An Apostle of Gloom (16 page)

Mrs. Cartier had tidied her hair. One cheek was also red and swollen and the scratch on her eyelid was lined with blood, but she looked more presentable than Roger or the maid – and she was smiling, although with more than a touch of bitterness. She looked hard at Roger, her smiled faded and she said: “How it must hurt! Will you have—coffee?”

Roger croaked. “I don't think I could drink it.”

“Then some milk – cold milk?” She did not wait for an answer but rose and hurried out of the room. She returned in a few seconds with a glass of cold milk which she handed to him. Then she asked belatedly: “Would you rather have it warm?”

“This is—wonderful,” croaked Roger. It was not an exaggeration, the milk was like velvet to his parched mouth and a salve to his lips. “I—I'm terribly—sorry.”

“Please!” she said. “I did not think there were men like it. Pickerell—” her lips tightened and she looked at Abbott. “You will not let them escape?”

“We will not, madam.” Abbott said, sounding aloof yet speaking with great warmth for him. “Don't be afraid of that.”

Roger said: “Sam called for you?”

“Yes. But I think Mrs. Cartier is better able to tell me what happened,” Abbott said.

“I will, immediately,” said Mrs. Cartier. “Oh, I am so sorry that they took the record—”

Roger snapped, his voice suddenly clear.

“Did they?” He stood up too quickly, for his head began to swim, and he stepped to the cabinet beneath which he had kicked the record. He saw the cardboard container and beckoned one of the Yard men, who went down on his knees and brought out the container. The record was inside.

Mrs. Cartier said, in a clear voice: “I did not know! Excellent, Inspector! Now—”

But she broke off and the others looked towards the passage door, seeing Sam standing ill at ease in the entrance hall with one of Abbott's men. There was a murmur of conversation before the door opened. A plain-clothes man stood aside and revealed the tall, elegant figure of Mr. Sylvester Cartier.

He stopped on the threshold, staring incredulously about him.

 

 

After the first shock, Cartier took the situation remarkably well. He had exclaimed at the sight of his wife's puffy face and looked at Roger without understanding. Then he had gripped his wife's hands and looked into her eyes as she said: “It is all right now,
cheri,
quite all right now.”

Cartier took a blue and white spotted handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed fastidiously at his forehead. Roger saw him clearly for the first time. He was too narrow in the jaw to be called handsome, yet he was a good-looking man with an excellent, almost feminine, complexion. His fair hair was thin and curly, his eyes blue, his lips full and generous. There was a foppish air about him, in accord with his manner, but Roger wondered whether any of it was affectation.

“Now perhaps someone will be good enough to explain this remarkable visitation,” said Cartier.

“Cheri,
I should have told you something of it before,” said his wife. She looked contrite and Cartier stared at her in growing bewilderment. “Perhaps you will be patient?” She looked at Abbott and added: “I wish to tell my husband what has caused this.”

Cartier stepped to the tray. The fruit knives were crossed and he straightened them, then picked up an apple and toyed with it.

“I should like to know about it myself,” Abbott said. The man was positively human and Roger looked at him, surprised by this revelation, puzzled also by something else in his manner, although not hinted at by anything he said. He had been friendliness and kindness itself when he had bathed Roger's face, as if understanding a great deal without being told.

“That is good,” said Mrs. Cartier. “Then, please, listen.”

Roger admired her telling of the story, touching on all she had told him and elaborating only those details which needed a little fuller explanation. She included her visit to Bell Street and explained that she had seen Roger waiting at the end of Welbeck Street and had hurried off to see him so as to arrange for this visit. She admitted, with a smile which was almost coy, that she and her husband had quarrelled at Welbeck Street, and she made it clear that because of his antagonism to her interest in the Society she had hesitated to take him into her confidence. She gave Roger the impression that it would have to be settled between them and that she was prepared to make concessions. Her eyes caressed the man.

Then she told them what had happened at the flat.

Tiny Martin, probably the most proficient shorthand writer at the Yard, took everything down, occasionally forced to write so fast that his pencil seemed to slide across the page of his notebook. Mrs. Cartier gave no sign that she knew that a record was being made.

She finished: “I would have refused to answer, but the Inspector told me to. Did you not, Inspector?”

“I should think he did!” exclaimed Cartier. “I've never heard anything approaching—” he broke off, put the apple down, stared at Roger and then went on: “Had you any idea what Pickerell was doing before? If you did, let me make it clear that in my opinion you should have advised me.”

“I hadn't the faintest idea,” Roger assured him.

“Are you sure?” Cartier stared at him intently.

“I do not imagine that the Inspector would lie about it, Sylvester,” said Mrs. Cartier. “And it is surely clear that as he was being victimised he would not know.” She looked at Abbott. “The wrong can be righted, I hope.”

Abbott so far forgot himself as to smile.

“Yes,” he said, “it can.”

Roger no longer noticed his swollen lips or puffy eye. Malone had receded, even the ‘unlucky 13th' did not matter. He was in the clear. Chatworth would admit it as freely as Abbott. At the moment, nothing else was of importance, he believed he would have laughed into the face of Masher Malone.

The mood did not last for long.

He left Bonnock House with Abbott, half an hour later, when the flat had been scoured for fingerprints. There would be plenty of Malone's on the fragments of the dictaphone cylinders, which were carefully collected and put in a shopping bag which the maid, now much more herself, brought from the kitchen. Cartier revealed himself to be an acute and shrewd fellow by his questions to Abbott, but, like his wife, he gave the impression that the main issue would have to be decided between him and Antoinette, who grew more vivacious as the minutes passed and, Roger thought, as memory of Malone faded. With her husband she was positively seductive. Yet he believed she would not easily forget Malone, it would be a nightmare memory which would haunt her for months. That was the first thought to affect his new-found exhilaration.

Although it was barely half past nine, he telephoned the Legge Hotel, to find that Janet and the others were there. He told Janet that he would be late and let her understand that the cloud no longer existed, and he smiled to himself when he rang off, her elated voice echoing in his ears. He frowned then, thinking of Lois and wondering whether the time had come to tell the Yard all that he knew of her. He thought it had, but as he left the flat with Abbott he felt undecided. Sam had gone ahead, smiling selfconsciously after Antoinette had thanked him by gripping his hand in both of hers and looking deep into his eyes.

The moon was rising and casting a faint grey light about the heath and the large houses and mansion flats bordering it. It shone dully on the three police cars outside. Sam had taken Roger's taxi—

The thought of the taxi-driver who should have telephoned Bell Street entered Roger's mind. He missed a step and Abbott said: “What is it, West?”

“I ought to telephone my house,” Roger said.

“You can do that from the Yard,” said Abbott. “I telephoned Sir Guy before I left and I expect he will be waiting for us. I don't want to keep him waiting any longer than is necessary.”

“I suppose not,” said Roger, reluctantly.

At the Yard, Abbott went to the A.C.'s office ahead of him and he went into his own. It was dark and there was a smell of shag – Eddie Day's tobacco. He hugged himself as he gazed round at the dingy pictures and the threadbare carpet. It looked a tawdry place, far less impressive than when he had last been in there, feeling very sorry for himself. That was over, thank the Lord! Chatworth would already probably be listening to the cylinder and he would know that Pickerell, his motive now only partly obscure, had worked up the case against Roger.

Morgan's man answered his telephone call to Bell Street.

“Have you had any calls?” Roger asked, promptfy.

“No, it's been as quiet as you could wish,” the man said. “Is there any need for me to stay, Mr. West?”

“I'd like you to,” said Roger, “but there's no reason why you shouldn't go to bed – in the room where there's a telephone. Will you do that?”

“If you say so,” the man said, indifferently.

Roger replaced the receiver, only to lift it again and call the London Hospital. He was given a good report on Pep Morgan, then, lighting a cigarette, he walked along to Chatworth's office. One or two men passed him, staring at him in surprise, and one of them asked him what he had done to his face.

Roger grinned painfully. The tobacco stung his lips and he knew that he was a fool to smoke but he could not bring himself to throw the cigarette away. He tapped on Chatworth's door and was bidden to enter.

Chatworth was sitting in his big chair, Abbott standing like a statue beside him; the dictaphone in Chatworth's office was near his hand, a cylinder –
the
cylinder – was in front of Chatworth.

“Hallo, West,” said the A.C., without smiling. “You've had a nasty time, I hear. Sit down.” Roger did so and drew gently on the cigarette. “Well, the air is much clearer,” said Chatworth.

“I hoped you would think so, sir,” Roger said. It was difficult to speak and his words were inclined to run into one another.

Chatworth tapped the record.

“I propose to take this as conclusive,” he said, “although I must admit I'm bewildered – yes, bewildered.” For Chatworth that was a great admission. “I could not bring myself to believe that anyone would go to such lengths to frame you, West. It”—he hesitated and his full moon of a face was sombre—”it remains hardly credible.”

“I suppose so, sir,” mumbled Roger.
Was
the man still doubtful? Staring into Chatworth's eyes, he decided that it was not a question of doubt but of sheer bewilderment and he felt better although the mood of exhilaration had quite passed. “You've heard about the unlucky 13th?”

“Yes,” said Chatworth, and indicated two manilla folders on his desk. “Here are your reports for December 13th – it can only be the 13th of December.”

“Of course,” said Roger, his heart beating faster. “Have you looked through them?”

“No, I'm leaving it to you,” said Chatworth. “But are you up to it just now?”

“I might get a brainwave,” Roger said. He sat down at Chatworth's invitation and the folders were pushed towards him. He looked steadily into Chatworth's eyes and went on: “Was there any other indication about”—he paused—”my alleged misbehaviour?” Now they were uttered, the words sounded absurdly formal. He knew that the evidence of the bank pass-book must have seemed conclusive enough and yet there was a lingering doubt – had it been on the strength of that alone that such action had been taken?

“Yes,” Chatworth said, “There were statements that you had conspired with the man, Malone, to warn him if action were to be taken against him—”

“Who made the statements?” Roger demanded.

“Joe Leech,” said Chatworth. “There were other things which we won't worry about now, West – if I were you, I would go home and get some sleep. You'll feel much fresher to-morrow. But if you want to look through those files—”

“I would like to,” said Roger.

Ten minutes later, puzzled and frustrated, he pushed them towards Chatworth. There was nothing which gave him any idea as to why he had been victimised because of a discovery made on December 13th. Certainly nothing he had put in his reports was important enough to have worried Pickerell so much. The only thing of importance on the day had been a visit to a mean house in Battersea, where a man had murdered his wife. It had been a miserable affair, brightened only by the solicitor who had taken on the murderer's defence. He sat back after he had told Chatworth so and the glimmering of an idea entered his mind, only to fade again. It served mostly to remind him of the flash of doubt concerning Antoinette Cartier. It faded as swiftly, but made him feel uncertain and a little irritable. His eyes felt as if they were filled with grit and his tongue was like a plum against his lips.

“I spent most of the day clearing up the Battersea murder,” he said, “and that was nothing out of the ordinary. The man, Cox, had murdered his wife and buried her beneath the kitchen floor of a hovel in Battersea. Oliphant looked in while I was at the house. The other things were minor, sir, just details – they weren't even my cases, I was helping someone else.”

“Get off home,” Chatworth said, “you're too tired to think clearly.” He rounded the desk and held out his hand. “Suspension is lifted, West. I'm sorry.” His handclasp was very firm.

“Thank you, sir,” said Roger.

“And I'm sorry, West,” said Abbott, when they were walking along the passage outside. “I had my work to do, you know that. I will admit that I thought there was no doubt at all, I was quite sure that you had taken the money.”

Roger smiled, painfully. “If there was even more evidence than I've heard of yet, I can't blame you.”

“I should have kept an open mind,” Abbott said. “I tried to trap you, West – I told you as nearly as I could that I was coming to see you that afternoon, then I sent Martin to shadow you. I expected you to make a call somewhere else.” The Superintendent broke off awkwardly, Roger could understand how difficult he found it to make such an admission. “I'm sorry,” Abbott ended, lamely.

“Forget it,” said Roger. “Oh, there's one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn't you detain me?”

Abbott shrugged. “We wanted to give you plenty of rope.”

Roger said: “And you've no idea who I was supposed to be sheltering?”

“None,” said Abbott, “none at all. I hoped we could get information from Leech.” They were walking down the steps of the Yard, then, towards the Embankment; the moon was shimmering on the sluggish Thames and the dark silhouettes of barges were moving down river. One hooted mournfully. A car horn sounded not far away and a tram clattered along the Embankment a ghostly thing with its faint lights. “You have no idea where to find Malone, I suppose?”

“No,” said Roger, “I wish I had! Well, I'll get a taxi.”

“I'll drive you home,” said Abbott.

“Not home – Buckingham Palace Gate,” Roger said, and then stopped abruptly, remembering Lois; he had quite forgotten her while he had been with Chatworth. His mind was too clouded, he should not have tried to think, it only gave him a headache and depressed him. He went on: “There's one other thing you should know, Abbott. I've got the girl who helped Pickerell.” Hastily, he went on: “Oh, I haven't kidnapped her, she's willing enough to take help from me, but she won't make any statement. Pickerell was blackmailing her, of course. I think it would be a mistake to interview her officially.”

Abbott did not answer immediately.

“A serious mistake,” Roger emphasised. “She might be able to give us a line if she's treated well, but I believe she's so frightened of the police, as police, that she would stay dumb.”

Abbott gave a thin laugh; with a shock, Roger realised that he had never heard the Superintendent laugh before.

“We owe you
some
licence,” Abbott said.