John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

The three downstairs rooms were bright, airy and pleasant; there was nothing striking about them or the furniture. Homely but well-to-do folk lived here. On a baby grand piano were several photographs, all of the same woman; an attractive woman whose pictures here ranged over fifteen to twenty years. There was no photograph of a man.

Roger went upstairs, the only sound the faint rub of his clothes, cloth on cloth, and his soft footfalls. He found himself whistling softly, under his breath. This was exactly as he had expected, but there was something else: his own mood of expectancy. Fearful expectancy?

There were four bedrooms, two bathrooms; all were spotless but for a light dust, comfortable, pleasantly furnished in a bleak modern way, all empty. Yet two of the bedrooms had the air of being lived in. A woman’s coat lay over the back of a chair, a piece of tissue, dabbed with lipstick, was in a small wastepaper basket, together with a twist or two of blonde hair. There were more pictures of the same woman, but once again Roger could see no photograph of a man. He began searching the bedrooms, twenty wasted minutes irritating him.

There were no men’s clothes in any wardrobe, no shaving-gear, no tell-tale oddments. They could have been taken away, Roger mused, but more likely no man lived here, only Mrs Norwood.

An hour after he had arrived he drove off. The only thing he took away was an impression of a key, in soap, of the back door. This door he left locked; but he was careful to pull back the bolt which secured the door on the inside.

• • •

From the Yard, Roger telephoned the Surete Nationale ; a Paris acquaintance was quick to understand and to promise to look for Mrs Norwood, but not to let her know she was being watched. Unfortunately, it might be days before a Paris report came through — and Ricky Shawn was in the hands of murderers.

Roger had full local reports on what little was known about the woman and several conflicting descriptions of her regular boyfriend; all agreed on one thing only — that he was middle-aged.

After three o’clock that afternoon, when the telephone rang, he was ready for anything — except a call from Paris. A French Inspector, with good English, was in triumphant mood.

“This Mrs Norwood, Superintendent. I think we have found her.”

Roger’s heart leapt.

“Wonderful!” It was almost too good to be true.

“It is not so bad, you admit. She answers the description you gave me. She gives her true name. She is at the Hotel de Paris, on the Boulevard Madeleine. Also, she has been there before. We have seen her before.”

Roger said tensely: “Go on.”

“We questioned the man who was then with her. A Mr Jack Gissing. Gissing.” The Frenchman spelt the name out carefully. “At the time, we asked you for information about this man. It was three — no, four months ago. You will have a record, perhaps?”

“We’ll have a record!” The breaks always came when they were least expected. “I can’t say thanks enough,” Roger said, fighting down excitement.

Very soon, he was going through the records of a man who was known as Gissing, a wealthy man of independent means. Nothing was known against him except that he had some mysterious way of outwitting most currency regulations. It was surprising how little had been learned about him. The French had suspected him of smuggling, but had been able to prove nothing.

Roger sent for the Sergeant who had made the inquiries, a dark-haired, chunky Cornishman, who had interviewed Gissing on his return to England. The man had been living in a luxury service flat in Kensington, his passport had been in order, he had seemed amused by the investigation. What was he like? Not a man one would forget, but one difficult to describe. Not big, not small.

“We want the Home Office files for his passport photograph,” Roger said. “You’d better go for it — I’ll phone ‘em.”

It took time.

Marino telephoned, Roger promised news of a kind soon, and rang off. Had he been too abrupt? Much more abrupt than he would have been if Lissa had telephoned. He read the report on Gissing until he knew it off by heart; another case of a man of whom practically nothing was known, a vague past, an equally vague source of income. He did some buying and selling on the “Change, had some overseas balances which were blocked; no known American income or capital.

The Sergeant came back, as nearly flurried as a Cornishman could be.

“If that’s Jack Gissing, I’m a Chinaman,” he said, handing the passport photograph to Roger. “He might just pass with a photo like that, but more likely he changed the one on his passport. That won’t help with the Press, will it?”

“It won’t help with anything or anyone,” Roger said. “We’ll have to work on your description.”

Sloan took over, to send the description to ports and airfields in the hope that Gissing would be recognized. Roger, less buoyant, went to Grosvenor Square.

Herb had gone home. Lissa wasn’t there, but her presence seemed to linger. If Marino had been conscious of any telephone brusqueness, he had not let it worry him.

It was nearly seven o’clock.

“Hi, Roger,” Marino said, and waved to a chair. “You’ll have a drink, I know.” There was a tray on his desk, with Scotch whisky, rye, a gleaming cocktail shaker, a bowl of ice, salted almonds, pecan, cachou and peanuts. “What will it be?”

“Whisky and soda, please,” Roger said.

Marino poured the drinks from where he sat, stretching out his long arms, hardly leaning to the right or left; it was almost as if he couldn’t move his body. His big face had an amiable look, here was a man it seemed nothing could really ruffle — yet the kidnapping of Ricky Shawn had ruffled him. The cut of his grey coat was faultless.

He poured rye on to ice, for himself.

“Here’s to Scotland Yard,” he said, and drank. His eyes smiled. “So it hasn’t gone the way you hoped.”

“Not all the way,” Roger said, “but we’ve found the A70 used at Ealing, and other things have developed.” Marino went tense, and Roger told him exactly what he now knew, going on: “Much depends on how far Gissing was responsible for the kidnapping. I think we’ll catch up with him. There’s a chance that he’ll use the house by the river — else why send his light o’ love away. We’re having it watched. If Gissing knows where the boy is, we’ll find a way of making him talk. Perhaps we can use the murder of Ed Scammel as a lever. Know anything about Scammel?”

Marino said: “I called Washington. If they get a line on him, they’ll call back.”

“Good. If Gissing thinks he’ll have to face a murder charge, he’ll probably talk fast enough.”

“Could be, too. How long has Ed Scammel worked for Gissing?”

“At least three months. He has been seen driving the Austin around Barnes and Hammersmith at intervals for that period. We’re trying to find out who else Ed mixed with over here. He’s known to have had lunch once or twice a week with another American in a cafe at Hammersmith. The other man’s name takes some believing. It’s Jaybird.”

Marino smiled. “You’ll put the L in for him.”

“With luck, we’ll have some news about him tonight,” said Roger. “But we can’t hide the fact that we’re looking for an American citizen. The fact that one was murdered hasn’t leaked out yet — officially, the body’s not identified. But there are limits to how much we can keep secret I told you that on the telephone. I don’t think we ought to keep it all from the Press — or try to.”

“I said, use your own judgment,” Marino reminded him. “Keep doing that, and I’ll be happy. The thing I want is to hold the newspapermen off Shawn. That means keeping the kidnapping out of the newspapers. Can you do this?”