-writers’ room, and dictated a telegram to the Surete Nationale:

PLEASE SUPPLY ALL AVAILABLE INFORMATION AND DESCRIPTION TWO MEN BELIEVED TO WORK WITH MRS BEESLEY, THE SUBJECT OF YOUR REPORT SIGNED BY PIERRE MANNET, INSPECTEUR, MATTER URGENT. CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, NEW SCOTLAND YARD.

He was replacing the receiver when the door opened and Mark Lessing looked in.

“Spare a minute?” he asked, meekly.

“Just been hired to work here?” Roger inquired. It was wise not to be too affable, with Eddie Day ready to bristle.

“Don’t be difficult,” said Mark, dropping into an easy chair. “I’ve had a bright idea, Roger. I’ve just had a word with Pep Morgan who—”

“If you’re going to tell me what a private eye thinks about Paul Raeburn, I don’t want to hear it. Pep’s already told me. He once tagged a woman who was going about with Raeburn and whose husband was talking about divorce, but Pep was taken off all of a sudden, which meant that Raeburn probably gave the woman a mink coat and that the husband was paid for keeping quiet. Pep’s a good divorce chaser, that’s all.”

“He says that Raeburn was difficult.”

“Raeburn’s a vain type.”

“That’s not the point,” Mark insisted stubbornly. “Raeburn gave Pep the impression that he couldn’t stand interference with his love life, and that gave me the bright idea. He’s probably as jealous as can be, and if some handsome, distinguished chap named Lessing, say, made eyes at Eve Franklin, and Eve has a roving eye, Raeburn might get jealous. It might even make him do something foolish. I’m told he’s gone to Brighton with Eve,” Mark added, airily, “I could do with some sea breeze.”

“Well, well,” Roger said, slowly. “It could be an idea, too.” He paused before going on: “I can’t stop you going to Brighton if you want to, but don’t forget that Raeburn’s seen you.”

“Only for a few minutes at the Silver Kettle, when he was much more interested in Janet,” Mark argued. “He might fly oft” the handle if I had any luck with Eve. You want to make him lose his patience, don’t you? Or do you like being the victim of cartoons in the Evening Cry?”

“What’s that?” Eddie exclaimed.

Roger said: “Oh, lor’!”

“Haven’t you seen it?” Mark took an early edition of the Evening Cry out of his pocket. On the middle page was a cartoon showing three inset pictures of masked men breaking into a house, holding up a car, and at the door of a bank which was broken open. The main picture was of Roger, made to look like an effeminate young man, saying to a motorist: “It is a serious offence to drive when you’ve had a drink.”

“That’s ‘ot, that is,” Eddie said. “The AC will—”

“Never mind what the AC will do,” Roger said, more testily than he realised. “Mark, I don’t think you ought to dabble in this job. I probably can’t stop you. If you go down, make sure Turnbull knows that a Don Juan is about. I don’t want to be investigating the murder of Mark Lessing.”

“I’m very hard to kill,” Mark said.

Brown and Halliwell had probably thought they were hard to kill, too.

Roger found it difficult to concentrate and telephoned Brighton, but Turnbull wasn’t there. He left a message, telling him to look out for Mark. He wished he had taken more trouble to stop him from going down to Brighton, although he knew there was little he could do with Mark when he was determined.

If anything should happen to Mark . . .

No reply came from Paris and no other news came in. Mrs Brown’s movements were not at all suspicious, and there was no sign of Brown. It was like a case of suspended animation.

Roger wasn’t home that night until after seven. The family had supper together, and he was unusually quiet. The boys went up to their room to do homework, and soon there were sounds of thumping on the ceiling, laughter, and then a crash, as if something had been knocked down.

Roger jumped up, strode to the door, and shouted: “Boys!”

There was a moment’s pause, before Richard called: “Yes, Dad?”

“You went up there to work. Get on with it. If I hear any more larking about, I’ll come up to you.”

“Yes, Dad,” Richard said, meekly.

“You deaf, Martin?” Roger roared.

“No, Dad, I heard.” Scoopy was subdued, too. “Sorry!”

Roger went back to the living-room. Janet did not speak in protest, but he knew exactly what she was thinking: that the case was beginning to get him down. Well, it was, especially now that Mark was involved. It was almost a relief when, at half past ten, the telephone bell rang.

“Oh, let it ring,” Janet said. “You can’t go out again tonight.”

Roger forced a grin as he lifted the receiver, and said: “West speaking.”

“Good evening, sir. This is Sergeant Mallen.”

“Yes, Mallen?”

“We’ve had a report from C Division that, after receiving a visit from a young woman, Mrs Brown left her Tooting flat in a taxi about 9.20 pm, sir. Our man lost the taxi at Hammersmith, but a report’s come in that she paid it off near Barnes Common. The driver was picked up on the way back.”

“Near the Common?” asked Roger, sharply.

“That’s all the driver’s told us yet, sir. He’s still being questioned.”

“I’ll come over at once. Send word to Barnes to have the Common watched; we don’t want her to slip through our fingers.”

“Right, sir!”

Roger put the receiver down, and spoke before Janet could get a word in. “Brown’s wife has probably gone to meet her missing William,” he said. “Sorry, sweet, I’ll have to go.”

Janet said, with great deliberation: “Roger, this case has gone all wrong. I hope you know that. It’s West versus Raeburn, not Raeburn versus the Yard. You’re taking it far too personally; you really ought to have a rest from it; perhaps you’d see it more clearly then.”

“You’re probably right,” Roger agreed, and squeezed her tightly. “I’ll try to ease off a bit, but—”

“You’ve got to go out just this once,” Janet said, and sounded really bitter. “I’ve heard it all before, remember.”

Roger said, quite sharply: “Do you really want me to fall down on the job?”

CHAPTER XIII

IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT

KATIE BROWN paid off the driver, and watched the taxi move off. She stood close to the wall of a house, looking about her nervously. A wide, tree-lined street with few lights led to the Common, and the far end was in darkness. She heard footsteps, and drew back into the shadows. A man and woman passed, talking in undertones, quarrelling. She waited until they had gone, then walked toward the Common. Her heart was beating so fast that it almost seemed to suffocate her.

Bill had sent word through an acquaintance, asking her to meet him near the bridge, over the railway on Barnes Common, at ten o’clock. It was now a quarter to ten. She was afraid that someone might have followed her, but no second car had drawn up. The police were not so hot, anyway.

She wished that she had driven in the taxi straight to the bridge; it would have saved her this walk across the dark Common, but she had not wanted to take any chances of leading the police to Bill.

She had put on a pair of rubber-soled shoes which made a soft padding sound. A heavy bag kept knocking against her leg. It was filled with sandwiches, two thermos flasks of coffee, a half bottle of whisky and some cigarettes, soap, and two towels. If Bill was going to be on the run for long he would need all these. She clutched the bag tightly.

She reached the end of the road and paused, peering into the darkness. The main road which ran across the Common was well lit, but it seemed to be a long way off. There was a rumbling sound, and a bus passed, its lights very bright in the darkness.

Should she take this short cut, or walk to the main road where there were the lights all the way? She decided on the short cut.

It might be a good thing for Bill to give himself up, and in any case she was determined to have things out with him and tell him all that West had said. She had spent a lot of time thinking if over, and West might be right. A few months in prison would do Bill little harm, and by the time he ‘was out again the danger might be past.

She was walking on grass now, past clumps of bushes which loomed out of the darkness. Now that she knew that no one had followed her she was happier, although still on edge.

Then she heard voices.

She stopped and peered into the bushes, her heart racing. A man and a girl were talking in undertones, that was all.

She crossed a path, plunged over the next stretch of Common, and over the main road. Further along, the road sloped upward, toward the bridge which carried it over the railway track. The bridge and road were brightly lit, which made the darkness beside the bridge seem even more intense. She reached the spot where Bill had said he would be waiting. Standing close to the wall to make sure that she was not seen, she put down the bag and eased her cramped fingers.

After a while, she whispered: “Bill!”

There was no response.

The silence began to get on her nerves; perhaps Bill had not been able to come, after all; perhaps the police had caught him. Or—Raeburn. She wanted desperately to talk to him before he was arrested; he might listen to her. As she tried to pierce the darkness, her body was taut. Cars passed over the bridge, and the beams of their headlights shone within a yard or two of her. It might be wiser to move farther away from the road.

She picked up the bag, and took a few steps into the darkness.

“Bill!” she called again.

There was no answer.

She held her watch close to her eyes, but could only just make out the faint whiteness of the dial. It had been a quarter to ten when she had left the taxi, and couldn’t be much past ten now. Bill might easily be delayed; she was worrying about nothing; how could he possibly be sure of arriving on time?

She stepped forward, restlessly, then heard someone moving.

She stood stock still.

Yes, someone was moving not far away—she was sure of it; a man was coming. “Bill!” she called, cautiously. There was no answer, but the rustling sound seemed to draw nearer. Why didn’t Bill answer? Panic-stricken, she stared toward the sound, and moving forward, she stumbled over the bag.

Perhaps she had imagined those other sounds

No, there they were.

It might be a dog or a cat. Not a cat, she hoped, she hated cats. It mustn’t be a cat! She clasped her hands together, her whole body rigid. Not a cat; no, not a cat!

“Bill!” Her voice was loud now.

The rustling sound was much nearer; it seemed to be all round her, but she could see nothing moving. A car went over the bridge, shedding a bright light above her; if only she had stayed nearer the road; if only

A hand clutched her throat!

She screamed.

The cry was cut short as fingers pressed against her windpipe. An arm was flung round her, and she was pressed tightly against her assailant. She could not breathe; she began to struggle against that powerful grip, but when she tried to kick out she lost her balance, made the situation worse.

A great darkness was descending on her with that terrible pressure at her throat. They were going to kill her. She was being murdered.

No, no, no!

The pressure relaxed.

She was a shuddering mass of nerves, and would have fallen but for the support of her assailant. She gasped and panted as the air reached her lungs again. She wanted to scream for help, but little sound came.

A voice whispered close to her ear. She caught only the last two words: “Don’t worry.” She turned and, as she did so,-a cloth was dropped over her head and shoulders; she could feel it on her cheeks and chin, piling terror upon terror. She tried to struggle, but it was drawn tightly about her neck. Then she was lifted clear of the ground, and carried off.

Her assailant carried her for what seemed a long distance. She was able to breathe inside the cloth, but swayed on her feet when at last the man set her down. He still held her, and this time she caught his words clearly.

“If you behave yourself, you’ll be all right. Don’t talk above a whisper.” He had a curiously expressionless voice.

“I won’t, I won’t,” she promised, but the cloth seemed to muffle the words.

The cord at her neck was loosened, and the cloth taken off. It was very dark. In the distance were the lights of the main road, just visible between the trees; so she was still on the Common.

“Go straight ahead,” the man said, pushing her forward. “Go on, they won’t hurt you.”

Something clutched at her clothes; she felt her stocking rip and a sharp pain in her leg. She was being pushed through a gap between some bushes. Then the twigs and thorns stopped tugging at her, and she stood free of them with darkness all round her—alone with the man who had nearly throttled her. If only she could scream!

The man said: “I sent that message, your husband didn’t. Get that clear. Now answer my questions, and keep your voice low. Understand?”

“Ye—yes.”

“You’d better.” A hand gripped her arm tightly enough to make her wince.

“Did the police come to see you today?”

“I—”she faltered.

“Did they?” The grip tightened, painfully.

“Yes.”

“What did they want?”

“They—wanted—to know where my husband was last night.”

“Did you tell them?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You needn’t come that with me! I’m not a rozzer. Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“He was on a job, wasn’t he?”

“I—I think so.”

The man said: “Now listen to me, Katie. I want straight answers. You’re here on the Common alone with me, see? I can do what I like with you. Ever read in the papers of a girl being strangled on a lonely bit of common? That’ll be you if you’re not careful, only you won’t read about it. Give it to me straight, or I’ll fix you. Your husband was out on a job, wasn’t he?”

“Y—yes.”

“Raeburn’s place?”

“I—I think so.”

“What did he want there?”

“He—he doesn’t like . . . Raeburn.”

“So he doesn’t like Raeburn,” mimicked the man. “That’s too bad. I’ll have to tell Mr Raeburn; it ought to keep him awake at night. Why doesn’t Mr Brown like Mr Raeburn?”

“He thinks—”Katie began.

Everything came out more lucidly than when she had told it to Roger. The man kept on prompting her, and she needed only a word here and there to keep her talking. The story showed clearly what her husband felt about Raeburn; how sure they both were that Raeburn had been responsible for Tony’s death; how clear it was to them that Eve could not have seen the ‘accident’ on Clapham Common.

Katie was calmer, but no less frightened. It was getting cold, and she kept shivering; now and again her teeth began to chatter, and she could not control them; the man did not try to force her to speak during those spells. He kept very close to her, holding her arm; and, whenever he spoke; she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks, but could not see his face properly; it was just a pale blur in the darkness.

Trees and bushes rustled in the rising wind; there was a frequent hum of traffic on the main road, but all sight of the roadway was cut off from her. There was only the fear and the cold, and this man with the flat, hateful voice.

At last she finished.

“And where’s your husband now?” he demanded.

“I don’t know!”

“You know as well as I do.” The man gripped her arm so roughly that she gasped aloud. He slapped her face with his free hand, and whispered: “Keep quiet!” She I began to shiver, and could not stop her teeth from chattering. He slapped her again. “Where is he?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here!”

“Don’t give me that. Telling me is your one chance of getting away from here alive. Where is he?”

She felt the savage pressure of his fingers on her arm, his breath on her face. His free hand touched her coat, and began to unfasten the top buttons. His hands were against her warm skin. He put his fingers round her throat, and began to squeeze. This was different from his first attack; this was not just to keep her quiet.

He was going to strangle her; he meant to kill her.

His touch seemed like ice.

“Where is he?” he demanded, between clenched teeth.

“I don’t know, I just don’t know!”

He squeezed, making her choke, but a scream burst wildly from her lips. She struck out at him blindly, taking him by surprise, so that he loosened his grip. The scream came out, high-pitched, shivering on the night air, a blood-curdling sound. As it welled out, he clutched at her throat again, using both hands now; her cries stopped abruptly; she began to struggle and fight for breath.

Roger pulled up behind a police car stationed on the main road which cut across the Common. A uniformed policeman and a man in plain clothes came up and recognised him, and the policeman drew back. The detective from the Barnes HQ tried to put a note of enthusiasm into i his voice.

“Very glad to have your help, Chief Inspector. I’m Detective Inspector Gray.”

“I don’t know that I can do any more than you,” Roger said. “Has anything turned up?”

“Nothing that helps at all,” replied the other. “The woman walked down Common Road toward the Common, as far as I can find out, but we haven’t found a trace of her since then. She was seen by a couple who passed the end of the road, but none of my men has seen her. We can’t search the Common thoroughly on a night like this.” He was on the defensive. “We can’t even be sure that she’s here.”

“It’s a good meeting place,” observed Roger. “Are all the roads covered?”

“Yes, but it’s easy enough for anyone to slip through,” Gray answered. “I don’t want to be pessimistic, but I don’t think you’ve got much chance of finding her—not tonight, anyhow. There are so many ways she can creep out.”

“She’s probably with her husband,” Roger reminded him. “Where does Common Road lead to?”

“This part of the Common only,” said Gray, “but once you’re off the road, you can turn in so many directions. If anyone had seen her start from here, it might have been easier. I’ve placed men by the road bridge, and others are searching on either side.”

Roger said: “Well, we’ve got to try.” He glanced along the road as a car slowed down. “Who’s this?”

“One of our men,” said the Barnes inspector. He waited until the driver of the other car came across the road, and Roger saw that he was carrying something in his hand. “Well, what is it, Watson?”

“This might be a lead, sir,” said the driver. He held up a string bag crammed full of packages. “I haven’t examined it closely, but it’s a food parcel. There’s a half bottle of whisky in it, too. We found it near the bridge over the railway.”

“Nice work!” Roger took the bag eagerly, and examined it in the light of the headlamps. The whisky bottle shone, and probably the bag had been packed hurriedly, or the bottle would have been wrapped up. There were two thermos flasks and packages which obviously contained sandwiches; just the kind of things Katie Brown might have brought for her husband.

“What do you make of it?” asked Watson eagerly.

The Barnes inspector said: “Someone might have dropped it during the day, or a couple of lovebirds might have walked off and forgotten it—”

“Forgotten it?” echoed Roger, and his voice was harsh. “With whisky in it? This is almost certainly the woman’s bag, too. It looks as if Katie Brown was to meet her husband by appointment, and they were for him. So she wouldn’t leave them behind by accident; certainly wouldn’t forget to give him the very things he needed. See what I’m getting at?”

Gray said, sharply: “You mean—”and broke off.

“I mean that she was probably waylaid, and might have been attacked. We’ll concentrate men on the bridge area—right or left of the road, Watson?”

“The left from here, sir.”

“I’ll get it laid on,” Gray said, at last touched by a sense of urgency.

A few minutes later, Roger pulled into the side of the road near the bridge. Several men were already there, and another car was standing on the bridge itself. More men were on the way. They gathered together by a lamp, and the Barnes inspector gave instructions. They were to take up their positions two hundred yards from the bridge, and then close in on a signal.

“One blast on a whistle will be enough,” said Gray.

“Think we ought to make too much noise?” asked Roger. “Let’s arrange for the car near the bridge to switch off its headlights, and then flash them three times in succession. How long will the men need to reach their stations?”

“About ten minutes.”

“In ten minutes, then.”

“Right,” Gray said.

The wind was blowing more keenly, and Roger moved about, stamping his feet. There was a silent spell, when no traffic passed, and the wind dropped momentarily. Roger took out his cigarettes, and was putting one to his lips when he heard a scream.

CHAPTER XIV

THE CORDON MOVES IN

THE SCREAM came from their left; it was impossible to judge the distance. It quivered on the night air, then stopped abruptly; as it stopped, the headlamps of the car on the bridge were switched on three times in succession, light slicing the darkness.

“My God, you were right,” Gray gasped.

“This way!” Watson urged.

They plunged in the direction from which the scream had come, their ears strained to catch another sound, but all they could hear was the padding of their own footsteps and the rustle of the grass. The silence was eerie, even sinister. Roger wanted to race ahead, but forced himself to keep pace with the others. They were about two yards apart, flashing their torches to and fro. Other torches were swinging in all directions.

Bushes loomed up in front of them, and Roger’s torchlight shone on a piece of waste paper. Staring toward it, he saw a gap between the bushes.

Watson called out: “Found anything, sir?”

“No. Our bird may be hiding among the bushes,” Roger answered.

“Right, sir.”

After they had made a few yards’ progress, Roger could see why Gray said it was practically impossible to search the Common by night. They would need a hundred men instead of a dozen, and to the Barnes man it must seem almost a waste of time.

Then a man bellowed: “This way! This way!”

A dozen torches swung toward the call. Roger saw one beam of light moving rapidly, and caught sight of a man running; he was crouching low, and holding one hand in front of his face.

Watson and the Barnes policeman raced after the fugitive; most of the others turned in the same direction. Roger snatched a moment to think, then hustled toward the spot where the policeman had shouted; he wanted to find Katie Brown. His torch shone through the leafless branches of thick brambles.

The sounds of the chase were growing fainter.

Roger’s torch slipped from his hand, hit the ground and went out. He picked it up, and when the light shone out again swung it round. The beam caught a thick clump of bushes ten yards away. He moved slowly toward that. He could see a gap in the bushes; there was room for a man to squeeze through. He stood in the gap, and shone the torch about.

Katie Brown was lying there, skirt rucked up, and still as death.

Roger shouted for help, then bent down over her. She was unconscious, but still alive.

The man who had attacked her got away.

Katie Brown was able to speak to Roger next morning. There were dark bruises on her neck, and she looked haggard from strain and shock, but she was eager to talk. She shivered when she recounted what had happened, and Roger helped her to make it as brief as possible. Before he left the hospital ward, she promised fervently that if she heard from her husband she would send for the police.

“I really will, this time, I mean that.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Roger, dryly.

“Have you—have you found the man?”

“Not yet.”

“If only I’d been able to see his face!”

“You heard his voice,” Roger said. “Whatever you do, don’t forget what it sounded like. One day you might hear it again, and you must be ready to recognise it.”

“I—I’ll never forget that voice.” She leaned forward, and touched his hand. “Mr. West—”

“Yes?”

“You haven’t got Bill, have you?”

“If we do pick him up before you leave here, I’ll bring him along to see you,” promised Roger. Suddenly his eyes gleamed, and he rose to go. “Don’t worry too much, he’ll be all right.” He patted her hand, and hurried out.

He drove much faster than usual to the Yard, and reached there just before twelve; with luck he would get Chatworth’s approval for a new approach to reach the evening papers. He left the car to be parked by a constable, strode up the steps, and made for the lift.

“Handsome looks more cheerful than he has for weeks,” a passing man remarked.

Chatworth was in his office, and was gruff.

“Now what’s on your mind?”

“A new line on this job, I think, sir.”

“I thought we were supposed to have tried everything.”

“All conventional methods, sir; this is offbeat,” Roger said. “Why not use newspapers to hit back at him? A lot of them hate his guts. We’ve plenty to go on, too, and a remark from Katie Brown put the idea into my head, and—”

“You might get some newspapers to run a campaign against anonymous criminals, but they’ll never risk libel against Raeburn,” Chatworth interrupted, “Still, let’s have it.”