Inspector West Takes Charge (10 page)

‘You!’ she sneered, ‘you call yourself a policeman and you let this swine stay in the same house! Clear him out, I won’t have him here! Calls himself my Claude’s cousin, baloney, if I’m not careful he’ll do him in like he did the rest.’ Her aspirates were wildly uncertain, over-emphasized. She flung a quivering hand towards Harrington, but continued to glare at Roger.

‘She’s quite drunk,’ Harrington said coldly.

‘Why, you –’

‘We’d better quieten down,’ Roger said. ‘You’ll disturb the invalids, Mrs Prendergast. Your Husband has been taken ill.’

Her ugly mouth widened.

‘I knew it, I knew it! Claude, where’s my Claude? I’m going to see him. Stand out of my way, copper.’ She advanced a couple of paces, but stopped when Roger stood steady.

‘Dr Tenby has refused permission for anyone to see him,’ he said. ‘The doctor will be here again soon and you can ask him for permission then. Meanwhile, you have just made a serious accusation against Mr Harrington.’ He was as cold and precise as Lampard.

‘I’ll accuse him all right! He –’

‘Are you formally making a charge of murder against him?’ Roger demanded. He saw a cunning glint in the big eyes. He was uncomfortably aware that Maisie was cleverer than he had realized; that she might have outwitted him before because he had assumed she was a fool.

‘That’s a job for
you
,’ she breathed. She turned uncertainly, dropping heavily on to the settee. The springs groaned. ‘Oh, my poor, poor Claude. You, you dumb copper, didn’t you realize there was something fishy about the way they all died? Didn’t you ever ask yourself no questions?’ She took her handkerchief from a bag on her lap. The long handle of the bag was fastened to her fat, plump wrist. ‘Poor, poor Claude, the last of them. He’s the last.’

‘Why did you say that this is not Mr Harrington?’

‘I I don’t know what I said!’ evaded Maisie. ‘I can’t stand the worry any longer, I just can’t. It’s too much for one person to bear.’

She burst into tears.

Roger regarded her dispassionately. Harrington took a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it. Then Maisie startled them by jumping to her feet and rushing towards the door.

Outside, Janet moved away quickly.

Roger followed, and watched Maisie walking laboriously up the stairs, grasping the hand-rail to steady herself. She put her feet down heavily on each stair. Roger waited until she was nearly at the top, and then followed. She made no attempt to go into Claude’s room, but went into a bedroom next to it.

She appeared not to see Lampard’s plainclothes man on duty outside Claude’s door.

‘Make quite sure that Mrs Prendergast doesn’t go into Mr Prendergast’s room,’ Roger said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did Inspector Lampard leave anyone with you?’

‘Two in the grounds, sir, and one in the kitchen.’

‘Good.’ Roger went down, and gave the kitchen-policeman orders to watch Maisie Prendergast’s room, then beckoned Janet. She was still in the hall.

‘I know what you want to do,’ he said. ‘Pop into Maisie’s room and find out what she’s doing. Okay. I suspect the crocodile.’

Harrington, smoking his pipe, was leaning back in an easy chair, long legs crossed at the ankles. He looked sideways at Roger. His mouth was twisted into a droll kind of smile.

‘Amused?’ asked Roger.

Harrington removed his pipe.

‘The lady came for cursing. In a way I am amused. The situation certainly has its humour. Do you think I murdered all the Prendergasts?’

‘There’s a live one upstairs.’

‘And a drunken one as well. I did not kill any Prendergast.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Were they murdered?’

‘Not officially. Yet.’

‘Do you think they were?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise anybody if Maisie and Claude were bumped off just for being themselves,’ Harrington said dryly. He stood up. He was very tall and seemed even more powerful-looking. An odd word came to Roger’s mind; sinister.

Janet came in. The way Harrington looked at her was not even remotely sinister; he was just a man.

‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘Are you getting to know one another? Roger, are we going home tonight? I’m worried about Omen.’

‘Who?’

‘The kitten who started this.’

Roger grinned. ‘The girl who didn’t believe in omens! He’ll be warm enough, and he won’t starve if I remember that delicate way you balanced the saucer on the milk jug. I doubt if we’ll get home tonight. It’s half-past eleven. It depends on when Dr Tenby returns.’

‘Are
you
staying the night, Mr Harrington?’ Janet asked innocently.

‘I’m going home,’ announced Harrington. ‘My address is 42, Hill Mansions, Kingston-on-Thames. If you want me after eight-thirty in the morning you’ll find me at Deans Court Road, where I work for my living.’ He went out.

‘Is it my imagination, or have you annoyed him?’ Janet asked.

‘I wouldn’t like to say. How is Maisie?’

‘I didn’t hear a sound when I listened at her door, and she wasn’t crying when I went in, she was looking at herself in the mirror. When she caught sight of me, she began to boo-hoo. Her scarf and the collar of her coat, at the front, are damp. It isn’t raining, and she didn’t cry all that number of tears.’

‘Odour?’

‘Of whisky. She was putting on an act, she wasn’t drunk. You thought of that, you’re quite bright sometimes. Why on earth come here and hurl suspicions at Harrington’s
bona fides,
darling? No one in their right senses would take any notice of what she said.’

‘That’s what Harrington said, but he may not be right. Lampard will watch Harrington, though, and when the time comes we’ll talk to Maisie. Can you sleep in a chair?’

‘That pet Petrie has aired a bed in a spare room,’ Janet said. ‘If only that kitten –’

She broke off, when Roger grinned at her.

‘You can turn in, sweet.’

‘Nothing would make me undress tonight, but I will go and lie down. Roger –’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you suspect Harrington?’

‘Not of tonight’s crimes.’

‘Of anything?’

‘Did Maisie say any more about him?’

‘No. She seemed almost sorry for her outburst.’

‘Before I suspect him I want to know more about him,’ Roger said. ‘We’ll get the Yard busy in the morning. In fact I’ll get ‘em busy on some things now. Off you go.’

He gave her a hug and a kiss, and she went out. Suddenly, he opened the door; she was near the foot of the stairs.

‘Hi!’

‘Roger! You scared me.’ She swung round.

‘Where’s this room?’ he demanded.

‘Just along the passage to the right.’

‘So long as I know,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll go up to see Mark.’

Mark was still unconscious, but his colour was better, and his breathing was more even. Janet went into a small bedroom which had a huge double bed. Roger left her.

When Tenby called, he said that Mark would wake up with nothing worse than a headache. His report on Claude was also encouraging. Claude might be expected to recover, although he would not be up and about again for some days.

‘Can you say any more about the cause of the attack?’

‘Symptoms are of barbiturate poisoning, but I’ll need to check. Don’t hold it against me if I’m wrong.’

Roger called the Yard when Tenby had gone. Abie Fenton had been missing from his usual haunts for three days, he was told, and there was no trace of his London movements. Charlie Clay had evaded the policeman who had been watching him; he had last been seen in the vicinity of Putney.

Lampard rang to say that Harrington had gone straight home, and that Abie Fenton’s body was now at the Guildford Morgue, and the inquest would be held in forty-eight hours unless Roger had any reason for wanting it earlier or later.

‘No, that will do,’ said Roger. ‘I’m going to stay the night in case of more trouble. I want to talk to Claude if he comes round, too.’

‘I should,’ said Lampard. ‘You can rely on my men. They have orders to take your instructions.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Roger. ‘Lampard,’ he informed Janet a little later, ‘is much better than I expected. And he shares one fear.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That there might be more trouble here.’

Petrie had ‘found’ some accessories, including toothbrushes and pyjamas.

Janet went to see Maisie again, and found her already asleep, or pretending to be.

Roger waited up until two o’clock, and then went upstairs again. Janet, wearing her slip, belt and panties, looked lost and desirable in the huge bed.

Roger undressed to his underclothes, and got in beside her. He soon dozed off . . .

He was awakened by Petrie bearing a tray with morning tea. Roger struggled up.

‘Quiet night, Petrie?’

‘Very quiet, sir. It appears to have been quite uneventful everywhere.’ Petrie evidently meant that it was a matter to be thankful for. ‘Your friend is much better, sir.’

While Janet sipped tea, Roger hurried into Mark’s room, Mark was sitting up on pillows, and a cup of tea was in his right hand. His bandage was fixed in such a way that it half covered his right eye. The other eye looked heavy and bloodshot, but his Tips were curved in sardonic amusement at his own plight. He had been awake for some time, and that had helped him to see everything in the right perspective. He knew nothing more than he had last night.

‘I’ll go back to town and brood over my china,’ he said. ‘A child should have known I was being lured away. Any idea why?’

‘You might have been taken for someone else.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as Harrington.’

‘Who might not have escaped so lightly,’ Mark remarked. ‘Too much guesswork in this, though. By the way, did Pep Morgan bring you a message for me?”

Roger handed over the letter.

‘Not bad,’ said Mark; when he had read it. ‘Potter has some scheme for the
Dreem
motley
in toto.
There’s big money in
Dreem,
and money takes some beating. You’ll get on to this pair as soon as you can, I suppose?’

‘I will,’ said Roger.

By midday Mark had returned to his flat, where he intended to spend a quiet day, and Roger, having dropped Janet at home, had reached his office at the Yard, where he immediately began to collate information about the directors of
Dreem.
No news had come in, unless the fact that Potter had returned to his London house just after eleven o’clock on the previous night was news.

Lampard telephoned just after two o’clock. He had the names and addresses of seven householders in the area of the silver sand; he had cut out the cottagers and the native population, concentrating on those people who owned the larger country houses. Roger made a note, but felt no surprise or emotion of any kind until Lampard said: ‘Finally Martin Transom, Yew House, Delaware.’

‘Transom!’ exclaimed Roger.

‘A director of
Dreem,’
said Lampard, dryly. ‘Didn’t you know he lived there?’

‘I did not,’ said Roger.

Lampard made no comment, and rang off. Roger pondered the best way of getting information from the
Dreem
directors and their business with Gabriel Potter.

He concentrated on getting background details about the directors themselves. He found that only McFallen had any social pretensions. He was a happily married man, childless, who entertained on a big scale. Transom was also happily married but he had two children, one a daughter named Garielle. Widdison was a bachelor, Hauteby a widower.

Roger thought: Garielle Transom means something. He could get no information from the Yard, and telephoned the
Daily Echo.
That national daily’s social editor, a mournful man who could get little space for social items, was only too ready to talk.

‘Garielle Transom?’ he echoed. ‘Yes, debutante in 1939. Nice looking girl. Father’s got pots of money, one of the
Dreem
people, you know. Garielle lit out of the family just after the war began and joined one of the women’s services, ATS I think. No, wait a minute –’ the rustling of papers sounded over the telephone. ‘The WAAF. Had a bit of a fandangle with her family about it, and apparently didn’t tell them what she was doing. They made a hue-and-cry about her, and discovered her eventually in RAF blue. That was when newspapers were papers, not War sheets. Eh . . . Oh, yes, reunion all right. All a happy family again. I suppose I can’t ask you why you want to know?’

‘Later,’ said Roger firmly. ‘Many thanks.’ He rang off. Almost at once he called the
Echo
again and asked for a photograph of Garielle Transom and her family, and McFallen’s as well.

He collected the photographs, and found that the social editor had been jaundiced; Garielle Transom was not simply pretty; she had something exceptional in the way of looks.

‘Sergeant from Guildford called,’ Eddie Day said when Roger returned. ‘Says he’ll call again.’

The sergeant had a report on Harrington. He worked in a small rubber factory at Kingston, and the factory’s work was extremely hush-hush, for it manufactured new fittings for a secret aircraft. Harrington was the owner of the company. Before the war it had been unknown, but Government contracts had made it a flourishing concern. Harrington was industrious, and apparently dedicated to his job. He spent most of his evenings at home, but occasionally had a visitor, always the same attractive young woman. Harrington’s neighbours hinted that they did not approve of a bachelor having a young woman at his flat. The girl, who was in the WAAF, always left about ten o’clock.

‘In the WAAF,’ mused Roger, when he received the report. He thought of Garielle Transom, and decided that he was at the dangerous game of jumping to conclusions. But he was restless.

Potter had been at his office all day, and Lampard reported from Guildford that at Delaware Mrs Prendergast had stayed in her room, while Claude was gradually improving.

He telephoned Janet, said he was going to see Harrington at Kingston, but should be back by eight. Janet said she hoped he would be, because the kitten missed him badly. Chuckling, Roger went downstairs and drove to Kingston, finding Hill Mansions after some little trouble, in a road turning off Kingston Hill.