John Creasey - Inspector West At Home
“See if you can find out more about him, will you?” Roger asked. “Next there’s a man named Pickerell.” He gave them Pickerell’s address and the fact that he had worked for the Society of European Relief. Tamperly’s grin widened and he said :
“You wouldn’t want us to probe into the affairs of the Society, would you ? How like you, Handsome! You don’t ask for the tiling you want most!”
“I haven’t got to it yet, because I don’t know what it is,” Roger said, “and in any case I don’t think the Society is connected with it. I think it’s Pickerell only. He’s a paid official. If you want to help me, concentrate on Malone and Pickerell.”
“Nothing else?” asked Wray.
“Not now,” said Roger.
He broke off, looking across at the door, which had opened to admit an all-too-familiar figure. It was Tiny Martin, lantern-jawed and thin-lipped. Roger’s heart leapt and he looked about him quickly, subconsciously thinking of getting away and fearful lest Martin had instructions to detain him. Martin, however, simply looked about the room and went to a corner table, where he called for scrambled egg and beer.
“What a stomach! But he’s on your tail,” Wray said. “Nasty feeling, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know a worse,” admitted Roger. “I want to shake him off.”
Wray and Tamperly exchanged glances.
Five minutes later — it was exactly a quarter to eight — Roger left the room hurriedly. Before he reached the door he saw Martin get to his feet. He slammed the door behind him and hurried along a narrow passage towards the street.
Upstairs, Tamperly and Wray went for the door at the same time as Martin. Tamperly knocked against the man and apologised profusely. Martin snapped at him angrily and was halfway out when Wray, already outside, swung round with a muttered imprecation and cannoned into the sergeant, who staggered back into Tamperly.
Wray’s expression was one of bewildered sorrow.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’ve forgotten my hat. Are you all right, Tiny?”
“You’ll be sorry for this!” Martin growled. He recovered his breath and hurried past them, but the two reporters grinned at each other.
Roger was already in a bus heading for the West End, where taxis would probably be easier to come by. He looked out of the window and made certain that Martin had not been allowed to follow him. Wray and Tamperly would back him up in spite of their rivalry. He smiled and sat back until he reached Haymarket. He preferred to make the journey by taxi, for he might want to leave Bonnock House in a hurry and he had no idea how far it was from the nearest station.
He found a taxi, then kept it waiting while he telephoned his home. Morgan’s man answered him. There had been three telephone calls, two from Scotland Yard and one from a lady who had asked for Mrs West and said she was her cousin. The taxi-driver named Dixon had not called.
Roger frowned when he returned to the taxi, surprised that Dixon had been out for so long. It was possible that the cabby had called when the Bell Street house had been empty. Roger sat back and smoked on the way to Hampstead.
It was already dusk when the cabby found Bonnock House. One or two uncurtained windows in the big block of flats looked very bright in the gloom. He saw Sam by the drive but did not speak to him. Sam patted his pocket. One flat on the top floor of the mansions was lit up, a beacon of light which could be seen for miles. The house was a massive edifice of concrete and looked ugly and forbidding in the half-light. There was a drive-in and ample space for a taxi to park but Roger sent his man to the end of the narrow street — which was on the edge of the common — then went on foot to the house.
Number 11 was on the first floor.
The flats were obviously in the luxury class. The corridor was carpeted, the lighting was concealed, the decorations were in keeping with the general atmosphere. All the doors were painted black, the walls were of cream mottled paper which showed up clearly in the lighting immediately above it.
He rang the bell at Number 11. The door was opened by a tiny maid, neat, faded-looking and reminding him, for some reason of Mr Pickerell.
“Is Mrs Cartier in?” Roger asked. “My name is West.”
“Yes, sir. She is expecting you.” The maid stepped aside and, as Roger entered, closed the door. It might have been accidental but it seemed to Roger to close with a decided snap. He glanced sharply at the maid, but she was walking sedately towards one of the black doors at the far end of the entrance hall. She tapped on it and entered. That door, also, closed with a snap.
“I’m being a fool!” Roger muttered.
He meant that he was being foolish to let himself think that there was anything even remotely sinister about the closing of the doors and the manner of the maid, but was he a fool for being here? Was Sam a sufficient cover? It was nearly half past eight, and Janet was not to call the Yard until ten o’clock.
An hour and a half suddenly appeared a very long time.
The maid came out.
“Mrs Cartier will see you now, sir.”
‘Mrs Cartier’, reflected Roger. A well-trained maid would have said ‘Madam’.
But his fears and forebodings soon faded.
Mrs Cartier rose from an easy chair in a room which set off her tall figure, perfectly gowned in black and gold. The room was pale blue, the luxurious chairs upholstered in maroon-coloured mohair, the furniture Louis-Quinze, and the carpet thick and muffling his footsteps. Roger took the extended hand, resisting an absurd temptation to bow over it, then looked into the smiling face of the woman.
“I’m so glad you came,” said Mrs Cartier. “I have so much to tell you. But first — have you forgiven me for pretending to wish to see your wife when I called ?”
CHAPTER 15
Mrs Cartier is Helpful
“I CERTAINLY haven’t forgiven you,” Roger said. “I beg your pardon.”
“Mrs Cartier, we haven’t time to fence,” Roger said. “I haven’t forgiven you for coming to me this morning with half a story. I might easily have been murdered; a friend of mine was in fact badly wounded. Had you told me what to expect that might have been avoided.” He thought that she was as shocked by his attitude as Malone had been by Tennant’s unexpected versatility. “I hope you’ll tell me much more than you have so far. A great deal is at stake — but you know that.”
“You mean your reputation ?” Mrs Carder’s voice was soft and her smile faintly mocking.
Roger looked at her steadily.
“I really don’t think that remark was worthy of you,” he said.
She threw back her head and laughed; her slender throat was flawless, her teeth very even and white.
“Come and sit down, Inspector ! I shall like you, I thought from the first that I would.” She lifted a carved wooden cigarette box from a table at her side and flicked a lighter into flame for him, but did not smoke herself. There was a small ashtray on the arm of the settee, kept in position by weights. She was still smiling, but there was a more sober expression in her eyes and she no longer gave the impression that she was hoping to influence him by her beauty.
“I can help you, Inspector, if you will help me.”
“So it’s conditional?”
“First, I want you to understand what has happened. My Society — and although you may not believe it, I have its interests very much at heart — has been used to conceal serious criminal activities. I discovered that just over a week ago. You can understand how shocked I was and how anxious to adjust the situation ?”
Roger did not speak.
“I should explain that I went to the office without telling Pickerell to expect me. He was talking with the girl receptionist — so charming, don’t you think?”
“I hardly noticed her.”
“Then you must take my word for it, Inspector. Lois Randall is a most charming girl!” Mrs Cartier went on. “She speaks several languages, which has made her invaluable, and her manner with those who come for help is extremely gracious. I should not like you to think badly of her.”
“Why should I ?” asked Roger.
“Because she has been going to your bank, calling herself your wife and making things so unpleasant for you,” said Mrs Cartier, softly.
Half-prepared for that, Roger was able to look as if the news was unexpected. He jumped to his feet and stared down at his companion.
“Please believe me. She has done all this against her will,” Mrs Cartier said earnestly. “You should be pleased to know the truth, so that you can convince your friends at Scotland Yard. Don’t you think so?”
Roger said : “If this is really true—”
“Oh, it is quite true and I think I could find the — what is the word ? — evidence, yes, evidence to prove it. The police are so particular about evidence, aren’t they? Please sit down, Inspector, and listen to what I have to say to you.”
Roger sat down, tapping the ash from his cigarette.
“I discovered all this because I visited the office unexpectedly and heard them talking,” Mrs Cartier declared. “Pickerell, the secretary with whom you appear to have had a difference of opinion” — she smiled her secretive smile — “and Lois Randall. She was being sent to the bank, and protested. Pickerell threatened her with some disclosure and after a while she agreed to go. I hurried out of the office and met her in the passage. I have rarely seen anyone so agitated. She was muttering to herself and when she saw me she what I believe is called “fell through the floor”. I pretended that I knew nothing of what had happened. I was shocked because I had heard enough to make it clear that the visit to the bank was intended to jeopardise your position. I only knew you as a name, then, but I realised the gravity of the situation for you.”
“Did you?” Roger asked, expressionlessly.
“I wondered how best I could warn you,” went on Mrs Cartier. “I decided not to telephone you or call to see you. I made inquiries among my friends and discovered that your wife is very active in voluntary work. That gave me an excuse to call. I was so glad that you were there yourself, but I had planned to arouse the suspicions of one or the other of you — suspicions which would take you to Welbeck Street. I hope you believe me.”
“Why shouldn’t I ?” Roger asked.
“Is it my imagination or are you being just a little difficult?”
“It’s quite a shock,” Roger reminded her.
“Of course, how foolish I am !” She leaned forward and rested a hand on his arm; her fingers were cool, soft and long. “I must tell you everything quickly. I realised from what I had overheard that Pickerell was not interested in the Society. I contemplated dismissing him but doubted whether that would be wholly effective. I wondered how I could help the girl and saw no way, but believed that if you discovered what was happening, you would be able to solve the problem.”
“Did you indeed ?” Roger said heavily.
She drew her hand away.
“Why do you disbelieve me?” Her voice was sharp and her expression angry.
Very flatly, Roger said : “All this happened a week ago, Mrs Cartier. Had it been two days ago I could have understood the delay, but you appear to have given Pickerell good time to make his arrangements. Why did you wait for so long? And how did you learn that I was already in trouble at Scotland Yard? You’ve implied that you did know.”
“But yes, of course,” said Mrs Cartier, her voice softer again. “I am not used to dealing with those whose life is spent in seeing the flaws in the statements of others! I will answer your second question first. I have friends, one of them on the Echo. I get a great deal of publicity for my Society through her and I asked her if she could get some information for me. She brought it to me yesterday, and told me that you were under suspicion and had actually been suspended. That was at dinner last night. She told me her informant was a reporter named Wray.”
Roger began to think she might be telling the truth.
“I know Wray, and he certainly knew about it.”
“As for the other point, Inspector—” Mrs Cartier shrugged. “It was clear that this had been going on for several months. It did not occur to me that there was any great urgency. I wanted to make sure that I did nothing which might jeopardise the activities of the Society. I gave the matter a great deal of thought and took a long time in reaching a decision. That is the whole truth.”
“I see,” said Roger. “I do believe you, Mrs Cartier.”
She eyed him without speaking for some seconds and then smiled with deep satisfaction.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “Now you know why I came to see you and you must realise my own problem. I need someone’s assistance to make sure that the Society does not suffer because it employed a rogue. Will you help?”
“Yes,” Roger said.
“I was sure you would.” She pressed his hand again but quite impersonally. He wondered what nationality she had been born. “Now I will help you,” Inspector. I’ve told you what you have probably known already, through Pickerell. I understand that you interviewed him this afternoon.”
“Who told you that?” Roger asked sharply.
“A German doctor, a refugee who called there and saw you. He was referred to me and I have since seen him.” She spoke confidently. “He is very observant. I knew he was there just before the shooting, so I asked him whether he had seen anyone else. He described a man whom I identified as you. The doctor’s name is Hoysen, Dr Karl Hoysen, once of Frankfurt-on-Oder. I will gladly arrange for you to interview him if you wish. In fact, you may have his address now.”
She jumped up and went into another room, to return quickly with a small black book. She opened it and pointed at an entry; her nail was varnished pale pink.
“There, Inspector. That will satisfy you.”
Roger took out a notebook and wrote the name and address of the Dutch doctor — Karl Hoysen, the Kronprins Hostel, St John’s Wood, N.W.8. He knew of the place, which had a good reputation.
Mrs Cartier looked positively gay. “I promised to help you in return for your kindness. That conversation I overheard was extremely interesting. I will not ask you to trust my memory. Come!” She took his hand as he rose, then rested her hand lightly on his arm and led the way to a small library, book-lined and warm, as impressive as the lounge. There was a small period desk and, unexpectedly, a tape-recorder. She opened a cupboard beneath the bookcases and took out several tapes.
Roger watched with great hope.
“You must understand that I am aware that some of the people who come for help are not displaced persons but Russian sympathisers., For some time I have suspected that Pickerell was not all that he seemed, so I arranged for this to be installed. It was not always used, of course. I went to the office whenever suspected individuals had gone to see Pickerell. By pressing a switch outside the door, I set the machine in motion. Clever, is it not?”
“Very.”
“Thank you! I must say that before hearing this recording I hadn’t heard a conversation which I thought was really suspicious. Until my call a week ago I began to think I was wrong, and had misjudged Pickerell.” As she spoke she was fitting the tape into the machine, then she pressed a switch.
