The Doorway to Death Read online

  “Fine. Get round to the back of this place.” Roger spoke in a clear voice which those behind him could not fail to hear: “If you pick up a constable or so on the way, better do it. You might run into a man with a knife. Be careful.”

  “I’ll watch it, sir.” The D.O. turned and ran towards the nearest corner; obviously he knew how to get to the back. Roger looked up and down the road, hoping desperately that Sloan wouldn’t be long, trying not to think beyond the urgent need for action. Buses and cyclists and one or two small cars were in sight, but no other traffic. He turned towards the front door. Clive and his mother were still there, in the kitchen doorway at the end of a passage alongside the stairs, but there was no sign of Syd.

  Clive looked scared.

  Roger didn’t speak. Kate Harrison came forward with a hand pressed tight against her breast, and said hoarsely: “I didn’t know anything about it, I didn’t do anything.”

  “So you didn’t do anything,” Roger echoed icily. “You let them turn your only son into a liar and a criminal, you make as sure as anyone can that he’ll spend most of his life in jail, and now you start squealing. Once a kid starts on this road, he doesn’t get off it easily.”

  She was gasping for breath. “I didn’t mean—”

  Clive’s defiance had wilted, and he stood looking a helpless and bewildered child.

  “I—I didn’t mean to,” Kate said in that hoarse voice. “They made me do it; I was frightened of them. They had me scared stiff, can’t you see? How—how can I put it right?” Her fear made her pathetic; perhaps only now had she realised the inevitable results of what she had been doing. “Mr. West, tell me how I can put it right.”

  Then Roger saw terror take the place of fear, in her eyes, terror of someone behind him. It was the change in her expression which saved him. He spun round. He saw two men, both strangers, creeping from the porch towards him. In one man’s hand was a black-jack, in another a brass knuckle-duster.

  Roger had a split second’s warning.

  He shouted: “Police! Police!” and leapt at the man with the cosh. There was no time for half-measures, hardly time to save himself. He planted his foot in the man’s stomach and thrust him backwards, then half turned towards the one with the knuckle-duster, who was striking out. He felt the harsh scrape of the brass on the side of his jaw. The pain made him wince, but he had time to drive his clenched fist into the man’s stomach, all his strength behind it. Now he had them both off balance, but that wasn’t the thing that mattered most: he had to get back into the house.

  The door slammed.

  “Come and help!” he roared. “Help!”

  Two youths paused on the other side of the road, but made no move. A girl on a bicycle pulled up sharply, making the brakes squeal. A bus lumbered by, vibrating, several passengers staring. No other men were near at hand. The two men whom Roger had beaten off came at him again, one from each side, and this time it wasn’t going to be easy, although his back was to the closed front door.

  He heard a scream from behind it.

  He heard Kate scream: “No, no, no!”

  He heard the boy shout.

  Then he was in the middle of the fight again, felt the cosh in a slicing blow just above his right ear, and the knuckle-duster smack into his chest; it hurt badly but didn’t put him down.

  The two youths were coming across at last, running, shouting. One of Roger’s assailants turned; Roger dodged the other and hooked the first man’s legs from under him. He felt another savage blow on the shoulder, but it was the last. The two youths came on in a running tackle, and brought the man down.

  Roger was gasping for breath.

  “Hold—hold them,” he gasped, and turned towards the door, thrusting his injured shoulder at it, and clenching his teeth against the pain. The door wouldn’t budge. He heard a groaning sound, that was all; no screaming, no shouting, just groaning. He drew back and flung his weight wildly against the door, but still it didn’t budge. Then he heard a car pull up, and out of the corner of his eye he saw men spilling out of it; Sloan was among them.

  “Must get in!” Roger bellowed. “Hurry!”

  He jumped towards the window of the room where he’d had tea, bent his elbow and cracked it through the glass. As he did so, Sloan and another man reached him, and Sloan said: “Take a spell.”

  He pushed Roger aside roughly. Roger watched him and the other man knock the slivers of glass out from the sides of the windows, and saw Sloan climb through. As he went, Roger said in that gasping voice: “Check the back, too. Are there enough men?”

  Sloan bellowed an order to two men who were tackling Roger’s assailants.

  “One of you go round the back.”

  “Right, sir!”

  “You radioed for more men?”

  “Yes.”

  So this part of it was over bar shouting, Roger realised, and in that moment he felt weak and useless. His legs were heavy, he didn’t want to climb in at the window, and there was no need. Sloan was half-way in, his man was already right inside the room. Roger caught a glimpse of the tea-table, just as he had last seen it, and then turned towards the front door. One of the three men who had come with Sloan was fastening handcuffs on to each of the assailants and a little ring of people was standing some way off. The two youths who had run to help were sidling towards the crowd, each wearing Edwardian-style suits, each obviously a Teddy boy, each a little sheepish.

  “Take their names,” Roger called, “They ought to get a medal, and I want to buy them a drink.” He flashed his smile, although it was real physical effort, saw three uniformed policemen hurrying, and knew that there was nothing else to worry about outside.

  But inside?

  He heard footsteps. The moaning had stopped, and he tried to tell himself that was a good sign. He longed for the door to open, but it didn’t, for what seemed a long time. He raised his voice: “Bill, open up!”

  Then the door opened, and Roger could see inside.

  Kate Harrison lay in a peculiar position close to the wall, and her son at the foot of the stairs.

  Both were dead; stabbed to death.

  Sloan was standing up from the woman’s side, but there was no need for a doctor to come, save that of formality. The other Yard man was out of sight. The doors leading to the back yard were wide open, and Roger could see a tall oblong of daylight there. He exchanged glances with Sloan, then hurried along the passage, through the kitchen, into the yard. At the small gate at one end, leading to a service alley, the man he had sent round in the beginning lay on the ground; he had been knifed too. The detective officer was kneeling by his side, and he looked round desperately.

  “Ambulance, quick.”

  Roger nodded, and ran back into the house. It would be quicker to dial 999 than to go to the car radio, for there were too many people outside. Sloan was closing the door, and he turned as Roger lifted the receiver.

  “I’ve sent for a doctor.”

  “Ambulance?”

  “That can wait.”

  “Not when you’ve seen our man at the back door,” Roger said, and when he heard the operator, asked for the Yard, and gave the order …

  He put the receiver down slowly, squared his shoulders, looked at Kate Harrison and her son, and felt as if he was going to choke. He found a cigarette, from Sloan, in his hand, a lighter flaming steadily in front of him. He stared at Sloan for what seemed a long time, then suddenly said: “Damned fool!” and snatched up the receiver again and dialled the Yard. “Hallo, Abbott; it’s West here again. Put out calls for the following men: First: Theophilus Pegg, Warehouseman of Henrietta Street, Covent Garden; see his description in the Jensen file on my desk. Second: Man named Sydney, Christian name not certain, of 101 Hadworth Palace Road, aged about forty, dark brown eyes, thin dark hair, thin face, sallow complexion, tight lips, small scar below right eye just above cheekbone, medium height, carrying a knife and known to be dangerous. Chews gum freely. Third: Charles Henry, of—”

&nbs
p; “We know Henry,” the Information Room man said. “Been busy, Handsome?”

  “Yes, and also pick up Mrs. Kimmeridge, of 31 Page Street, Elwell.”

  “Right. You know that Jay’s after you?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Roger said. “Send word that I’m coming, will you?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Report To Jay

  Colonel Jay sat at his desk, and the light from a single lamp above his head shone on him, showing his features in sharp relief, revealing the tautness of his mouth and the way his eyes were narrowed. His arms were on the sides of his chair, the hands lightly clenched. On his right, a little way from the desk, sat Cortland. The blinds were down at the windows, and this room seemed cut off from the rest of the world.

  Roger saw all this as he stepped inside.

  He would not have been surprised had he been given an escort from the time he had stepped into the Yard, but nothing of the kind had happened. He had telephoned Cortland, been told to wait in his office, then been summoned here. There had been time to have an antiseptic dabbed on his chest and chin where the knuckle-duster had scraped, and one deep scratch was covered with plaster.

  He did not know that his eyes looked unnaturally bright and that his expression was at least as bleak as the Assistant Commissioner’s.

  He did not know what to expect, beyond immediate suspension, had no idea how Jay would receive him. His nerves were at their rawest. He had been fighting with himself all the way to the office, telling himself that he must keep calm, that he must take whatever Jay wanted to hand out. He couldn’t expect Jay to let it go formally, certainly couldn’t expect him to understand what tension he had lived through in the past hour or so.

  Jay waited for him to speak.

  “Good evening, sir. I’ve come to report.”

  If Jay was sarcastic, or if he delivered a withering rebuke—

  “I would like you to confine your report to briefest outline,” Jay said. His tone was flat and unemotional.

  “Very good, sir.” That was a start, but the rest wasn’t so easy. It had been a long day. For the moment Roger couldn’t recall exactly how it had started; he had a kind of mental black-out, and his legs felt weak. That must be the effect of the drug. Here he was, with a chance to put his case plainly and crisply; and here he was, standing like a schoolboy. Clive Harrison. Clive, with his throat cut. He could picture the mother and son on the floor, and in his ears there was Kate Harrison’s screaming. No, no, no, no.

  She had seen death coming.

  Cortland’s big hands moved, as he fidgeted with unaccustomed embarrassment.

  Roger began.

  “Briefly then, sir, I had reason to doubt the statements of some witnesses, and to suspect collusion among them. The form of collusion suggested that they were either desperate, hardly knowing what to say next, or were playing for time. The second possibility made it a matter of extreme urgency to find out the truth. I soon found indications that at least two of the witnesses against Michael Quist were untrustworthy.”

  Roger paused, and moistened his lips. He could have done with a drink, and the carafe of water and the glass on Jay’s desk seemed to mock him. He could do with a chair, too, but he stood stiffly in front of the Assistant Commissioner, who watched him steadily – coldly.

  “I came to the conclusion that it would be impracticable to pass the information on to other officers, which would be necessary if I returned here, sir. I had no formal evidence, no justification for charging any of the people concerned, but I believed that if it were possible to get one or all of the witnesses agitated and on the run, quick results might be achieved. On the other hand, if they had time to consolidate their position, they might be able to substantiate their false evidence against Quist. I decided that I had to work fast and alone. Finally I visited a sister of the dead woman, the mother of the boy, Clive Harrison. While there, I accepted some tea and cake. It was drugged.”

  He paused again.

  Here was an opportunity for Jay to be really withering. Why had he eaten anything at the house, why had he had even a cup of tea? Could he prove that he had been drugged?

  There were the photographs on the desk; no one could be blamed for believing their evidence.

  Jay said: “Continue, please.”

  “When I came round, I found that evidence had been faked against me, in the way I believed it had been faked against Quist. Mrs. Harrison, her son and a man named Sydney were still in the house. Mrs. Harrison was extremely nervous and likely to make a statement if she was subjected to sufficient close questioning. I did not know that two other men, associates of Sydney, were on the spot. When I went outside for help, they attacked me. Sydney closed the front door, shutting them and me out in the street. I heard the woman and the boy scream. Mrs. Harrison and her son each died of knife-wounds.” Roger paused, and then added briefly: “In outline, that’s it, sir. I don’t yet know the whole story.”

  Why didn’t Jay say something? Why did he sit there like some shrivelled-up relic of the Poona days? It was obvious that he would suspend Roger pending the investigation; why didn’t he get on with it?

  Jay said: “Theophilus Pegg and Mrs. Kimmeridge are in the waiting-rooms here, and Charles Henry should be on his way. Is it your intention to interview them yourself, or to leave their interrogation to others?”

  What was this?

  Is it your intention—

  “I think someone much fresher than I am ought to question them, sir; two of them especially are very shrewd customers. The most likely one to break down is Charles Henry.”

  “Was it your intention to prefer charges?”

  “I meant to apply at once for search warrants for all their places of business and residence, and charge them if reasonable grounds for such charges were found, sir. Failing a charge, I would detain each of them all night and release them in the morning, under close surveillance.”

  “I see.” Jay turned to Cortland. “Do you agree with that course, Superintendent?”

  “Yeh,” said Cortland.

  “Very well. Put everything in hand, please. West, I would like you to report to me here at ten o’clock in the morning; until then you are to remain off duty.”

  Roger said: “Very well, sir,” and found himself adding: “Thank you.”

  “He’s a devil, but probably a fair devil,” Cortland said to Roger as they walked along the corridor. “Let’s hope so, anyhow. Get a car to drive you home, and tuck in early. Shouldn’t even go into your office again.”

  “Oh, I’d like to see what’s there,” Roger said. “Coming?”

  Cortland followed him.

  There were several reports, including one from Ibbetson about Henry being at the Rose and Crown on Monday night. The one man who swore Henry had been there all the time was a barman named Sydney.

  It was the same Sydney, and that smashed Henry’s alibi completely.

  Roger grinned as he handed the report to Cortland.

  “See that? Once Henry cracks—”

  He stopped.

  Sloan came hurrying into the C.I.’s office, and he never moved at that speed for the sake of it; moreover, he had been on duty since eight o’clock that morning.

  “Trouble out at Hadworth,” he said curtly. “Henry went out of his house, and someone attacked him.”

  Roger dropped the report as if his life depended on it. “Corty, I’m taking a car to North Hadworth; you can’t keep me out of this,” he said. He strode towards the lift, and didn’t see the exasperation on Cortland’s face gradually change to a reluctant grin.

  “I’ll put out the call, you go with him,” Cortland said to Sloan. “Get a move on.”

  Sybil Henry and her mother had been sitting in the front room of the house when the telephone call had come. Charles Henry had been in the dining-room, ostensibly reading, probably just sitting. He had refused to speak to Sybil, had repeatedly ordered her to get out of his house, once or twice had rounded on his wife for encouraging her t
o remain. Now he seemed to have accepted the fact that she would stay, but he kept out of her way.

  Sybil saw the way her mother winced when the telephone bell rang. They heard Henry move very quickly, heard him pluck up the instrument, and say: “Yes, Henry speaking.”

  There was a brief pause; then: “All right,” he said.

  Mrs. Henry leaned across to her daughter and put a hand on her knee.

  “He—he’s going out again. In spite of all that’s happened, he’s going out again.” It was like a sob.

  Sybil said very softly: “Yes, he is, and this time he isn’t going to see Rose Jensen, is he?” She sat there with the light shining on her clear eyes and her flawless face, and there was doubt and uncertainty in her expression. She stood up, slowly.

  “Sybil,” her mother gasped, “you’re not to go out!”

  “I won’t be long,” Sybil said, and pressed her mother’s shoulder gently. “There’s no need to worry; that detective’s still outside.”

  Her mother said brokenly: “If only I knew what it was about, if only I could help him.”

  Sybil went to the door.

  Her father was coming down the stairs. He was staring straight ahead, and she didn’t think that he saw her. His footsteps were very heavy, and he put a hand on the banisters, as if he needed their support. He went straight to the front door, put on his bowler hat, and stepped out; the door closed behind him with a snap.

  It was dusk.

  Sybil went out, hatless, coatless, into the warm evening and the scented garden. She heard someone cutting a lawn in spite of the near darkness, and saw her father’s heavy figure, close to the gate. She couldn’t see the detective, but felt sure that he was there, and that he would follow her father. She heard the slight squeak of the gate opening, and saw her father step outside.

  Then she saw another man, lurking in the clump of rhododendron bushes inside the garden and close to the gate. She fancied that she saw something glint in his hand.

  She screamed.

  Henry began to swing round, clumsily. Sybil ran towards the gate, as the man from the bushes leapt at her father. Someone shouted not far off, and heavy footsteps sounded on the road.