John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West
“Slave driver,” Turnbull growled. “I’ll fix it.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” said Roger.
He rang off, and put the cigarette between his lips; it had burned half way down, and he had to draw several times to get it going again. In his mind’s eye was a picture of Paul Raeburn, smiling, handsome and self- assured.
Roger stood up, and the door opened and Janet came in.
“Got to go?”
“ ‘Fraid so,” Roger said. “I never did believe I’d get a whole day off, anyhow.” He moved, slid an arm round her waist, and squeezed. “Big stuff, poppet.”
“It would come today. How big, darling?”
“Paul Raeburn.”
“If you had two wives, you wouldn’t stay home if it’s Raeburn,” Janet said, resignedly.
Roger stood her away from him, and studied her for a moment; his gaze moved from her dark hair, with some grey to add a touch of distinction, to her clear grey-green eyes, and to her face. Not every man would call her beautiful, but he did. Then his eyes glinted, he glanced at the V of her green jumper, poked a finger down, as swift as lightning, and said: “If I had two wives, I’d never be home at all.”
He hurried upstairs for his coat and collar and tie.
CHAPTER II
A CHANCE IN A THOUSAND
ROGER LOOKED up from the badly mutilated corpse into — the eyes of Gubby Dering, a Home Office pathologist who was fast making a name for himself. Gubby was cheerful, a rotund man, with thick iron-grey hair, and horn-rimmed glasses which partly hid his grey eyes.
“Well?” asked Roger.
“No murder to prove.”
“Not a hope?”
“The safe thing is to assume that it’s what it seems, accidental death,” Gubby told him. “The offside wheel of the car went over the top of the head, and the legs were crushed by the other wheel. There’s a small wound just behind the right ear which I can’t make out, it might have been made by something projecting from the car.”
“What kind of a wound?” asked Roger.
“Have a look,” said Gubby, and pointed.
Roger had to bend down to see. “It might have been done just before or just after death, but you can’t hope to say which.” He sounded disappointed.
“I’ll consult Haddon, but don’t think you’ll have any luck,” Gubby said. “Apart from that, you’ll have to accept medical evidence that the wheel crushed the top of his head, and was the direct cause of death. I saw him less than an hour after he’d been found, and he was still warm. The stomach and intestines are quite normal. He’d had a meal of fried fish, probably about two hours before death. No sign of contamination.”
“Drink?”
“Whisky.”
“Much?”
“Probably a couple of doubles, but I don’t see what that matters,” Gubby added. “Raeburn had been drinking the whisky, hadn’t he?”
“If we believe all we’re told, Raeburn was drunk, ran this fellow down, and didn’t trouble to report it.” Roger shrugged, and added dryly: “But I don’t believe all I’m told. I’ve checked up on Raeburn so often that I can almost tell what he does every minute of the day. I know his habits, I know what he likes for supper, and I know the kind of bed warmer he likes best.” Roger gave a short laugh. “I’ve never had a report which suggests that he ever drank too much, and I’ve never known him even slightly tipsy. He isn’t the sort. And if he wasn’t drunk, I don’t believe he’d drive on after running a man down by accident.”
“Deadeye Dick, the detective with a difference. Neat theory, Handsome, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”
“I can bank on one thing,” Roger declared. “The Yard’s going to work overtime for a month so as to pin another on him while he’s waiting for the charge of manslaughter: If the Legal Department’s awake, it’ll stop him from getting bail. See Haddon soon, won’t you? I’d like to know for certain if that ear injury was caused by the car, or whether there’s a ghost of a chance of proving that it was from a blow received before death.”
“I’ll do what I can,” promised Gubby. “Where are you off to?”
“The Yard,” said Roger. “I’ve one or two people to interview.”
“One or two!” jeered the pathologist. “There’s probably a ‘full house’ notice on the waiting-room door.” He offered cigarettes as he added: “You’d give your right hand to get Raeburn, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d give a lot,” affirmed Roger, quietly. “I think Raeburn’s the ugliest piece of work I’ve come across in years, and what he doesn’t know about making money dishonestly wouldn’t cover his thumbnail. If he’s not involved in a dozen rackets, I’m losing my grip. Thanks for the help,” he added briskly. “Can I give you a lift?”
“No, thanks,” said Gubby, “my car’s outside.”
As he drove across Clapham Common, Roger gave little thought to his driving, but a great deal to Raeburn. He turned into the gateway of Scotland Yard, acknowledging the salute of the two policemen on duty, and pulled up in the parking place near the steps. He did not get out at once, but sat looking towards the Embankment and watching the traffic whirling past. He was about to open the car door when Big Ben boomed the quarter.
“A quarter past eleven.” He checked his watch, and found it half a minute fast. He hurried out of the car and up the steps, and as he walked along the cold stone passages, he passed several CID men.
“Now you’re all right, Handsome,” one called.
Roger grinned.
He entered his own office, a large, square room with big windows overlooking the Embankment. There were five yellow desks here, and his was at the back, near the window. Although it was a warm, bright day for October, a coal fire burned sluggishly in the grate.
From a desk in front of his, Chief Inspector Eddie Day looked up.
“Morning, Handsome.”
“Hallo, Eddie!”
“Pretty pleased with yourself this morning, aren’t you?” asked Eddie, with a sniff. “Some people have all the luck. You’ve been trying to pin something on Raeburn for a couple of years, now the silly mug goes and gets himself caught on a manslaughter job. They ought to call you Lucky, not Handsome.”
Roger chuckled. “All right, Eddie. Have you seen Turnbull lately?”
“He’s with the AC, I think,” said Eddie. “That reminds me, the AC rang up twice for you. You ought to get in earlier. One of these days you’ll catch a packet for not being in when he wants you.”
“I dare say you’re right,” said Roger. He sat down and pulled the telephone towards him, and when the exchange answered, he said: “Put me on to the Assistant Commissioner.”
As he waited, he glanced at a pile of reports on the desk. Then he heard Sir Guy Chatworth’s voice.
“Hallo. West?”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Come along right away, will you?”
“Right away, sir.”
“Bit sharp, wasn’t he?” asked Eddie, hopefully, as Roger replaced the receiver.
“Proper bit my head off,” Roger said, solemnly.
Chatworth’s room, on the second floor, was unique in the history of the Yard. The furniture was made of black glass, chromium and tubular steel, and had a cold, unfriendly look. Yet no one could be friendlier than Chat- worth when he was in the mood. Just now, he was talking to Turnbull, who was sitting in one of those tubular steel chairs. Turnbull was a big, handsome man, with ruddy complexion and auburn hair; a bold, self-assured man, too.
Chatworth was also big and burly, with a fringe of grizzled curly hair at his temples and at the back of his head; the top of his head was completely bald and glistened in the light from the window. He had round, heavy features, deep grooves ran from lips to chin, and his jowl hid part of his stiff collar and tie. He was dressed that morning in a suit of shapeless brown tweed.
“Come in, and pull up a chair,” he invited. “As you weren’t here, I sent for Turnbull over this Halliwell business.”
Roger stopped, with a hand on cold steel.
“Who, sir?”
“The dead man, Halliwell. He served three years for fraud, and had been out about three months.”
Turnbull was grinning.
“I can guess what you’ll think about that,” Chatworth remarked, as Roger sat down. “If Raeburn is what you think, he’d have good reason for killing any man who could shop him. So I want you and Turnbull to concentrate on Raeburn, but don’t let it get round that you think it might be anything but manslaughter. The Legal Department doesn’t think we can get him remanded in custody, but at least you’ve an opportunity to dig.”
“I’ll dig deep,” promised Roger. “Where’s the Rolls now, sir?”
“At the Clapham Police Station,” Turnbull answered.
“Wonder if it’s been run over for prints. I ought to have checked while I was there,” Roger said, aloud. “The constable who found Halliwell said that he thought the car stopped, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Turnbull said.
“So Halliwell might have been in the car, and if he had, his fingerprints might be on it.” Roger shook his head. “That would be too good to be true. Any special instructions, sir?”
“Yes,” said Chatworth. “Prove the manslaughter case, whatever you do. Don’t let Raeburn get away with this.”
“Not if I can help it,” Roger said, fervently.
He left the AG’s office with Turnbull, spent ten minutes checking what had been done, then went down to his car again, and drove to Clapham. And still only Raeburn was on his mind, for Raeburn was not just another suspect: Raeburn was an obsession, a man with a great capacity for evil.
Arkwright, the constable who had found Halliwell, stood in front of Roger at the Clapham Police Station, holding his helmet in his hands. He was young and intelligent-looking, although obviously nervous.
“What made you think the Rolls Royce stopped?” asked Roger.
Arkwright was safe with that question. “Well, sir, first time I saw the car the headlights were on. I’d just turned on to the Common. The road’s a bit twisty, and my lamp wasn’t working properly, some dynamo trouble. I couldn’t see much, because of the trees and bushes, but I noticed that the headlamps went out, although I could see the rear light. I said to myself the driver was in trouble, and I was going to see if I could lend a hand when my lamp went right out, so I had to get off and get it working again. If only I’d known—”
Roger grinned. “No one gave me second sight, either.”
Arkwright looked as if he could purr. “You know how it is when you’re doing a job like that, sir,” he went on. “It might have taken me a minute to fix the lamp, or it might have taken me five. I managed to get a little light, and started off again. The headlights came on just after that, so I said to myself he’s all right again. I wouldn’t like to swear that he stopped and got out, but I’m pretty sure.”
“Pity, but it’s a lucky thing you got what you did,” said Roger. “Meet anyone else on the Common?”
“A cyclist went by just as I was turning off the main road,” answered Arkwright. “I certainly didn’t see anyone else until the car had disappeared and I was across the Common.”
Roger let him talk for a couple of minutes, then sent him off. Immediately, a sergeant came in to report that Dr Anstruther Breem was waiting downstairs. Breem was the doctor who had been called in to examine Raeburn at die station. He was tall, well-dressed, suave, and determined not to be overimpressed by Chief Inspector West. Yes, in his opinion Raeburn had certainly been incapable of driving. He had not been able to walk along a straight line, his pronunciation of simple words had been distorted, his breath had smelt strongly of whisky.
“He was undoubtedly drunk, Chief Inspector.” Breem held a cigarette between his fingers, and his eyes were half closed.
“Could you swear that he wasn’t putting on an act?” asked Roger.
“I do assure you that I know when a man is drunk.”
“Yes, of course,” said Roger, politely. “Thank you, Dr Breem.”
Back at the Yard, he went down to the canteen with Turnbull, Who had only one piece of news. Halliwell had owned a wholesale grocery business in Southampton and had set fire to warehouses which he had claimed held ten thousand pounds worth of canned and packet goods. The police had proved both arson and fraud.
“He was lucky to get away with three years,” Turnbull declared.
“Yes. You’d better go to Southampton, be pleasant to the local police, and find out what you can about Halliwell’s general activities,” Roger said. “I’ll tackle The Daytime, and the people who were there last night.”
The telephone bell rang, and he picked up the receiver, listened, grunted thanks, and banged it down. “Raeburn’s been remanded on bail for eight days, on two sureties of five hundred pounds,” he said grimly. “Get going, Warren.”
The Daytime Club in Clapham had twice been raided by the police, without results, although undoubtedly gaming and drinking after licensed hours went on. Ostensibly it was owned by a syndicate, but actually Paul Raeburn owned it. Roger knew that Raeburn owned many similar clubs, but his name did not appear.
Members of The Daytime staff, who had been on duty the previous night and during the early hours of the twenty-third of October, gave Roger no help. Some said they thought Raeburn had been mixing his drinks, others were sure that he had drunk very little. Statements from members who had been present were equally contradictory.
Raeburn left London on the afternoon of the twenty- fourth and stayed at a hotel in Guildford; the local police watched his movements. Roger made several calls at the millionaire’s Park Lane flat, where Warrender, Raeburn’s secretary, and Ma Beesley, his housekeeper, were outwardly anxious to help, but actually evasive. Neither of them had been at The Daytime on the night of the ‘accident’. They said they had never heard of Halliwell, and asserted that as far as they knew Raeburn had never done business in Southampton.
Turnbull telephoned a negative report from Southampton next morning.
Roger went over Raeburn’s known record with a patience which was wearing thin, looking for the odd factor of importance that he might have missed.
Raeburn had first become prominent four years ago, as the owner of several greyhound racing tracks. The first time Roger had suspected him of criminal activity was after a series of dopings and an outcry among backers and bookmakers. No case had been proved, but the Yard had become very interested in Raeburn. He was wealthy, and had been wealthy before he had opened his greyhound tracks. He had bought small house property in country and coastal areas when it was cheap, and sold at a large profit. He had dealt first in land, then in various commodities, but no groceries. He had soon prospered enough to buy several provincial newspapers; it was freely rumoured that he was now the chief shareholder in The Cry Newspapers, Ltd., proprietor of the Morning Cry and the Evening Cry, each of which had a mammoth circulation. Recently he had bought up small circuits of provincial theatres and cinemas, owned several super-cinemas in London, and was behind two large independent television companies. Odds-on pools were his, and everything he touched made money.
