John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

A girl of three or four came solemnly towards them, stared, and asked shyly: “Do you want to see my mummy?”

“It’s the upstairs flat, sir,” said Turnbull.

“Not just now, thanks,” said Roger, smiling down, and pressed the bell of the upper flat as the little girl stood watching. A woman called out to her, but she ignored the summons. Roger wished the woman would keep quiet; it was impossible to hear any movement on the stairs.

He rang again.

“Mary, come along in!” A flustered, sharp-faced woman appeared at the door of the ground-floor flat. “I’m sorry she’s so disobedient. I simply can’t do anything with her.”

“I’ve two boys of my own, so I’m used to children.” Roger made himself smile. “Do you know if anyone’s in upstairs?”

“Well, I think Mrs Brown is.” The woman tidied her hair, and looked at the bell. “I should ring again if I were you; that bell doesn’t always work properly. I do hope there isn’t anything the matter.”

“What makes you think there might be?” asked Roger.

“Well—I think Mr Brown hurt himself last night; he was out late, I know,” the woman answered. “And it was quite early this morning when Mrs Brown came downstairs to borrow my first-aid kit. That’s right, sir, keep your finger on the bell. Listen.” She craned her neck towards the door. “There it is now. I can hear it.”

Footsteps on the stairs became audible, too.

The woman showed no inclination to go, and as soon as die door opened she burst out: “Oh, Mrs Brown, this gentleman couldn’t make the bell ring, so I told him to keep his finger on it. I do hope Mr Brown is better.”

The girl in the doorway said, “Sure, he’s all right.”

She was a plump little creature with a mop of fair hair, a good figure, and round blue eyes. She looked tired, and the sight of the callers obviously alarmed her. She licked her lips, glancing from Roger to Turnbull, and then asked sharply: “Well, what is it?”

“I’d like to sec Mr Brown, please,” Roger said.

“He’s out.” The words seemed to leap from her.

“Then perhaps you can spare me a few minutes, Mrs Brown?”

“Oh, you’d better come in,” she said at last, and stood aside, glaring at her neighbour and the child.

Roger and Turnbull stepped inside, and followed her up a flight of narrow stairs which were carpeted in plain green. Mrs Brown walked quickly, and Roger could see the back of her knees and half way up her sturdy, bare thighs, because her linen frock was too short. She had very full calves, arid ankles which tapered away to small, sandal- clad feet. Turnbull made a smacking motion with his big right hand.

“ Is he in?” asked Roger.

“I’ve told you: no, he isn’t! I wouldn’t have let you in, either, if that damned busybody downstairs hadn’t been gawking; she never could keep her nose out of our business!” Mrs Brown turned to face them, her lips trembling, her voice hoarse with emotion. Fear? “I can’t tell you anything, it’s no use asking me!”

“So you know who we are?” asked Roger.

“You aren’t the first policemen I’ve seen.”

“I don’t suppose we are,” Roger said, dryly. “We want to ask your husband a few questions about what he was doing last night.”

“I don’t know where he was.”

“You know what time he got in.”

“—was asleep. I’m a heavy sleeper, and I didn’t notice. It’s no use asking me.”

“Three of you share this flat, and the two men were out last night. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Mrs Brown moistened her lips, and said nothing.

Roger said: “Sit down, Mrs Brown.”

She was so nervous that she collapsed into a chair.

Roger glanced about the living-room, pausing to give her a chance to collect herself. Some band instruments, drums, two trombones, and a trumpet in a corner instantly reminded him of the saxophone at Tony Brown’s flat. Beyond them were several photographs on the top of a cabinet.

“Docs your husband run a dance band, Mrs Brown?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Why the hell don’t you say what you’ve come about?”

“You don’t want to get your husband into trouble, I know, but it isn’t your fault if he has broken the law,” Roger said. “If he has, the sooner he admits it and starts afresh, the better for both of you. Where—”

He broke off. He had caught a glimpse of one of the photographs again, and it had put him off balance. Turn- bull looked puzzled. Mrs Brown turned to see what had attracted him, as Roger moved past her chair towards the cabinet. There were five photographs, three of men and two of women. Mrs Brown was one of the women; the dead Brown was one of the men.

“What the hell are you staring at?” screeched Mrs Brown.

Roger picked up the photograph of the dead man; across one corner was written: “To Katie and Bill from Tony.”

“Who is this?” He was very harsh now.

Turnbull had a look that was almost smug.

The woman put out a hand to touch the picture, then drew it back. Her eyes were brimming over with tears. She brushed them away, sniffed, blew her nose vigorously, and then sat back with her lips set.

“You know damn well who he is,” she retorted.

Roger pulled up an easy chair, and sat on the arm. “Mrs Brown,” he said quietly, “this, is a serious affair, but as far as I know your husband is only on the fringe of it, and hasn’t committed any serious crime. He is suspected of having been in enclosed premises last night. A sympathetic magistrate might let him off with three months—and three months isn’t very long. Magistrates are usually sympathetic, if we tell them there’s reason to be. Don’t you think your husband might be better off inside prison than out and about, now that this has happened?”

She was terribly pale. ‘What—what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Roger took out cigarettes and offered them. She took one, and her fingers were trembling when she leaned forward for a light. “Who is the man in that photograph, Katie?”

“Bill—Bill’s brother, Tony,” she muttered.

“The man who died in a gas-filled room.”

“Died be damned, he was murdered\ You and the coroner can call it an accident, but he was murdered, do you hear me?” She was fast losing her self-control. “The swine murdered him because he knew too much, that’s what happened, and you bloody cops call it an accident! It’s always the same: just because a man’s a millionaire, you don’t care a damn what he gets away with, but my Bill—”she broke off.

“Your Bill thinks his brother was murdered,” said Roger. “Does he think he knows who murdered him?”

“Raeburn did, of course.”

Roger said: “Katie, the police go for their man, whether he’s a millionaire or a pauper, but Raeburn couldn’t have killed Tony. He was somewhere else during the whole of that evening. Every minute of his time has been accounted for by independent witnesses.”

“Anyone with money can buy witnesses.”

“This wasn’t bought evidence.”

“If he didn’t do it himself, he paid someone to do it for him,” Katie Brown asserted, gruffly.

“If I could get any evidence to prove that, I’d arrest Raeburn at once,” Roger said, “but I don’t think there is any evidence. Do you?” When she did not answer, he insisted: “Let’s have it. Do you seriously think you or anyone else can prove that Raeburn hired a man to kill Tony?”

After a pause, she muttered: “He’s too clever for that, but he was behind it all right.”

“If Tony Brown was murdered, we’re going to find out, and we’ll get the man who was behind it,” Roger assured her, “but we need all the help we can get. Why should Raeburn or anyone want to murder Tony?”