Inspector West At Home - John Creasey

The kettle began to boil and he leaned forward and poured water in the pot. There were some sandwiches on a tray and Mark bit into one.

“The reason why,” he murmured. “That seems to be the first thing to discover, Roger. Shall I set my great mind to work ?”

“Not yet, thanks!” said Roger, horrified. They laughed. “Your first job, if you’ll do it, is to interview Joe Leech. Joe will be smart enough to outwit Pep.”

Mark grinned. “For that oblique compliment, many thanks ! Er — Roger.”

“Yes?”

“One little thing you might have forgotten,” Mark said, “and it could be significant. I mean, the attempt to involve Janet. The first assumption might be that it was just to strengthen the evidence against you, but it might also mean that the family is to be involved.”

Roger frowned. “I can’t think that’s likely. Did I say that Chatworth is going to send Cornish with you to the Mid- Union tomorrow, Jan? I think he’s afraid you will scratch Abbott’s eyes out!”

He laughed, and the atmosphere, already very much easier, grew almost gay.

The tension at the house while Roger had been out had been almost unbearable. It had been broken only by a telephone call from Pep Morgan, who had reported his encounter with Tiny Martin and told Mark that he had gone to the Yard and been questioned. He had been asked whether he had been at Bell Street earlier in the day, as well as to the reason why he had gone that night. Pep had answered on similar lines to Roger and had been released with a sombre warning from Abbott to ‘be careful’.

They went to bed just after one o’clock and, surprisingly, Roger went to sleep quickly. Janet lay awake a long while, listening to his heavy breathing and to Mark snoring in the spare room.

Mark was up first and disturbed the others by whistling in his bath. They breakfasted soon after eight o’clock and, just after nine, Mark left for the East End. Roger was tempted to go with Janet to the Mid-Union Bank, but thought it wiser to wait at Chelsea. She left soon after ten o’clock, met Cornish at Piccadilly and received the paying- in book from him and, at the small branch of the provincial bank made out a credit entry for fifty pounds, in cash, which Roger had taken out of his safe.

Cornish was nowhere in sight when she paid it in.

In spite of all the circumstances and her knowledge that she had never been inside the bank before, she felt on edge. The cashier was a middle-aged man with beetling brows; there was something sinister about him, about the tapping of a typewriter behind a partition and the cold austerity of the little bank itself. The cashier peered at her over the tops of steel-rimmed spectacles, counted the notes carefully, stamped the book and handed it back to her.

“Good morning, madam,” he said.

“Good morning,” gasped Janet and hurried out, feeling stifled.

She did not see Cornish immediately, but went by arrangement to the Regent Palace Hotel. She sat in the coffee lounge, and waited on tenterhooks. After twenty minutes Cornish came hurrying in, smiling cheerfully. Her spirits rose.

“Hallo, Mrs West!” Cornish reached her, his smile widening. “You’ll be glad to hear that he has never seen you before!”

Janet drew a deep breath.

“Thank heavens for that! I was half afraid that—” she broke off and forced a laugh. “But I mustn’t be absurd !”

“I’ve telephoned the Yard, so that’s all right,” Cornish said. “You’ll have some coffee, won’t you?”

“I must let Roger know first. I’ll phone from here.”

“Thank God for that,” Roger said over the telephone. “I was half-afraid that the cashier would go crazy.”

“So was I,” said Janet. “I suppose we’ll imagine idiotic things everywhere until it’s over. I must go, darling, Cornish is being very sweet. He’s getting some coffee.”

“Remind him to find that cabby’s address,” Roger said.

Smiling, he stepped from the telephone to the window and looked out into Bell Street. One of Abbott’s men was still on duty there. He felt like laughing at them, much happier now that he had a chance to fight back. Once the initial suspicion was gone, the whole organisation of the Yard would support him.

He hummed to himself as he lit a cigarette and then, frowning slightly, saw a powerful limousine drawing up outside the house. The driver glanced about him as if looking for the name of a house before pulling up opposite Roger’s.

Abbott’s man, betraying no interest, strolled along the opposite pavement.

A chauffeur climbed down from the car and opened the rear door. There was a pause before a woman stepped out. She was quite beautiful, and beautifully turned out in a black and white suit trimmed with mink.

Through the open window, Roger heard her say :

“I will go, Bott.”

Her voice was husky, the sun glistened on her teeth. She walked up the narrow path while the chauffeur stood at attention by the gate. As she disappeared from Roger’s sight, the front door-bell rang.

Before Roger went into the hall he smoothed his hair down and straightened his tie. When he opened the door he was smiling. It wasn’t difficult to smile at a woman as attractive as this stranger.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Is Mrs West in, please?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Roger. “I’m her husband.”

The woman said as if surprised : “You are Chief Inspector West?” !.

“Yes. Will you come in ?”

She hesitated and then said :

“I really wanted to see Mrs West.”

When he stepped aside, she entered the hall and he showed her into the front room. She moved very gracefully. Disarmed at first, Roger grew wary as she loosened the jacket, smiled, and sat down in Janet’s chair. “Will you please tell your wife I called?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Roger. “Whom shall I say?”

“Mrs Cartier,” replied the woman and took a card from her bag. “Mr West, I wonder if you will give me your support? It is such a good cause and I was told that Mrs West would probably be invaluable to us.”

“Us?” queried Roger, who had not looked at her card.

“To the Society,” said Mrs Cartier.

Roger glanced at the card, which was engraved : “Mrs Sylvester Cartier, President, the Society of European Relief, Welbeck Street, W.I.” He had heard of the Society which, when it had first been formed, had been visited by Yard officials to make sure of its bona fides. He remembered that it was registered as a Refugee Charity and that its patrons included some of the most distinguished names in Who’s Who.

Janet worked for several welfare societies, and he assumed that Mrs Cartier had obtained her name from one of them. Yet he could not help feeling that her visit on this particular morning was a remarkable coincidence. He remembered that Janet had said that they would be reading sinister qualities in the most innocent matters; this was probably an example.

“How can my wife help you?” he inquired.

“Her enthusiasm and organising ability are so well known,” said Mrs Sylvester Cartier. “I have been told that she is quite exceptional. You know of our Charity, of course?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Then you will help to persuade her?”

Roger said : “I think I should know more of what you want her to do.”

“But that is so difficult to explain precisely,” Mrs Cartier said. “There is a great deal of work. Our Society will make strenuous efforts to assist the professional people among the refugees — who so often cannot be helped by the United Nations or other official organisations, Mr West. So many groups cater for the common man, but the professional classes need help just as badly. They must be rehabilitated” — she pronounced that word carefully, as if she had rehearsed frequently and yet was not really sure of it — “and enabled to contribute towards their adopted nations. I will not weary you with details, but please do ask your wife to consider my appeal for her services most sympathetically. I am at the office most afternoons between two and four o’clock.” She rose and smiled as she extended her gloved hand. “I won’t keep you longer, Mr West. Thank you so much.”

“Good-bye,” said Roger, formally.

Janet would have accused him of being in a daze as he saw her out and watched her get into the car; a Daimler. The chauffeur tucked the rug about her, closed the door and went round to his seat. The car purred off, revealing the Yard man on the other side of the road.

“Well, well,” said Roger. “I wonder what Janet will say?”

It was just after eleven and he did not expect Janet back until after twelve. He leaned back in his chair and tried to concentrate on his immediate problem.

The payments to his account at the Mid-Union Bank had started in mid-January. From that time someone had decided to try to destroy his reputation and, at best, to get him drummed out of the Yard. He had dismissed the possibility that it was revenge, but there must be some reason and he could imagine only that, about four months earlier, he had made some discovery which, if he followed it up, would have startling results.

“Some unwitting discovery,” he mused. “Something which made me more dangerous than a policeman would normally be.”

He began to go back over his activities in December. He had finished off three minor cases of burglary, one of forgery with Eddie Day’s help, one sordid murder case. He had made some inquiries into aliens living in England and whose activities were suspect. These aliens had succeeded in proving their good behaviour. Aliens—

He sat up abruptly. Aliens and the Society of European Relief! What a fool he had been not to see that connection before! Mrs Cartier might be English by marriage but she had almost certainly been born an alien. Others connected with the Society might be as well, one of his inquiries might have touched upon the Society. In sudden excitement he began to trace back again, trying to remember every visit he had made, every name which had been suspect. ‘Cartier’ was not among them, yet even that held a French ring.

Yet would the woman have come and risked setting up such a train of thought? If the mystery concerned the

Society, she would surely realise that it might start him thinking, and she might even know of his plight.

He went to the writing desk and began to make out a list of names, stopping only when his memory failed him. He grew so absorbed that even when Janet had not returned by one o’clock, he did not pause to wonder why she was so late. Nor did he wonder what progress Mark was making.

CHAPTER 7

The Fears of Joe Leech

MARK LESSING strode along the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges, not far from London Bridge. He was a noticeable figure in that part of London. He seemed unaware of the dirt, the smells from small shops and markets, the grime which floated from the river and the spectral outlines of warehouses. Now and again he passed rows of hovels, some of them with the doors and windows open, most of them tightly closed and looking forlorn. Tugs hooted mournfully on the river. Covered gangways connecting one warehouse with another crossed the narrow street at intervals. Quays and locks, crossed by revolving bridges, were crossed with depressing frequency. Now and again he looked over the side of a bridge and saw the green slime undisturbed for many months. Yet there was a great hustle of activity, many voices were raised, horses and lorries passed along the cobbles in what seemed an endless stream.

Mark walked on, as if oblivious to it all.

He reached Rose Street, a narrow turning off the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges. Its houses were squat and ugly, but halfway along were two larger buildings — one a school, the other a public house. The latter, called for some incalculable reason the ‘Saucy Sue’, was a grey-faced, grim-looking Victorian edifice with its windows boarded up.

Joe Leech owned the ‘Saucy Sue’.

He did not work in the bar, although he did the buying and handled all the business with the breweries. He had a manager, a bald-headed, lantern-jawed individual named Clay, whose face was exactly the colour of clay and whose features had a trick of immobility which made them appear fashioned out of the same material. Clay was reputed to be the most saturnine man in the East End of London and it was said that he was the only man who had worked for Joe Leech for more than six months.

The ‘Saucy Sue’ was not open to the public when Mark reached it, just after ten o’clock, but the front door was open and a young girl, with bright fair hair, was scrubbing the doorsteps.

When he drew nearer Mark saw that she was older than he had thought, but painfully thin. When she became aware of his shadow, she looked up and brushed the hair back from her eyes. She had a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean and looked rosy. Her round bright eyes regarded him with guarded curiosity.

“Hallo,” said Mark.

“Watcher want ?” asked the girl.

“Is Mr Leech in?”

“I dunno.”

“Oh, come,” protested Mark. “You must know.”

“I said I dunno an’ I means I dunno,” said the girl. “If yer wants ter know anyfink, wot’s the matter wiv’ going inside?” She pointed towards the open door and then dipped her work-grimed hand into the water. Mark shrugged his shoulders and stepped over the threshold.

A man behind the bar was polishing glasses. Behind him the brasses of the taps and the faucets at the end of the wine and spirit bottles glistened in spite of the gloomy interior. The floor was strewn with clean saw-dust. This main was Clay.

“Watcher want Mr Leech for?” he demanded.

“Is he in ?” asked Mark.

“You ain’t answered my question.”

“I want to see Leech. Tell him so and be quick about it.”

“Can’t see Mr Leech wivvout a good reason,” Clay said stubbornly.

“I have a good reason.”

“If yer ‘ave, wot is it?”

The harsh, monotonous sound of scrubbing came from another room. Clay continued to stare, but finally admitted defeat, opening his lips but closing them again before he demanded grudgingly:

“What’s yer name?”

“Lessing. Mark Lessing. I want to see Leech on important business.”

Clay turned and walked stiffly to a closed door and pushed through it. Outside, feminine voices were raised, and Mark grinned when he heard a woman say :

“Got a toff to see yer, duck ?”

“Wot, me see ‘im ?” demanded the girl with the pail.

Mark lit a cigarette, felt uneasy when Clay did not return after five minutes, then heard more footsteps on the pavement. A quavering voice, that of an old man, demanded:

“You open yet, Lizzie ?”

“Go and hide yerself!” ordered Lizzie. “What’s the use o’ worritting me every morning? You won’t git a drink until twelve o’clock. Git out’ve my way.”

“Now, Lizzie,” remonstrated the man with the quavering voice, “I was only arsking a civil question wot wants a civil answer.” He lowered his voice. “Seen the Masher arahnd?”