Triumph For Inspector West

“The first shot would be in tonight’s evening papers; just the full story of the attack on Katie Brown, and the fact that we want to question her husband in connection with the burglary at Raeburn’s flat,” Roger said. “That will bring Raeburn in smoothly enough.”

Chatworth nodded.

“Then tonight or tomorrow morning, we’ll produce an angle the press will jump at.” Roger felt absolutely sure of himself. “We’ll tell them that Katie Brown’s condition is serious, and she keeps asking for her husband. We can say that she’s terrified in case anything has happened to him, and stress the fact that it’s because of what happened to his brother. We can let the press do the rest; they’ll ram it home. As Tony Brown was engaged to Eve Franklin, that will bring Raeburn in again. One or more of the papers are certain to run a story about the mystery of the Browns—with a suggestion that they’re being persecuted. We’ve only got to indicate the general line, and they’ll jump at it.”

Chatworth conceded: “You may be right,” and ran a hand over his tanned, bald patch.

“We can’t lose anything, and at least we’ll make Raeburn uneasy,” Roger urged. “We may make him do something silly, and at the same time bring Bill Brown in. I’ve a feeling that when Bro\Mi knows that his wife’s in the hospital he’ll give himself up, so that he can sec her. If the papers say she wants to see him—”

“All right,” interrupted Chatworth. “See who’s in the Press Room now.”

Roger was in a better mood at home that night; he had Janet, as well as the boys, laughing.

Not one paper, not even the Morning Cry, failed to give the story front-page headlines. Only the Cry mentioned that Mr. Paul Raeburn was in Brighton.

There was no word from Turnbull or from Mark, but Roger believed that the next move would be when Brown gave himself up.

Janet was sitting in the living-room that afternoon when the boys came in, unusually solemn. They were helping to get tea ready when Richard, a head shorter than his brother and much younger in some ways, stopped in front of Janet, his eyes looking enormous.

“Mum,” he said, earnestly, “you don’t think anyone would attack Dad, do you?”

“Of course I don’t,” Janet answered, firmly, but she caught her breath. “What on earth put that absurd idea into your head?”

“Oh, nothing,” Richard said, airily, but later, when they were alone, Scoopy whispered: “She is afraid of it, Fish.”

“Wouldn’t it be awful if anything happened to Dad?” Richard breathed.

About that time, Roger was fidgeting because there was no word from Brown, and hoping that Peel was watching Mark closely at Brighton.

The lounge of the Grand-Royal was the show place of a hotel which was a show place of the south coast. It was castlelike in its spaciousness. Deep armchairs and sofas, with down-filled cushions, were grouped about small tables which looked too beautiful to be used for glasses, cups, and tankards. Great chandeliers glistened with dozens of small lamps for it had been a dull, cloudy day, and outside it was already getting dark. A deep wine- coloured carpet, with a heavy pile, stretched from wall to wall. The furnishings were of dark blue, and burnished copper ornaments adorned the ledge which ran round the half-panelled room.

There were three huge fireplaces, and blazing logs sent flames leaping up the chimneys; the Grand-Royal boasted that it was the best and homiest hotel in England.

Only a few people were there at a quarter to five on that particular evening.

Mark Lessing had a table in a window, and was hidden from Raeburn and Eve by a massive ornamental pillar. By leaning forward, he could see them both. Raeburn’s handsome head was resting against the back of his chair; Eve sat on a pouf in front of the fire. The firelight danced on her face and arms and shone through her dark hair, and the mass of curls set off her slender neck and squared shoulders. She wore an exquisite cocktail dress of bottle green, cut daringly low.

Mark doubted whether they were really aware that anyone else was in the room, they were so absorbed in each other. A page boy came in with evening newspapers, and put three on Raeburn’s table, without being noticed. Mark beckoned, and bought the Evening Cry and the Star. He glanced at the headlines, shared between Raeburn and Mrs Brown’s fears, and his eyes lit up.

He read the story in both papers, looking from time to time at Raeburn, who had not yet opened his. Then he lit a cigarette, and grinned.

Eve leaned forward, and put a hand on Raeburn’s knee; he immediately covered hers with his. She spoke; he nodded, and Eve got up and walked to the door, knowing she was being watched. Raeburn stood until she was out of the room, studying her swaying hips. When he sat down, stretching out his legs and picking up one of the papers, he was sideways to Mark.

He started at the sight of the first story, then snatched the other papers.

“Not so good, is it, Paul?” Mark murmured.

Raeburn flung the papers aside, jumped up, looked round, and beckoned a page.

“When Miss Franklin comes back, ask her to wait here for me. I have to make a telephone call.”

“Yes, sir.”

Raeburn strode off, angry and aggressive. Mark put down his paper, and strolled after him. He reached the lift in time to see the doors closing on the financier. He glanced out of the front door, and saw that young Peel was there. He nodded to Peel, turned, and hurried up the stairs. Raeburn’s suite was on the second floor, and his door was closed when Mark reached it.

Mark tried the handle, but the door was locked. He heard Raeburn’s voice, and by straining his ears he was able to catch a few words; Raeburn was putting in a call to his Park Lane flat. The ting of the telephone sounded clearly when he replaced the receiver, and the sounds which followed suggested that Raeburn was pacing the room. Mark moved away, and tried the doors on either side of Raeburn’s suite, but both were locked.

His ears were strained to catch the sound of the telephone bell ringing; yet when he heard it, he jumped. He went back to the door and stood close, heard Raeburn’s sharp “Yes,” followed by a moment’s pause; next, Raeburn said clearly: “George, have you seen the evening papers ? “

Mark rubbed his hands.

“I won’t have it!” Raeburn almost shouted. “I tell you, I won’t have it! Whoever is responsible must go at once. . . . Never mind what you’ve told me, fire him!”

There was another, longer pause. Mark stood, grinning almost fatuously, but before Raeburn spoke again, someone turned into the passage. Mark moved away. A man and woman walked past, and went into a room farther along.

Mark returned to Raeburn’s door just in time to hear the ting of the bell, as the receiver was replaced.

He went to the landing, and sank down on to a deep- spring sofa, lit a cigarette, and was smoking and leaning back with his eyes half closed when Raeburn came out, obviously still angry. He walked down the stairs. Mark took the lift, and reached the lounge in time to see Eve jump up from her chair to greet Raeburn.

She was startled. “Paul, what’s the matter?”

“Get your coat,” Raeburn said. “We’re going for a drive.”

“But, Paul—”

“Get your coat.”

His abruptness surprised the girl, but she began to hurry toward the door.

“That’s better,” thought Mark. “That’s much better.”

He went outside. Peel came up to him, and asked for a match. As Mark handed him his box, Peel asked: “What did you mean just now, Mr Lessing?”

“Raeburn was annoyed by the evening papers, and I went to see if I could pick anything up.”

“Could you?”

“Enough to know that he was upset,” grinned Mark. “If you haven’t seen the papers, get them—they’ll do you good. I’m going for a drive,” he added, carelessly, and took the matchbox back. “There’s no need to follow me this time.”

Peel looked blank. “I am watching Mr Raeburn and the hotel, sir.”

“Oh, yes? Then what’s Turnbull doing?”

“He’s at the station just now.” Peel was innocence itself.

Mark’s car was parked at the front, Raeburn’s in the hotel garage. He guessed that Raeburn would drive toward Hove, and then northward into the country, so he drove slowly in that direction. Raeburn’s Silver Wraith passed him, purring along the wide road; Mark’s Talbot, making little more noise, followed a hundred yards behind. Now and again, when the Rolls Royce was slowed down by the traffic, Mark could see the couple; they did not appear to be saying much.

The light was fading fast when they turned into the Pet- worth Road. In the west the afterglow bathed the countryside in soft blue and grey; against the skyline leafless trees stood out, dark and spectral. Hills rose up on both sides, bleak and forbidding. The winding road ahead was dark beyond the beams of the headlights; little white centre marks curved this way and that with the road. All that Mark could see of the man and woman in the Rolls Royce were silhouettes of heads and shoulders.

Eve’s head moved slightly toward Raeburn. Mark hardly saw that at first, but took more notice when he saw her nestle against Raeburn’s shoulder. Raeburn pulled in to the side of the road and stopped, without troubling to give a signal.

“This is where they make it up,” mused Mark. “But they’re vulnerable, all right.” He drove on, deciding that there was no point in watching them any longer. Raeburn had gone out to try to throw off the effect of the newspaper stories, that was all.

Mark grinned when Peel passed him in a two-seater, pretending not to notice him.

A mile or two farther on, Mark turned a wide corner as a car containing several men passed him, forcing him almost into the hedge. He glared into his mirror at it, then turned a corner—and his heart jumped.

In the glare of the headlights, he could see a man lying in the road.

CHAPTER XV

OLD TRICK

MARK SWUNG the Talbot’s wheel hard over. The right fender brushed against a hedge, and twigs scraped along the side of the car. He drew up, with the rear of the car level with the man, only a couple of feet away. He could not see behind him now, and did not get out immediately.

The man was still lying inert. No other cars were approaching, or he would have been able to see by the light of their headlamps.

He opened the door and got out. Was he hurt, or could this be an old trick?

The man was lying on his back, his right arm bent at an odd angle, his left covering his face. Mark went toward him, and bent down. He touched the man’s arm gently, and as he did so the “victim” butted his head into Mark’s face, and leaped to his feet. It was the old trick, all right, and he had fallen for it. Bitter self-reproach made the situation seem worse. He backed toward the hedge, but before he touched it, his feet were hooked from under him by someone he hadn’t seen. He fell heavily.

“Get him over the hedge,” a man said, urgently.

Mark felt hands gripping him; he was hauled to his feet. He glanced desperately to the right and left, hoping to see the glow of Peel’s headlights, but none appeared. Peel was watching Raeburn; what reason was there to hope he would turn up? Mark was dragged to the hedge; then the big man bent down, gripped his legs below the knees, and hoisted him up.

They were going to toss him over. . . .

Mark kicked out. He caught the man on the side of the face, which made him lose his grip, and Mark slipped to the ground. The man struck at him savagely, but Mark got to his feet, still on the right side of the hedge. A blow cut his lip, and he could taste the salty blood. He kicked out, making one man squeal and drop away; then, next moment, the whole party was bathed in the glow of headlights.

A powerful car came round the corner and slowed down, its horn howling, and the assailants swung round and scrambled over the hedge. The end had come so quickly that it seemed unreal. Was Peel the rescuer? Mark leaned against the hedge, gasping, blinking in the dazzling light. He was vaguely aware of two people coming toward him.

“Are you all right?” a man asked, sharply.

This was Raeburn: Raeburn and Eve were his rescuers.

“Yes, I’m okay,” Mark muttered, and moistened his lips. “Yes, quite all right, thanks.”

“You don’t look it,” declared Raeburn.

“Your face is bleeding!” Eve exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”

“I was held up—by a gang.” Put like that, it sounded ridiculous.

“Let’s go to the car,” said Raeburn, brusquely. He took Mark’s arm, and led him to the Rolls. “See what you can do, pet,” Raeburn added to Eve, and switched on the light. “I’ll move his car on to the right side of the road.”

Mark sat on the soft cushions of the Rolls, and had the wit to pull out a handkerchief when Eve took hers from her bag. She dabbed at his lips, which were already puffy and painful. The soft light suited her; her face was only a foot away from him, and her eyes seemed full of concern.

“Close your eyes,” she advised. “I can see that the light worries you.”

As he closed his eyes, Mark caught a glimpse of Peel’s two-seater going by, but Peel did not stop. Eve dabbed gently at Mark’s lips and cheeks. He could feel her breath on his cheeks, and was conscious of a curious kind of excitement.

She rested a hand on his knee. . . .

Raeburn spoke from the door: “How is he?”

“I’ll be all right,” Mark said, and opened his eyes. Eve was a little further away, and Raeburn was looking at him, thoughtfully. A car passed, lighting them up in its headlights. A second car drew up, and the driver called: “Can I help?”

“Only a minor accident,” Raeburn said. “You needn’t worry, thanks.” He waited until the car had gone, then asked Mark: “Do you think you’ll be able to drive?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I doubt it,” Raeburn said. “I’d better take you back to town; you can drive the Rolls Royce home, can’t you, Eve?”

Not “pet”.

“Of course, darling.”

Raeburn handled the smaller car’s controls easily. Mark caught an occasional glimpse of the Rolls Royce in a wing mirror, and kept remembering the way Eve had pressed his knee—and the way Raeburn had looked at her.

They seldom travelled at more than forty miles an hour. Raeburn asked questions. Mark made a mystery out of the attack, and Raeburn was appropriately sympathetic. He did not show any sign of recognition, and was affable enough when they reached the Grand-Royal.

Raeburn’s suite had three rooms, all furnished in the ultra-luxurious style of the Grand-Royal. The main bedroom was his; a smaller one was reserved in case War- render or Mrs Beesley needed to spend a night there.

Eve’s room was on the next floor up.

When Raeburn arrived, Eve rose from an easy chair in the hall. “How is he?”

“You ought to know,” Raeburn said, sharply, “you were close enough to him.” He stood in front of her, eyes hard, body rigid. “I didn’t tell you to seduce the man.”

“Paul!”

Raeburn said: “Eve, if you ever double-cross me, I’ll break you. Understand that?”

“I don’t understand you,” she protested, almost tearfully. “I can’t make out what’s happened to you. I only dabbed at his face; he was in a really bad way.”

“I was watching,” Raeburn said. “I didn’t like what I saw.”

“You’re crazy to be jealous of a man I’ve never seen before! I was only trying to help him because you asked me to.” Eve sounded really distressed, but a hardness in her eyes did not match the note in her voice. “Don’t be unreasonable, darling.”

“You have seen him before,” said Raeburn. “He was at the Silver Kettle with West that night. You know what I feel about West.”

Eve was shocked into silence.

Raeburn stepped past her, and lit a cigarette. He turned on his heel, and looked at her again, letting the smoke trickle from his nostrils.

She went near him. “Paul! I’d no idea.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you for who he is,” Raeburn said, with studied carelessness. “I just didn’t like the way you behaved with him. Whenever you get near a good- looking man, you revert to nature. I’ve seen it happen before. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give up those old habits.”

“I have to be civil,” Eve protested.

“That’s right; just be civil.”

“I simply can’t understand you,” Eve protested, in a sharper voice. “Ever since tea, you’ve been a different man. Has anything happened? Has anything gone wrong?”

Raeburn said: “Yes, but it needn’t worry you. You behave yourself, and leave the rest to me, and keep away from other men, or I’ll—”

A swift change in Eve’s expression stopped him; he had never seen her angry before, but she was angry now.

“You don’t own me, remember. Or do you think you do? Why not just lock me up in a room, and come and pet me whenever you feel in the mood?”

Raeburn said, slowly: “So that’s how you feel.”

“It’s how you’re making me feel.”

“That’s a different tale of affection from any I’ve heard before,” Raeburn said. “There are two sides to little Eve.” He sneered at her. “You aren’t making the mistake of thinking that because you saved me from prison you can be temperamental, are you? You’re a common little piece with the right shape, but I could—”

She slapped his face.

Raeburn staggered back, and for an instant looked as if he could kill her. But suddenly she flung herself forward, her arms about him, pressing her body against him, kissing him with a passion which was almost terrible to see.

The look in his eyes changed, too. He thrust her away from him, and held her at arm’s length; in her passion, her beauty was the beauty of fire.

“You’re mine, do you understand?” he said, chokingly. “I’ll kill any other man who touches you.”

Eve was lying back, with her head resting on a cushion. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, her slim legs were drawn up under her. Raeburn was sitting at the other end of the sofa, quite rational now.

“When I recognised this stranger on the road as the man who was with West, at the Silver Kettle, I could have run him over,” he said, and neither of them seemed to think Of Halliwell.”

“Warrender had told me that a friend of West’s was staying here, and had promised to deal with him.”

“How can he deal with anyone?” asked Eve, lazily.

Raeburn laughed.

“What’s funny about that?” She pouted.

“You’re much funnier than you realise, sometimes,” said Raeburn, “but it’s a good thing you’re not clever.”

Eve made a face, but something Tony Brown had said sprang to her mind. She wasn’t ‘clever’. Tony had said that, in the long run, Raeburn would spurn her for a clever woman. Perhaps she was more clever than men knew.

Raeburn went on: “Warrender had laid everything on all right; we interrupted the party he’d arranged. I hope Lessing sees the funny side of that, too.”

Eve swung her legs down, and got up.

“Somehow, I think he will,” she said. “Sweetie, I think I ought to go and dress for dinner.”

When she had gone, Raeburn poured himself out a whisky-and-soda, and drank it while standing before the fireplace and looking moodily at the flames. Eve already knew a great deal which could be very dangerous. She had probably guessed the truth about the road incident, and there had been no point in refusing to talk about it, but he would have to be very careful with her. Warrender had been right about that.

He finished his drink, helped himself to another, and had nearly finished it when there was a tap at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

Warrender entered.

CHAPTER XVI

WARRENDER PROPOSES

RAEBURN DID not try to hide his surprise. Warrender gave a thin-lipped smile, and walked to the cabinet. He poured himself a drink, before taking off his coat and flinging it over a chair. He dropped his hat, scarf, and gloves into the chair, each movement deliberate and calculated.

“Well, Paul,” he said, at last. “Here’s luck!”

“Do we need luck?” Raeburn asked.

“I’m beginning to think so,” said Warrender.

“So you’re still a prophet of gloom. Why didn’t you leave me alone for a week, George?”

“Things have altered somewhat,” Warrender said, flatly. “You thought so when you telephoned, didn’t you?

There are a lot of things one can’t say over the telephone. I thought you might like a cosy little talk.”

Raeburn said: “Provided it doesn’t take too long. I’m due for dinner at half past seven.”

“And it’s now half past six,” said Warrender. He tossed down his drink. “Paul, this time I know I’m right. Those newspaper stories haven’t done us any good, and they’re only the beginning. Chatworth told the Press plenty today. He’s managed to make them draw a line between you and Tony Brown’s death, with Bill Brown’s disappearance and last night’s attack on Katie Brown. It was very clever. There are no grounds for a libel action; Abel says there isn’t a thing you can do. He also says you’d be a fool if you tried.”

Raeburn did not speak.

“I don’t know how far West is behind this,” Warrender said, “but I think he’s the main cause of the trouble. He’s certainly responsible for Mark Lessing being down here. There are two men from Scotland Yard here as well. Unless we do something drastic, we’ll let ourselves be driven into a corner.”

Raeburn said, slowly. “It’s your job to keep me out of corners.”

“I can’t unless you help.”

“Can you, anyway? Why didn’t you make sure that I wasn’t at hand when Lessing was attacked?”

“I didn’t arrange that,” Warrender said, sourly. “Tenby told me he was fixing something—and apparently he chose to do it that way. You’re the one who likes Tenby’s little tricks. From the time you let him get away with Brown’s murder, he’s been a menace. He was told to get information out of Katie Brown, not to attempt to murder her. I’ve tried to get in touch with him since, but he’s lying low. I haven’t heard whether the girl did give anything away, or even whether she knows anything.”

Raeburn said: “You ought to know yourself.”

“I can’t go all over London looking for Tenby,” retorted Warrender, “and just now I’m keeping in the background. How did you know about the attack on Lessing?”

“I picked him up after it was over.”

“Oh, God!” Warrender gave a twisted smile. “Well, that ought to appeal to Tenby’s sense of humour. But he’s using hired men at Barnes and down here, while he’s been sitting pretty, eating his blasted chocolates. I tell you, he’s got too big for his boots, and he knows a damned sight too much.”

“What will it take to buy him off?” Raeburn asked.

“I don’t know,” Warrender answered. “I don’t even know whether he can be bought.” He smoothed down his oily hair, and hesitated before going on: “Then there’s Eve—and don’t jump down my throat just because I mention her name. She knows a sight too much for my peace of mind. She nearly cracked when West called on her.”

“That was because he told her about Brown,” Raeburn defended her.

“All the same, if I hadn’t arrived, she might have told the lot,” Warrender said. “The police are watching her all the time, and if West ever got tough with her, she’d talk. Paul, Ma and I have been working on this problem most of the day. It’s a big one, and you’ve got to face it. The only way to make sure you’re safe is to get rid of Tenby and Eve. They’re witnesses who could damn you, and it’s no use pretending they’re not dangerous.”

It was a long time before Raeburn spoke. Then he said very tensely: “If that’s the way it has to be, that’s the way it will be.”

Warrender moved slowly to a chair, and sat down. He did not smile, but the tension had gone from his manner. He smoothed his hair again, finished his drink, and put the glass on the floor by his side.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

“But nothing is to be done without consulting me,” Raeburn ordered, sharply.

“It won’t be, Paul. This is the way I see it,” Warrender went on, smoothly. “Tenby can prove you ran Halliwell down deliberately, and as we can’t pin much on Tenby, he’s got the upper hand. Eve would have to admit to perjury, but she might, if the pressure was hard enough. Right?”

“Yes.”

“We could put them both away, and have West and the Yard after us every minute of the day—or we could be more cunning, Paul.”

“How?”

“Kill Eve, and frame Tenby for it, so that Tenby would know he hadn’t a chance, once the police got him. His one hope would be to get out of the country,” War- render went on. “So we’d fix his passport and his passage, and he’d never dare open his mouth.”

He stopped, stood up, and poured himself another drink.

“Can you fix it?” Raeburn asked, abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Who are you going to use?”

“I’m not using anyone any more. I’ll do it myself,” Warrender said, very steadily. “That way, it’s safe, and there’ll be no one left to talk.”

There was a long pause, then:

“When?” asked Raeburn.

“Soon. You’d better be recalled to London tomorrow or the next day,” Warrender answered. “Paul, I know you hate this like hell, but we can’t avoid it, and there are plenty more floozies. The police won’t let up until they’ve got someone, and the truth about Eve’s evidence is bound to come out. You’ll be safe if we can fix it all on Tenby. You won’t back down?” He was anxious.

“I won’t back down,” promised Raeburn.

In spite of his swollen face and tender lips, Mark went in to dinner that night. His table was some distance away from Raeburn’s, but he could see the couple clearly. Eve was wearing a royal blue gown, backless and almost front- less. Raeburn was in a dinner jacket. They were drinking champagne; whatever had passed between them during the afternoon, peace was quite restored. Eve appeared to be almost deliriously happy, and Raeburn was being the real gallant.

“So it is love,” Mark marvelled.

Fog had descended on London during the night, and the newspapers had not arrived by the time Roger was ready to leave for the Yard, next day. The boys had left early, and Janet called anxiously from the kitchen door: “I think it’s getting worse.”

“I’ll take it slowly,” Roger reassured her.

It was a trying drive, but when he reached the Yard a pile of newspapers was on his desk. The story of the ‘badly injured’ woman in hospital, asking to see her husband, must now be known in nearly every household in the country; and, in each story, Raeburn’s name was mentioned. Pictures of Eve were in several papers, and two had photographs of Tony Brown.

There was a cheerful note from Mark, and details of the attack from Turnbull who had added a note: ‘Looks like R. is getting desperate, and we’re worrying him.’

“Could be,” Roger said to himself, and added grimly: “Better be.”

The telephone bell rang.

“West,” said Roger.

“A man’s asking for you, sir,” said the operator. “He won’t speak to anyone else.”

“Put him through.”

“Is this Inspector West?” a different man asked, gruffly.

“Yes, who is this, please?”

“This is Brown—Bill Brown.”

This was it!

Roger said: “Yes, Brown?” and kept his voice level.

“How’s my wife?” Brown demanded. “And don’t hold out on me.”

“I’ve just come from her,” Roger answered. “She’s had a bad time, and is seriously ill. She’s the worse because she’s worried about you, too.”

“She always was a worrier,” Brown said, gruffly, and then burst out: “I want to see you; how about it?”

“I’m nearly always here,” said Roger, “and if I’m not, they know where to find me. Listen to me, Brown. Your wife was nearly killed. When she came round, she was in no state to cover up; she told me everything. Now she’s scared out of her wits in case they try to kill you. It—”

“They’ve already tried,” said Bill Brown, flatly.

“All the more reason why—”

“Listen to me for a change,” Brown said, roughly. “I’m being watched, see? They’ve found out where I’m hiding; that’s one of the reasons I can’t come to see you. If I’m not careful, I’ll wind up in the morgue.”

He broke off, and there was another sound at the other end of the telephone, followed by a different voice, further away. “Beat it, Bill. They’re comin’ !”

“Brown!” Roger barked.

“Fifty-four Berry Street, Mile End,” Brown whispered, urgently. “Come quick, West. If they get me, they’ll carve me up.”

Roger had the telephone in his hand when the door opened, and a messenger came in.

“Information?” Roger said, quickly. “I want D Division told to surround Berry Street, but to keep out of sight. Have three Flying Squad and two Q cars in the area. Right?”

“Right. Who for?”

“Brown.”

“Here’s luck!”

“Thanks,” Roger said, and stood up. The messenger handed him a sealed envelope marked: URGENT. Roger slit it open, and found a sheet of newsprint with a note from Chatworth, saying, ‘Come and see me.’ The paper was the Evening Cry, half of the front page devoted to news instead of racing.

OUR READERS DEMAND INQUIRY

In response to countless requests from our readers, the Evening Cry is to make representations to the Home Office for a full inquiry into the methods employed by the police following the dismissal of the charges against Mr Paul Raeburn. Our report of the harsh methods used in interrogating Miss Eve Franklin has brought a storm of protest. We publish a selection of letters. Many readers demand the dismissal of Chief Inspector West or at least strong disciplinary action to prevent . . .

Chatworth was alone in his office; big, glowering, with another copy of the front page.

“Well?” he demanded.

Roger said: “I think Brown’s cornered in a house in Mile End. I’ve ordered a concentration, and would like to go there, and take a gun. Have I your permission, sir?”

There was a tense moment of hesitation.

“Come and sec me the minute you’re back,” Chatworth growled.

CHAPTER XVII

54 BERRY STREET

BILL BROWN squeezed out of the telephone kiosk after hanging up on the Yard. The fog was eddying about the crossroads, and he could just see the figure of his friend, Deaken, disappearing along Berry Street. He thought he saw other figures looking out of the darkness, but when he caught up with Deaken, no one else seemed about.

“What did you put the wind up me for?” he demanded.

“I saw a coupla blokes,” said Deaken. “Matter o’ fact, I think I saw four, all near the phone. I’m fed up with this show, that’s the truth, Bill. I wish I’d never come with you. Let myself be talked into it, that’s what. And—look out!”

Two men loomed out of the darkness, and smashed blows at him. He jumped to one side, and ran. Brown swung his left fist at the nearer assailant, and buried it in his stomach. The man backed away, but struck at Brown’s head. Brown staggered, kept his balance, fended the man off, and darted in Deaken’s wake.

The fog swallowed him up.

He heard thudding footsteps, but could not see more than ten yards in front of him. He struck a lamp-post with his wounded right arm, and winced at the pain, but did not let it slow him down. Number 54 Berry Street was halfway between the kiosk and the main road. His pursuers would not be able to see which house he had entered; if he could once reach 54, he would find sanctuary.

The footsteps stopped.

‘Deaken’s okay,’ thought Brown, slowing down.

He could hear the men coming after him, groping their way through the fog, then a hollow noise was followed by a vicious oath. One of the men had banged full tilt into the lamp-post.

Brown went into a gateway, trying to see the number on the door of a house. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, but couldn’t be far away from 54.

“Sixty-two,” he muttered.

Now he crept along the pavement, reached Number 54, and found the front door ajar. A man was breathing heavily inside the narrow passage. Deaken’s wind had always been short. Brown pushed the door wider open, and stepped inside.

A fist crashed into his face.

The blow came so suddenly, and with such a shock of surprise, that he did not even try to defend himself. He reeled back against the wall, and the man who had struck him appeared from behind the doorway. Deaken was crouching against a door at the foot of the stairs, just out of sight; and he screamed.

The assailant struck Brown across the face. Brown felt blood trickling down his chin, and licked his lips. A third blow banged his head against the wall; another sent a stab of pain up his wounded arm, and he gasped aloud. His assailant grabbed his arm, and began to twist. The pain was so great that Brown felt the strength ebbing from his body.

“Shut that door!” a man ordered.

The front door slammed, and the light went on.

Fog eddied into the hall, but when Brown looked round he could see the men waiting there. They had been hiding in the rooms. The man who had hit him was a hulking fellow, with thick, wet hps, and little porcine eyes. His hands were red and huge. Deaken was in the grip of another man near the stairs. Two others stood by, one of them small and thin-faced, with hair growing far back on his head. The yellow light shone on his forehead and long hooked nose. He was dressed in a suit; the other men were in old Army uniforms.

“Take them upstairs, Andy,” said the thin-faced man.

“Okay, Joe,” said the big one.

Deaken didn’t need ‘taking’; he was eager to walk up the stairs. Andy gripped Brown’s shoulder, and pushed him forward. Brown felt a warm, sticky patch on his arm where the wound had opened. He was almost too weak with pain to move, but Andy kept kneeing him from behind, and he had to go up.

Andy pushed him into a back room.

“Keep yer trap shut,” he ordered.

He stood by the door, towering above both men. Deaken snivelled and began to talk, and Andy clouted him across the face. Deaken dropped on to a camp bed while Brown leaned against the wall, his senses swimming.

It seemed a long time before Joe came into the room, smoothing his bald patch.

Deaken jumped up.

“I don’t know nothin’,” he screeched. “I don’t know a thing. I only come along because—”

“Shut up!” said Joe, and turned to Brown. His little eyes were narrowed and watering, and there was a dew- drop at the end of his nose. He kept rubbing his hands together, making a sliding noise. Andy was breathing noisily through his mouth. The sound of traffic from the Mile End Road was deadened; there was no noise of footsteps outside.

The little house was on a terrace, and the tenant and his family were out. It had been offered to Brown and Deaken while they were on the run, and they had spent the previous night there. The furniture of the bedroom was poor and old-fashioned; the single light was little more than a dim yellow glow; they could have seen almost as well without it, in spite of the fog.

“How did you like what you got, Brown?” Joe inquired, evenly.

Brown said nothing.

“How would you like some more?”

“I can give ‘im plenty,” Andy said.

“That’s right—plenty more where that came from,” agreed Joe. “Brown, why did you go to Raeburn’s flat?”

Brown licked his lips. “I was going to beat him up.”

“Why?”

“That’s my business.”

“We’ll see about that,” Joe said.

He went for Brown with a rain of blows which made even Deaken cry out in muffled protest. Brown was pushed round the room, trying desperately to defend himself. He kept banging his arm against the wall. His knees felt weak, and now and again he stumbled, but Andy reached forward and hauled him to his feet. By the time Joe stopped, Bill’s face was puffy and swollen and streaked with blood; he could hardly get his breath.

“Why did you want to beat Raeburn up?” asked Joe.

Brown muttered: “He murdered my brother.”

“So you think he murdered your brother. What made you think so, Brown? Don’t waste time.”

Brown muttered: “Try and find out.”

“Bill, he’ll bash you again!” cried Deaken. “Andy,” said Joe in a menacing voice, “you have a

At the third blow from the giant, Brown began to talk.

He was talking or answering questions for over twenty minutes. Joe learned that Tony had been with Eve on the night of Halliwell’s death, and learned exactly what Katie Brown had told Roger. He pressed for more, probing to find out whether Brown could give evidence or whether all he had was hearsay, until Brown was half stupid with pain and fatigue.

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Joe said, when it was finished. “If you’d told me all that before, you wouldn’t have got hurt. Not so much, anyway.” He grinned. “But it’s a pity you’ve seen me and my friends, isn’t it? Because you’d talk to the narks, wouldn’t you? You’d—”

A man shouted from downstairs.

Joe swung round. “What’s that?”

His answer was a thud and a gasp, then footsteps sounded on the stairs. Joe moved swiftly toward the door, taking out an automatic. Andy pulled the door open.

A man at the top of the stairs shouted: “Get out of my way, or—”

He broke off, as Joe appeared.

From behind Joe, Andy called: “West!”

Joe had kept completely cool during the moments of crisis, and now he said, quite evenly: “You’ve had it, copper.”

He fired.

Roger fired from his pocket as he jumped aside. The other man’s bullet smacked into the wall near his head. Joe staggered back, clutching his chest, and his gun dropped from his fingers.

“The cops, armed,” breathed Andy. “Gawd!”

CHAPTER XVIII

SILENT JOE

“BROWN’S IN hospital but he confirmed his wife’s story,”

D said Roger to Chatworth, an hour later. “Deaken’s all right, as scared as a rabbit, but not hurt. We’ve another dish of hearsay evidence, as far as Eve Franklin is concerned, but nothing that leads direct to Raeburn.”

“What about this man Joe?” asked Chatworth.

“He’s badly hurt. I didn’t have time to take aim,” said Roger. “He’s being operated on now. The other men seem dumb. They say they only know Joe’s Christian name, and I haven’t been able to find out anything about the man. But I will.”

“You’d better. The Home Secretary thinks your resignation would clear the air a lot.”

Roger caught his breath. “Are you making me ?”

“I told him if you were suspended, I’d quit,” Chatworth said bluffly. “But we want results soon. Yesterday —well, go on.”

Roger said, slowly: “Thank you, sir. I think we can get Raeburn eventually, but if you feel that I ought——”

“I said, go on.”

Roger said: “Brown says that the man Joe told him he was after Raeburn, but I don’t pay much attention to that. We might find a Joe-Tenby connection, and I’m also working on that angle. I don’t think we can complain about today’s progress.”

“No, but this campaign against you must stop soon,” Chatworth said.

Roger leaned back in his chair, and drew at his cigarette. He was hungry, his eyes were tired from the strain of driving through the fog, and Chatworth had given him a nasty shock.

“It won’t stop until we’ve dropped the case or got Raeburn,” he said. “It’s shrewd and very clever— Raeburn flaunting himself as a champion of the rights of the people, and winning a lot of sympathy. But there’s a sharp contrast between the newspaper campaign and Raeburn’s usual tactics against us, and this violence,” Roger went on. “It’s almost as if two different people were behind it. Raeburn’s completely lost his head, or else he can’t control the forces he’s let loose. Either way, I think it will give us a break.” It had to. “I hope we’ll get something out of Joe soon. I’ve left a man by his side.”

Chatworth nodded dismissal.

At half past three, Roger heard that the bullet had been removed, and that Joe was making reasonable progress. He had not yet spoken a word, but if he had a good night he might be questioned the following day.

Tenby was interviewed, but when shown a photograph, professed not to know any Joe. He said that he had been in his rooms all the morning, and certainly he could not be linked up with the attack on Bill Brown on the present evidence. Efforts to identify Joe went on all that day and the following morning, but without result. He seemed to have no history. The other three men, Army deserters, had been staying at a doss house; according to Andy, they had met Joe in a pub.

Joe had paid Andy fifty pounds, and the other two men twenty each for the job.

Roger saw Joe the following afternoon. The wounded man was out of danger, and conscious, but would not say a word. After twenty minutes, Roger gave up, left instructions with the detective on duty in the private ward, and had a talk with the sister in charge.

“There’s no reason why he should behave like this,” she said, “and he’s spoken rationally enough to the nurses, sir. He’s had a nasty wound, of course, but—”

“You think he’s acting dumb?” asked Roger.

“I do rather think so.”

“Silent Joe,” mused Roger. “Well, thanks very much.”

He was very thoughtful as he drove away from the hospital.

When Roger reached the Yard, Turnbull and Peel were waiting for him. The two had returned from Brighton in the wake of Raeburn and Eve. Eve had gone to her rooms in Battersea, and Raeburn to the Park Lane flat; both were being kept under observation. They had no idea why Raeburn had changed his plans; he had simply paid his bill after lunch, and driven back. The fog had cleared except in the heart of London, and the journey had been uneventful.

“And you’ve nothing special to report?” Roger asked.

“There’s nothing new at all,” admitted Turnbull.

“Well, we’ve had some luck here,” Roger told him, and explained.

“If you ask me, Raeburn’s seen the red lights,” Turnbull said, with satisfaction.

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“But we haven’t really set them at danger,” Turnbull argued. “We haven’t done anything to make him rush back to town, anyway.”

“No,” agreed Roger. “See much of him and Eve?”

“Too much.”

“Cooing doves?”

“Coo!” Turnbull grinned. “What’s on your mind?”

“You know, apart from Tenby, there’s just one known possible witness against Raeburn,” Roger said, slowly.

“Yes—our Evie,” Turnbull agreed, “but I tell you that pair neck so much they make me heave. Your pal Lessing agrees, too. Eve isn’t on any danger list from Raeburn, take it from me.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Roger. “Well, I’d better get home. How’s Lessing?”

“He looks a bit raw,” said Turnbull,” but he’ll survive.”

He went off.

Roger tidied up his desk, and was outside by his car when a messenger came hurrying down the steps after him.

“What’s on?” Roger asked, and his tension rose. “A report from Division, sir,” the messenger reported. “It says that Mrs Beesley’s just gone into Eve Franklin’s flat, and the Super thought you ought to know.”

CHAPTER XIX

MA BEESLEY TALKS

A BEESlEY sat on the divan in Eve’s bedroom; it was the only thing in the room large enough for her to sit on with comfort. She was dressed in shiny black, which showed up the pasty whiteness of her skin. All the time she talked she smiled, showing her ugly wide-spaced teeth. Now and again, she touched her plaited hair, but not once did she shift her gaze from Eve. Her eyes were wary, half- hidden in fat, and her voice was smooth and gentle.

“Now I’m only telling you this for your own good, my dear,” she said. “I know Paul Raeburn better than anyone living. You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last—you can take that from me. If you’re sensible, you’ll accept my offer and go away for a few weeks. You’ll soon forget him.”

Eve did not speak.

“It stands to reason that he’s only playing with you, or he wouldn’t let you stay in this place,” went on Ma, looking about the room. “If he were serious, he’d see that you had a really nice apartment. Haven’t you ever thought of that?”

“It’s wiser for me to stay here,” Eve answered, sullenly.

“Is that what he says?” Ma grinned, knowingly. “He’s got an answer for everything, Paul has. I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, my dear, but I’m advising you for your own good. You know the things that have been happening, you know he had to leave Brighton suddenly. Did he consider you then?”

“He has to attend to business, hasn’t he?”

Eve was dressed for out-of-doors, In a two-piece suit of wine red with green braid at the edges and on the sleeves. When Ma Beesley had called, she had been ready to keep an appointment with Paul, but he had sent a message cancelling it; the note had been all that she could have desired. Now this fat harridan was trying to poison her mind. She hated Ma Beesley.

“That’s just the point, my dear,” wheezed Ma. “Paul has to attend to business, and business always comes first with him. Now you’ve got a wonderful chance, right here. Five thousand pounds is a lot of money. If you’re careful, you can live comfortably on that for a long time. And a pretty girl like you oughtn’t to have any difficulty in catching another man. What you want, my dear, is a man who’ll marry you.”

“That’s what you think.”

Ma leaned forward. “Now don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. You think you can make Paul marry you? Well, you couldn’t in a thousand years. If you go away with this money in the bank, you’ll be much happier than if you hang on to Paul. I’ve brought the cash with me.” She touched a bulging handbag. “Have a look at it.” She opened the bag, peering at Eve as she did so. A thick wad of bank notes rustled in her fingers.

“See those, dear? Take a good look.”

“Put the damned money away!” cried Eve. “I’m not going to walk out on Paul, see? You’ve only come because you know he wants to marry me. What the hell’s it got to do with you? I’ll show you whether I’m good enough. I’ll tell him that you’ve been here; then you’ll see how the land lies.”

“Will you?” asked Ma, softly. “I wonder if that would be wise, Eve. I don’t want to be unkind, but Paul has a hasty temper, you know—”

“That’s what I mean!’?

“He won’t vent it on me,” said Ma, confidently. “You see, he relies on me for everything, duck—for everything. He knows that anything I do is always in his interest. I can handle Paul, but you can’t. I don’t ask you to decide too quickly, but think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it!”

“I see,” said Ma. She stood up, putting the money back in her bag. “You’re very silly, Eve. I’ve told you what’s good for you, and I’m right. The further you keep from Paul in the next few weeks, the better for you. He’s very worried, and he isn’t interested in anything but business, and in keeping quite clear of the police. People who might do him harm get hurt, my dear. Don’t forget your Tony. He was murdered—”

Eve cried: “That’s a lie!”

“Well, lie died in very mysterious circumstances,” murmured Ma. “Don’t you think—”

The ringing of the front-door bell cut across her words, and they stared toward the little hall. Eve’s hands were tightly clenched, and the fat woman was frowning.

“Who do you think that is?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Eve. “I don’t want to see anyone. You—you’ve been lying to me, you needn’t deny it. You just want to separate us; you don’t care how you do it. Paul wouldn’t—”

Ma raised a hand, and snapped her fingers beneath the girl’s nose. “Anyone out there can hear what we say, you fool,” Ma whispered. “Open the door, quick, and don’t let them know I’m here.” When Eve hesitated she pushed her toward the door. “Don’t keep them waiting.”

The bell rang again. Eve went into the hall, feeling weak and listless; the old beast had shocked her so. She could only think of one word: murder. She had always been sure that Tony had committed suicide, had never believed in the accident theory, but murder!

She opened the door.

“Good evening, Miss Franklin,” said Roger West.

It was obvious to Roger that something had happened to upset Eve Franklin badly. Her hands were unsteady, and her eyes were feverishly bright. It was not the shock of seeing him; in fact, she peered at him for a moment without recognition. Then she drew back.

Roger saw a big shadow against the door of the inner room; Ma Beesley probably did not want it known that she was here. He smiled as he stepped into the hall.

“I’m afraid I have to worry you again,” he said. “Come in, Peel.”

The girl backed toward the inner door, the colour draining from her face as the two men entered. “What-^what do you want?”

“I just want the truth out of you,” Roger said.

Then Eve was glad to see Ma Beesley, for the fat woman appeared in the doorway, all creases and double chins.

“I think we all realise that you would like to frighten the poor child,” she bleated. “Don’t take on, Eve, don’t let them bully you.”

She squeezed through the doorway and came to Eve’s side, smiling her set smile, but her little eyes were hostile. She touched Eve’s arm, and the girl shrank away. There was no time to lose, if Roger was to get any advantage; he sensed that there had been a quarrel; that the older woman had frightened the girl; working on that might give him the best chance of breaking Eve down.

“That’s enough from you,” he said. “I want to see Miss Franklin alone.”

“I daresay you do, but you can’t,” retorted Ma. “I know better than that. I’m not frightened of a policeman. I came here to try to help the poor child—”

“Help!” gasped Eve.

“We don’t see eye to eye, my dear, but I came with the best intentions,” said Ma Beesley. “You really ought to come in and sit down.” She looked at Roger insolently. “You’re not going to insist on seeing her alone, are you? Because if you are, I shall have to telephone her solicitor immediately. Mr. Warrender had to do that once before, remember?”

“You’ll find you’re making a mistake,” Roger said, roughly.

“I think you nearly made one,” retorted Ma Beesley. “Now, if you really want to help the poor child, come and listen to me.” She led the way into the sitting-room.

Roger glanced at Peel. “Stay here,” he said, and Peel nodded, then gave a gesture of resignation.

Ma led the girl to the divan, and pushed her gently down on to it, then lowered herself to a chair beside her; she overlapped the chair which creaked noisily.

“I’ve been trying to advise Eve for her own good,” she told Roger. “She’ll tell you the same, too, although she doesn’t agree with what I say, I want her to break with Paul Raeburn, Mr West.”

“To break with him?”

“That’s right. I can talk to you, anyhow,” she went on. leaning forward. “You’re a man of the world, and I needn’t be afraid of shocking you! I know Paul. He’s a nice fellow in a lot of ways, but he isn’t a one-woman man, if you know what I mean. I’ve told Eve it will save her a lot of heartache later on if she takes the plunge and leaves him now, instead of waiting for him to tire of her. He’s very busy, and he won’t have much time for her in the next week or two.” There was a barb in those words, although she uttered them so smoothly. “And it’s now or never, I think.”

Roger didn’t speak; she had completely surprised him.

“After all, I aw a woman,” continued Ma Beesley. “My time for romance may be past”—she gave a broad grin—”but I know just what Eve feels like, and I want to save her from being hurt. Now be honest, Chief Inspector. Do you think that she will come to any good if she continues to associate with him?”

“Would he like to hear you say that?” asked Roger, sourly. She was as cunning as a witch.

Ma sniggered. “He wouldn’t be at all surprised. I never mince my words with Paul. He might be annoyed, but he’d soon get over it, and there are plenty of other fish in the sea. Now don’t be unkind, Chief Inspector; give me your honest opinion.”

Roger said: “You want to talk to the Welfare Officer, not to me, Ma.”

“Oh dear,” Ma sighed. “So few men have the courage of their convictions. I know in your heart you agree with me, and you think it would be wise for Eve to make a break novo. I can’t do more than I’ve done,” she added virtuously, “and I only hope that she’ll listen to me. Eve dear, do you think you could let me have a shakedown tor the night? I don’t like to leave you here alone in your present frame of mind.”

She was saying that she meant to prevent Roger from interviewing the girl alone.

“Oh, I don’t care what you do,” muttered Eve, weakly.

“Then I will stay, dear,” said Ma Beesley, and beamed at Roger. “You can tell that handsome young man outside that he can have a good night’s sleep; he needn’t worry about following me any more tonight!”

“I haven’t quite finished,” said Roger.

“Oh, I’m sorry. What is it you have to say?”

Roger said: “You’ll hear in due course.” He turned to Eve, pulled up a chair, and sat down. He did all this very slowly, looking only at the girl, “Miss Franklin. I want to help you in every way I can. You have got yourself into an extremely difficult situation, and if I were you I wouldn’t rely too much on your new friends.”

“But I’ve just been telling her how delicate her situation is,” protested Ma Beesley. “You might as well have agreed with me in the first place.”

Roger sat looking at her, and gradually began to smile. That puzzled Ma, until at last she looked away. Eve was staring at her reflection in the mirror.

“Happy, Ma, aren’t you?” asked Roger.

Ma didn’t answer.

“And you really came here to advise Eve to leave Raeburn,” marvelled Roger. “How much did you offer as a bribe?”

“Now, Chief Inspector—”

“And why are you so anxious to separate them?”

“I’ve told you,” said Ma Beesley, sharply. “I don’t intend to say any more about it.”

“But you tried to buy Eve off,” murmured Roger. “Very interesting. How much?”

“I want to help—”Ma began.

“You’ve never willingly helped anyone in your life,” said Roger. “Miss Franklin, you’re in a much worse position than you realise. We are watching you for your own good, and don’t hesitate to call on me if this woman or any of her friends frightens you.”

He had jolted them both, and this was the moment to leave. He glared at Ma, and turned on his heel.

Peel spoke as they went downstairs. “She’s a nasty piece of work, that Ma Beesley.” Roger nodded. “Do you want me to stay and watch her?”

“Yes, and I want the flat watched, too. I don’t think Ma will stay all night,” said Roger. “There isn’t a telephone at the apartment, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Ma doesn’t get hold of someone else to take over. None of them will want Eve to be interviewed tonight.”

“You shook the girl all right,” said Peel. “I heard everything and saw a lot.”

“She’d already had a shaking,” Roger reflected. “What time are you due for relief?”

“Midnight, sir.”

“All right—good luck.”

When Roger’s car had disappeared, Peel strolled up and down the street, glancing at the lighted window of Eve’s apartment. He was thinking more about Roger West than of either of the women, for Handsome had something which Peel could not define. He remembered the bleakness on Roger’s face, followed by the sudden change, and the smile which suggested a confidence that he could not possibly have felt. But it had worried the fat slug, and they’d come out even, after all.

Peel kept walking up and down; the cold soon made him think of hot grog and a blazing fire. As the time wore on, he doubted whether cither woman would leave the house that night.

Peel was wrong. Ma Beesley left the apartment a little after ten o’clock. She did not look up and down the street, although she must have known that she was being followed. She waddled toward the corner where there was a dimly lit telephone kiosk, pulled open the heavy door, and squeezed into the box.

She could not close the door on her bulk. That did not seem to trouble her. She had some coppers in her hand, and twisted her body, so that she could insert them and use the dial. Keeping in the shadows, Peel went as near as he dared. He could actually hear the whir of the dial after the pennies had dropped. He saw Ma peering through the window away from him; she seemed determined to ignore him.

“Hallo, George,” she said, clearly.

“Warrender,” Peel muttered.

“Yes, George, it’s me,” went on Ma Beesley. “I couldn’t phone before, because I’ve had a little trouble with Eve. That dreadful West man came and questioned her again, and I had to see that she was all right. I think someone ought to spend the night here.”

There was a pause.

“Well, I will if there’s no one else,” said Ma. “Yes . . . yes, I would like a word with Paul. . . . Hallo, Paul!” Ma’s voice oozed syrup. “Yes, I spoke to her about it . . . she wouldn’t accept the offer . . . you see, she’s very loyal. . . . Oh, yes, I tried, but she wouldn’t agree; she doesn’t believe that you’re so fickle!” Ma sniggered. “Yes, Paul, I’ll stay.”

She rang off, edged herself out of the box, and approached Peel, who was hiding in the shadows of a house. She plodded along the pavement, and he could hear her wheezing. She drew level with him, and passed. “She hasn’t seen me,” thought Peel.

She turned and looked over her shoulder.

“Isn’t it a dark night?” she remarked, and padded on.

Peel swore at her under his breath, and waited until she had gone into the house before he telephoned the Yard, and asked for a message to be sent to Handsome West.

Peel himself couldn’t make head or tail of the situation. Why had Ma Beesley come to pay the girl off, and then reported her failure to Raeburn?

Katie Brown was subdued when Roger went to see her again at the Putney hospital, next day. She said she was relieved that Bill was inside, and hoped he would stay there until the affair was over, but obviously she hated all thought of it. Yes, of course, she wanted to help as much as she could, she said, and the doctor had declared her fit enough to leave hospital.

Roger gave her a cigarette, as he asked: “Do you still remember the voice of the man on the Common?”

“Shall I ever forget it!”

“I want you to listen to a man speaking, and to tell me whether you recognise the voice,” Roger said. “Will you do that?”

“Of course I will.”

“He met with an accident, and may look a mess,” Roger told her, “but don’t worry.”

As they neared Joe’s ward at the City Hospital, the matron caught sight of Roger, and hurried across. She was a great talker, and reported earnestly that she was worried because Joe was making no progress. She thought that he was pretending to be more ill than he really was, and although he still said little and showed no interest in anything, he ate well enough: that was the only satisfactory thing to report. And—this was the main burden of her story—did Mr. West think that the policeman could be removed from the ward for a few hours? It might be possible to judge the patient’s real condition, then.

“I’ll see what I can do,” promised Roger. “Does he still talk to the nurses?”

“A word or two, that’s all.”

“I wonder if you’ll go and have a word with him now,” Roger said. “I’d like you to leave the door open, so that I can hear.”

The matron nodded, went in, and spoke cheerfully to the invalid. At first, Joe answered only in monosyllables which could hardly be heard. Gradually, his voice strengthened, until he said clearly: “I tell you I don’t want anything else, get the hell out of here!”

Katie gasped: “That’s him! That’s his voice!”

“Quiet,” whispered Roger.

Katie gripped his arm tightly, and stood staring at the door.

It was a help, another piece in the puzzle, but it did not lead to Raeburn.

Roger made time to go through all the evidence in any way connected with Raeburn, and to summarise and analyse it. There was still little to enthuse over. The Yard’s foremost solicitor agreed that it would be folly to put Bill Brown into the witness box against Eve; although there were no convictions against Brown, he had committed- dozens of petty offences, and Abel Melville would find little difficulty in discrediting him in court. Even a confession of guilt from Eve would have its drawbacks; and, as the solicitor pointed out, they had to prove not only that Eve-had lied, but that Raeburn had been a party to her perjury. That was going to be the difficulty.

Joe remained a man without an identity. The East End Divisions were working at pressure to try to discover more about him, but there was no evidence that he lived in this district. Andy and the other men who had been caught at Berry Street were still on remand.

Tenby continued to spend most of his leisure in The Lion at Chelsea; Mark Lessing, his face better, went there several times, but Tenby was always on his own.

Raeburn and Warrender spent a great deal of time at the City offices of Raeburn Investments, ostensibly occupied with legitimate business. Ma Beesley stirred from Park Lane only to do the shopping. Eve remained at her apartment for two days on end, and Roger began to hope that Raeburn had thrown her over. If he had, out of sheer vindictiveness, she might tell all she knew.

On the third evening she left her apartment, entered the Silver Wraith, and went to the Silver Kettle. All seemed well again between her and Raeburn; they danced cheek to cheek much of the time.

The newspapers either dropped the story of Katie and the Browns, or kept it alive with small paragraphs. The next opportunity to use the Press would be when Bill Brown came up for the second hearing, in two days’ time.

“I’d like to know more than we do now, before we have another publicity splash,” Roger said to Turnbull. “I think we’ll ask for a second eight days in custody.”

“Brown won’t object, that’s certain,” Turnbull said.

“We’ve found the connection between Brown and Raeburn; we can prove that Joe attacked Brown, so what we need most is a connecting link between Raeburn and Joe,” Roger went on.

“Very original,” Turnbull jeered, and smacked a fist into a thick palm, exasperatedly. “I never seem to be able to get my teeth into the job; it’s like nibbling at an apple on a string with your hands tied behind your back.” He paused, and then his voice grew louder. “Here, Handsome, we’ve been slow as tortoises!” His eyes positively blazed.

“Which way this time?”

“We ought to take Tenby along to see Joe,” breathed Turnbull. “It would tear them apart if they know each other.”

“Good idea, and I’ll fix it tomorrow,” Roger said, and grinned. “Tonight I’ve promised to take Janet to the pictures.”

“If anyone needs a night off, you do,” Turnbull agreed, unexpectedly.

Roger was feeling more cheerful and relaxed, when he walked home with Janet from the cinema. They went the long way round by the river and, in spite of a chilling east wind, stood watching the lights of the bridges and the south bank reflected on the water. A fleet of barges moved slowly up-Thames, and the waves from their wake splashed lazily against the embankment.

“I’m told that Raeburn’s just bought a coastal shipping line,” Roger remarked.

“Oh, forget Raeburn!” Janet exploded.

Roger chuckled. “Perhaps he’ll drown himself,” he said, tightening his grip about her waist. “It’s getting cold, sweet, let’s get going!”

They turned the corner, and saw light streaming from a doorway halfway along Bell Street. Someone was standing at a gate, peering in the other direction, and as they drew nearer Janet said sharply: “Roger, that’s Scoopy!”

She broke into a run, calling, “Scoop! Is Richard all right?”

“Course he is,” said Scoopy, scornfully. “It’s an urgent message for Dad, that’s all. A man rang up three times for you, Dad, and the last time gave me the message: ‘Look after Eve’, he said, and said you’d know what he meant.”

CHAPTER XX

‘LOOK AFTER EVE’

THERE WAS the message, written on the corner of a newspaper in Scoopy’s clear hand. The first call had come at a quarter to nine, the second at half past, and the third at five minutes to ten, when the man had left the message.

“You’re sure it was a man?” asked Roger, urgently.

“Well, it sounded like one,” Scoopy said. “I suppose it could have been a woman with a deep voice, now I come to think of it. I didn’t know what to do. Old Fish was tired; he’s asleep, I think.”

“You did fine,” Roger said. “I’d better check on Evie. Make me some tea, pet, will you, and a few sandwiches.”

Janet started to say: “Must you?” but checked herself.

Turnbull was still at the Yard when Roger telephoned. “Who’s watching Eve tonight?” asked Roger.

“Allen and McKinley,” Turnbull answered. “Allen’s at the front—McKinley’s the younger, if there’s any climbing over garden walls, he’s the one for it. Shall I double the watch?”

“Yes, and we’ll go there ourselves,” said Roger.

“This may be a hoax,” Turnbull pointed out.

“I don’t think that anyone in this business is likely to play that kind of hoax,” said Roger. “Have you got a report on where Eve has been tonight?”

“Just a minute—”said Turnbull.

He was away from the telephone for some time. Janet came in, and stood in front of the mirror, poking her fingers through her hair.

“Hallo, Handsome,” said Turnbull at last. “She’s been with Raeburn to the Silver Kettle, but left early. She reached her apartment at eleven-fifteen—that report was sent in twenty minutes ago. Nothing else.”

“Get all reports checked,” said Roger. “I’ll come right away.”

He reached the Yard at midnight, and found that Turn- bull had made a full summary of the night’s reports. He studied them closely. Ma Beesley had not left Park Lane, and Warrender had not arrived at the flat until after ten o’clock. Tenby

“This might be interesting.” Turnbull tapped the report.

Tenby had been at The Lion until half past eight, when he had left and boarded a Number 11 bus at Sloane Square. The detective watching him had not been able to board the bus, so had reported and gone back to The Lion; Tenby had not returned. His boarding house was being watched, but there was no news from the man who was stationed at Fulham Road.

“The Number 11 passes Raeburn Investments office,” Turnbull remembered, “and Warrender may have been there, as he arrived home late.”

“Let’s check the report on Warrender again,” said Roger. “H’m—it’s not Peel’s; it’s from the man on duty at Park Lane. Peel was watching Warrender tonight, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And no report.”

“He hasn’t had much time,” Turnbull said. “He may have gone home; there wouldn’t be any need to hurry about a routine report. Shall I ring him?”

Roger nodded.

Turnbull put in the call, then replaced the receiver. They went over the reports again, very carefully, and Roger answered when the telephone bell rang.

A woman with a frail voice spoke from the other end. “Hallo?”

“Is Detective Officer Peel there, please?”

“No, sir, he isn’t,” answered the woman. “I’m getting just a little worried; he said he would be in by half past ten tonight, or else let me know. He hasn’t rung up.”

“I’m afraid he’s been kept working late,” Roger said, reassuringly. “Who is this speaking?”

“Why, his mother, Mrs Peel.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs Peel. If he does come in during the next quarter of an hour, ask him to ring the Yard and ask for Chief Inspector West, will you? . . . Thanks, very much.” He put the receiver down, frowning, and remarked: “I don’t like that.”

“He might have dodged off on some line of his own,” said Turnbull.

“Wouldn’t be like Peel,” declared Roger. “I think I’ll go to see Eve. You take a man with you, and have a look round the outside of Raeburn’s offices. You’d better have a word with the City Police first.”

“Mustn’t tread on their corns, eh ? Okay,” Turnbull said.

* * * * *

The City of London was quiet as Turnbull drove through it with a detective officer by his side. They passed three policemen at different points, but the streets were practically deserted. The tall buildings were in darkness, and the narrow alleys leading off the main streets were invisible.

Turnbull saw two men standing at a corner, and pulled up. One was in uniform, and the other in plain clothes; they were two City policemen who had arranged to meet him on this corner. Raeburn Estates offices were in a modern building which had been damaged during the last war; one part was still uninhabitable, with gaping windows and crumbling walls.

“Hallo, Mr Turnbull.”

“Hallo, Wray.” Turnbull was hearty. “Anything for me?”

“I’ve had no report of any trouble about here, although we’ve been keeping a close watch,” Wray answered. “Your man, Peel, was here until half past nine.”

“Sure?”

If Tenby had come here, he would have arrived about nine-fifteen.

“He was last seen when the rounds were made at nine,” said Wray. “That means he was here between nine-ten and nine-twenty.”

“Where did “he stand?”

“In the bombed-out front,” said Wray, leading the way along the street. “He had a word with my man, and said he was going to finish some tea he had in a flask; it was pretty nippy.” They reached the gaping window of the damaged office; beyond it, piles of rubble were just visible in the light of a street lamp. “He wasn’t here when my man went round next time,” continued Wray, “but he was due off duty at ten o’clock, wasn’t he?”

“Not tonight,” said Turnbull. “A chap he wanted was here, and Peel is the type to stay all night.” Wray gave him a hand, and he climbed on to a window sill. “Lend me a torch, will you?”

Wray climbed through and shone a torch about the scorched walls and the untidy rubble. They scrambled over the debris toward the far corner, where two walls formed a narrow passage.

“This is as far as it goes,” Wray said, as he reached the passage. “If he’s not—”

The light of the torch shone upon the inert figure of a man. It was Peel.

At first Turnbull thought that the young DO was dead. He had been knocked over the head savagely, and did not seem to be breathing. A policeman went for an ambulance, as Turnbull and Wray examined the victim in the torchlight. He was breathing after all, and raising his eyelids, Turnbull saw that the pupils were pinpoints.

“Looks like a drug,” he growled. “Knocked out first, and then given the needle.”

“Drugs are new in this case, aren’t they?” Wray asked.

“They’ve been used once before,” Turnbull remembered. “And on Peel.”

For Peel had been ill after drinking with Tenby.

A light shone under the door of Eve’s apartment, or even Roger would have hesitated about knocking so late at night. She opened the door, and stood staring in the semi- darkness, for she had not switched on the hall light. He noticed that she clutched the door.

“Who—who is it?”

“West,” Roger said, brusquely.

There was a pause. Then: “Why, Handsome!” The giggle which followed surprised Roger as much as the “Handsome.”

“What a time of night to come and see a lady! Come— come in!” She flung the door wide open, and backed away, unsteadily, “I hate drinking alone,” she went on. “Come—come and have one. Yush—Yush a li’l one!” She put a hand on his shoulder, and pushed him toward the sitting-room. “Don’t be shy—I’m quite nishe, really!”

Her hair was neat on one side, and falling loose on the other; she had kicked off her shoes and, judging from the gin bottle and the glass on the table, had been lying on the settee, drinking herself stupid. Her cheeks were flushed, almost as red as her scarlet dressing gown, and her eyes glowed wickedly.

“What’ll you have?” she asked, and giggled again. “I’ve only got gin. Have a gin?”

“Not now, thanks.”

“Oh, don’t be a stiffneck. A little drop o’ gin’ never hurt a man yet. Look at me—I’ve had a lot of li’l drops!” She went to a cupboard, and took out another glass. “Drowning my sorrows, that’s what I’m doing,” she said. “Nice way to drown, isn’t it? Do have a drink.” She picked up the bottle, but gin spilled out on the floor. “S’no use,” she said, and waved airily. “Help yourself.”

She flopped on to the divan.

Roger poured a little gin into a glass, put the bottle down, and glanced over his shoulder. DO Allen was on the landing; he hoped the man would have the sense to come into the hall, so that he could hear what went on.

“Don’t be mean,” protested Eve. “Pour me out a li’l one, too.”

Roger obliged.

“Now let’s be friendly,” said Eve, coyly. “Come ‘n sit down. You know—” she looked at him with her eyes brimming over with mirth—” you know I don’t like being bad friends with a good-looking man. It’s not like me. Did anyone ever tell you how handsome you are, Handsome?” She giggled. “Paul told me that they call you Handsome.”

“Just his joke.” Roger did not sit down, and she seemed to forget her invitation.

“It’s the truth,” she assured him, earnestly. “Nice eyes, nice nose, nice mouth, pretty hair—I’ll bet you’ve got a fat wife! Like Ma—ugh! Do you know, I positively hate Ma. Old bitchy-witchy Ma. Hate her. Always did, and always will.”

“A lot of people don’t like her,” said Roger.

“Fat old sow,” declared Eve. “I think Paul’s going to fire her.”

“Is he?” My God.

“He as good as said he was fed up to the back teeth with her,” Eve told him. “Handsome, dear—come right here.” She put out a hand, took his, and pulled him toward her. “Secret,” she whispered gravely, close to his ear. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Paul an’ me are engaged I” She kissed his ear. “Isn’t that wonderful? Wonderful! I can hardly believe it. I thought he was cooling off. Bitchy-witchy Ma scared me. Said he would get tired of me. Fat lot she knew!” She put her hands against his cheeks and squeezed his face. “Isn’t it wunnerful?”

“Wonderful.”

“I knew you would understand,” Eve said, solemnly. “I knew you weren’t the sourpuss you pretended to be. Me and Paul!” She pressed her nose against his. “I’ll have everything I want—every blooming thing! He had to leave me early tonight, he’s sush a busy man, so I had to come home alone. Couldn’t sit here and do nothing, couldn’t go out, so—I had a li’l drink, and another li’l drink won’t do you any harm!” She began to croon, swaying from side to side. “I’ve never been so happy, all my dreams come true!”

Roger freed himself. “So there’s nothing more you want?” he asked, lightly. ^

“That’s exactly right—except to get rid of bitchy-witchy Ma. And I will, before I’ve finished. You know what? She knows she won’t las’ a month after I get establish’ as the lady of die house, so she tried to buy me off. Offered me five thousand quid—I saw it. In beautiful notes, too. Why, that was the lash time you were here. You didn’t know you were standing next to a cool five thousand, did you, Handsome?”

“I certainly didn’t. Did Ma want anything else?”

“I wouldn’t like to say what she really wanted; you can never tell with a creashure like that.”

“When’s the great day to be?” Roger asked.

“Soon,” crowed Eve. “He promised me that it wouldn’t be long. He’s handling some very big bishiness deals just now, and as soon as they’re finished, we’re going to elope! He’s given me the address of a li’l country cottage where we’ll meet, and then—whoops!”

“I’ve often wanted to live in the country,” Roger remarked, casually. “Whereabouts are you going?”

“Thash another secret,” Eve declared, and laughed in his face. “I’m not as drunk as I seem, Handsome, you needn’t drink you can get anything out of me. Boyo! What a night! Do you know wha’? I’m going dizzy! The room’s going round and round and your eyesh are getting closer together; you look jush like a monkey. Ha-ha-ha! Handsome Wesh looks like a monkey—whoops!”

She fell back on the pillows, looking at him through her lashes, and seemed to be laughing at him. Her lips were pursed provocatively; she held her head a little to one side. “Handsome,” she cooed.

“Yes?”

“You haven’t even top me why you came to see me.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I’ve been worried about you ever since Tony’s murder.”

“Murder?” she echoed, in a squeaky voice; the word seemed to have sobered her in a flash. “Did you say murder?”

Roger said: “Well—”

“That’s what she said,” said Eve, deliberately, “but I don’t really believe it. Paul wouldn’t allow a wicked thing like that. Tony killed himself because I had turned him down, that’s what happened.” She straightened up. “Handsome, tell me he wasn’t murdered.”

Roger said carefully: “Officially, it was accidental death. I think he was murdered because he knew too much, and I think that anyone who knows the same thing is in danger. Tony’s brother knew, and he was attacked. Kate—you know Katie Brown—”

“Suddenly little piece,” muttered Eve, no longer on top of the world.

“You heard what happened to her, simply because of what she knew,” said Roger. “That’s why I come to see you so often. We want to look after you. You’re mixed up with a queer lot of people, Eve.”

“That’s not Paul’s fault! Paul’s all right, he’s wonderful! It’s that old woman and Warrender. I don’t trust either of them. Do you hear me, if anything happened it was their fault—not Paul’s. I—but I don’t believe it,” she added, abruptly. “I think you’re trying to scare me.” She glared. “I don’t want you bloody police coming and worrying me at all hours of the night, it’s not right. If I told Paul, he’d make you sit up!”

“Eve,” said Roger, in a voice which startled her. “I came to warn you that you might be in danger. Don’t take anything for granted. Don’t try to evade the men who are watching you—they’re looking after you, not trying to trap you. Don’t forget it.”

She was shocked into silence.

“Good night,” said Roger.

He turned and went out of the room. Allen, a stocky, plump man of forty, was standing in the hall, and obviously had heard every word of the conversation. He opened the front door for Roger, and then went downstairs. Allen made no comment until they reached the street. Then a car drew up, and Turnbull put his head out of the window. “We’ve found Peel,” he announced.

Roger forced his thoughts from Eve Franklin, and listened to Turnbull’s story.

A doctor at the City Hospital had seen Peel, and believed that he had been given a powerful narcotic; it was too early to say whether he was in a dangerous condition.

“As far as I can make out from the City chaps, Peel went into a damaged office to take a drink from his thermos flask,” explained Turnbull. “He probably found it a useful hiding place. It looks as if he had been watched, and someone was waiting in that passage and hit him when his back was turned.”

“And it also looks as if Tenby went to see Warrender, and didn’t want to be seen,” said Roger. “Past time we saw Tenby again.”

“Tonight?”

“Right now.”

“That’s better,” Turnbull said. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER XXI

TENBY IS INDIGNANT

TENBY BLINKED at Roger and Turnbull in the bright light of his bedroom. His landlady, a small, tight- lipped woman, stood on the landing. She had protested against being awakened at half past twelve, complained bitterly about her lodger being disturbed, and argued all the time they walked up the long narrow flight of stairs to the third floor where Tenby had his room. The house was clean, but needed repainting and repapering. Tenby’s room was large and tidy. There was an old-fashioned iron bedstead with brass knobs at the corners, a huge Victorian dressing table, and a large wardrobe. On a bamboo bedside table was a broken slab of chocolate. Tenby himself was in faded blue-striped pyjamas which were too small for him, and showed that he had a potbelly.

He rubbed his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Yes, o’ course. It’s all right, Mrs Reed, don’t worry.” He yawned, and stood back. “Come in, gentlemen. I’m sorry I’m not properly awake yet. ‘Ave a seat.”

“We’ll stand,” said Roger.

“All right, please yourself,” retorted Tenby. “I’m going to sit down.” He dropped into an old-fashioned armchair. “Now, what’s it all about? I didn’t want to kick up a stink wiv the old dragon about, but it’s a bit ‘ot, coming here at this time o’ night.”

“Where have you been tonight?” Roger demanded.

“Minding me own—the same as you oughter.”

“You were at The Lion, in Chelsea, until half past eight. Where did you go after that?”

“Oh, so you’ve been spying on me, ‘ave yer?” Tenby was truculent. “I’m going to lodge a complaint, that’s what I’m going to do. Where I go is me own business, and you needn’t think I’m going to tell you.”

Roger looked at Turnbull. “We’d better take him along.”

“And break his neck on the way.”

“You can flicking well think again,” snapped Tenby. “I’m staying here.”

“You’re coming to the Yard to make a statement about your movements tonight,” said Roger. “Put some clothes on.”

“I tell you—”

“If you won’t put some clothes on, we’ll wrap you up in a blanket and carry you downstairs. Don’t argue. You’ll tell us where you’ve been tonight, or you’ll come along with us to the Yard.”

Tenby looked at him, insolently. “Okay, I’ll come,” he said, “but you ‘aven’t ‘eard the last o’ this, Mr Ruddy West.”

He got up and began to dress.

Obviously, he was worried, and his truculence sprang from the effort to hide his anxiety. He dressed slowly and deliberately. Now and again, his gaze wandered to a corner cabinet, but it did not linger for long; obviously, he had not expected tonight’s visit. A search of the room might yield a stock of drugs, as Tenby had once been a chemist, but without a search warrant it wasn’t worth the risk. A man could stay outside, and make sure that no one else entered the room.

“Well, I’m ready,” said Tenby, at last.

In his car Roger kept glancing at his passenger, but

Tenby stared haughtily ahead. This was the man who might be much cleverer than the police realised; he might have murdered Tony Brown, and been responsible for the attack on Bill Brown—if the police theory was right.

At the Yard, Turnbull went to Information, and Roger took Tenby along to his office, then sent for a shorthand writer. Tenby’s continued silence began to irritate him; he was suspicious of a trick, and watched his words carefully.

“Now, let’s have it. Where have you been tonight?”

“What’s the charge?” demanded Tenby.

“If I make a charge, you’ll soon find out.”

“I don’t want any more of your lip,” sneered Tenby. “I’m not going to make no statement, but I’m going to raise hell about being dragged out of bed at this time o’ night.”

Roger said: “So you formally refuse to tell us where you’ve been tonight?”

“And what are you going to do about it ? “sneered Tenby.

“Make a note of that,” Roger said to a sergeant. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at the man standing in front of him. “I want to know something else,” he went on. “Do you remember the night of October 31?”

“Why should I remember any particular night?” demanded Tenby. “You ruddy dicks are all the same, just because I had a bit of luck—”

“I’m not so sure that Odds-on Pools are as lucky for you as you think,” interrupted Roger. “October 31 was a Wednesday, the night that Tony Brown was gassed in his room at Battersea. Remember Brown?”

“Yes, and I knew a man named Smith once.”

“The day will come when you won’t feel so smart,” said Roger. “Let me remind you about the 31st of October again. You weren’t at The Lion all that evening. You weren’t at home. Your landlady has been questioned, and she knows you were out. None of your friends know where you were, but you were reported to be in Battersea Park.”

“That’s a lie!” Tenby’s voice rose.

“We’ll find out whether it’s true or not. If you weren’t in the park, where were you?”

“You don’t expect me to remember where I am every night, do you?”

“I think you remember that particular night,” said Roger. “You refuse to tell me that, too—that right?”

“I tell you I don’t remember!”

Roger glanced at the shorthand writer.

“Got that, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Tenby, I shan’t hold you—yet. But you’re in big trouble, unless you remember where you were on the night of the 31st of October.”

Tenby’s little eyes were looking everywhere but at Roger, and his hands were working. The sergeant stood stolidly by.

“Get going,” Roger said, roughly.

Tenby hesitated.

“Well?” asked Roger, abruptly.

“I can’t remember what happened nearly three weeks ago,” Tenby muttered. “Tonight—”

“Yes?”

“I was out seeing some of me old friends. Just because I’ve ‘ad a bit o’ luck, it doesn’t mean that I drop me old friends like ‘ot cakes. Wouldn’t be fair.” Tenby became virtuous. “I got a Number 11 to the Bank, then picked up a 13 to Algit. That’s where I was, see? If you’d asked me decently, I would have told you right from the beginning.”

“Where did you go?” demanded Roger.

“The Three Bells.”

“What time did you arrive there?”

“Round about ten, I s’pose.”

“It doesn’t take an hour and a half to get from Chelsea to Aldgate.”

“I ‘ad to wait for a bus—”

“There’s a good bus service,” said Roger, coldly, leaning back in his chair. “Have you seen Warrender tonight, Tenby?”

“Who?”

“George Warrender. Raeburn’s secretary.”

“Now, listen,” said Tenby, earnestly. “I wouldn’t go to see that geezer if you was to offer me a five-pound note. I did a few jobs for them once, mind you. When Raeburn bought ‘is dog-racing tracks, I kept an eye open for them before the races, to see there wasn’t no funny business with , the dogs. But d’you know what? They wanted me to dope the dogs. Me! I soon sheered off them. Mind you, they didn’t come out in the open; a lot of ‘ints, that’s all there was, but it told me plenty. I don’t interfere with a man’s sport, Mr West, you can take that from me. Why, I ‘aven’t done a stroke of work for Warrender or Raeburn since then —you can ask them if you like. They can’t say no different.”

“And you haven’t seen Warrender tonight?”

“Of course I haven’t!” Tenby rubbed his hands together, nervously. “Listen, Mr West, I’ll tell you what did happen tonight, Gawd’s truth. I ‘ad a telephone message at The Lion, a man asked me to meet him at Algit Pump, see? ‘E said he was a friend of a friend. ‘E said he’d got a dead cert for me at Birmingham, so I said I’d go along. I was early and he was late, that’s how it was I was so long getting to The Three Bells. This bloke wanted me to lend ‘im some money—that was the truth of it. You’d be surprised the tricks they get up to. I’m sorry I can’t account for where I was every minute of the evening, but that’s the truth, Mr West.”

“It had better be,” Roger said, grimly.

“And if you’d been as friendly when you woke me up as you arc now—”

“You’d have lied to me then, instead of now,” said Roger. “You won’t get away with murder, Tenby.”

“Why, I never said a word about—about murder!” Tenby jumped up. “It’s not fair, Mr West, picking on me like this just because I ‘ad a bit o’ luck!”

“Tony Brown didn’t have much luck.”

“I never knew there was such a man until I read about him in the paper,” protested Tenby. “I’ve told you the solemn truth, Mr West. I give you my oath on it.”

“All right. I’ll want you back here to sign a statement in the morning,” Roger said. “You can make up your mind about any additions by then.”

“I don’t mind what I sign,” declared Tenby. “I want to make things as easy as I can. But you rake my advice, Mr West, and don’t trust that Warrender or that Raeburn. They’re nasty pieces o’ work.”

“I know a lot of nasty pieces of work,” said Roger, and Tenby gave up.

Roger sent a sergeant to drive him back.

There was the gap which Tenby could not account for, and a lot could happen in three-quarters of an hour. Roger made a note to inquire from the landlord of The Lion whether there had been a telephone message, and, after a few minutes’ talk with Turnbull, went home.

Peel’s condition was unchanged.

Before Tenby arrived next morning, the landlord of The Lion confirmed that the man had been called to the telephone; that part of his story seemed true. But why had he refused to tell it earlier? In the cold light of morning, Roger found another important question: why had Tenby’s manner changed so abruptly? Had he been knocked completely off balance by the talk of Tony Brown’s murder?

Undoubtedly, Tenby had been at The Three Bells, Aid- gate, at ten o’clock, but his movements between those critical hours of nine and ten could not be checked. There were no grounds for making a charge, or even searching his rooms. If anything had been concealed in the corner, it would almost certainly be gone by now.

Nothing else had happened at Eve’s apartment.

Raeburn and Warrender reached the City office together soon after ten o’clock; that was normal enough.

Roger had a telephoned report about that at a quarter to eleven, and was then told that Tenby was waiting to see him. The statement was already typed out. Roger went along to a waiting-room, and the little man signed before witnesses. His manner was calmer, and more ingratiating.

“If there’s anything I can do for you at any time, Mr West, I’ll be only too glad, I will really,” he said. “Last night was a bit of a shock. I wouldn’t have behaved like that if I ‘adn’t just been woke up, that’s the truth.” He rubbed his bleary eyes. “I’m sorry I be’aved so badly.”

“There is one other job you can do for me,” Roger said.

“Anything, Mr West, anything! What is it?”

“I want you to have a look at a man who’s been knocked about a bit,” said Roger. “You may recognise him.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Tenby, “but I’ll see ‘im.”

Tenby seemed on edge on the way to the City Hospital, but had recovered some of his confidence. Once or twice he rustled some chocolate paper in his pocket.

They walked along the corridors, Tenby complaining that he didn’t like the smell of antiseptics: they always made him feel sick; he never went into a hospital unless he was forced to, he declared.

“Nor did this man,” said Roger, dryly.

He reached Joe’s room, and opened the door without knocking. Joe was sitting up in bed with a newspaper in front of him. He glanced up, and his expression hardened when he saw Roger who entered first.

Then he saw Tenby. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes; only a flash, but quite unmistakable. Roger looked sharply at Tenby, but Tenby’s face was blank.

So there was another indication; still not evidence, but another line which might develop. Given a trivial charge against Tenby, they could step up the pressure against him.

Where could he find a charge?

He left Tenby in the hall, eating chocolates, and went along to see Peel, who was conscious, but still drowsy. He was not badly hurt, and the chief effect was from morphia. Peel could only suggest that his flask of tea had been doped.

As Roger left, a little old lady hurried along the passage: Peel’s mother, intent on seeing her son.

In the office, Roger still worried about Tenby’s sudden change of mood, then put it in the back of his mind, and set to work on other possibilities. He rejected the idea of telling a newspaperman about Raeburn’s forthcoming marriage; a leakage would probably be blamed on Eve, and do no good. He was anxious to locate the cottage she had mentioned, and sent out a memorandum to the provincial police.

Eddie Day was inquisitive, and called across the office: “Why should Raeburn want to keep the engagement secret, Handsome?”

“Not feeling well?” asked Roger, sympathetically.

“Now come off it!”

“You shouldn’t need to ask,” said Roger. “He doesn’t want us to realise he’s going to marry a woman so that she can’t be subpoenaed to give evidence against him.”

“Why, of course, that’s it!” exclaimed Eddie.

Raeburn put down the telephone, and lit a cigarette. Warrender leaned over the desk in the big office at Raeburn Investments, and Raeburn held out his lighter. Probably no one else would have noticed it, but each was aware of the telltale signs of nervousness in the other. Warrender looked thin, older, and more careworn, but the strain of the past few days had not outwardly affected Raeburn.

“Well?” asked Raeburn, at last.

“I think we shall be able to act soon,” said Warrender. “The police called for Tenby late last night, and took him off to the Yard. They didn’t keep him long, but they suspect him of the attack on Peel, and will watch him pretty closely now—more closely than they had been doing. He swallowed the bait all right.”

“Yes,” said Raeburn. “Who did attack Peel?”

“I did, after I’d noticed him and telephoned for Tenby,” answered Warrender. “You needn’t worry, they can’t get us for that. I slipped out of a first-floor window at the back, went round to the waste patch, and put a morphia tablet in his tea. It didn’t work quick enough, so I caught him from behind. He didn’t see me, though, don’t worry. Tenby’s suspected, and he’ll be scared enough to do whatever we want.”

“I suppose it’s all right,” said Raeburn, uneasily. “But you’re taking a lot of chances.”

“I’ve got to,” Warrender said, very deliberately. “I can’t trust anyone else, Paul. There’s a new porter at the flat, and I think he works for the police. West is like an India rubber.”

“One day I’ll get him.”

“Forget it,” said Warrender, “you’ll only be asking for trouble. All we want is to fool him. We’ll send Tenby down to the cottage first, and let Eve go afterward. She’d better arrive just before dark. I’ll deal with her, and Tenby will come tearing away for help. I’ll intercept him, and give him his faked passport and visa, with enough money to satisfy him. Okay?”

“It ought to be all right,” Raeburn conceded. Warrender took a slip of paper from his pocket, and dropped it on to the desk. “Here’s something that will interest you,” he said, casually.

Raeburn looked down. It was a scrawled note, threatening to tell the police the truth about Eve Franklin’s evidence unless Raeburn paid the writer five thousand pounds. There was no signature, but there were instructions to meet a man wearing a red carnation outside the Palladium the following day.

“That will be identified as Tenby’s handwriting,” Warrender said, with a smile that did not touch his eyes. “It’s a perfect forgery, Paul. When the police come to see us, after Tenby’s gone, we’ll show it to them, and we’ll make out a list of imaginary threats by telephone. We’ll get away with it, all right.”

“Does Melville know?”

“He does not! No one knows but you and me,” said Warrender. “I haven’t even told Ma.” When Raeburn didn’t reply, he went on: “Paul, what’s on your mind? You’re not yourself this morning.”

“I’m myself, all right,” Raeburn said. “Someone else isn’t, that’s the trouble. Your India rubber went to see Eve last night.”

“What!”

“It worries me, too,” admitted Raeburn. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at Warrender through his lashes. “Did you know about it?”

“My God, I didn’t!”

“Wasn’t someone supposed to be watching the apartment?”

“Tenby fixed that with a woman across the road,” answered Warrender. “He said there was always someone in—I was told quickly enough when West first went to see Eve. That’s the trouble—it’s been the trouble since we started employing Tenby; we can’t rely on anyone to do exactly what they’re told. But—Eve can handle West now, can’t she?”

“She went home and got tight,” Raeburn told him, bluntly. Warrender made no comment, but his lips were tightly compressed. “She says she’s sure she didn’t tell him anything that mattered, but did tell him about the engagement, and that was plenty. He’ll probably hand the story out to the newspapers.”

“They’d talk to us before doing much,” said Warrender, without conviction. “Anyhow, the Cry will let us know if the story’s been put around.”

“I think you’re underrating West now,” Raeburn said, quietly. “There would be no general statement. It would be passed on to one paper as a scoop, and West wouldn’t choose the Cry. The best thing is for me to release the story, and spoil West’s move. But we’re getting away from the point, George. We must know whenever anyone visits Eve.”

“I’ll see to that in future,” Warrender promised.

“You say that very smoothly,” said Raeburn. He stood lap and walked toward the little man, staring down at him. I” You’re going to look after everything, aren’t you, George? You aren’t going to make any mistakes, now that you’re doing everything yourself. I should make sure it’s done extremely w^ll.”

“It will be,” Warrender said, flatly. “Listen to me, Paul. Eve will be killed, so she can’t talk, and Tenby will fall over himself to get out of the country. It just can’t go wrong.”

Raeburn thrust his hands into his pockets, and did not look away.

“I don’t think we ought to take any risk that Tenby might be caught,” he said. “Now that we’ve gone so far, I think we ought to make a clean sweep of it. Tenby’s got to be killed.”

“But the whole thing turns on Tenby being framed!” Warrender protested. “If they’re both killed, we’re bound to be suspected. We must have a scapegoat, Paul. You’re worrying about nothing, anyway. Tenby couldn’t do us any real harm, only Eve can. He killed Tony Brown; we’ve never been directly involved. He says he saw you kill Halliwell, but his evidence wouldn’t stand up on its own. He introduced Eve to us—why, Melville could prepare a case which could get Tenby hanged, and leave us clear. There isn’t any doubt about it, Paul, don’t make another mistake now.”

“Another mistake?” murmured Raeburn.

Warrender flashed: “Yes, another! If you hadn’t lost your head and killed Halliwell, none of this would have happened. And you wouldn’t let me stop Tenby when I saw he was going too far.”

He broke off, shocked by the glitter which appeared in Raeburn’s eyes.

“So you haven’t much confidence left in me,” said Raeburn, very thinly.

“I don’t trust your judgment over this.”

“I’m beginning to doubt whether I can trust yours in anything,” Raeburn said, softly. “We’ll talk about it again, later. I’ll see you at the flat at half past three.”

He made a gesture of dismissal as he went back to his desk, while Warrender looked at him intently. Raeburn ignored that protracted stare, and telephoned the Editor of the Evening Cry. He began to give details of the story he wanted to appear in that evening issue concerning his coming marriage to Eve Franklin.

Warrender went out, and closed the door softly.

It was obvious at a glance that Eve was nervous. She was wearing two great silver fox furs over a smart two-piece dress as she walked quickly up and down the lounge of the Grosvenor. When she saw Raeburn, she caught her breath; then she went toward him with her hands outstretched.

“You look—wonderful,” he greeted her.

So all was well!

“Do I, Paul?”

“Too wonderful to remain single,” Raeburn said, his eyes brimming over as if with good humour. “I’ve decided to tell the newspapers, darling, but we’ll fool them one way. I’ve a special licence in my pocket—”

“Paul!”

“Hush,” said Raeburn, squeezing her hand. “We’ll get married this afternoon.”

“Oh, Paul!”

“And you’ll go straight home; no one will be likely to follow you except the police, and it doesn’t matter about them,” Raeburn said. “Tomorrow afternoon I’ll send the Rolls round to you, and you can drive to the cottage. I’ll come later in the evening. Happy, darling?”

“It’s like—it’s like a dream.”

“It will be a dream! We won’t leave here together, my sweet. Go straight to Caxton Hall, and I’ll be there at two o’clock.”

A clerk and a porter were the witnesses.

When Raeburn reached his flat after the ceremony, the policeman who was watching outside looked at him long and hard. The porter suspected of being a detective was in the hall, but avoided his eye. Raeburn turned to the lift, and a man darted out of the shadows toward him.

“Mr Raeburn!”

Raeburn swung round, for the voice was familiar, and die face only too familiar: it was Tenby.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Raeburn felt a surge of violent rage as he spoke.

“I’ve got to ‘ave a word with you,” muttered Tenby. “It’s important or I wouldn’t ‘ave come. I’ve just got to. It won’t take long.”

CHAPTER XXII

TENBY ACCUSES

THE DAMAGE was done, Raeburn thought savagely; “Tenby had been seen coming here, and the police would guess whom he had come to see. Raeburn fought to control his feelings. “All right, come along.”

He walked to the lift, with Tenby following at his heels, meekly. They did not say a word in the lift because of the porter. Raeburn thought he saw the suspect porter hurrying up the stairs, but could not be sure. There was no sign of the man when they reached the flat.

Raeburn opened the door with a key, and ushered Tenby in. Ma Beesley popped her head out of the room; at sight of Tenby, she raised her hands in shocked dismay. When her smile came back, it looked as if it were glued on.

“Is George in?” Raeburn demanded.

“Why, yes, in the study.” Ma actually gaped at Tenby.

Warrender was sitting at the desk, pretending to look through account books. He stared, poker-faced, until he saw Tenby. Then he sprang up. “Good God!”

“It shook me, too,” Raeburn said. He slammed the door, then gripped Tenby by the coat, and drew him close. “Why the hell did you come here? You know you’re paid to keep away. I’d like to—”

Tenby cringed. “It was the only thing to do, Mr Raeburn. I couldn’t stay away—nor would you, if you thought what I think.”

“Think? You haven’t enough brain to think, you drunken swine.”

“Maybe I can think better than you imagine,” Tenby retorted, with nervous defiance. “I’m not going to be double-crossed by anyone, not even you, Mr Raeburn. It wasn’t any use asking you to come to see me, and I mean to get things straight.”

Raeburn released him, and Tenby shrugged his coat into position.

“That’s a fine way to treat a man who’s worked for you like I ‘ave,” he muttered. “Anyone would think I was i bit of dirt.”

Raeburn looked as if he had difficulty keeping his hands off the man. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, now you’re here.”

Tenby took a newspaper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pointed to a single-column headline, an account in the Evening Cry of the attack on Peel. “See that?”

“It’s in every evening paper,” Warrender barked.

“I dessay it is,” said Tenby. “But here’s something that ain’t. West nearly pulled me for that job.”

“I’ve told you West will catch up with you one day,” said Warrender.

“West won’t ever catch up with me if I’m not double- crossed,” retorted Tenby, softly. “You think I don’t know what happened, don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you something. I was called to Algit last night by a man who said he was a friend of mine. I didn’t know who it was, and thought it might be you. When I reached the Pump, no one was there to see me. I hung about waiting for a bit, and that’s the time when Peel was bashed. I’ve got no alibi, see ?”

Raeburn said: “Well?”

H “I couldn’t understand it until I read that story,” Tenby went on. “Then I knew it was a frame-up, Mr Raeburn. Someone made sure I’d got no alibi, too. It looks to me as if you and your pal George think I’m too dangerous, and want me inside. Let me tell you this, I’ve got plenty to say if I get caught. If West catches up with mc on his own, I won’t open my trap, but if you fix me— then you’ll see what happens.”

He stopped, and moistened his lips.

Warrender said: “You’re a fool, Tenby,” but Tenby was staring at Raeburn, who had been bleak-faced during the first part of the story. Toward the end, he began to smile in a curious fashion, not one that Tenby could dislike.

“If you had an idea like that in your head, it was better to get it out,” he said, “but you’re wrong, Tenby.”

“Then who—”

“I don’t know who sent that telephone message, but I do know that we don’t want you in the dock.” Raeburn spoke derisively. “Where would we be if you were put up in front of a good counsel? Don’t be a fool.”

“Then who did it?”

“We’ll have to find out,” said Raeburn.

“Maybe you know where to start,” muttered Tenby. The other’s attitude obviously both placated and puzzled him. “I’m tired of it, Mr Raeburn, that’s the truth. I don’t mind admitting I thought I did a good job when I got rid of Brown, but ever since then I’ve been worried because things just haven’t gone right. It’s not only the telephone message, it’s the other business, too.”

“What other business?” Warrender demanded.

“Don’t kid me,” sneered Tenby. “You know. The Barnes Common do and the affair at Berry Street.”

“We want to talk to you about those,” said Raeburn. “Perhaps it is as well you came. Why did you fix those two jobs?”

“I didn’t fix ‘em!” Tenby looked flabbergasted. “ ‘Ere, what’s the game, Mr Raeburn? You’ve been using others besides me; it’s no use pretending you ‘aven’t. Even last night, there was another bit of mystery. The skirt I got to watch Eve’s flat was taken in by a phony message—someone said ‘er old man ‘ad met with a n’accident, but he ‘adn’t. Wot is all this, Mr Raeburn?”

“Are you trying to pretend you didn’t attack Katie Brown——”

“I’ve got more sense!”

After a long, tense pause, Raeburn said: “Then who did?” He stared at Warrender, who looked almost frightened; a barrier of suspicion and distrust had risen between them; there was dislike in the way they looked at each other. “I certainly want to know who did,” Raeburn went on. “That’s something else we’ll have to find out, Tenby, but I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

“That’s easy to say, but everywhere I go the dicks are on me tail. It’s coming to something when they drag me out of bed for questioning. The truth is it’s time I dropped the lot and cleared out.”

“You mean out of the country?”

“Out of London would do for a start,” Tenby replied, edgily. “Not that I would mind going abroad for a bit. Wot’s on your mind, Mr Raeburn?”

“I’ve a little cottage in Berkshire, not far from Reading, where you’d be all right for a few days,” Raeburn said. “It’s empty, too. Care to go there?”

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea,” Tenby conceded. “But understand me, Mr Raeburn, I didn’t do the Barnes job or the Berry Street one, neither.”

When he left the flat, he had a box of chocolates and the keys of the cottage with him. Raeburn’s final injunction was ringing in his ears: he must make the journey after dark, so that the police wouldn’t find out where he’d gone.

Turnbull came into Roger’s office, next morning, and squatted on the corner of his desk. Roger was opening a letter addressed to M’sieu l’lnspecteur Roger West, and glanced up.

“Half a mo’.”

“I only want to tell you that Tenby called on Raeburn last night, and Raeburn didn’t think much of it.”

Roger dropped the letter from France. “When was this ?”

“I heard about an hour ago,” said Turnbull, swinging his legs. “Raeburn went up in the air when he saw Tenby, but soon cooled off. He took Tenby upstairs, and our little friend came down half an hour later, looking as pleased as Punch—and hugging a box of chocolates!”

“Chocolates,” echoed Roger.

“Tenby’s got a sweet tooth, remember.”

“But still—a box of chocolates ‘from Raeburn to Tenby,” said Roger. He paused. “Tenby still being followed by a good man?”

“Yes.”

“That’s okay.” At last, Roger opened the letter from Paris, and his eyes brightened as he read. He pushed the letter across to Turnbull, and was actually grinning. “Ma Beesley used to go around with one tall handsome man, and one small, very thin man,” he said. “The Trouville and Deauville police were after them. There’s no proof, but strong suspicion, that they were confidence tricksters. I’ll ask Raeburn how he likes the twin resorts, one of these days. It can’t be coincidence.”

“Shouldn’t think so, but it doesn’t give us what we want,” Turnbull said. “Anything else come in?”

“No. I’ve arranged for Raeburn, Warrender, and Ma to go along to the City Hospital to see Joe,” Roger told him. “I had a job to persuade them, but they toed the line. It’s a long chance, but we might strike lucky. Any trace of Ma’s early London life?”

“She lived way back in a flat in Bethnal Green,” said Turnbull, “and her reputation wasn’t so hot; she sent her kids out begging, but always managed to keep her nose clean. She left there in 1929.”

“How old were the kids?”

“The eldest was about fifteen,” said Turnbull. “The others still school age.”

“Did you get their names?”

“Not yet, but I’m still trying. What about Raeburn’s little cottage in the country?”

“I nearly forgot that,” Roger said.

“Yeah?”

Roger shrugged. “We can’t .very well watch every place that Raeburn owns, but I think there’s some funny business over this place where Eve is going. I’ve located it—not far from Reading. I’ve asked Mark Lessing to go down there; he was aching for a chance to get his own back.” Roger narrowed his eyes, as he went on: “We might withdraw most of our men from open tagging for twelve hours, but keep all Raeburn’s associates watched, of course. They might get careless.”

“What does Chatworth say?”

“He says that the Cry’s readers are enough to drive anyone mad, judging from their letters of protest, and he supposes I know what I’m doing,” said Roger, flatly. “We’ll have them off tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, we’ll let Raeburn and his friends see our mysterious Joe. Care to come along?”

“I would!”

“You drive Warrender and Ma, I’ll take Raeburn,” said Roger. “They’re due here any minute. All they know is they’re going to see a man suspected of burgling their flat.”

The* trio were waiting in the hall, Raeburn with obvious impatience, Warrender looking a little shinier, Ma even fatter. During the journey, Raeburn sat silent, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As they reached the Bank, he asked: “Just where are we going, West?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Roger, as if surprised. “This man’s at the City Hospital. One of our men was knocked about badly the other night, and is also there.”

“This business won’t take long, I hope?”

“It should be all over in less than twenty minutes,” Roger said, mildly.

He took Raeburn into the ward first. Joe was sitting in bed, propped up with pillows. He was a better colour, and looked younger than he had at Berry Street, and during his first few days at the hospital. The bald patch at the front of his head added years to his appearance; he was probably in the early thirties.

Joe looked at Raeburn blankly.

“Have you ever seen this man before, Mr Raeburn?” Roger asked.

“No,” answered Raeburn, flatly. “Never.”

Nothing in his expression suggested that he was lying, and there was no flash of recognition between the two.

“And I certainly don’t know him,” Joe said. “I’m a stranger to millionaires who get their names in the papers.”

“Is that all?” asked Raeburn, coldly.

“Wait outside for a few minutes, please, while the others come in,” Roger said.

Turnbull brought Warrender in, a lion with a black sheep. Warrender gave the impression that he was afraid of a trap, and looked relieved when, after a prolonged stare at the man on the bed, he said: “I don’t think this was one of the men who burgled the flat. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“Right, thanks,” said Roger, briskly. “Mrs Beesley, please,” he called.

Ma Beesley came in. She grinned inanely about her, but on the instant Joe’s expression changed and for a second there was recognition in his eyes. It quickly disappeared, and there was no change at all in Ma’s manner, but Roger was convinced that these two knew each other.

Outside the hospital, a newsboy stood selling papers. Raeburn bought an Evening Cry, and Roger followed suit, wondering whether news of the engagement had leaked out. The first headline to catch his eye ran: PAUL RAEBURN WED.

Roger looked up into Raeburn’s face.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” the millionaire asked, smoothly.

CHAPTER XXIII

REPORT FROM LALEHAM COTTAGE

MARK LESSING reached the Berkshire village at lunchtime, and drew his Talbot up in the gravelled courtyard of The King’s Arms. It was drizzling, and the sky was very dark in the east; a bleak wind was blowing, and there was little about the weather or the countryside to cheer him. The low-built inn needed painting, and might be drab. He had driven through the village, and found it equally depressing. It was off the main road, and the local inhabitants seemed to take little pride in their homes. Nearly opposite the inn was a garage, outside which stood several derelict cars and some rusty petrol pumps.

Mark had to bend low in order to get into the hall of the inn. He stood for some minutes, but no one appeared. He pushed open two doors marked SALOON and LOUNGE, but both rooms were deserted. He could hear voices from the back of the inn, and, going to another closed door, he pushed it open and called: “Anyone about?”

“Whassat?” a man asked, almost from underneath his nose.

He looked down to see a little wizened creature, with overlong hair, staring at him.

“Can I get some lunch?”

“Lunch?” the man echoed, as if the word were new to him. “Well, now, I don’t know if there’s anything left.”

“Bread and cheese, and a glass of beer would do.”

“I daresay we can fix something. Just go through the lounge,” said the little man.

The lounge had not been tidied up since the previous night’s occupation. The ash trays were full, and the dried marks of wet glasses showed on the tables. The grey ashes of a long-dead fire looked cheerless in a small grate. Mark had started out cheerfully and hopefully, but this was enough to damp anybody’s spirits.

He pushed open a door marked DINING ROOM, and light from a blazing fire in a large grate made him blink. The room was warm. Several people sat at the small tables, and everyone looked up at him. Most of them had reached the sweet course.

No one was there to take his order, so he went to a table near the fire and looked at a finger-soiled menu card. The pencilled offering was ‘Roast Beef’. He glanced toward the service door; at last it opened, and the little man came in, carrying a plate of soup.

He made a beeline for Mark. “You’re lucky, sir,” he announced, proudly.

“That’s good.”

“Beef to follow,” went on the wizened man. “Anything to drink?”

“A pint of beer, please.”

The pint came in a battered pewter tankard, but the brew was good. So were the roast beef, the rich Yorkshire pudding, and even the Brussels sprouts. Mark’s spirits rose as he set to. He was the last in the dining-room, except the little man who stood warming his back and looking at him as he ate.

“Passing through?” the man asked at last.

“Yes and no,” said Mark, and told his prepared lie. “I’m looking for a house.”

“Not the only one,” said the little man. “Shocking, the shortage is. Large or small?”

“Medium.”

“Don’t know of one.” The little man shook his head. “Might have more luck in Reading, but I doubt it.”

“I’m looking for a place in the country,” Mark explained, “and I thought I’d stay here for a night or two. You have a room, I suppose?”

“Could do it,” conceded the little man. “We’ve got several rooms, if it comes to that. Show you the best one after lunch.”

He became positively garrulous when they left the dining-room, and was soon chatting about Laleham Outage; Mark’s errand had reminded him of it. The cottage had changed hands some months before, but no one had come to live there. Oh, yes, it was furnished. It was a crying shame that people bought houses and left them empty, while others had nowhere to live. The cottage was just over there—he pointed out of a front bedroom window— as a matter of fact, it had five bedrooms and three rooms downstairs, as well as a couple of acres. Some cottage!

The house was built halfway up a bleak hill, and about half a mile away. Beyond the building, the hill was wooded, and at one side was a dark patch of shrubs.

“I know what it’s like, because I had a look round when it was up for sale,” explained the little innkeeper. “Six thousand five hundred—I’d rather keep my money in the bank! Well, how does this room suit you?”

“I think I’m going to like it,” said Mark.

The weather cleared in the middle of the afternoon, and he went to look at Raeburn’s new place. No one was about. The grounds were well kept and the ornamental garden trim and well stocked. The house was attractive from the outside, mainly Elizabethan, but one or two recent alterations had been made.

On a wide lawn, in the front garden, stood a summer- house, and Mark strolled toward it. From its window he could see the house and the long drive; he could not want a better place in which to conceal himself.

“It’ll do me for tonight,” he decided, and drove back to The King’s Arms. He was determined to succeed down here, whatever it cost; the Brighton fiasco rankled.

Just before dark, he took the car rugs to the summer- house, and made sure that the cottage was still unoccupied. He went back to the inn for dinner, which was as good as lunch had been, deciding to begin his vigil immediately afterward. He walked to the summer-house, and settled down.

By nine o’clock he was cold and cramped. To get warm, be strode about the lawn, looking down on the village and its few lights, and, farther away, toward the myriad yellow dots, the lights of Reading. The wind had strengthened, and cut right through him.

“I wonder how long I need stay?” he asked himself.

If anyone arrived at the house, lights would go on, and he would be able to see them from his room window. He decided to end the vigil at midnight, had another brisk walk to get warm, and returned to the summer-house.

At half past eleven, he heard a car approaching. He got up, and went to the window. The headlights were shining on the house, and, as the car turned into the drive, shone toward him. Mark ducked. The light passed him, bathing die house in its glare. He could not see clearly, but felt sure there were two people in the car.

“Raeburn and his Eve, perhaps.” He felt the sharp edge of excitement. “I—no, it isn’t!”

Two men appeared in die headlights, and Mark saw something pass between them; the car was a taxi, and there was only one passenger. It was a man, who stood on the porch as the taxi turned for the return journey, and Mark recognised him immediately from photographs.

It was Tenby.

Tenby opened the front door and went inside; a light blazed out from the hall. The front door closed, and other lights went on, first at the front, and then at the sides. Mark could see the man moving about.

He ventured out of the summer-house, but could neither hear nor see anyone near. He approached the cottage cautiously, and saw Tenby in a front room with a bottle and a gl^ss by his side.

Tenby got up, yawning. He opened a box of chocolates, popped one into his mouth, picked up the box, and went out of the room, switching off the light. His footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs.

Mark hurried back to the village, and telephoned Roger, at home.

* * * * *

“Couldn’t be better,” Roger said. “We’d lost him. . . . Stay in your room, or the hotel, until we’re in touch. We’ll be watching, but may not show ourselves until tomorrow.”

“Right,” Mark said, and went back and treated himself to a double Scotch.

He was in his room next evening, looking out of the window, when a small car stopped outside the garage.

The driver, small, square-shouldered, vaguely familiar, got out to look for an attendant. He had a heavy black beard and moustache, and was wearing a cloth cap and a tweed coat, so obviously theatrical that it seemed absurd.

The garage attendant appeared, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “And what can I do for you, sir?”

“Petrol and oil,” said the bearded man, brusquely.

Mark stood watching, trying to place his voice, watched him pay the attendant, get back into the car, and drive toward Laleham Cottage. He went past the gateway, turned right at the top of a hill just beyond the cottage, and disappeared behind a copse of beech. Mark heard the gears change. Then the sound of the engine faded.

For a while nothing happened, and no one appeared. Mark began to wonder whether Roger had been right to tell him to stay here, when he saw the theatrical-looking man hurry across a patch of grass, and disappear again behind some dark shrubs. Mark could see his hat bobbing up and, down, as if he were trying to reach the cottage without being seen.

A car came along the village High Street, making little sound; Mark first saw it out of the corner of his eye. He drew in a sharp breath as he recognised Raeburn’s Silver Wraith, with a woman at the wheel; no one was with her.

“And Eve makes three,” Mark murmured. “Now I’ll make four.”

He hurried downstairs, putting on his coat as he went. His car was standing in the yard. The self-starter did not work at the first push, and he growled at it; promptly the engine hummed. As he turned into the road, he could think only of one thing: the bearded man’s furtive approach and its possible significance. He might be intent only on hearing what passed between Eve and Tenby, but did the girl know that Tenby was there?

Mark saw one of two men who had been in the hotel for lunch, near the entrance to the cottage grounds; the man was concealed from the house by trees. Mark waved to him casually, and drove on in the direction taken by the bearded man. The little car was parked off the road near the corpse. He pulled up a few yards farther along, jumped out, and hurried across the open ground where he had seen the man. It seemed a long way to the cottage, and his heart was thumping. He could not see his quarry, but as he reached the drive and peered through the bushes, he saw Eve standing at the front door, which had just been opened, and heard her exclaim: “You!”

“Well, wot a pleasure,” Tenby said, in a high-pitched voice. “Wot a pleasure it is, Evie. I never thought I’d see you ‘ere. What’s the game?”

“What are you doing here?” Eve demanded, shrilly.

“I’ve been invited,” Tenby answered, grandly. “My wealthy friends decided I was socially okay, but I didn’t know anyone else was coming.”

They went in.

Mark crept round to the back of the cottage, and tried the back door; it was not locked. He stepped inside, keeping a sharp look out for the bearded man. He saw the marks made by damp shoes on the oil cloth, and went into a narrow passage which presumably led from the kitchen to the front of the house. He passed a door which he thought was closed.

He was about to go into the hall, when a hand shot out from the door, without any warning, and clutched his throat, stifling a cry. He caught a glimpse of the man with the black beard; then a sharp blow caught him behind the ear, and he felt his senses swimming.

The bearded man broke his fall, left him lying on the floor, and opened the door wider.

Tenby had been talking shrilly all the time, and now his voice was clear; Mark could just hear him! “It’s a trap, that’s what it is, a trap. Don’t ask me who they want to trap, the ruddy swine!”

“What—what are you going to do?” asked Eve, in a scared voice.

“I’m going to ring Raeburn, that’s what.” There were quick footsteps as he crossed the hall, and the bearded man crept toward it. Tenby banged the receiver up and down, and Mark, trying to get up without attracting attention, sensed the desperate anxiety in the man’s voice as he cried: “For Gawd’s sake, answer me!”

“Is—is it working?” asked Eve.

“It’s nothing but a bloody trap!” cried Tenby. “ ‘Ere, I’m getting out. I never trusted the swine. I even kept me case packed. Get out of my way.”

“Don’t leave me alone!” There was terror in Eve’s voice. “Tenby, don’t—”

Mark heard a thud, as if Tenby had pushed her against the wall. Then the front door slammed. ,ark tried to get up again, but the pain in his head was agonising, and he dared not make a noise.

The bearded man crept forward, out of his sight.

Then Mark, trying again, saw Roger West stepping silently along the passage. Roger glanced at him, winked, and put a finger to his lips.

In the hall, Eve was pulling at the front door, the bearded man was creeping up on her, and Roger waited, out of sight, ready to move on the instant.

Eve was pulling at the front door, terrified now that Tenby had gone. She saw and heard nothing behind her, but the man with the beard crept toward her, holding a scarf stretched out. He moved suddenly, dropped it over her head, and pulled tightly.

Her cry was strangled to silence. The scarf dropped to her neck, and the bearded man began to pull it tighter, unaware that anyone else was at the door.

“Not quick enough, Warrender,” Roger observed, mildly. “And not fast enough, either.”

Roger moved very fast indeed, and as the man with the theatrical heard swung round, he ran into Roger’s fist, and sagged back against the wall.

Roger bent over Eve, untied the scarf, and said: “Now take it easy, Evie, you’ll be all right. And even if we can’t pin murder on to him, Warrender will get ten years in jail for attacking you.”

“Warrender!” the girl exclaimed.

“Plus beard,” Roger explained, easily. “Ten years for attempted murder,” he said, “and we’ll probably make the capital charge stick, Warrender.” He leaned forward, and tugged at the black beard; it sagged loose, with a soft tearing sound. “Mark!” he called, and turned to see Mark coming unsteadily into the hall. “Look after Eve, will you?”

“So you had to do it yourself,” Mark said, weakly.

“I took the tailers off Warrender, and he thought he’d been clever enough to evade them,” Roger explained. “He didn’t realise we were reporting his progress by radio every few miles, or that we were waiting here for him. You must have given him a bit of a shock.”

Warrender just stood there, like a man damned.

“I don’t pretend to know all the answers yet,” said Roger to Turnbull, “but we’re getting on, Warren. Eve either can’t or won’t talk, Warrender won’t, and Tenby’s pretending to be half asleep, but they’ll all talk when the time comes. It’s clear that Warrender planned to kill Eve, and to frame Tenby. He would probably have killed Mark, too, and let Tenby take the rap for that as well, if he’d got away with it. Taking the tabs off him was a good move.”

“Seen the AC?” asked Turnbull. “He ought to have a billet-doux ready for the Home Secretary.”

“Give me a chance, I haven’t been back twenty minutes,” said Roger. “I want a talk with Raeburn before I see Chatworth, anyhow.”

He was going through reports on his desk when a superintendent looked in.

“Oh, West,” he said, “the Assistant Commissioner would like to see you.” He paused, and then delivered his bombshell: “Mr Paul Raeburn is with him.”

CHAPTER XXIV

RAEBURN MAKES A STATEMENT

CHATWORTH WAS sitting behind his desk, puffing at a small cigar. Raeburn was in one of the tubular steel armchairs, his hat, gloves and stick on the floor by his side, his ankles crossed. His expression was one of complete assurance, and he smiled affably as Roger entered, but made no attempt to rise.

“Ah, West,” said Chatworth. He paused as Roger, schooling himself to show no emotion, approached the desk. “Mr Raeburn has come to make a statement.”

“Has he, sir?”

“It’s one which, I hope, will help to clear up the misunderstanding between us,” Raeburn said, urbanely. “As I have told Sir Archibald, I have been very worried about your attitude, Chief Inspector. Only now do I realise that you had very good reason for being suspicious of my actions.”

“Oh,” said Roger, blankly.

Chatworth said: “Sit down, West.”

“Thank you, sir,” Roger said, as he sat down. His mind was beginning to work, searching for the trick behind this bold move.

“I hope that I’m in time to make sure that nothing more goes wrong.” Raeburn said. “I’ve had a very great shock, Chief Inspector. A man whom I trusted implicitly has betrayed me.” He smiled faintly. “I’m afraid this sounds rather dramatic, but it is the simple truth.”

Was he positive that Warrender would not talk? Could he be? Or was he preparing his defence against betrayal?

“I think I ought to tell you that when I first met War- render, he actually swindled me out of several hundred pounds,” Raeburn said, very carefully, “I caught him, and he pleaded for another chance. I gave it to him. I believe in trying to help lame dogs over stiles, Chief Inspector. Since then, he has always worked competently for me, and I believed loyally. I had almost forgotten the curious nature of our first meeting until this shocking discovery.”

“I see,” said Roger, heavily.

“During the past few days, I have been worried by telephone calls and messages from a man named Tenby,” Raeburn went on. “Tenby is a man whom Warrender employed for several jobs in connection with my greyhound racing tracks, when I first opened them. I had met him, although I hardly remembered him. The messages were all very much alike; he threatened me with some disastrous disclosure. What the disclosure was he didn’t say, and I certainly couldn’t guess. The man actually came to see me yesterday afternoon, Chief Inspector.”

“Did he?” asked Roger, and thought helplessly that this man had genius—a genius for evil distortion.

Chatworth sat impassive.

“Yes, Tenby came to see me,” Raeburn repeated. “Warrender was present, and obviously Tenby was not at his ease. It transpired that he hoped to blackmail me because—” he paused, and leaned forward impressively— “because Eve Franklin did not see the accident when Halliwell was killed. Tenby had forced her to say that she had, as part of his scheme of blackmail.”

This was really brilliant: a smooth answer to every charge, even before it was made, but could he be sure of Warrender?

“When I realised that there was reason to doubt the truth of the evidence, I was well able to understand your attitude,” said Raeburn, spreading his hands. “It was a complete surprise to me to discover that Eve had committed perjury. You know that I fell in love with her— that we were married yesterday. This news shocked me beyond words. It was difficult to believe, yet Tenby convinced me of its truth. I at once began to make inquiries. My wife does not admit that she lied to save me, but I gather from her manner that she is troubled. Consequently, I arranged for her to visit a cottage I own near Reading, promising to join her there later. I thought that, during a quiet week-end, I would be more likely to learn the truth.

“I am quite sure of this,” Raeburn went on, leaning forward again. “If she did commit perjury, it was under someone’s influence. This man Tenby first introduced her to Warrender. I believe that Tenby found a way to dominate Eve, and to make her come forward as she did. My faith in my wife is absolutely unshaken.”

Melville would talk to Warrender and to Eve, of course; certainly, Raeburn must be absolutely sure of himself— unless this was a bluff to out-do all bluffs.

Chatworth asked, like a cigar-smoking Buddha: “What inquiries did you make?”

“I asked my housekeeper, Mrs Beesley, to find out what she could,” Raeburn told him. “She knew Warrender before I met him, and has never been so confident of his loyalty as I have.” Raeburn sighed, just enough to suggest that he was still suffering from the shock of betrayal. “You see, gentlemen, I read of the brutal attack on the Brown woman the other evening. I remembered the sup-posedly accidental death of Tony Brown. I knew—who could fail to know?—that, in your mind, all these things would be connected. I hoped that I would be able to show that there was no connection, but I’m afraid that there was.”

He paused for effect.

He appeared slightly disappointed at the stony reception of his news; he glanced from Roger to Chatworth and back again, and for the first time he showed some signs of disquiet. When he went on, it was in a harder voice.

“I am afraid that Warrender was behind these vicious crimes which were committed partly to cover up the fact that he had persuaded my wife to commit perjury, partly to be able to blackmail me at a later date. It seems evident to me now that my wife’s ex-fiance, Tony Brown, knew of that. Did you ever suspect that he was murdered, gentle- men?”

Roger felt sick.

“It did occur to us,” Chatworth said, heavily.

“I am afraid it is true, too.” Raeburn stood up and began to pace the room. “There is another thing. Tenby accused me of luring him to Aldgate the other evening, so that he would be framed—I quote him—for the attack on die policeman Peel. I accused Warrender of this. He denied it, of course, but there was no doubt that Warrender was gravely troubled by Tenby’s visit, and by my suspicions. Mrs Beesley, Mr Melville, and I were talking about it most of the night.”

Melville, with a good counsel, could convince any jury of this story. Raeburn was actually giving a preview of his defence.

Now he thought it wise to seem on edge.

“You must try to understand the distress which I felt,” he went on, earnestly. “I had no proof, only suspicion, and Warrender tried to convince me that those suspicions were baseless.”

“What made you come here now?” Roger forced himself to ask.

“Mrs Beesley telephoned me only a little while ago, and told me that Warrender had left the flat by the fire escape, last night, although I had ordered him to stay there until I returned.” So Raeburn was going to pretend that he did not know of Warrender’s arrest. “Airs Beesley is a very- shrewd woman, as no doubt you know, and she had been keeping a watchful eye on him for some time. She found a slip of paper in his coat last night—yes, she entered his room, and searched his pockets while he was asleep. The note makes it clear that Warrender and Tenby were planning this blackmail together. Would you like to know my final conclusions, gentlemen?”

“Very much,” said Roger, heavily.

“I think that Warrender has been using my name and my companies as a cover for extensive criminal operations.” Raeburn stood in front of Chatworth; his eyes were flashing, a most plausible imitation of a man in great distress. “I think that I have been completely deceived by a very clever rogue. Mrs Beesley suspected this some time ago, but wanted to be sure before she spoke. It seems evident that Warrender has reason to fear that his activities would be discovered. He was afraid that, if I were convicted of manslaughter, the police would investigate my affairs and, necessarily, his. I think he created a situation which eventually grew too big for him, and in desperation resorted to murder, and to hiring dangerous criminals to cover his tracks.

“You will ask what grounds I have for these suspicions.

I can only say—”Raeburn hesitated, then threw up his hands. “I can only say that the facts are clear to me now that I have been through my books. Warrender has been robbing me of huge sums. He had access to my banking accounts, and you will find that the figures speak for themselves. I know that I was wrong to trust him, but that is not the point now. I did trust him.” Raeburn spoke as if he were righteousness itself. “Gentlemen, I want you to make the fullest inquiry into my affairs wherever Warrender has been connected with them. I want the whole truth to come out. No matter how hurtful, I will face it. Warrender’s departure from the flat seems to me an admission of guilt. I want you to find him, too; he may have made plans to leave the country.”

“That’s possible,” Chatworth grunted, as if he had to make some contribution.

“I can only hope you will get results quickly,” Raeburn went on, briskly. “I really cannot carry on working until everything is known.” He put his hand into his pocket, drew out a key case, and dropped it on to the desk. “These are the keys to my safe at the flat, and to my strong room at the company offices. You may examine everything at your leisure. No doubt you expect Warren- der to try to wriggle out of this, and no doubt he will try to smear me with his own dirt, but—”

“Mr Raeburn,” Roger interrupted, in a deceptively quiet voice, “this isn’t going to work out quite as you expected. There’s something I don’t think you know. Warrender failed to kill your wife. He is now under arrest, charged with attempted murder. Your wife—”

Raeburn put out a hand on a chair to steady himself.

“You mean he tried to murder Eve?” he cried. “He wanted to kill fun’ to stop her from saying anything that might harm him. She—she isn’t hurt?” He jumped forward, gripping Roger’s arm. “Tell me that she isn’t hurt.”

Did he really think he could get away with all this? Could he?

A telephone bell rang on Chatworth’s desk, breaking the tension. Chatworth picked up the instrument, growled: “Chatworth,” and then actually gasped. “No!” Roger was watching Raeburn, and saw the momentary glint of triumph in his eyes.

Chatworth barked: “Who’d seen him? . . . Melville? . . . Yes, I see.” He rang off, and stared at Roger who was at screaming pitch.

“No doubt you expected this, Mr Raeburn,” he said. “Your solicitor visited Warrender in his cell. After he had left, Warrender died of potassium of cyanide poisoning. It appears to have been contained in a false heel of his shoe.”

“Why, that is terrible,” Raeburn said, and it sounded like a song of triumph.

“Whether Melville got the cyanide to him, whether it was murder or suicide, I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Roger said, bleakly. “I do know that Raeburn’s story will stand up in court, now. We still can’t charge him.”

That afternoon, Joe volunteered a statement. In it War- render was shown as the man who had hired him to commit all his crimes—against Katie Brown and against Brown himself.

Their only remaining hopes were Tenby and Eve. Whatever Eve knew, she could not be forced into the witness box; so Tenby, still at Reading, was the one hope.

That afternoon, Tenby was rushed to the Royal Berkshire Hospital, but died before he got there—of morphine poisoning.

CHAPTER XXV

THE TRUTH ABOUT JOE

GET ME Reading Police Headquarters,” Roger ordered, soon after he heard of Tenby’s death, and put the receiver down. “I think I’ve got a line, sir,” he said to Chatworth, very quietly. “Tenby came out of Raeburn’s flat carrying a box of chocolates, and I always thought that was odd. I’ll ask Reading to find that box; it’s probably at the cottage. If the post-mortem shows chocolate and morphine in the stomach, we can act.”

“You’d still have to prove that Raeburn poisoned them.”

“Even proving he bought or could have touched them will be a help. He might have fingered the box, too; and one fragmentary print on one chocolate would do the trick. We know he’s our man; all we need is a break to push him over.”

The telephone bell rang.

“Excuse me, sir . . . Oh, yes, Turnbull.”

Roger listened to Turnbull, who was obviously in one of his rare moments of excitement.

“Now I’ve got something for you,” he said. “I’ve traced Ma Beesley’s eldest son.” There was a long pause and Roger could have shouted at him. “A gentleman named Joe,” he finished, gloatingly.

“Joe!”

“Joe,” Turnbull crowed. “He deserted from the Army, and has been dodging about the East End for years. And I’ve got something even better.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“Couldn’t I? This Joe’s been in touch with Ma Beesley—a landlady at the house he stayed at described her to a T. They’ve met within the last month.”

“I’m going to see Joe, right away,” said Roger, softly. “And pray for results from the p.m. on Tenby.”

The post-mortem report came through an hour later: Roger read it with increasing excitement. There was chocolate in Tenby’s stomach, with a strong concentration of morphine.

The box of chocolates had been found in his luggage, and each chocolate analysed; several contained morphine which had been injected into them.

“Get every chocolate tested for prints,” urged Roger. “Get every one photographed and blown up; we’ve got to get a fingerprint.”

Raeburn stayed in Reading until Eve was taken away from The King’s Arms by the police. On the return journey he looked very grave, and when he reached Park Lane, he found newspapermen and photographers waiting. After he had faced the battery of flashlights, and been asked for an interview, he shook his head slowly.

“I’m sorry, boys. This has been a gruelling time for me, and I’d rather not say anything just now.” He resisted all their pressure, waved his hat, gave rather a melancholy smile, and went up in the lift.

Ma Beesley opened the door of the flat.

“Welcome back, Paul,” she said, and stood aside for him to pass. She showed her ugly teeth in a grin as she closed the door. “Maud’s out,” she went on, “so we’re here on our own. Everything’s all right, then?”

The grave look had vanished from Raeburn’s face. He was grinning, and with almost boyish glee took her face between his hands, and kissed her soundly. “Everything’s fine, Ma! We’re going to get away with it, thanks to you and Abel.”

“Abel’s decided not to come and see us for a day or two,” Ma told him, and watched him very carefully. “There’s only one thing I don’t get, Paul. How did you manage to kill Tenby?”

“He was too fond of chocolates,” Raeburn gloated. “I gave him a big box before he left here, with doped ones in the bottom layer. I knew he wouldn’t eat them until he got to the cottage.”

Ma said: “Very smart, I agree, but supposing he’d eaten the doped ones too soon ?”

“Would it really have mattered?” asked Raeburn. “The police would have felt sure he was murdered; now they think it was suicide—that’s the only difference. I wanted him dead, and wanted Warrender to attack Eve. He was close on her heels, and even if she’d found Tenby dead, Warrender would have gone in to kill her; the police were bound to be at hand to catch him red-handed—as they did.”

“Supposing he had killed her, Paul?”

“As you’d telephoned West and warned him to watch Eve, I didn’t think there was much risk,” said Raeburn, carelessly. “If he had—” he shrugged. “Oh, forget it. You’ve done magnificently, Ma, a lot of credit’s due to you.”

“I even managed to convince you that Eve is loyal,” said Ma, “and I let poor George think I agreed with him about killing her. But you thought the whole thing out, Paul, I have to admit that. Did you have it in mind when you ran over Halliwell?”

“Oh, not as far back as that,” Raeburn admitted. “It was when I was in the dock, realizing that it might catch up with me sometime, that I began to plan a way out. The obvious thing was to put the blame on George. Only you and Tenby could have disproved it, and I knew I could rely on you.”

“I’ve never really liked George,” Ma wheezed.

Raeburn was looking dreamily at the door. “Yes, it all began while I was in the dock. I wonder what West would say to that! It was a remark you made about your son Joe being on the run from the Army authorities which gave me the idea of letting him do some work that Tenby would be blamed for, too. Obviously, that would sow suspicion between Tenby and George—and be the real beginning. The details worked themselves out as we went along. When Tenby murdered Tony Brown, I could see that it was coming along nicely. Bill Brown nearly upset the applecart, but you and Joe were equal to the occasion, Ma! By going after Bill Brown, letting himself be caught, and naming Warrender on the day agreed, Joe put the finishing touch to everything. And you did remarkably well when you interviewed Eve; you certainly proved her loyalty. I had to be quite sure of that.”

“Such a lovely girl,” cooed Ma.

“And how that interview confused West,” Raeburn exulted. “Well, it’s all over, Ma, and now I can concentrate on politics. When the police go into the accounts—”

“They’ll find I’ve cooked them beautifully,” crowed Ma. “I’ve made them look as if that wicked George has been fleecing you right and left.”

Raeburn chuckled, delightedly. “And under his very nose! But getting Joe to agree to serve a long sentence was the deciding factor, Ma. I won’t forget it.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” said Ma. “And you won’t forget the fifty thousand pounds you’re going to put aside for him when he comes out, will you? But don’t worry about that now, Paul, you must be tired. Shall I get you a drink?”

“Get us a drink!”

The front doorbell rang on Raeburn’s words.

“Now I wonder who that is,” said Ma. “I’ll go.”

She hurried to the door, with Raeburn smiling at her back.

His smile faded suddenly when Ma opened the door, and he saw West and Turnbull, with another plain clothes man, standing massively outside.

“Good afternoon, Ma,” greeted Roger, and pushed past her into the hall. “Good afternoon, Mr Raeburn.”

“What is it now?” Raeburn was sharp.

“We’ve come for you,” Roger said, quietly. “Ma’s son, Joe, couldn’t keep as silent as he meant to; the fact that he was making himself an accessory to Halliwell’s murder made him speak. That’s put Ma in a nasty spot. In the second place, you weren’t careful enough with Tenby’s chocolates. We found a print on a poisoned one from your left index finger. In the third—”

“You’re lying!” cried Raeburn, and he went deathly white.

“And in the third place, Eve has also talked,” finished Roger, “so we’ve got you for Halliwell’s murder. I convinced her that Warrender went to kill her with your knowledge, and she didn’t think much of it. Don’t make a fuss,” he went on, sardonically, “you’ll get your picture in the Cry, and probably the readers will write to you in jail.”

When Roger got home that night, Janet, the boys, and Mark were all waiting, eager to talk.

“I always knew you’d win,” Richard crowed.

“It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?” Scoopy declared “Good old pop!”

THE END