Inspector West Takes Charge (3 page)

Then she heaved her heavy body over, and fell silent.

Janet West awakened first, stirred, stretched, and snuggled down to look at Roger’s profile. He was on his back, with his lips closed, and was absurdly good-looking. There had been a time when she had doubted whether good looks could go with good sense, a keen brain, and the more attractive human traits. In Roger they did. If there was anything the matter with him it was that he took his work too seriously. Occasionally, he was inclined to take Mark too seriously, also.

‘And yet, they scare me at times,’ admitted Janet. ‘What does Mark call it? . . . Prescience? Last night, for instance. What made Roger decide to go over?’ In a louder voice she demanded: ‘Do you know anything you haven’t told me?’

‘Er,’ said Roger. ‘Was time?’

‘Half-past ten,’ answered Janet, pushing the sheet back and taking a hold on his left ear. ‘Roger, why did you go to Mark’s last night? What are you keeping from me?’

‘Er,’ grunted Roger, and widened his eyes. ‘Ten? Half-past
ten
? Good Lord!’ He flung the clothes back and jumped out of bed, then caught a glimpse of the clock on the dressing-table. He slumped down. ‘It’s not much past eight.’

From downstairs came a faint but distinctive
miaow.

‘Of course, we’ve got visitors,’ went on Roger, pulling, on a dressing gown. ‘I’ll make the tea; you lie in for a few minutes.’

By the time he had brushed his teeth, the kettle was boiling. He made the tea, and then found Janet doing her hair in front of the mirror. He liked to watch her fingers twisting and turning in the curls at the nape of her neck. He liked what the movement of her arms above her head did to her figure, too.

He poured out the tea, and Janet asked: ‘Do you know anything about the Prendergast business that I don’t?’

‘Nothing I can tell you,’ answered Roger. ‘Nothing I’ve told Mark, either. If you’re wondering why I went over to Chelsea, I just felt uneasy.’

‘Do you think Mark’s in any danger?’

‘Good Lord, no! If he had been we wouldn’t have found him tied up last night, he would have been ready for a
post mortem.
It’s puzzling though. I don’t think he’s working on anything but the Prendergast affair, the odds are that it’s connected with that. If it is –’

‘Then it’s a murder investigation.’

‘Multiple murders,’ Roger agreed. ‘Well, I must be off.’

He planted a kiss on her forehead, promised to be home by half-past seven, turned away and tripped over the kitten. He saved himself from falling completely, while the kitten darted off, squawking.

‘Poor little thing!’ cried Janet.

‘You might try to find its owner,’ said Roger bitterly. ‘If it’s still around tonight, don’t let it out of the kitchen until I get in. I don’t feel safe opening a door.’

Half-a-dozen uniformed men at the gates, in the hall and along the passages of New Scotland Yard wished Inspector West good morning. In the office which he shared with four other Detective Inspectors a sergeant was talking to a big, fat man at the next desk to Roger’s. The fat man was Eddie Day, whose special subject was forgery.

‘Hallo, hallo,’ said Day, in an unexpected falsetto and with a slight over-emphasis on the aitches. ‘How’s Handsome Harry?’

The sergeant smiled dutifully.

‘I took over from Sergeant Sloane, sir. He said you’d want to see these as soon as you were in. They’re the fingerprints found at Mr Lessing’s flat.’ ‘These’ were a sheaf of buff coloured forms which he handed over; two white ones were on the top.

The white sheets were decorated with grey fingerprints. Roger eyed them without enthusiasm.

The sergeant went on: ‘One of them might be Charlie Clay’s. There’s just enough to line it up, but not strong enough to do anything. We know Clay’s free.’

‘Are you looking for him?’

‘He’ll be brought in for questioning if you give the say-so.’

‘I say so,’ said Roger. ‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing of any use, sir.’

Roger nodded, the sergeant went out, and Eddie Day breathed wheezily over a file of papers.

There was no trace of the car which had driven off from Mark’s place the night before. Only one set of prints had been found. The opening of the drawers had certainly been the work of experts. Charlie Clay, Abie Fenton, and three or four other cracksmen known to be in London were named as possibles. Clay would probably prove the right man, if they could break the alibi he would doubtless have ready. Clay had a peculiarity common to no other cracksman. He always took off his gloves some time during a job, and three times had been ‘sent up’ on the evidence of fingerprints he need not have made.

Roger considered what he knew of Clay. A big man who spoke in a thick, gruff voice, whom it was always difficult to identify. There was a vagueness about Charlie’s personality which helped him considerably. The head and shoulders description give by P C Diver might or might not fit Clay.

Roger put the papers aside and went to a green filing cabinet, opening a drawer containing the ‘C’s and pulling out a stiff folder. A brief summary of Charlie Clay’s dossier was there; one note said:
‘Solicitors at last trial: Gabriel Potter &
.
Son’.

Roger said: ‘I thought so.’

‘Why don’t you keep quiet?’ implored Eddie Day, looking up from two bank-notes which he was examining through a watch-maker’s glass. ‘How do you expect me to concentrate?’

‘I don’t,’ said Roger. ‘Where are you going today?’

‘Old Bailey,’ said Eddie. ‘And you?’

‘Marlborough Street,’ said Roger. ‘A remand in custody, I hope.’

At Marlborough Street he spent two hours in an oak-panelled court-room while the preliminary evidence against one Joseph Wright was taken. It was an unsavoury case; Wright was being charged with living on the immoral earnings of women. Roger found his mind only half on the evidence he heard and had to give. He was thinking of Gabriel Potter and Mark Lessing. Had Mark gone to see the solicitor?

The office of Gabriel Potter was large, untidy, and dusty; Potter himself was as neat as he was thin. He was a solicitor who believed that the older and mustier his office the more reassuring it was to his clients. He sat at a roll-top desk poring over the photostat copies of Mark’s
‘Death by Misadventure?’
unsmiling, occasionally twitching his nostrils. The telephone, which served as a paperweight, rang sharply.

‘Yes?’ said Potter.

‘There is a Mr Lessing to see you, sir,’ said a girl in a piping treble. ‘Mr Mark Lessing.’

‘Ask him to wait,’ said Potter. He frowned, replaced the receiver, and continued to read Mark’s report on the Prendergast deaths. Finished, he folded the copies up and tucked them in an envelope. He put them into a pigeon-hole in the desk, without any attempt at concealment, and pressed a bell. He could hear it ring in the outer office.

Lessing came in almost immediately, carrying a homburg, a cane, and gloves. Potter’s large blue eyes had an innocent, wondering look. He half-rose from his chair.

‘Take a seat, Mr Lessing. What can I do for you?’ There was no false bonhomie about him, and his voice was cold. A high starched collar with a cravat increased the impression of thinness; his neck looked scraggy and unhealthy. His complexion was bad, and he shaved only half way up his lean cheeks.

‘Tell you the truth, I don’t yet know,’ said Lessing amiably He could give the impression of trying to repress impatience. He had good features and a look of strength, without geniality ‘There are one or two things you might be able to help with We’ve got one thing in common, at least. We don’t see eye with the police and their conventional methods of investigating crime.’

‘In what way have you been crossing the police?’ demanded Potter.

‘They’re crossing me. I’m not satisfied that they’re right about the verdicts in the Prendergast deaths.’

Potter said acidly: ‘Mr Lessing, if you have come to try to discuss anything concerning the Prendergasts you are wasting your time. I am acting on behalf of Mr and Mrs Claude Prendergast. They are fully satisfied with the verdicts returned, and with the attitude of the police. I am, too.’

‘Are you indeed?’ said Mark. ‘Claude P. is in capable hands, that’s something to know. Rather a pathetic little person, isn’t he? Money, money everywhere, and no idea how to spend.’

‘I have no doubt that Mr Prendergast would be grateful for your interest in him,’ said Potter, ‘I am equally sure that you have no reason for it. Mr Lessing, I have often noticed how you apply yourself to other people’s business. I must express the hope that in this instance you will break the habit. Your questioning of friends of Mr Prendergast, and of his servants, has become most unwelcome. I am contemplating an application for an injunction to stop you from annoying my client. The idea is his own.’

‘Not Claude’s. He doesn’t have any ideas beyond the colour of his neck-ties and the cut of his trousers, plus the advantages of a piece of lemon or an onion Manhattan over a Martini. Maisie, though –’

Potter leaned forward.

‘I shouldn’t go any further, Mr Lessing. By calling here you have saved me the trouble of writing to you. I must ask you to stop this persecution forthwith. If you don’t, I shall use every legal means to make you.’

‘Legal?’ echoed Mark. ‘You’ve improved.’

‘Don’t be impertinent!’ Potter’s eyes and his voice rose. ‘Get out of my office at once. If you don’t I’ll have you thrown out’

As he spoke, the door opened and a very large man appeared in the doorway. Large though he was, he was a difficult man to describe, being neither shapeless nor hulking, but vaguely like every other large man in the world. He had hair and eyebrows between-colours. His eyes were an indeterminate grey-blue. His voice was gruff as if he were suffering from a cold.

‘Trouble, Guv’nor?”

‘I may need you,’ Potter said sharply. ‘Wait outside.’

Charlie Clay nodded, and backed out of the office. Potter turned his angry gaze towards Mark, who now sat on the corner of the big desk. His elbow was actually touching the envelope containing the photostat copies of his treatise.

‘You know,’ said Mark, ‘life is full of coincidences. Last night my flat was burgled. Now I find Charlie Clay acting as your muscle man. I wonder if the police also know he’s free, and know where he was last night.’

Potter said: ‘I won’t warn you again.’

Mark smiled, and went out.

Near Clay another large man was standing. He was dressed in morning clothes and carrying a grey topper. The dress and the hat were incongruous, for the face of the wearer was rugged and chunky. He was Gabriel Potter’s managing-clerk, according to the salary list, but in fact he had a variety of jobs, including that of bank messenger.

‘Hallo, gents,’ said Mark. He ignored two scowls as he went out of the large general office. He dallied on the stairs, hearing approaching footsteps heavy and deliberate. There was a lift at Potter’s office, but it was not working. In Mark’s experience the lift never worked if anyone wanted to get to Potter’s office in a hurry.

Then two more large men appeared, and one of them said: ‘Morning, Mr Lessing.’

‘Nice work, Roger,’ Mark enthused. ‘They’re after Clay.’

Outside, he waited in brilliant sunshine by a tobacconist’s in whose window was a large sign.

‘No Cigs, No Tobacco, matches, flints don’t blame me, I can’t help it’

The effects of war-time shortages were still acute.

Mark waited in the busy Strand for fifteen minutes, until a small crowd appeared at the entrance to the block of offices. The CID sergeant came first, Charlie Clay followed, Potter by his side, and the other plainclothes man brought up the rear.

‘Potter’s office is empty. Is this where I burn my fingers?’ Mark knew that if he broke the law by going into Potter’s office, Roger could not help him but he never would have another chance like this. He moved across the road and entered the building again. He tried the lift, and found that it was now working. He went up to the fifth floor, half of which was Potter’s, the other half being shared by three small firms. Two of the latter were empty, according to notices on the plate-glass doors.

No one was in sight.

Mark walked along the rubber-covered passage, past the door marked
‘Potter & Son, Solicitors, Inquiries’
to one which announced:
‘Potter & Son, Private’.
He examined the lock.

‘As I don’t carry dynamite, that’s no good,’ he said aloud,

He lingered by the door, which was fitted with a brass Landon only an expert cracksman could force, and then only with the necessary tools and with plenty of time. Then he stood in the passage, hopefully. Before long, he heard the whine of the lift, and stood out of sight.

As the lift rose, he saw a tiny red hat, beneath it a thatch of reddish hair, beneath that in turn the big and heavily-rouged features of Maisie Prendergast. Reaching only just above the level of her shoulder was her husband’s fair hair. Mark kept out of sight as the Prendergasts stepped passed him, and went to Potter’s office.

Maisie’s fat, beringed hand was clutching her husband’s arm. Claude was wearing pale pink corduroy trousers, a waisted sports jacket and a red shirt, the collar of which rode above his coat. Vast crepe rubber soles made him look splay-footed. Maisie’s hat provided all her colour, except cosmetics and red shoes; her two-piece costume was of dead black. Across the shoulder and the hips she made two of Claude, and her dressmaker had under-estimated the size of her posterior.

The door closed on them.

Mark approached it, in time to hear Maisie declare loudly: ‘But there must be some mistake.’ Her effort to refine her coarse voice would have been funny in other circumstances, but Mark was in no mood to see the funny side. ‘We had an appointment for twelve noon. Didn’t we, Claude?’

‘We did indeed,’ answered Claude.

‘Mr Potter
wouldn’t
keep me waiting,’ went on Maisie, implying:
‘mustn’t.’

A girl was full of apologies. Mr Potter had been called away unexpectedly, but there was no doubt that he would be back just as soon as possible. Would they wait? No, said Maisie, it was such an uncomfortable office to wait in; she couldn’t understand why Mr Potter did not pay more attention to the comfort and convenience of his clients. They would go across the road and have an early lunch at Mott’s. Mr Potter would find them there when he returned.