John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West
A good photograph of himself stared up at Roger from the morning paper which Raeburn owned, but Roger was interested only in the caption:
CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, THE YOUNGEST CI AT THE YARD, WHO WAS IN CHARGE OF THE CASE AGAINST MR PAUL RAEBURN.
The case had big headlines, and, as he read, a subheading caught his eye: WASTE OF PUBLIC MONEY.
Richard called out: “Have a game of darts, Scoop? Mum’s only just started cooking breakfast.”
“Do you more good to check your homework,” Scoopy said, but went off.
Roger read on: “Another important factor is the waste of public money. Had the police exerted themselves to find Miss Franklin, a case of such gravity would never have been brought. A man of exemplary character was pilloried in public because of an unavoidable accident. Even the charge of being drunk in control of a car was not established. Mr Raeburn will be a generous man if he does not sue the police for wrongful arrest.”
“All right, Mr Ruddy Raeburn,” Roger said softly, “if you’re not satisfied with getting off, I’ll give you plenty to think about.”
“The worst of it is you can’t answer back,” Janet complained, angrily.
“Perhaps I can get Eve Franklin to answer for me,” Roger grinned. “If I know Chatworth, this will make him hopping mad. It’d be funny if Raeburn’s cooked his goose, after all, wouldn’t it?”
* * * * *
“You can have as long as you want to prove that Franklin woman was lying,” Chatworth growled. “Concentrate on that. If Raeburn wants to have a fight, let him have it.” He glared up, and his shaggy eyebrows made him look ferocious. “You agree?”
“All the way, sir.”
“And you’ve a personal interest, after this smear campaign,” Chatworth said. “Concentrate on the job, Roger.”
The Yard’s attitude was almost identical with Chat- worth’s. “Get the so-and-so, Handsome, we’ll take care of the rest.”
Janet said, uneasily: “You make it sound like a crusade, darling.” Then she added: “Raeburn’s rich and clever, that’s the worst of it. Be careful!”
CHAPTER IV
EVE
EVE FRANKLIN drew sheer silk stockings over her slim legs, fastened her garters, and stood up in front of the long mirror. She stretched her arms above her head voluptuously, as a cat roused from sleep. She looked at herself with a pensive smile, as if she were practising seduction. When she moved her head, the bright lamp above picked out the lights in her dark hair. Her arms and shoulders were bare.
She sat down on the dressing-table stool, and reached for a cigarette; every movement studied. She lit the cigarette and blew smoke against the mirror, obscuring her reflection. As the smoke cleared, the brightness of her eyes and the sparkle of her teeth showed up through the greyness.
She did not notice the door begin to open, but suddenly a man’s face appealed in the mirror—a long, sallow face.
His gaze lingered on her shoulders and her body as she swung round in alarm.
“Not bad.” He came in and closed the door, then leaned against it. “Going places?”
“I’m—I’m going out,” Eve said, sharply. “What are you doing here?”
“Just feasting my eyes,” said the man. “You’re quite a dish, Evie.”
“Don’t be so crude!”
“Getting refined, are you?” The man slid his right hand into his pocket, drew out a silver cigarette case, flipped it open and lit a cigarette from a lighter fitted into the end of the case. He put the case away before speaking again, and all the time Eve stared at him with an edge of fear. “You don’t have to worry, Evie, I’m not going to strangle the life out of you yet.”
“Don’t talk like that!”
“Well, you expected trouble, didn’t you?” He moved forward with a slow movement. He was wearing a brown suit which had padded shoulders, and beautiful straight lines; he was dressed to kill. His oiled black hair swept back from his forehead; there were lines in it, made by the comb. His small lips were rather like a woman’s and his eyes were a smoky brown.
When Eve made no comment, he went on softly:
“You didn’t think Tony Brown would let you go without making a fight for it, did you?”
Now she spoke, gaspingly: “You—you’ve no right here! Get out! I don’t want—”
“You don’t want your Tony any more,” interrupted Brown. “I’m all washed up, aren’t I? You’ve cost me plenty, Evie, more than I could afford, and now you’ve found someone with mere money, and you don’t even want to say goodbye.”
He touched her shoulders. She flinched, but did not try to get away. His long, slender fingers caressed her skin softly, moving nearer and nearer to the slim white neck. He could see a little pulse beating beneath her chin.
He moved his forefinger and touched the pulse, feeling its fluttering.
Eve kept absolutely still, as if petrified.
“Scared to death, aren’t you?” the man said.
“I—no! I’m not frightened of you.” She could hardly get the words out.
“You ought to be,” said Brown. He pressed more firmly, his hands right round her neck. “Just think of what I could do to you, Evie. Just think of what Paul Raeburn would say if there were dark bruises on that lovely neck, if your face was swollen and purple and—”
“Get away from me!” she screamed, and sprang up, freeing herself. “Get away!”
“You don’t have to worry,” Brown repeated. “I didn’t come here to kill you. I’m a fighter, Eve, and I haven’t lost yet. I’ve come to talk to you. Sit down.”
She stood where she was, her hands clutching her throat.
He leaned over, pulled a wrap from a chair and draped it round her shoulders. Then he pushed her towards a divan which was close to the blue-papered wall. “I said sit down.”
She obeyed now, fought to regain her poise, and drew her legs up, curling them beneath her. Brown pulled up a chair, turned it round, and sat astride it, leaning on the back as he looked towards her.
“Eve, you’re making a big mistake,” he said.
“I know what I’m doing.” She was less frightened.
“You don’t know a thing, and you’re asking for trouble,” Brown said. “Raeburn thinks the police have burned their fingers so much they they’ll stop trying to get him, but they won’t. I know the police better than he does. They mean to get Raeburn sooner or later. They’ll probably find out your evidence was perjury, too, but whether it happens now or later, one of these days Raeburn is going down with a hell of a bump. When he goes, he’ll drag his friends with him. He’s like that, Evie. He takes you up, but he doesn’t stick to you.”
“He’d never let we down.”
Smoke curled up from Brown’s cigarette into his right eye, and he screwed it up. “Eve, even if you were the only woman in Raeburn’s life, which you aren’t, and even if he married you, which he won’t, you’d still be making a mistake, because the police will get him. But before that, maybe a long time before that, he’ll get tired of you. When he does, he’ll know you could go back on your testimony, and he wouldn’t like the risk of being blackmailed.”
Eve caught her breath.
“Don’t be a fool! I didn’t commit perjury. I saw the man—”
“You saw nothing,” retorted Brown, and added sharply: “You were with me that night.”
“That’s a he!” But she was terrified again.
“It happened so long ago you thought I’d forget,” Brown sneered. “Or maybe you told Raeburn’s friends that you were alone all evening, so that no one could prove you were lying. Well, someone can. I can. But I know when to keep my mouth shut and when to talk. Right now I’m keeping it shut.” Brown paused, and demanded sharply: “How much did he pay you?”
She could not find her voice.
“Whatever it was, you ought to retire on it,” Brown said. “A thousand pounds? It wouldn’t be less, anyhow. That’s a lot of money, and you ought to be satisfied with it. Turn Raeburn in, Eve, and let me look after you. We could go out to Australia—”
He broke off at a new expression in her eyes: repugnance. “So that’s the way it is,” Brown said, softly. “Okay, Evie, have it your own way, but don’t forget one thing: I know you didn’t see that man or that car. I know that Raeburn ought to be inside. One of these days, when he gets rough with you, maybe I’ll tell the police what I know.” He let the cigarette drop from his lips, and trod it into the carpet. “Maybe it won’t be so long, either.”
He got up, put the chair aside, and tossed a key into her lap. “I won’t need that again.”
She lay where she was with her legs curled beneath her. Her head was tilted back and her hair touched a cushion behind her. The wrap had fallen off one shoulder. Brown leaned forward and snatched it off, pulled her to him, his fingers biting into her arms. He kissed her with a fury of passion which won no sign of response. Then, as suddenly as he had taken her, he thrust her away. There were red marks on her lips and on her arms.
He turned and went blindly across the room. The tiny hall of the flat was in darkness. He stepped on to the landing, where there was a dim light. He slammed the door behind him.
He stood quite still, his heart thumping, a mist in front of his eyes, and he did not see the man who moved in the hall downstairs. He smoothed down his coat, straightened his tie, and went slowly down the stairs and into the narrow street, near the Thames at Battersea.
The man he had not seen followed him, on the other side of the road.
Brown soon began to walk more quickly, glad of the cold air which made his cheeks sting. He did not notice anyone near him. He walked aimlessly, not caring which way he turned, down this street and that until he reached Battersea Park. The street lighting was poor, but he did not want lights. He walked across a dark, unlit road near the Festival Amusement Park, still and silent, and reached the river. ‘
He was followed all the time by the man whose footsteps made no sound.
At last he slowed down, left the park, and turned into a brightly lit pub. He ordered a whisky-and-soda, tossed it down, and ordered another. By ten o’clock his eyes were glazed and his sallow cheeks tinged with red. He left the pub, and kept reasonably steady as he walked back to the single room where he lived.
Once inside, he kicked off his shoes, tugged off his collar and tie, and dropped on to the bed. He lay in a drunken stupor for some time, then fell into a deep sleep.
It was a small room with a single bedstead, a wardrobe, a dressing table, two chairs and a few oddments. A gas fire with two broken filaments was near the head of the bed; a slotmeter was in the corner.
For half an hour the only sound was Brown’s heavy breathing. Then a scratching sound came at the door. Brown slept on. The scratching sound continued for some minutes, then stopped, and the door opened slowly. A little man came in, closed the door behind him, and switched on the light. Brown did not stir. The intruder looked about the room, pushing at the fingers of his thin leather gloves. He went to the gas fire, taking some coins out of his trousers pocket; three shillings were among them. He inserted the shillings into the meter, pausing after each one dropped, and listening in case anyone came up the stairs.
No one came.
He turned on the gas, which made a gentle hissing sound. The smell began to fill the room as the man went out. He made no attempt to lock the door, but crept downstairs, unobserved, and walked off towards the park.
Brown slept on. . . .
Paul Raeburn’s Park Lane apartment overlooked Hyde Park, but was high, so that all sound of traffic was muted. There were seven rooms, each luxurious. The decor by Lintz was a masterpiece; rich tapestry curtains, rooms in different periods, thick pile carpet everywhere to deaden the sound of movement: this was a millionaire’s dream.
In the study, a formal room of carved walnut furniture, leather-bound books and brown hide chairs, a dumpy, middle-aged woman sat at a desk. The desk lamp was on, making crooked shadows of her hand as she wrote in a small book. There was hardly a murmur of sound.
A bell rang, breaking the stillness. She lifted her head and listened, until the maid spoke at the front door.
“Good evening, Mr Warrender.”
“Hallo, Maud. Is Mr Raeburn in?”
“No, sir, only Mrs Beesley.”
“In the study?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring me something to eat in there,” said the man.
The woman in the study closed the book and put it away, then turned towards the opening door. Her short, fat figure was wrapped in black silk; there was a deep V at the neck, where white flesh bulged. Middle-aged and plain to a point of ugliness, she had opaque brown eyes and clear pale skin. Whenever she smiled, she showed discoloured, widely spaced teeth; they made the smile seem false.
The man who entered, George Warrender, was short and dapper. He flung a black Homburg hat into a chair and took off his dark overcoat and scarf. Then, pulling down his coat sleeves, he strolled towards the electric fire, rubbing his hands in front of it.
He took one quick glance at the woman. “Hallo, Ma. How are things?”
“Is it cold out, George?”
“Perishing.” He rubbed his hands more briskly. “You don’t take much time off,” he remarked, and turned his head to look at her.
“I’ve plenty to do.”
“Don’t overdo it,” advised Warrender. “The way he’s going on, we’ll have to use our wits again before long. We mustn’t take any chances of being tired.”
“I think we’ll manage,” she replied, smoothly.
“Got to,” said Warrender. “How about a spot?”
She got up’ at once, walked heavily to a cabinet, and poured out a whisky-and-soda. He took it, raised his glass to her, and sipped.
They were about the same height, but in bulk Ma Beesley made two of George Warrender, and they were incongruous contrasts in appearance. He was as lean and hard as a whippet. Where her eyes were brown, dark and beady, his were a light grey. Her lips were full and soft, his thin and tightly set. She was ugly; to some women, he would have seemed handsome in a sharp-featured way.
He finished his drink, and said abruptly: “I don’t like the way Paul’s behaving.”
“He won’t go too far, George,” Ma Beesley seemed quite certain.
“I’m not so sure. He out with Eve again?”
“Yes.”
“I told him he was a fool to be seen out with her, but he laughed at me,” said Warrender. “The trouble is he’s got away with too much. It would have done him good to cool himself inside for a year.”
“I almost agree with you,” Ma Beesley showed her bad teeth.
“I was almost sorry that we got him off,” said War- render, “but perhaps it was as well. If he keeps going round with Eve, though, there’s bound to be talk. He doesn’t own every newspaper in the country, and he can’t stop all the columnists.”
“Aren’t you taking it all too seriously?” asked Ma Beesley, easily. “He has plenty of reason to be grateful to her, so why shouldn’t he take her around?”
