John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

A film of sweat broke out on his forehead.

To Abbott it would be just the evidence he wanted — and he had brought it into the Yard himself! He might easily have left his coat on a peg and gone to try to see Chatworth, which was his chief reason for coming. He stared down, studying the ‘K’ more closely; it was a carefully-formed letter; the whole note had been written by someone who knew how to use a pen. It was in drawing-ink, jet black and vivid against the white paper.

He screwed it up, with the envelope, turned, and placed it carefully in the middle of the glowing embers of the fire. It began to scorch but took a long time to blaze up. He heard someone approaching and turned with his back to the fire. As he did so the paper caught alight, making a flame bright enough to cast his shadow on the nearest desk. If someone came in and saw it they might try to retrieve the evidence.

The man outside passed, footsteps ringing on the cement floor. Roger stirred the blazing paper with his toe. In a few seconds it was just black ash, glowing red in places and giving off a few sparks which were quickly drawn up the chimney. He went to an easy chair to recover from the shock and to face the obvious fact; the envelope had been put in his pocket either at his own house or in the taxi.

CHAPTER 5

No Welcome for Roger

NO ONE came to the office.

Roger sat in an armchair of faded green hide. Nothing seemed quite real and the appearance of the note in his pocket seemed fantastic. He could remember every word and every characteristic of the lettering, the quality of the white paper and its thickness. He half wished he still had it, but it must have been too dangerous to keep.

Abbott must have searched the raincoat, so the note had not been there at five o’clock. No one had been in Bell Street except his friends and the police. The thought that Morgan might have put it there could be dismissed at once. The more he considered it the more convinced he was that the soft- voiced man of the taxi had inserted it when Roger had got out of the cab.

Roger stood up, and went to the door.

Chatworth’s office was on the next floor. Roger walked to the stairs and met two Detective Inspectors coming down. They looked surprised to see him. Along Chatworth’s corridor a door opened and Superintendent Bliss, broad and fat and with a voice like a dove, almost knocked into him.

“West!” he exclaimed.

“Bliss?” said Roger.

“Eh — didn’t expect to see you,” said Bliss and hurried off. Two men in the office stared at Roger as if at something strange. Tight-lipped, Roger went on to Chatworth’s office. There was a light under the door and he could hear Eddie Day’s sing-song voice. At the best of times it was unwise to interrupt Chatworth; he would have to wait.

Two corridors away was a common-room, for higher officials. It had a billiard table, table tennis, darts and all the paraphernalia of a club. Nearing the door Roger could hear the murmur of voices, and bursts of laughter. He went in and walked across the room without drawing attention to himself. Someone looked up from the billiard table and he heard his name uttered sotto voce. Two other men turned to stare. Others, by the walls playing chess and draughts, two card parties and table-tennis players, all stopped just long enough for the pause to register.

He felt the blood flooding his cheeks.

No one spoke to him and he made no attempt to start a conversation. Fair-haired, youthful Inspector Cornish, who had recently been promoted from one of the Divisions, was the nearest approach to a close friend Roger had at the Yard. He was the only one here who might risk helping him.

Cornish looked up from an evening paper, coloured and averted his eyes. Roger turned on his heel. He was by the door when he heard his name called and, looking over his shoulder, saw Cornish hurrying towards him, his fresh face alive with concern.

“Handsome, do you know what’s being said ?”

“And believed, apparently,” rejoined Roger.

“ Is there any truth in it ?” Cornish demanded.

“You ought to know better than to ask,” Roger said. “It’s a canard and will be recognised as such one day. Then what will all my good friends say when they come begging Superintendent West for favours?” He looked contemptuously round the room and felt suddenly unaffected by the hostility and the strength of the feeling against him. He would have felt strongly towards anyone whom he believed to have committed a cardinal crime in a policeman’s calendar. They had no time or sympathy for a renegade. He went on, sounding almost light-hearted. “You’d better be careful, Corny, or you’ll be looked upon as an accessory ! Good night!”

He went out, hearing the hum of conversation which followed. The door opened again and Cornish hurried after him.

“Roger. Roger! ” The other was distressed and Roger turned and waited. “Look here, old man,” said Cornish, “just answer me this — did you do it?”

“I did not.”

“Is there anything I can do?” asked Cornish abruptly.

Roger warmed towards him.

“If you really want to stick your neck out you can try to find out the name and address of the taxi-driver who picked me up at Sloane Square about three-quarters of an hour ago and dropped me here. I shared the cab with a man going on to Piccadilly.” That was as much as he dared ask.

“How will it help ?” Cornish demanded.

“I’m not going to let you get involved with details,” Roger said. “If you can find out just the cabby’s name and address, it could help a lot. Don’t take this too hard,” he added, cheerfully, “it won’t last for ever !”

He went on his way, grateful to Cornish, and was smiling to himself when he turned the corner. Sir Guy Chatworth, a large, burly man wearing a long mackintosh which rustled about his legs, and a wide-brimmed hat — nearly but not quite a Stetson, was shutting his office door. His large, round features were set in a scowl, by no means unusual. His natural colour was brick red.

“Good evening, sir,” said Roger.

Chatworth raised his massive head and stared at him.

He put the key in his pocket, and demanded heavily:

“What do you imagine you are doing here?”

“I’ve come for two things,” Roger said. “First, an interview with you, sir, and second, to apply for a release from duty for four weeks.”

“Oh,” said Chatworth, ominously. “You want release from duty, do you? Well, you can’t have it. You are suspended from duty.”

“That’s news to me,” said Roger. “I’ve had no notification, sir.”

Chatworth thrust his chin forward, narrowed his eyes, often round and deceptively wondering and innocent. “It isn’t dated until tomorrow morning. You’re being clever, are you, West? If you think you can apply for release and escape the stigma of suspension, you’re wrong.”

“I’ve been wrong about so many things that nothing will surprise me.”

“What do you mean ?” snapped Chatworth.

“I had always been under the impression that any man of yours would receive scrupulously fair treatment,” Roger said. “It was a nasty shock to find I was wrong about that.”

“You had your opportunity to discuss this with me,” Chatworth said. He stood by the door, feet planted wide apart, his mackintosh draped about him like a night-shirt which was too large. He pushed back the big hat and revealed his high forehead and the front of his bald head. At the sides was a thick fringe of close curls, blond turning grey.

“I had no such thing,” said Roger.

“You appear to be forgetting yourself,” Chatworth said coldly. “You were requested by Superintendent Abbott to come here to see me, and you refused. You were also insolent to a superior officer.”