Inspector West Regrets Read online

  ‘No one could say that you didn’t try,’ said Abbot, with a faint smile. ‘I haven’t been so frightened for a long time!’

  ‘Nor have I,’ said Roger. ‘But we’ve got to get the beggar. I suppose we’ll be wiser to stop here, and hope that someone comes along. I—’ He broke off, seeing something in the hedge. There the grass was long, and it nearly covered a ditch, but he had caught sight of something dark; it looked like a man’s coat. He slammed on the brakes and then got out of the car and ran back towards the dark-looking object. Abbot joined him. As they drew nearer, the thing materialised into the back of a man, and they could see one hand lying limp on the grass.

  ‘I’ll get him up,’ said Roger.

  His heart was beating fast as he went down on his knees beside the man, whose head was tucked down in the ditch, and whose feet and legs were almost covered in the grass. He put a hand beneath his waist and lifted him carefully, but when he saw the back of his head, cracked in like an eggshell, he knew that there was no need for caution. That was not the only thing; he saw the bald head and, on the grass beneath it, a wig.

  It was Mortimer Bellew.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mr. Alexander Is Wanted For Murder

  ‘Well,’ said Roger, in a low voice, ‘we’ve got him for murder, anyhow.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Abbot.

  ‘Bellew was in the car with Alexander. He must have been killed in the car. I’d give a lot to know why.’

  The little bald-headed man was now lying on his back, with a handkerchief spread over his face. His flesh was still warm to the touch, and his face was unmarked: only the back of his head had suffered. Roger, looking down on him, knew that Griselda must have been in the car when he had been killed, and the thought made him feel bleak. In the distance, he saw two or three vehicles approaching. He and Abbot stopped them, but no one remembered seeing a Packard. A man in a milk van, who said that he knew the district thoroughly, told him that there were half a dozen by-roads along which a car could have gone.

  Then another car pulled up, and Chatworth climbed out.

  ‘No luck?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Roger, and turned to the milkman, who was standing by ready to be helpful. ‘Where is the nearest telephone—can you tell me?’

  ‘There’s an AA box about a mile down the road,’ said the milkman.

  ‘Good,’ said Roger. ‘We’d better send out a call for the Packard.’ He was feeling tired; reaction had set in. He had relied on catching Alexander to make amends for his own actions, and now remorse was gnawing at him again, and filled him with a deep sense of shame. Chatworth looked at him curiously, and then said: ‘Yes, all right. I—upon my soul, what have you been doing to my car? Look at that wing!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Roger. ‘I—’

  ‘Oh all right, all right,’ said Chatworth. He looked at the wing, scowling, and then climbed into the driving-seat. ‘We’ll be back in ten minutes or so, Abbot. Look after things.’ He waited for Roger to get in beside him, and drove off carefully. ‘You nearly managed it, West,’ he said and glanced at Roger, who was looking straight in front of him.

  ‘How much good does “nearly” do?’ asked Roger, bitterly.

  ‘Now come, man! There’s no need to be so glum. You did a very fine piece of work, and we came within an ace of getting him. Cheer up!’

  ‘A fine piece of work!’ cried Roger. ‘Why, I—’

  ‘That telephone call was a masterpiece,’ said Chatworth, and went on heartily: ‘I knew there was something wrong when you came through, and I made sure that we wouldn’t slip up through ignoring you! Was Alexander in earshot when you telephoned?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘He—’

  ‘Then it was masterly!’ declared Chatworth. ‘Now let’s hear no more about it. Ah, there’s the AA box. You’d better handle it – here’s a key for the box.’ He handed Roger a key taken from a ring, and sat at the wheel while Roger went to the telephone and telephoned the Winchester Police. He gave them a full description of the Packard, and ask them to make sure that all other near by stations were advised.

  That’s all right,’ said the inspector to whom he spoke. ‘As a matter of fact, we had a call about it a little while ago. We’ll keep a sharp look-out.’

  ‘The men in the car are dangerous,’ Roger said shortly. ‘They’re armed and they’ll shoot if they’re in trouble. Make sure everyone understands that, won’t you?’

  ‘It’s like that, is it? All right, Inspector.’

  Roger replaced the receiver and returned to the car. He could not bring himself to smile in response to Chatworth’s broad beam. His lips felt stiff and his hands were unsteady. He climbed into the car, while Chatworth shrugged his shoulders and gave a long-suffering sigh. He reversed into a gateway, and then started back along the road.

  The body of Mortimer Bellew was in the back of the other police car, and Chatworth gave the word for it to be taken to London. Abbot went with that car, for the stranded Austin was driven up. The men who had deserted it had not been found, for not far from the road there had been a thick wood with several tracks through it. The local police had been asked to help, and Roger carefully gave descriptions. It seemed an age before that was finished and the other two cars had gone ahead, leaving him alone with Chatworth.

  ‘Well, what do you suggest now?’ asked Chatworth.

  ‘I think we’d better see how Lessing is getting on, sir,’ said Roger. ‘Do you mind if I drive?’

  Chatworth stared at him for a long time, and then without a word he got out of his seat. Soon they were driving at a fast pace on the shortest road to Newbury. It was thirteen miles away, and Stratton two miles on the near side of it. They passed through the village itself, the first time Roger had done so. Soon afterwards they saw Poplars, with the tall trees making clear silhouettes against a cloudless sky, and waving gently. The house looked attractive; a scene alien to the violence and murder with which it was connected.

  Outside the drive gates Mellor was waiting with another Yard man. Roger pulled up.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir, as far as we can see from here.’

  You’d have heard if there’d been any trouble,’ said Roger, and drove on, aware that Mellor was staring at him, puzzled. His set face explained that; he looked and felt very different from his usual self. He was conscious of Chatworth’s curious gaze, and as he pulled up outside the house, Chatworth said: ‘Now, West, what is making you look like a dog who’d lost a bone?’

  Roger drew in his breath.

  ‘You’ve nothing at all with which to reproach yourself,’ said Chatworth. ‘On the contrary, it was a very good piece of work, I tell you.’

  ‘I wish I thought so, sir,’ said Roger. He kept his hand on the gear lever, and turned to face Chatworth squarely. ‘The truth is that Alexander frightened me into persuading you to release Griselda Fayne.’ He spoke in a low-pitched voice, and his face was very pale. ‘He gave me the choice of that, or being shot out of hand. He made capital out of my wife and—’

  ‘Did you think he meant any harm to Griselda Fayne?’

  Roger said: ‘I think I convinced myself she would not be harmed. But I didn’t have any certain proof. I risked her neck to save mine.’

  ‘Flagellate yourself, if you must,’ said Chatworth, ‘but don’t expect me to help you. You can only square things now by getting Alexander before he can harm Griselda.’ He clapped Roger on the shoulder and barked: ‘Now, West, what was Lessing doing here?’

  Roger told him briefly.

  He was mildly surprised that no one in the house had shown any interest in the arrival of the car, but when Chatworth told him of his brief telephone conversation with Mark, he assumed that his friend was still closeted with Mrs Kelham, and that the staff saw no point in making inquiries. They had been sitting there for twenty minutes before they got out and went to the front door.

  ‘I
don’t think we should tell Mrs Kelham the truth, at this juncture,’ Roger said. ‘I’d like to get in touch with her doctor, and if necessary have one of our men examine her, so that we can be sure she is as ill as Blair makes out. I think we ought to do that before we take any risks.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Chatworth.

  The trim little maid opened the door, and greeted Roger with a pleasant smile. Mark, it appeared, was with Mrs Kelham. There had been no other visitors that afternoon or evening. She went upstairs to tell Mark, leaving Roger and Chatworth in the drawing-room. It was beautifully furnished, with fragile-looking Chippendale chairs and settees placed about the pale blue carpet. A gilt star-shaped Louis XVI clock was over the mantelpiece, ticking loudly. The walls were painted a pale maroon red and the effect was restful and attractive.

  ‘You did say something about going through the place,’ said Chatworth. ‘Was that just to get permission to come down here?’

  Roger smiled. ‘Not quite as crude as that, sir! I intend to go through everything on the premises, but at the time I thought it would be better to get—Great Scott!’

  ‘Now what’s the matter?’ demanded Chatworth.

  ‘I’ve forgotten Blair!’ exclaimed Roger. ‘Until this moment I’d completely forgotten that he was with me in the car when I was held up!’

  ‘Your memory needs sharpening,’ said Chatworth, with a smile which robbed the words of any sting. ‘He was behind the hedge; our fellows had found him when we came along. He’s in Newbury hospital by now, having his arm set.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Roger. ‘So it was broken.’ He swallowed hard, then managed a weak smile. ‘I shall soon have to apply for sick leave, sir! I’m not myself.’

  ‘You’ll do,’ said Chatworth. ‘Lessing is a long time, isn’t he?’

  At that moment Mark came in. He waved to Chatworth cheerfully.

  ‘Hallo, sir. Hallo, Roger,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve spent over an hour with the old lady, and she’s the sweetest creature I’ve ever met. And she worships her husband. Odd how many people seem to worship him, and others seem to hate him, isn’t it? I don’t know whether I’ve got anything that’s going to be helpful,’ he added, ‘but at least it will be interesting. According to Lynda Kelham, her husband exerts himself a great deal to protect Alexander, who is his evil genius.’

  ‘West also discovered that,’ said Chatworth, acidly.

  ‘But he didn’t discover why,’ said Mark, sweetly. ‘I have done so. Kelham is loyal to Alexander for a most praiseworthy reason. They’re half-brothers.’

  Roger stared at him in unfeigned astonishment, and Chatworth looked taken aback. Mark beamed about him, fully satisfied by the effect of his words, and went on: ‘It’s quite true. Apparently Alexander—his full name is Alexander Kenneth Kelham, but he changed it by deed poll some years ago—was always something of a black sheep. He came into the picture during the war, when Andrew Kelham was already making headway. She believes that he really exerts a powerful influence over her husband, but she doesn’t know why. She says that it started three years ago—the influence, I mean—and that Kelham has been a very troubled man since then. Are we making progress?’

  Roger spoke slowly, after a long pause.

  ‘I think we are. Blair said a curious thing when I first interviewed him—to the effect that he knew nothing of Kelham’s past. He gave me the impression that he thought Kelham was either being blackmailed or else otherwise influenced by something he had done before he began to make headway.’

  ‘His wife would probably know about such a thing,’ said Chatworth. ‘We can’t take this consideration of her health too far, you know. If she has any knowledge, she must be made to divulge it as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I don’t think she is likely to know anything,’ said Mark, breezily. ‘Certainly she knows nothing from his more remote past, because they have only been married for six years. Anthony Kelham was the only child of his first marriage. I have done fairly well, you see,’ he added, ‘and I think we can take it for granted that Kelham has been blackmailed for something he did in the past. It might help to explain a lot, mightn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it might,’ said Roger, slowly.

  ‘It’s certainly very well worth knowing,’ said Chatworth. He looked out of the window, was silent for a few seconds, and then said: ‘Well, we can’t stay here all night. Are you going to look through the house, West?’ He glanced at Mark, and added sarcastically: ‘I suppose Mrs Kelham’s health won’t suffer if we take that step?’

  ‘I doubt if she’d know anything about it,’ said Mark. The only servant is the maid who answered the door, and she is virtually in control. She’s just getting Mrs Remain to bed,’ he added, ‘and told me she would be down in a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘Then I think we’ll make a search,’ said Roger, briskly.

  He made the decision because he felt that he must do something, and there was little he could do at Scotland Yard if he returned at once. Chatworth said that he would go to see the Chief Constable of Berkshire, whom he knew, and would come back for them later in the evening. It was then a little after six o’clock. He went off breezily, and Roger watched him drive away before he heard footsteps in the hall. He told the maid what he intended to do, and was surprised when she said: ‘Mr Kelham told me that if the police called I was to give them all possible assistance, sir, but to ask them not to worry Mrs Kelham. I’m sure you won’t do that, sir.’

  ‘No,’ said Roger. ‘What’s the name of her doctor, do you know?’

  ‘Sir Randolph Merlin, sir. He comes to see her once a week from Harley Street.’ She said ‘Harley Street’ with slight but definite emphasis.

  ‘Thanks,’ smiled Roger.

  Merlin was a specialist with an unblemished reputation; if he vouched for Mrs Kelham’s condition, there would be no question of going over his head. Roger decided to put the matter to the test immediately, and telephoned Merlin’s Harley Street house. He was lucky in finding the specialist in, and a few minutes sufficed to reassure him; the woman was really ill.

  He rang off, thoughtfully.

  ‘I can’t imagine that Kelham would keep anything here which might encourage us to stay in possession,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ll find much, Mark.’

  ‘Nor do I—and we won’t find anything if we don’t start,’ said Mark.

  It was dark before they had finished, and the maid came to ask them if they would like supper before they left. They accepted gladly. They had found nothing of the slightest interest; the only room where they had spent much time was Kelham’s study, and in that there had been very few business papers; the private ones were completely innocuous.

  Chatworth called for them just after nine o’clock. He told them that he had arranged for the Newbury Police to make a thorough search of the farm-house, and confided that he did not expect to find much there. He had been in touch with Scotland Yard, and there were no new reports. Nor was there any news about the Packard, which appeared to have vanished completely. He had telephoned the hospital, to find that Blair was comfortable, but would be detained there for a day or two at least.

  ‘You can drive back, West,’ he said. ‘I don’t like night driving. As a matter of fact I think I’ll have a nap in the back,’ he added. ‘If you two must talk, talk softly!’

  Roger and Mark walked to Bell Street from Chatworth’s flat. Although it was getting on for midnight, Roger saw a light in the front room, but was reassured when one of the men on duty reported that the afternoon had been uneventful. Janet, in fact, was dozing in an easy chair, but she woke up with a start when Roger entered the front room. None of them felt like talking for long so they went to bed, and Janet was soon asleep.

  Roger lay awake for an hour or more, tossing restlessly. The confused incidents of the affair kept running through his mind.

  The baby woke him up with its plaintive hungry cry. Janet was awake but looked tired. Roger told her to stay in bed and went downstairs to warm the
baby’s food, which had been made overnight. Mark was still asleep.

  Roger saw a Yard man on the opposite side of the road when he drew the curtains in the front room, and another from the kitchen window. He wondered whether it were necessary to maintain such a close guard, and decided that he would feel safer if he did so until Alexander was finally caught.

  If he were caught—

  He took the bottle up, and began to dress while Janet sat up in bed and Scoopy pulled at the bottle as if he were afraid that at any moment he would lose it. Roger began to talk; it eased his mind to tell Janet exactly what had happened with Griselda, and he knew that she would understand how the danger to the girl obsessed him.

  A ring at the front door bell made him break off, and Janet said that the postman usually knocked. The ringing disturbed Mark, who called out to ask if anyone were up. Roger called out reassuringly and hurried downstairs, but the bell rang again before he opened the door.

  On the porch were a Yard man and a taxi-driver; in the road stood a taxi, with the door open.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Roger, looking at the Yard man. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘It’s a queer business, sir, and I thought I ought to call you,’ said the other, anxiously. ‘The cabby was given this address. The lady seems to be asleep, though, and we can’t wake her up.’

  ‘Lady?’ asked Roger and then exclaimed aloud and rushed down the garden path, with his dressing-gown billowing behind him. He reached the taxi – and stood quite still, for Griselda Fayne was leaning back in a corner, her eyes closed and her face very pale.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Plight of Gresilda

  The taxi-driver helped him to get Griselda out of the corner, and Roger carried her in. She was a dead weight in his arms, and did not seem to be breathing, although as far as he could see there were no signs of injury. He carried her upstairs and put her on the bed which he had just left, then left her with Janet, having found with relief that her pulse was beating faintly. Downstairs, he telephoned for the nearest doctor, whom he knew slightly, and then he spoke to the taxi-driver.