John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

“What’s the matter—needing a rest?”

“Sorry, sir, but it’s not in its place. The Assistant Commissioner had it earlier to-day—he may still have it.”

Sloan said. “All right, thanks.” He managed without the Copse Cottage file, and went home a little after seven o’clock.

Nothing happened to him on the way. He didn’t tell his wife about the two attempts to run him down.

CHAPTER XX

KENNEDY DEMANDS

IT wasn’t possible for Roger to telephone Pep Morgan that day. He was followed wherever he went, whether by a Yard man or Kennedy’s, he didn’t know. He preferred not to take a chance.

Next day, he wasn’t watched. He didn’t waste time wondering why. He had an appointment in the Strand with a manufacturer of nylon stockings, left before noon, and called Morgan from a kiosk.

* * * *

Morgan said: “Mr. Raymond Hemmingway, twenty-seven, Mountjoy Square.”

“Thanks, Pep,” said Roger.

As the “Pep” came out, he realized the mistake. Not many people knew the private agent as “Pep”.

Morgan appeared not to notice the nickname.

“It’s still dear at fifty pounds, Mr. Brown.”

“I may have something else for you to do later. Not now. Thanks very much.”

Roger stepped out of the kiosk, in a corner of a tobacconist’s shop near Lyme Street, wiped his hot forehead, and went into the street. That had been a bad slip, his worst. By affecting not to notice it, Morgan had shown that it had registered; and Morgan would start thinking about all the people who knew him as “Pep”. They were mostly Yard men or Divisional detectives, who had started to use the name when he had said the police wanted more pep; that was years ago. The danger was that Morgan might tell Sloan, Mark, or Janet.

The risk was real; he couldn’t afford to relax his guard for five seconds on end.

Two or three people were passing; none showed any interest in him. He walked the long way round back to Lyme Street; no one was watching there.

He was paying dearly for the slip, already. Morgan had probably discovered something about Mr. Raymond Hemmingway of 27 Mountjoy Square. Roger should have asked that, and also instructed Morgan to find out all he could about the man.

It wasn’t certain, but it was likely, that Kennedy was really Hemmingway.

Rose was in his office when Roger arrived.

“Hallo,” he said. “Anything for me?”

“I was putting the letters here for signature, sir,” she said. “I’ll go to lunch, now, if there’s nothing you require.”

“No, thanks. Suppliers remain compliant, don’t they?”

“We’re very fortunate, sir.”

Roger smiled and nodded, and was relieved when she went out. He leaned across and took up a telephone directory. Mr. Raymond Hemmingway was shown at 27 Mount-joy Square—telephone, Mayfair 12131 . So he’d lived at the house for some time, for this was a year-old directory. Roger took up a Directory of Directors and Who’s Who, but before he opened them he began to think about the ease with which “his” firm could obtain short-supply goods. It remained a simple fact that if any kind of goods were wanted, the firm of Rayner could get them. All quite legal, all above board; the firm had priority, that was all.

Why?

It wasn’t just with one or two firms; it was with practically everyone with whom they dealt. He had seen fresh evidence of it every day. Steel and steel parts were desperately short; get them from Steelers, who still traded under that name although they had come under the wing of the Board of Trade. Expensive china, which you couldn’t buy in the shops except under the counter— Barry’s of Stoke-on-Trent would supply as much as he wanted. Hand-woven serge, unobtainable in all but the most exclusive tailors and dressmakers who obtained their supplies through Rayner & Co.; Rayner’s bought from anyone of a dozen mills, and had no difficulty. All legal, all above board, but remarkable. There were a hundred other examples. The Scottish whisky distilleries were open-handed. Imported goods from anywhere in the world, even those which had the tiniest import quotas imaginable, came in without any trouble.

Other facts: the knowing ones in commerce, hotels, exclusive shops, and little-known organizations knew that Rayner’s could obtain almost non-existent goods. The connection was extensive, and world-wide; Rayner’s dealt only with the exclusive, and their amount of profit was high; but they kept scrupulously within legal margins. Whoever had built up this business had genius.

These facts had been floating around in his subconscious for some time, but he hadn’t concentrated on them; it was past time he did.

Mystery number 2.

Mystery number I was Kennedy alias Raymond Hem-mingway, and he mustn’t forget it. He looked up the entry under Hemmingway in Who’s Who.

Hemmingway, Raymond Manville, Company director.

b. 1905, ed. Eton, Balliol, m. 1931, Desiree, daughter of Sir Robert and Lady Mortimer. Address: 27 Mountjoy Square. Clubs: Athenaeum, Carlton, Pendexeter.

That didn’t give much away, except that he had had a better education than Roger had thought; you could never be sure. And that he’d married well. Roger turned up the name in the Directory o[ Directors. One Company was quoted—Hemmingway, Mortimer & Company, Ltd., Dealers in Fine Art.

That might help; dealers in fine art had wonderful opportunities for smuggling antiques, pictures, objets d ’ art , and jewellery. There was a lot of smuggling in that line to and from America, and into Great Britain from the Continent. But this company had all the hall-marks of a legitimate business.

His fingers itched for the telephone.

If he were at the Yard, he need only speak for two minutes and, by the evening, would have a complete picture of Mr. Hemmingway’s business activities.

The afternoon went quickly; orders flowed in.

Just before six o’clock, the door opened. Percy appeared in his navy-blue chauffeur’s uniform. He closed the door on the several members of the staff still working.

“Boss wants you,” he said succinctly.

“Knock before you come in here, and go downstairs and wait,” snapped Roger.

“One o’ these days——” began Percy, but he didn’t finish, and went out.

The door closed gently behind him.

Roger watched the door handle; it didn’t turn again, Percy wasn’t waiting just outside.

Roger didn’t hurry. The dozen thoughts crowding his mind needed sorting out. It was easy to read too much significance into that “Boss wants you”, but would Hemmingway send for him now unless it were urgent?

Careful; keep the man in mind as Kennedy, not Hemmingway; thinking of the new name might bring about another serious slip of the tongue.

The moment Kennedy suspected what was being planned, he would kill.

Roger picked up his hat and went downstairs: one difference between Charles Rayner and Roger West was that Rayner always wore a hat, and West had always gone hatless; trifles, which mattered. He found the” Daimler waiting, and got in. The usual trick with the blinds wasn’t played; they didn’t go to Mountjoy Square but to a block of flats behind Oxford Street—a small, luxury block.

“Number 15,” said Percy, showing no sign of grievance.

Roger nodded and went inside.

Kennedy himself opened the door. He was dressed in morning coat and striped grey trousers; he looked as if he had been poured into them. Except for his eyes, there wasn’t much to remind Roger of the man he had first glimpsed coming away from Copse Cottage. Why had Kennedy appeared in person in that job?

The flat was small, but the living-room was big and luxurious. It struck him as being a woman’s fiat. Drinks were out, which didn’t suggest a fiery interview.