John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

One of the operatives, called by telephone, left for the Bell Street house before Roger left the office. Roger had given him a key to the back door. Two were to be sent to the Legge Hotel. Sam was to accompany Roger. Roger would have given a lot to have had a sergeant and a plainclothes man with him, but despite Sam’s mannerisms and irritating self-conceit, he was useful. There were others who would also probably help.

From the Strand office, Roger telephoned the Yard. He asked for and this time was able to speak to Chatworth. He thought that the AC sounded less hostile than on the previous night but he gave no news of importance although he did say that Pickerell had not gone to his Lambeth flat. When the police had arrived there, they had found signs of hurried departure.

“Are you sure that he was the man who arranged for those bank credits?” Chatworth demanded.

“Yes, sir,” said Roger. “But until he’s found I won’t be able to prove it.”

“What about the girl he employed?” Chatworth asked.

“What girl?”

“Didn’t you see one there?”

“There was a receptionist, yes.”

“Oh,” said Chatworth. “West, what were you doing at that Society office ?”

“Making inquiries, sir, on my own behalf.”

“Don’t ignore the circumstances,” Chatworth warned him.

“I’m not likely to, sir,” said Roger coldly. “Good night.” He replaced the receiver and looked into Sam’s narrowed eyes.

“Comes to something when your own boss don’t trust you,” said Sam, with unexpected understanding; “they must be crazy, Handsome! Well, where are we going?”

“I’ve another call to make,” Roger said. “You have a look in the London Street Directory for Bonnock House, will you? Cornish might not be able to tell me where it is offhand.” He dialled the Yard again and spoke to Cornish, who did not know where the house was but promised to find out and to call Morgan’s office. Meanwhile Maude, a cigarette drooping from her lips and a smear of ash on her soiled woollen jumper, leaned back and jerked the telephone directory from the shelf.

“ ‘S’matter with looking at that ?” she demanded.

Roger stared, then smiled.

“Never overlook the obvious — you’re right, Maude!” He turned the pages over, came to the ‘CAR’ columns and ran his forefinger down the ‘Cartiers’. There were several in the book and he found three entries immediately beneath each other.

Cartier, Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge . . . 021 Cartier, Mrs Sylvester, River Lodge, Weybridge . . . 29 Cartier, Mrs Sylvester, 11, Bonnock House, Hampstead . . . 54012

Maude was contemplating Roger as he closed the book.

“Got what you want?”

“Yes, thanks. It’s all right, Sam,” he said as the latter looked up from the Street Directory. “What’s the time?” He glanced at a large clock on the wall and saw that it was a quarter to seven. He frowned.

“Ready?” Sam demanded.

“It isn’t quite time to go.” Roger tapped against the desk thoughtfully. “We’d better get some food, Sam, we might be working late.”

“Want anything more from me?” asked Maude.

“Not tonight, thanks.”

“Watch your step, Handsome,” said Maude; more ash fell from her cigarette.

As he walked down the stairs with Sam — the lift had stopped operating at half-past six — Roger found himself oddly affected by the attitude of the girl and the lanky fellow beside him. He had expected to find them gloating over the discomfiture of a Yard man; instead, their sympathy, cloaked by an air of indifference but nevertheless sincere, was heartening.

“Sam, you haven’t a gun, have you?” Roger asked suddenly.

“I been thinking about one,” Sam told him, earnestly. “I got one at home, Handsome; I didn’t think I’d need it, but if Pep’s been holed maybe I ought to get it.”

“I think you should,” said Roger. “Where do you live?”

“Fulham Road,” said Sam. “Not far. I can have some supper with my missus and tell her I’ll be late, as well as pick up the rod. Does that suit you ?”

Roger considered, then said : “Yes, that’ll do fine. I’ll be at the entrance of Bonnock House in Hampstead, at eight- fifteen. I’ll meet you there.”

“Okey-doke,” said Sam, “I’ll take a car — no limit to expenses, I hope ?”

Roger walked towards Fleet Street.

There was a small restaurant near the Cheshire Cheese where he could get a good meal, and where he might find one or two crime reporters of the London dailies. They would probably be helpful. He did not doubt that they had heard of his suspension and, when he entered the smoke- filled ground floor room he saw two men look up at him with evident surprise.

One pushed his chair back and approached him, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.

“Why, hallo, West! What’ll you have ?” He was a middle- aged man, nearly bald and rather shabby. He was one of the best crime reporters on the Street and was reputed to have more enemies in the East End than anyone outside the police force.

“Hallo, Charlie,” Roger said. “I won’t have anything except some food. Is there anything good on tonight?”

“Might be in time for some roast beef,” said Charlie Wray and turned to stare coldly at a younger man. He had close- cropped black hair which rose in a quiff above his forehead, a broken nose and a wide mouth with a most engaging grin. He walked with a pronounced limp. “That’s if Tamperly hasn’t had it all.”

“Share and share alike,” said Tamperly, swallowing the last of a mouthful. “I was coming to see you, Handsome.

I thought—”

“I have seen him,” said Wray, pointedly. “This is by ap- poinment. And don’t be familiar.”

“I don’t mind whether the Echo or the Cry gets a scoop,” Roger said. “I’m too worried to take sides in a newspaper scrap. I do want some help.”

“Say the word,” Wray said.

“All the organisation of the Cry will support you,” promised Tamperly. “As a matter of fat, Handsome, we’re running an article on you — we’ve whitewashed you thoroughly. Had to use the story,” he added, half apologetically. “It’s all over the place.”

“Of course it is.”

“Why waste time?” Wray demanded. They reached an empty table, Wray fetched his coffee to it and Tamperly brought the remains of a plate of roast beef and vegetables. A buxom woman came up with a bowl of soup for Roger, greeted him with a cheerful smile and told him there was a steak pudding, if he’d like it.

“You told me—” Tamperly began, indignandy.

“They’re kept for the popular customers,” Wray grinned.

Roger said : “I know you two would like to cut each other’s throats, but could you bury the axe for half an hour? Take fifty-fifty on anything that is thrown up from this job?”

“Yes,” said Wray.

“He’ll try to get sixty, but I’ll play ball,” said Tamperly, with his engaging grin. “What’s gone wrong, Handsome? I thought you were Chatworth’s white-headed boy.”

“I’m being framed. What I’m interested in now are two things — do either of you know anything about a man named Masher Malone with a gang in the East End?”

“I certainly do!” exclaimed Wray. “He was questioned today about Joe Leech’s murder.”

“Lessing was at Joe’s. I wondered if it was the same job,” Tamperly said.

“Did you know anything about Malone before today?” Roger asked.

Both men had heard of Malone but they had not regarded him as out of the ordinary. In their opinion, he would have his fling but one day would go too far and be put inside. Afterwards, he might gather the remnants of his gang together again but in all likelihood someone else would have taken over from him and he would fade into the background, considering himself betrayed. A big shot in his own imagination he would look back to the great days of the London gangs.