John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West
“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.”
