John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

“What about you, Mr Warrender?”

“I hardly saw them, just saw one man’s hands.”

“Since no harm was done, why make such a business of it?” said Raeburn, and now he wasn’t even pretending to smile.

Roger beamed. “You can never tell how much harm has been done until you’ve checked everything, and I’d hate the Yard to be accused of being careless, sir. We might get some surprising results before we’ve finished, too. Thieves and burglars are like most criminals: they have a long run of success, get overconfident, then make one little slip, and we get ‘em. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “There are so many criminals about now, as Mrs Beesley reminded me, we can’t let these men get away with this.”

Raeburn was hard-faced and angry-eyed.

“Anyhow, I think we can safely leave you for tonight,” Roger added. “I’ll have an officer stationed on the landing, in case the men should try to come back, and have another man in the street. Many thanks for the coffee; it’s done me a world of good. Good night.” He nodded, and went out.

Turnbull followed him, grinning.

There was a hush in the study after they had gone, broken by a restless movement from Warrender. Then the front door was closed, and silence fell.

“This is the worst thing that could have happened,” Warrender said, savagely.

“Don’t make too much of it.” Outwardly, Raeburn was more himself now. “West’s very pleased with himself, but this can’t get him anywhere. The important thing is to find out who broke in. I think we’ll telephone the Cry, George.”

The Night Editor, in his office off the newsroom of the Daily Cry, sat back in his chair, yawning. The last editions would be on the machines in half an hour’s time, and he would be through.

The door opened, and a boy entered bringing him pulls of a new set-up of the front page. He stretched out his hand to take them, and as he did so the telephone rang.

“Put ‘em down,” he said, and lifted the receiver. “Night Editor . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes, put him through at once.” His voice grew sharper and he pressed a bell- push. “Yes, Mr Raeburn? . . . What ?” He grabbed a pencil and began to write.

Five minutes later he rang off. By then the Chief Subeditor was lounging about the desk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, an eyeshade covering his tired eyes.

“Barney, put the UN story on an inside page. We want space for a new one on the front. Raeburn’s flat has been burgled, and West’s on the job. Build up the story this way: is the Yard wise to give this case to this particular man? Is there a risk of personal antagonism and consequent inefficiency? Then case off a bit, and be conciliatory. It could be a chance for West to make a comeback, as it should be a simple job. We look to him to make an early arrest. Got it?”

The Chief Sub-editor said: “Yes. But—”

“There isn’t any time to lose.”

“This won’t take a minute. Sam, how long are we going to keep needling West and the Yard? You’re going to build up so that if he doesn’t pull the burglars in quickly you’ll be able to smack him down hard. I know Raeburn’s the owner, but we keep sailing pretty close to the wind.”

“You may be right,” said the Night Editor, “but write up the story from these notes and make sure we catch the late editions. We can’t argue, and it might even give West a break. If he does make an arrest, we’ll have to give him a good write-up. One day Raeburn might cut his own throat; but, if he did, where would our jobs be? Better hope he’s the winner!”

“I see what you mean,” the Sub-editor said.

CHAPTER XI

THE MAN WITH THE INJURED ARM

REPORTS ABOUT car movements between two and three o’clock were reaching the Yard from all parts of the West End and neighbouring districts, when Roger arrived at his office. The chief interest centred on three: a large Austin, a Fiat, and a Hillman Minx, all of which had been seen in Park Lane about the time of the burglary. This was established by half past four. At a quarter to five B Division rang through to report that a Hillman Minx had been found stranded in a side street in Brixton. “Go over that car with a fine comb,” Roger urged. “We hardly need to,” said the Divisional man at the other end of the line. “There’s blood on the floor, and blood on the inside of the near-side front door. That means there was a passenger who was probably wounded in the left arm.”

Roger’s heart leaped. “Nice work! Was the car stolen ? ““We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”

“Turnbull will come and have a look,” Roger said, and grinned when he saw that Turnbull, as lively as by day, was slapping a trilby on to his thick auburn hair.

At half past five, it seemed certain that the Hillman had been stolen from a private car park at a hotel in Tooting. By six o’clock, this was proved. Late in the morning, a man who had seen the Hillman driven off was found. He was a nervous little man who claimed to be a waiter in a Soho restaurant; he had missed the last bus and walked home.

“I was just turning the corner when the car came out of the park,” he said. “Nearly knocked me down, it did. I shouted at the driver to be careful.”

“Did you see him?” asked Roger.

“Clear as I can see you,” the waiter declared. “There’s a street lamp on that corner. I’d recognise him again if I saw him. I’m sure of that, but—”

“But what?”

“I don’t want to get no one into any trouble,” the waiter said, uneasily. “It was only chance that I saw him.”

“You won’t get anyone into trouble unless they’ve asked for it,” Roger said. “How many people were in the car?”

“Two men.”

“Did you see them both clearly?”

“I only got a good dekko at the driver, a little dark bloke, he was. He didn’t half give me a nasty look, too.”

“Which way did the car turn?”

“Clapham Road, toward Brixton,” asserted the waiter. “It wasn’t ‘arf moving, too; the road was quite clear. You—er, you won’t put me in the box, will you?”

“Not if I can help it,” Roger promised.

C Division, which controlled the Tooting area, worked at high pressure, and fragments of information brought in were quickly piece together. The movements of two men seen walking near the car park were checked. Turnbull discovered a policeman on his beat who had seen two men leaving a house in Hill Lane, Tooting, at about one in the morning; they had returned there at about four o’clock.”

“Anything definite known about them?” Roger asked.

“We haven’t found anything yet,” said Turnbull, “but there’s one queer thing.”

“What’s that?”

“One of them is named Brown.”

Roger sat back in his chair. Eddie Day, who was making a pretence of working but was actually listening, exclaimed: “Crikey!”

“Another Brown, is he?” murmured Roger. “Tony Brown’s brother lived out there, remember.”

“I remember. Where shall I meet you?” Turnbull asked.

“C Division Headquarters,” Roger said.

He was there in half an hour, and Turnbull drove him to the home of Mr Brown. He had already picked up some information about the man. Brown was married, and had just moved into a flat which he and his wife shared with a man called Deaken. Little else was known about him, and it was not even certain that Brown was still at the flat, which had not been under observation until nearly five o’clock that afternoon. Brown might have left at any time during the day.

A plain-clothes officer from the Division was strolling along the street. He recognised West and saluted, but walked on.

The house was a modern villa, turned into two flats. Roger and Turnbull walked up a short path to the front door which was unlatched; there were two doors inside a tiny hall, and one of them stood open.