The Doorway to Death Read online

  “A little after four o’clock,” Cortland told him.

  “And he promised to come after this one call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Hadworth Station.”

  “And it is now half-past six,” said Jay, glancing at his wrist-watch. “Did he suggest that the call he had to make would take very long?”

  “Said it wouldn’t.”

  “In other words, we now have a situation in which an officer of the department refuses to obey specific instructions from his commanding officer,” said Jay, and the tone of his voice was freezing. “No word has come in, apart from that?”

  “No.”

  “Cortland, we don’t want to cause a scandal,” said Jay decisively. “On the other hand, we must bring West here. It is outrageous that he should stay away all day, knowing quite well that he was wanted. I can understand an impetuous decision to keep clear in the hope of getting some quick results, but this – why, it amounts to desertion.”

  Cortland grunted.

  “Is it practicable to put a call out for him, without the Press knowing why?”

  Cortland’s eyelids looked heavier than usual, and his eyes were dull.

  “No,” he said flatly. “The story’s spreading pretty fast already. Can’t expect anything else. Every newspaperman in London was interested in West after the Witness pictures, and you can take it from me they know that we’re looking for him and that he hasn’t reported. Thanked my lucky stars that there was nothing in the evening papers, but there will be in the morning, you can be sure of that.”

  “So if we put a call out for West, it will not really worsen the situation?”

  Cortland considered.

  “Wouldn’t say that. If I were you, I’d put the call out and say that we’re afraid that West has been attacked – he was on a special job, dangerous inquiry, that kind of thing. Even if the Press don’t swallow it, they’ll have to publish it. Whichever way things turn out, it won’t have done any harm.”

  The Colonel said abruptly: “Very well. See to it, please. I shall be in the office until half-past seven; after that I can be found at my club, and I shall look in at the office before going home. Make sure that the night-duty superintendent knows that, will you?”

  “Be staying myself,” Cortland said, and got up and went out, rather like a huge bear.

  He rubbed his right hand across his forehead as he traipsed along the corridor. He turned into his own office, scowling, and the scowl grew blacker when he saw Sloan, standing by the window, bright-faced and fresh, with his pink-and-white complexion and stiff fair hair.

  “Your friend’s just about cut his own throat now,” he growled, “Why the hell does he have to choose today to behave like a clot?”

  Sloan said: “You know him as well as I do.”

  “Thought I did,” grunted Cortland, and dropped down on to his chair. “Thought he had some sense.” He saw a large envelope on his desk, picked it up, and poked a sharp corner against his chin, as if the slight pain thus caused gave him a little pleasure. “You got any idea what he’s really after?”

  “Only about this collusion among witnesses.”

  “Hell of a thing to prove.”

  “That’s what’s keeping him.”

  Cortland shot Sloan a glance from beneath those shaggy eyebrows.

  “I told you before, don’t be too pro-West over this, keep yourself straight. What do you want?”

  “Just came in to see if there was any news.”

  “There’s plenty of news.” Cortland picked up a nail-file and used it as a paper-knife to slit open the envelope, which was addressed to him in pencil: Chief Superintendent Cortland, Scotland Yard. “Jay’s going to put out a general call for West, and now the world will know that he’s kicked over the traces. What the hell’ve we got here?” He looked morosely into the envelope. “Photographs.” He shook several prints out on the desk, and they fell face downwards. “Not from our chaps, who’d want—”

  He turned the top one over.

  He sat there, image-like, his face actually going grey. He didn’t move or speak, just sat staring, until Sloan could stand it no longer, and moved and looked over his shoulder.

  “My God!” Sloan choked.

  Cortland’s knuckles were white, he was clenching his hands so tightly. Sloan, gritting his teeth, turned the other photographs over. There wasn’t much variety except in one; there, a woman was bending over Roger, her lips close to his, her hands cupping his face. The rest were all bedroom scenes. Kate Harrison hadn’t a stitch on; nor had Roger, whose hair was tousled, whose eyes were closed.

  Cortland said: “Where—” and then shook the envelope savagely. A little slip fell out. He grabbed it. “The Witness,” he growled, and Sloan read the words:

  With the compliments of The Editor of The Witness

  “We’ve got to kill these,” Cortland went on, deep in his throat. “Get me the Editor. Get a move on!” His own hand was already on another telephone, and he said “Colonel Jay, quick … I said quick … I tell you he’s in his office; don’t keep arguing.” He held on, while Sloan got through to the Witness, asked for the Editor, and had to hold on. Cortland was still waiting, and placing the photographs in a neat row; Sloan stared at them, shifting his position so that he could see.

  “Where the hell’s he gone?” Cortland was muttering. “And why don’t you get that editor?”

  The door opened, and the Assistant Commissioner came in with a brusqueness which was now part of the Yard’s routine. Sloan felt himself stiffening to attention.

  At the other end of the line, a man said: “Gadding here.”

  “Superintendent Cortland of New Scotland Yard wishes to speak to you. Will you please—”

  “Thought that would shake him,” the editor said.

  Cortland was getting to his feet, and banging down his telephone.

  “Trying to get you, sir. These have—” He swallowed his words, and waved, while the Assistant Commissioner reached a spot from where he could see all the pictures. “These have just come in.”

  “He’s on the line,” Sloan said.

  Cortland took the telephone. “Cortland here. Thanks for the pictures.” It must have cast him a big effort to sound so unconcerned. “Weren’t planning to use them, were you?”

  He stood there listening.

  The Assistant Commissioner was looking down at the photographs, and Sloan could see his jaws working, could see the glitter in his eyes. Cortland was still listening. Sloan wished himself in another part of the world, but had to wait and see this through.

  “All right; who’s talking about pressure?” Cortland demanded. “I’m just warning you that if you print those photographs and they prove to be faked, we’ll have the skin off your back. Hold on a minute; here’s the Assistant Commissioner.” He hugged the mouthpiece close to his chest, and looked at Jay as if he didn’t care whether Jay was the Home Secretary himself. “He says he’s going to use the two that are half decent, and nothing we can say will stop him. Only hope we’ve got is to make him leery in case they’re faked. Sloan!” Cortland was now the leading authority and Jay didn’t try to interrupt. “Get those blasted pictures up to the Photography Room, tell whoever’s on duty we want reasonable evidence they could be faked. And ring me the minute he’s got any kind of report. You agree, sir?”

  “You handle it,” Jay conceded.

  “Listen, Mr. Gadding,” Cortland said into the telephone. “It’s my considered opinion that these photographs are faked, and if you use them you do so on your own responsibility. And if they backfire …” Obviously the editor interrupted him. Cortland glowered at Jay, as if it was his fault. Then: “Well, if you’re sure they’re not faked, use them and be damned to you, but there’s something else … Where did you get them? … You sure? … Listen, Gadding; if this is another put-up job like the one last night … So you don’t think that was putup, don’t you? You’ll learn, and if you take a tip from
me you’ll cut out this hostile stuff, and take a new angle – be on our side for once.” Unexpectedly, he grinned. “All right, ta. ’Bye.”

  He rang off.

  Jay waited for an explanation, without speaking.

  “He says he had an anonymous call to send a photographer to Mrs. Harrison’s place, and did so. A boy let the photographer in. He also says he’ll keep them out of the early editions, and if we can prove they’re faked, he’ll keep them out altogether,” Cortland said. “Otherwise, he’ll use them. He’s been on to the paper’s Managing Director, who agrees. Their duty to clean up the Yard, that kind of tripe, but it can look good in headlines.”

  Cortland stopped, and swallowed hard, as if he just realised that he had been talking to Jay as if Jay was a junior.

  Jay said: “Cortland, have you any reason to believe those pictures are faked?”

  “Can’t believe they’re not,” Cortland growled. “They look real enough to me, but if we can find a way of keeping them out of the Witness it’ll give us time to think.”

  “If that is the kind of behaviour that a senior officer at Scotland Yard indulges in, then perhaps it will do the Force good, not harm, if the pictures are published. Perhaps if the scandal goes deeply enough, it will be possible to get the fullest possible co-operation from all ranks.”

  Each word was the slash of a whip.

  “You can actually make out the window-frames and a door-handle; obviously there were taken furtively,” Jay went on.

  The door opened as he finished, and Sloan came in with the pictures. The Colonel did not glance round, but looked as if he was trying to quell any resistance.

  “If those pictures are published, we’ll be right down the drain,” Sloan said gruffly. “They’re genuine as far as it goes, but—”

  “If those pictures are published it will awaken the conscience of the Force,” Jay barked.

  “If those pictures are published, and we could have prevented it, I’ll be finished with the Force.” Sloan’s chin was thrust forward and his eyes glittered as he drew nearer. “It’s time someone put in a word for West, sir, and time you realised that if West had believed he could obtain the co-operation he ought to be able to rely on from here, we wouldn’t be in any trouble. He’s been out on a job. He’s been as worried as hell because he knows that he’s being shot at. He’s got the best brain at the Yard, bar none, and he’s got more guts than any two of the rest of us put together. Do you think he doesn’t know what risk he’s been taking? Don’t you realise that he’s putting the job first and himself afterwards? He could have stayed here, yessirring and no-sirring, getting himself in good while he was falling down on the job. So he’s chosen the hard way. Why don’t you get behind him? Why don’t you listen to the evidence of ten years of results, ten years while he’s worked himself to a standstill just to make sure he always gets the right man? If he can take risks for it, if he’ll stick his neck out for the job and for the Yard, how about the Yard getting behind him? Those photographs aren’t faked, but they’re phoney. I’ve known West and his wife and family for over ten years, and I tell you West wouldn’t get into bed with another woman. He’s in love with his wife, and the only trouble he’s ever had with her is when he’s put the Yard first. More than once it came damned near to wrecking his home.” When neither of the others responded, and even the Colonel seemed taken aback, Sloan went on roundly: “Look at these photographs again. Did you ever see a man hold a woman like that? His hands were placed there. He was doped when that picture was taken, and didn’t know a thing about it. Why don’t we find out who the woman is, and get moving? If we can prove those pictures are faked or taken when West was doped, we can stop the Witness printing them, we could even make them destroy a whole edition. How about fighting for West, instead of sticking a knife in our own man’s back?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Waking

  Roger struggled up in bed.

  His head felt as if it was splitting, and there was a sharp pain as well as a weight at his eyes. His limbs felt sluggish, too. He knew that he was in an unfamiliar place, but at first he did not recollect where. As he struggled up, something shimmered a little in front of his eyes, and he saw that they were photographs of some kind, but it didn’t strike him as strange.

  He pushed a pillow behind his back.

  This was a woman’s room. It was small, there was some good furniture, the thick carpet was fitted from wall to wall. On the mantelpiece there was the photograph of a man he didn’t know, another of a boy, a third of a woman.

  Then he remembered.

  Kate Harrison, and her Clive.

  He felt himself shiver, uncontrollably. He looked down at his bare chest and flat stomach, and in that moment realised exactly what had happened. He pressed a hand against his forehead, and for a few moments the pain seemed to get worse. Then he took his hand away, could see better, and could look at the facts without that searing pain.

  There were the glossy photographs.

  He picked the nearest one up.

  He needed only to see that one to discover just how tightly he was caught. He seemed to concentrate on it for a long time, then glanced swiftly at the others, flung them aside, and jumped out of bed. His clothes were in a heap on an upright chair against the wall. He put them on, quickly. It was warm in the room, and the effort made him sweat, but in a way that did him good. He had shaken off the inertia of those first few paralysing minutes. He stuffed his tie in his pocket as he strode towards the door. It wouldn’t have surprised him to find it locked, but it was open. He stepped on to the landing, and listened, heard a sound of voices, and couldn’t be sure whose. He hurried down the stairs, with much of his usual briskness.

  A shadow appeared from the kitchen.

  “You lousy swine,” a lad said.

  This was Clive Harrison, standing there with his fists clenched and chin thrust forward; an outraged hero. He was undoubtedly a handsome kid. Roger turned towards him, and he stood his ground. Behind him, standing in the kitchen with a dishcloth in her hand, was Kate Harrison; she wore a high-necked apron over the dress she’d worn at tea.

  “You’re not going to touch her again,” Clive said viciously. “Why, I’d rather—”

  Roger didn’t stop Clive striking out, but caught his wrist, twisted slightly, and threw him heavily against the wall with a judo hold that took the boy completely by surprise. Clive didn’t try again. Kate stood with the tea-towel drooping from her hand, her mouth open, scared-looking.

  “All right,” Roger said. “I’m not going to wring your neck. Who put you up to this? Pegg or your lodger Sydney?” He kept moving forward. “Come on, who—”

  Syd appeared from a door beyond the kitchen. He was in his shirt sleeves, and wore a belt, not braces. He was chewing rhythmically, but with very slight movements of his cheeks and mouth.

  “So you think you can talk your way out of this,” he said, and looked Roger up and down mockingly. “You took Kate upstairs with you, and told her that was the only way she could keep you quiet. You made her believe you had evidence which could put her inside. So she gave in.”

  “Rotten liar,” Clive said, from behind Roger.

  “I can put her inside all right,” Roger said. “I can put all three of you inside. You lunatic, you’ve done the one thing needed to prove I was right.”

  The woman caught her breath.

  For a moment, Syd stopped chewing. His dark eyes seemed to glow, the muscles of his brown forearms twitched a little, and that was all. Clive didn’t speak, but Roger saw him moving forward, and realised that he was as startled as the others.

  “Just talk,” Syd sneered at last, and went on chewing.

  “You can’t see the nose on your face,” Roger jeered. “The rest of the world might not know it yet, but I know you framed me. There might be some at the Yard who won’t want to believe it, but there’ll be a damned sight more who’ll know this couldn’t be true. They’ll know that if you framed me, there’s a g
ood reason to think you framed Quist.” He looked searingly from Syd to the woman then to Clive. “There isn’t one of you with a chance. You’ll get a lifer, Sydney. Kate will get ten years as accessory, and as for you—” He swung round on Clive, and the lad started back. “You’ll get the next four or five years in a reform school. You and your fine intellect, you and your clever ideas. You haven’t any more sense than a ten-year-old girl; she wouldn’t be so crazy as this.”

  Syd had stopped chewing again.

  “Talk,” he said, but the word didn’t come easily.

  Kate spun round on him. “Syd, does he mean it? Can he do it—”

  “He hasn’t got a chance!”

  “Listen to me, Kate,” Roger said savagely. “Before I came here I was prepared to believe that you’d been terrorised into saying what Syd and Pegg told you. I thought you’d probably persuaded your son to lie, for the same reason. Well, I know better now. You must have been in it from the beginning; you’re guilty of being accessory after the fact of your own sister’s murder, and nothing can keep you out of jail, except—”

  He broke off and glowered at them. None of them said a word.

  “You’d better buy some legal advice,” he rasped. “I won’t give it to you free.”

  He swung round, and the boy moved quickly, as if half scared. Roger went along the narrow passage to the door. He could hear the others’ laboured breathing; it wouldn’t have surprised him had the woman cried out, but she did not. He opened the street door, and stepped into the evening air. It was still bright daylight, at nearly nine o’clock. Across the road was a young detective officer from the Yard, a thin, dark-haired man, not the one who had been on duty earlier. Roger beckoned him, while standing with his back to the open door. He heard whispering behind him, and knew that the woman and the boy were very uneasy.

  The D.O. glanced swiftly up and down the road, and ran across, just beating a bus which made the door quiver in Roger’s hand as it passed.

  “Mr. West!”

  “That’s right,” said Roger. “I want—”

  “I’ve just had a message that Mr. Sloan is on his way here, sir. He should turn up any minute.”