John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West
Roger got up. When Turnbull came in with a whisky or brandy in a glass, she waved him aside.
“Now pull yourself together,” said Roger, “we’ve work to do. Do you know whether Brown had any enemies?”
She was sullen now, as she answered: “No.”
“Quite sure?” Roger took out his penknife, casually, opened it, and poked at the quick of his thumbnail.
“Of course I’m sure!”
“Then what are you so worked up about?” demanded Roger. He closed the knife one-handed, and suddenly cried out: “Oh, damn!”
He swung round, shaking his hand. His back was towards Eve when he thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and squeezed the glass phial. Blood covered his hand and streamed up his arm when he turned round.
“Here, we must stop that bleeding,” Turnbull said, as if in alarm.
All Eve Franklin said was: “Mind the carpet!”
Roger, holding up his hand, went to a basin, and thrust his hand under the cold water tap.
“Take my handkerchief out,” he said to Turnbull.
Eve, who had told the magistrate how she always fainted at the sight of blood, showed no sign of being upset. Turnbull made a professional-looking job of bandaging Roger’s finger, as if it were a genuine wound, and was finishing as the front doorbell rang.
“I’ll go,” said Turnbull. He went into the hall, and Roger peered out to see George Warrender push past Turnbull into the hall.
Ma Beesley lifted the receiver of the private line between the flat and Raeburn’s city office, and said: “Yes, who is it?”
“Tell George I want him.” It was Raeburn.
“I can’t just now,” said Ma. “I’m sorry, Paul, but George has gone out. You know that woman who lives across the road from Eve? Tenby dropped her a few pounds to keep an eye on the child—”
Raeburn’s voice became sharp. “Well?”
“Well, she told Tenby to say that that handsome man has gone into the flat,” said Ma. “The very handsome one, you know. Tenby got away before he arrived, so George thought he’d better get along at once.”
When Raeburn did not answer, she went on: “Just in case of any difficulty, I’ve asked Abel Melville to stand by, but I think it will be all right.”
“So Mr Handsome won’t take a warning,” Raeburn said. “I’ll have to deal with him.”
CHAPTER VII
MR WARRENDER OBJECTS
EVE SAID: “Who is it?” and stood up, pulling the dressing-gown tight about her waist. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her face was blotchy.
“A friend of yours,” Roger said.
“That’s right,” agreed Warrender, “and Miss Franklyn obviously needs friends. Where is she?”
A hand brushed Roger’s arm behind the door.
“Don’t let him come in,” whispered Eve. “Don’t let him see me like this” She turned to the dressing table, dropped on to the stool, and began to dab a powder puff into a bowl; heavily scented powder flew up in a cloud.
“Chief Inspector, I insist on being told what has happened.” Warrender strode forward.
Roger made no attempt to stop him from entering the bedroom. If the girl did not want to see him, it seemed a good time to let them meet. She was looking over her shoulder, her face covered with powder. Her red-rimmed eyes were staring out of a grotesque white mask.
“My dear Eve,” Warrender exclaimed, stepping forward, “what on earth’s the matter? What’s distressed you like this?” He put a hand on her shoulder; his voice was gentle and friendly. “Have these men been worrying you?”
“They—yes, they won’t go away! I locked the door, but they broke it open. I just can’t stand any more of their questioning.”
“You certainly won’t have to,” said Warrender, and his voice became harsh and clipped. “Is this your special form of third degree, Chief Inspector?”
“Don’t talk nonsense. We—”
“You appear to have forced your way into this room, and made yourselves objectionable. We shall find out whether it is lawful. Eve, I think you had better stay with friends for a little while. You know the people in Flat 4, don’t you?”
“I can’t go there like this,” she protested.
“Oh, don’t worry about makeup.” Warrender took her elbow and helped her to her feet. “The police will have no objections to this, I’m sure.”
Roger said, stonily: “By advising Miss Franklin not to answer questions, Mr Warrender, you are obstructing us in our work.”
“She’s in no fit state just now to talk about anything,” Warrender retorted, “certainly not until she’s seen her lawyer. Come along, my dear.”
The Woman with the dust cap was now standing on the landing, and exclaimed as Warrender led Eve out: “Why, Eve, aren’t you well?”
“I wonder if you will let Miss Franklin rest in your flat for half an hour?” Warrender asked. “The police have upset her badly again.”
“So that’s it.” The woman shot Roger and Turnbull a searing glance, and took Eve’s arm. “Come along, my dear, come and have a nice cup of tea.”
Turnbull whispered: “What is this?”
“Warrender is trying to establish the fact that we’ve been ill-treating the girl,” Roger answered as softly. “But let him think he’s got us worried. He’s got a witness; all he wants now is a reporter from the Cry!” He stopped as Warrender came back, and the door of Flat 4 closed on the two women.
“Is it not true that she locked herself in her room and that you forced your way in?” Warrender demanded.
“Yes.”
“I shall see that the matter is reported at once. It is outrageous that a young woman should be victimised simply because she has given evidence proving that the police fell down on a job.”
“Warrender, you’re riding for a fall,” Roger said, quietly. “Miss Franklin had a faithful boy friend. That boy friend was with her on the evening when she is supposed to have seen the accident. He was going to make a statement, but he died in mysterious circumstances.”
Warrender cried, as if genuinely astonished: “What’s that?”
“So you didn’t know,” sneered Roger. “The one witness needed to prove a case of perjury against Eve Franklin is dead. We can’t bring the case—yet. But if Eve and her dead boy friend were out together that night, someone must have seen them. We’ll find that someone. Once it’s proved that she could not have seen the accident, not all the Abel Melvilles, Ma Beesleys and George Warrenders will keep Raeburn out of jail. And remember this: if you ever stop me or my colleagues from carrying out our duties, I’ll detain you and charge you with obstructing the police. The charge would stick.” Roger turned to Turn- bull. “Inspector, tell Miss Franklin that we’re ready to take her to Scotland Yard for questioning.”
“You can’t do it!” Warrender cried but all his confidence had gone.
“Miss Franklin had the opportunity to make a statement here, and refused,” Roger said. “She will now have to come with me to Scodand Yard, and I shall not allow you to be alone with her before we leave.”
“Raeburn can break you over this, and he will,” War- render said savagely, and turned and went out of the room.
Eve was sullen, but she dressed and went downstairs to the car with Roger and Turnbull. Warrender was not in sight. The girl got into the back of the car, and Turnbull sat beside her. Roger drove towards the park, taking the long way round along Flodden Road. As they passed Brown’s apartment house, the girl glanced at it, then looked straight ahead.
When they reached Scotland Yard, she went up the steps in front of the men. In the doorway she stopped short. The big, round-faced solicitor, Melville, was standing in the hall.
Turnbull whispered: “They moved damned quick.”
“Didn’t you expect it?” asked Roger.
Melville was smiling expansively.
“Hallo, Miss Franklin, you’re in difficulty, I’m told.” The solicitor took Eve’s hand, and turned to Roger. “What is it you want from my client, Chief Inspector?”
Roger didn’t hesitate. “I want a statement from Miss Franklin about her meeting with her friend Tony Brown last evening.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be difficult. If you ask Miss Franklin nicely, I’m sure she will oblige. Brown was accidentally killed by gas poisoning, wasn’t he?”
“You might wait for the result of the inquest before deciding.”
“Now, now, Chief Inspector, we needn’t get heated about it,” protested Melville. “I’m only talking as a friend. Did Brown come to see you last night, Miss Franklin?”
“Yes, but he didn’t stay long,” Eve said, hurriedly. “He wanted to take me out, but I had another engagement, so I couldn’t go.” As the words spilled out, Melville’s man-in-the-moon smile grew broader. “He didn’t like it, and we had a few words, that’s all.”
A quarter of an hour later, she signed a statement, and flounced out of the Yard.
“Handsome,” Turnbull said, when they had gone, “they’ll try to take the skin off your back for that. You took a hell of a chance to make the girl crack, but it didn’t come off.”
“I’m looking forward to the Cry’s next edition.” Roger glanced at his watch, as he spoke dryly. “Do you remember the little man who left Eve’s house just before we arrived?”
“You bet I remember him.”
“Someone went to warn Warrender, and that little man was the most likely one,” Roger said. “Try to get tabs on him, will you? Melville smiled and Warrender blustered, but they were scared in case Eve talked too much.”
Turnbull, known as the toughest man at the Yard, said deliberately: “I’m getting scared because she didn’t. Watch your step, Handsome.”
For the second time Roger saw his own photograph staring up at him, this time with a caption: THE MAN RESPONSIBLE. The Cry had not spared him; the term third degree was freely used, and Eve was built up as a victim of police persecution. It was wholly scurrilous, but one inevitable consequence was that his personal stock would fall.
Next morning, two other newspapers took the same line as the Cry. It was difficult to go about the Yard looking as if nothing was the matter, but Roger managed it.
He did not go to the inquest on Tony Brown, at which the verdict was Death by Misadventure. Eve’s evidence of Brown’s visit made splash headlines in several newspapers. He and Eve, Roger thought ruefully, were sharing press prominence. He checked every incident, everything new and old about Halliwell, his arson and frauds, and his associates; he checked the Raeburn manage closely; he had every stage of Eve Franklin’s life checked, and especially her recent activities. Nothing helped. Deliberately, he kept away from Tony Brown’s sister, but he had her watched, and he kept a sergeant at work on Brown’s activities.
Turnbull put in every spare minute he could on the case. Mark Lessing studied every report, and spotted nothing new.
Two days after the inquest, Roger was dealing with some routine work when the door was flung open.
“What’s all the hurry?” Eddie Day demanded, and when he saw Turnbull, he sniffed. “Some people would knock on the door before bursting into a superior’s office.”
Turnbull grinned at him as he strode across to Roger, and announced: “We’ve got a line.”
The way Roger’s heart pounded told how vitally important this case was to him; it was not only a personal challenge, with his future at stake, but at the back of his mind was fear of the great damage Raeburn was already capable of doing through his newspapers and with his money.
“It’s the man we saw coming out of Eve’s house when we called,” Turnbull went on. “We’ve got tabs on him at last. His name’s Tenby, and he’s got a record. How about that?”
“What’s he been in for?” Eddie’s curiosity overcame his annoyance.
“Counterfeiting, seven years ago. Since then he’s been fined a few times for passing betting slips. He was broke until a few months ago, but recently he’s started throwing money about, and he’s supposed to have a taste for practical jokes. Shall I have a go at him, or will you?”
“Who found him?” asked Roger.
“I’ve been through twenty thousand photographs in Records, and came across him there,” said Turnbull. “The minute I recognised him, I put Symes on to make a few inquiries, and I’ve just had his report.”
“Think Symes can handle this?”
“He’s dead from the neck up. I—”
“You and I want to keep out at this stage,” Roger said. “We need a good, youngish chap. How about young Peel ? “
“He’ll do,” Turnbull conceded, reluctantly. “Never keen on using him, as his brother’s a CI, but you know them well enough to slap the young one down if necessary, don’t you?”
“He might not need slapping down,” Roger said. “Get him, will you?”
CHAPTER VIII
PEEL v. TENBY
THE LITTLE man named Tenby sat in a corner of the Red Lion, in the Fulham Road, with a whisky-and- soda in front of him and a blackened cigarette dangling from his lips. He was red-faced and long-nosed, with a habitually fretful expression. He looked searchingly at the dozen men and women in the saloon bar, rather as if he were sizing each one up.
Detective Officer James Peel stood against the bar, drinking beer from a tankard. He was tall, broad- shouldered, and slim-waisted, with narrow hips, and he looked in the pink of condition. His light grey flannel trousers were newly pressed, and his brown tweed sports coat hung open. He laughed easily, showing big white teeth. People were usually attracted to him on sight.
The barmaid was no exception.
“You’re not so busy tonight,” observed Peel.
“Busy enough,” retorted the barmaid. “We’ve got to keep our eyes open when there are people like you about, you know.”
Peel laughed, dutifully.
“Coming again?” she asked.
“I think I will.”
A large party came into the saloon bar, as a tankard was put in front of him. He paid for his drink, and moved away to make room for the newcomers. His gaze roamed about the room; he looked at and past Tenby, and then went over and sat near by.
Tenby’s bright eyes were turned towards him.
“Good evening,” said Peel, civilly.
“Evening,” said Tenby. “Better in than out.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad tonight.”
“Bad enough,” said Tenby. “Perishing.” To Peel’s surprise, he took a bag of chocolates from his pocket and popped one into his mouth, then began to sip his drink.
Peel took out a pipe and filled it. There were two other men from the Yard outside, ready to follow Tenby to his room, just off the Fulham Road. Peel had some idea how much depended on his success with this miserable-looking little man. As far as he could judge, Tenby was here simply to drink and enjoy himself. The crowd at the bar came over to the chairs, but there was not room for them all to sit together.
Peel stood up. “Mind if I join you, and make room?” he asked, and sat down by Tenby.
