John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

“If you had an idea like that in your head, it was better to get it out,” he said, “but you’re wrong, Tenby.”

“Then who—”

“I don’t know who sent that telephone message, but I do know that we don’t want you in the dock.” Raeburn spoke derisively. “Where would we be if you were put up in front of a good counsel? Don’t be a fool.”

“Then who did it?”

“We’ll have to find out,” said Raeburn.

“Maybe you know where to start,” muttered Tenby. The other’s attitude obviously both placated and puzzled him. “I’m tired of it, Mr Raeburn, that’s the truth. I don’t mind admitting I thought I did a good job when I got rid of Brown, but ever since then I’ve been worried because things just haven’t gone right. It’s not only the telephone message, it’s the other business, too.”

“What other business?” Warrender demanded.

“Don’t kid me,” sneered Tenby. “You know. The Barnes Common do and the affair at Berry Street.”

“We want to talk to you about those,” said Raeburn. “Perhaps it is as well you came. Why did you fix those two jobs?”

“I didn’t fix ‘em!” Tenby looked flabbergasted. “ ‘Ere, what’s the game, Mr Raeburn? You’ve been using others besides me; it’s no use pretending you ‘aven’t. Even last night, there was another bit of mystery. The skirt I got to watch Eve’s flat was taken in by a phony message—someone said ‘er old man ‘ad met with a n’accident, but he ‘adn’t. Wot is all this, Mr Raeburn?”

“Are you trying to pretend you didn’t attack Katie Brown——”

“I’ve got more sense!”

After a long, tense pause, Raeburn said: “Then who did?” He stared at Warrender, who looked almost frightened; a barrier of suspicion and distrust had risen between them; there was dislike in the way they looked at each other. “I certainly want to know who did,” Raeburn went on. “That’s something else we’ll have to find out, Tenby, but I shouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

“That’s easy to say, but everywhere I go the dicks are on me tail. It’s coming to something when they drag me out of bed for questioning. The truth is it’s time I dropped the lot and cleared out.”

“You mean out of the country?”

“Out of London would do for a start,” Tenby replied, edgily. “Not that I would mind going abroad for a bit. Wot’s on your mind, Mr Raeburn?”

“I’ve a little cottage in Berkshire, not far from Reading, where you’d be all right for a few days,” Raeburn said. “It’s empty, too. Care to go there?”

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea,” Tenby conceded. “But understand me, Mr Raeburn, I didn’t do the Barnes job or the Berry Street one, neither.”

When he left the flat, he had a box of chocolates and the keys of the cottage with him. Raeburn’s final injunction was ringing in his ears: he must make the journey after dark, so that the police wouldn’t find out where he’d gone.

Turnbull came into Roger’s office, next morning, and squatted on the corner of his desk. Roger was opening a letter addressed to M’sieu l ’lnspecte u r Roger West, and glanced up.

“Half a mo’.”

“I only want to tell you that Tenby called on Raeburn last night, and Raeburn didn’t think much of it.”

Roger dropped the letter from France. “When was this ?”

“I heard about an hour ago,” said Turnbull, swinging his legs. “Raeburn went up in the air when he saw Tenby, but soon cooled off. He took Tenby upstairs, and our little friend came down half an hour later, looking as pleased as Punch—and hugging a box of chocolates!”

“Chocolates,” echoed Roger.

“Tenby’s got a sweet tooth, remember.”

“But still—a box of chocolates ‘from Raeburn to Tenby,” said Roger. He paused. “Tenby still being followed by a good man?”

“Yes.”

“That’s okay.” At last, Roger opened the letter from Paris, and his eyes brightened as he read. He pushed the letter across to Turnbull, and was actually grinning. “Ma Beesley used to go around with one tall handsome man, and one small, very thin man,” he said. “The Trouville and Deauville police were after them. There’s no proof, but strong suspicion, that they were confidence tricksters. I’ll ask Raeburn how he likes the twin resorts, one of these days. It can’t be coincidence.”

“Shouldn’t think so, but it doesn’t give us what we want,” Turnbull said. “Anything else come in?”

“No. I’ve arranged for Raeburn, Warrender, and Ma to go along to the City Hospital to see Joe,” Roger told him. “I had a job to persuade them, but they toed the line. It’s a long chance, but we might strike lucky. Any trace of Ma’s early London life?”

“She lived way back in a flat in Bethnal Green,” said Turnbull, “and her reputation wasn’t so hot; she sent her kids out begging, but always managed to keep her nose clean. She left there in 1929.”

“How old were the kids?”

“The eldest was about fifteen,” said Turnbull. “The others still school age.”

“Did you get their names?”

“Not yet, but I’m still trying. What about Raeburn’s little cottage in the country?”

“I nearly forgot that,” Roger said.

“Yeah?”

Roger shrugged. “We can’t .very well watch every place that Raeburn owns, but I think there’s some funny business over this place where Eve is going. I’ve located it—not far from Reading. I’ve asked Mark Lessing to go down there; he was aching for a chance to get his own back.” Roger narrowed his eyes, as he went on: “We might withdraw most of our men from open tagging for twelve hours, but keep all Raeburn’s associates watched, of course. They might get careless.”

“What does Chatworth say?”

“He says that the Cry’s readers are enough to drive anyone mad, judging from their letters of protest, and he supposes I know what I’m doing,” said Roger, flatly. “We’ll have them off tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, we’ll let Raeburn and his friends see our mysterious Joe. Care to come along?”

“I would!”

“You drive Warrender and Ma, I’ll take Raeburn,” said Roger. “They’re due here any minute. All they know is they’re going to see a man suspected of burgling their flat.”

The* trio were waiting in the hall, Raeburn with obvious impatience, Warrender looking a little shinier, Ma even fatter. During the journey, Raeburn sat silent, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As they reached the Bank, he asked: “Just where are we going, West?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Roger, as if surprised. “This man’s at the City Hospital. One of our men was knocked about badly the other night, and is also there.”

“This business won’t take long, I hope?”

“It should be all over in less than twenty minutes,” Roger said, mildly.

He took Raeburn into the ward first. Joe was sitting in bed, propped up with pillows. He was a better colour, and looked younger than he had at Berry Street, and during his first few days at the hospital. The bald patch at the front of his head added years to his appearance; he was probably in the early thirties.

Joe looked at Raeburn blankly.

“Have you ever seen this man before, Mr Raeburn?” Roger asked.

“No,” answered Raeburn, flatly. “Never.”

Nothing in his expression suggested that he was lying, and there was no flash of recognition between the two.

“And I certainly don’t know him,” Joe said. “I’m a stranger to millionaires who get their names in the papers.”

“Is that all?” asked Raeburn, coldly.

“Wait outside for a few minutes, please, while the others come in,” Roger said.