Inspector West Takes Charge (13 page)

A car approaching without lights nearly crashed into him. He flickered his own headlamps feverishly. The light was not good, although the beam of his headlamps allowed him to make fair speed.

He brooded on his position at the Ministry of Information.

He had tried to resign three times and been told that he was doing an essential war job; the Powers that be had strange ideas on what was essential. He was having a ‘four-day-free’ spell then, but was due back at the office the day after tomorrow, when he would be on duty for four days in succession.

‘I’ll apply for leave,’ he decided. ‘I haven’t had any since Christmas.’

He reached the drive of Yew House at one o’clock, and congratulated himself on making the run in little over an hour. But he was still quite sure that he was too late, that Morgan would have gone or at best be in an evil temper. He could hardly blame Morgan, who –

‘That you, Mr Lessing?’

In spite of the faint reflection of light from the headlamp, Morgan’s teeth glistened. It needed only a little imagination to see his twinkling, high-polished shoes. His voice was not gruff or gloomy or irritable, but held a hint of excitement and tension. Mark wound down a window swiftly.

‘Yes, Pep. How are tricks?’

‘They’re still here,’ reported Morgan. ‘No one’s come out, but I’ll give you three guesses as to who’s gone in.’

‘Potter,’ sighed Mark.

‘Potter it is! He arrived just after I’d telephoned. It’s a lucky thing he wasn’t a bit sooner or I would have missed him while I was phoning in the village. Potter,’ repeated Morgan in a whisper, ‘and Transom, Widdison, and Hauteby. Peculiar thing, Mr Lessing, don’t you think?’

‘I believe you’ve been thinking a lot about this show, Pep. Yes, it’s peculiar. Do you know what room they’re in?’

‘One upstairs,’ said Pep promptly. ‘The only room where there’s a light. I can just see a chink, close to the house. The corner room, on the right side. I don’t think that anyone is up, apart from those four. There was a light in the kitchen up to midnight, I saw it through the keyhole. It’s out now.’

‘Well, well,’ Mark said. ‘I would like to know what they’re talking about, wouldn’t you?’

‘I certainly would,’ agreed Morgan. ‘But you know me, Mr Lessing. I can’t go outside the law, but I can hang around and give you a whistle if anyone else came along. Mr West didn’t come with you, I see.’

‘No. What’s the front door like?’

Morgan thought it was a bit of a teaser, and he could assure Mr Lessing that none of the downstairs windows was open, although it might be possible to push aside the catch of one or two of them. All the widows were of the old-fashioned sash-cord type. The trouble was that they probably squeaked.

‘I’ll try the front door,’ decided Mark.

He did not ask himself what would happen if he were caught; he relied on making a quick getaway in an emergency, and on his plausibility to explain himself satisfactorily if he were caught.

He worked at the front door, and saw a picture of Transom in his mind’s eye. A big, portly man, good-looking too, although with a fleshy jowl. Pale-faced, with wide, large grey eyes, grey hair and a close-clipped grey moustache. A short, straight nose, rather wide at the nostrils, and well-marked lips. A man with a presence, less pompous than portentous.

Mark felt the barrel of the lock moving.

He wore gloves, and manipulated the key dextrously. He had practised a great deal and been schooled at one time, by a reformed cracksman who, in his heyday, had been at least the rival of Charlie Clay and Abie Fenton.

‘Got it?’ asked Morgan.

‘Yes.’ The door eased open as Mark pushed, and a faint glow of light showed.

‘I’ll be seeing you,’ said Morgan. ‘One good blow on the old whistle if there’s any cause for alarm.’

He went swiftly back along the drive to the gates. His car was parked some distance away, and Mark knew that if he were seen by the police he would swear that he was watching the outside of the house only, for a client whom he would not name.

Mark was relieved when he realized that the hall floor was covered from wall to wall with carpet; the stairs and the passages were likely to be, too. The dim light came not from the electric chandelier above his head, but from a tiny oil lamp burning on a table where there were several magazines. It was less hall than lounge, stretching the full depth of the house, furnished with easy chairs and sofas. A big fireplace took up a large portion of one wall, and on either side of it was a suit of armour, complete with broad-sword. Above them, two large oil paintings loomed dark and shadowy. The hall was panelled throughout in dark oak, heavy but impressive.

Some whim of the architect had set the staircase leading from the left of the hall, to a wide landing and then a gallery.

Looking upward, Mark saw the dark void of the ceiling, more like the roof of a church than the ceiling of the hall of a private house. Transom did things in style.

Mark went upstairs.

There was a faint murmuring sound in the quiet of the hall; someone was talking. His heart beat fast when, on the top stair, he saw a sliver of light coming from beneath a door on the right of the gallery, which was also carpeted. He approached it swiftly, while the muttering grew louder.

It was Potter’s voice.

Mark put his right hand to his pocket, and reached the door, Potter’s words were distinguishable.

‘I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have endeavoured to make this suggestion a practical one. I find the difficulties insuperable. You will, I trust -’ the cold, sardonic expression in his voice had made many men squirm ‘agree that I have given you an opportunity for a full discussion of your views.’

Someone said; ‘This doesn’t sound like you, Potter.’

‘Doesn’t it, Mr Widdison? It is me, I assure you. Is there anything else that I can do for you tonight?’

Someone said: ‘I’m a long way from satisfied.’

‘Perhaps, gentlemen, you will be able to find another solicitor more capable than I,’ said Potter. ‘Before I go, I feel it incumbent on me to express my very real sympathy for the sad loss to the board of directors in the person of Sir Andrew McFallen. Good night.’

Mark stepped to one side, into shadow.

Footsteps, dull and muffled by carpet, sounded inside the room. The door opened. The sliver of light became a beam which shone uncomfortably close to Mark, who took three steps backwards, and used a doorway for cover.

Potter stepped out, a tall, thin, angular silhouette.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ said another man.

Transom appeared, and walked with Potter towards the stairs. He had closed the door, and only the faint glow from the oil lamp spread any light until Transom switched on a torch: Neither man spoke as they made their way down the stairs.

Mark followed, watching them from the first landing.

The soft, padding footsteps, the absence of words, all added to the tension between Transom and Potter. That the solicitor had contrived another double cross was the thought uppermost in Mark’s mind.

The two men reached the hall.

As they crossed towards the front door Mark saw a movement towards the right, from the fireplace. He stiffened as he saw more than a movement; there was a man there a dark clad man, with his right arm raised and some kind of weapon in his hand.

‘Look out!’ Mark shouted.

The man pounced, but Mark’s warning had given time for Potter to swing round, and Transom to jump forward. Both moved so swiftly that the dark-clad stranger’s blow went harmlessly through the air. The force of it overbalanced him. He staggered forward a few steps, his head nodding towards the ground. Potter swerved to one side, to avoid him. Transom Stood like a man transfixed.

There was a split second’s silence. Mark moved then, beginning to go down the stairs as he saw the assailant recover and swing round, striking again
at Potter
.

There was no doubt which of the two men he aimed to injure, but Potter moved with surprising speed, brushing aside the assailant’s outstretched arm. There must have been more force in Potter’s blow than there appeared, for the man in black went staggering to one side. But he recovered, and flung his weapon at Potter’s head.

The handle struck home.

Transom jumped forward, but with less agility than that of an elephant; he was not a man accustomed to moving swiftly. He doubled up as he received a punch to his stomach. His gasp echoed high into the church-like ceiling.

A gun appeared in the dark-clad man’s hand.

It shone a blue-grey. There was a yellow flash and a sharp report. Then the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Widdison and Hauteby started down, running so heavily that they shook the staircase and set the suits of armour rattling.

The bullet missed Potter but buried itself in the panelling by his head. Potter darted towards a tall piece of furniture, near the front door. The man in black slewed his gun round, and then Mark reached him. He had no time to knock his hand aside, but went forward in a sliding tackle which knocked the gunman off his balance. The second bullet smacked into the staircase. The gunman scrambled to his feet again, but the gun had fallen, and Potter was out of sight.

The man swung round and raced to the far end of the hall.

Mark jumped up, ten feet behind. A door at the other end opened, letting in a draught of cold wind. The figure was a vague shape against the faint light beyond, then disappeared. The door slammed.

Mark made for the door, with Hauteby and Widdison just behind him. A voice, Hauteby’s, said: ‘Let me get at him!’

Hauteby pushed Mark aside and raced forward. He fired twice from the gun he had picked up in the hall. The flashes did no more than illuminate a few yards of air and ground, showing no sign of the running man.

Mark sped past Hauteby, annoyed by the way he had been shouldered aside, straining his ears to catch the direction in which the man ran. He guessed that the gunman was going towards the front of the house, and turned in that direction. As he reached the drive, the bright shaft of a searchlight shed its faint glow in the heavens. Hauteby and Widdison drew near, but there was movement on the grass and in the shrubbery alongside the drive.

Mark said
sotto voce
: ‘If you must move, keep on the grass.’

Mark moved along the grass verge of the drive. A faint rustling was ahead of him, and he imagined that his quarry was heading for the road. There might be a car there, or he might be planning to get away on foot.

Morgan should be able to help.

Morgan was out of sight, but as Mark reached the gate the beams of two headlights from his Lagonda lit up the road. Against them, Mark saw Morgan as the private detective slipped to one side, into shadow. At the end of them was the dark-clad figure, taken by surprise.

Near him was a motor-cycle.

He moved towards it, crouching, but Morgan was advancing on one side and Mark on the other. The man reached the motor-cycle, straddled it, and kicked at the starter. A dull plop-plop came, nothing else. They could see him pushing desperately, but the engine only gurgled, and they were within a few yards of him before it actually started.

Mark was in front.

He could jump and stop the man, and knew that the other had to turn the cycle off the verge before he could move away. Mark was half-prepared for the other’s move he swung the machine round, and drove straight at him.

Mark dodged to one side, pushing out a hand. He touched the man’s shoulder. The machine staggered. Morgan appeared on the far side, striking out. The driver lost control, and the machine piled up against the hedge.

The light from the car showed all of this.

The driver jumped from his machine to try to save himself from being carried with it, but his coat caught against the handlebars, and he crashed down.

Then, from not far off, came the bark of a shot.

A rifle-shot, Mark believed; it was clear and crisp, not heavy like a revolver shot, and too loud for an automatic. It came twice. On the second, the motor-cyclist grunted, and fell heavily on his back. It might have been imagination, but Mark fancied that he saw a dark smudge on his forehead.

Morgan reached the man. ‘What was that?’

‘Get up,’ Mark said urgently. ‘Mind yourself.’

The sharpshooter could see them in the light, although the hedge threw shadows where it overhung the roadway. But there was no further shooting, no sign of the rifleman. The first people Mark saw were Hauteby, Widdison, and Transom, gathered by the drive gates.

‘Are you all struck dumb?’ Mark rasped at them. ‘Did you see him?’

Hauteby said: ‘We saw no one. And we want a word with you.’

‘One man’s dead or close to it, and the killer’s within a hundred yards of here,’ Mark said. ‘Still want to stop and chat?’

They did their best, or claimed to. Their torches carved little arcs of light about the darkness, but they found no man with a rifle, although there were footprints in the damp earth on the side of the road which would be useful for the police. Mark was in two minds about what to do now; Morgan certainly would not want to reveal himself. He had done his share, and would want to fade into the background. The three
Dreem
directors were unknown quantities.

Mark thought with a start: ‘Where’s Potter?’

Transom spoke in his portentous way.

‘Mr Lessing, it is time you explained something of your presence here.’

‘Not yet. If you’ll leave your doors wide open you must expect what you get. Where’s Gabriel Potter?’

Hauteby said: ‘Isn’t he here?’

Mark forced back a retort. He wished he could see faces instead of pale blurs, that he could examine the motor-cyclist, go to see Potter, and telephone the police. He would have to do the latter himself, or at least be there when Lampard arrived; there would be too many questions. He decided to attend to the motor-cyclist first.

‘Is any one of you a doctor?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Widdison answered. He had a croaking voice, and to look at was an ogre of a man. The darkness was kind to him.