Murder, London--South Africa Read online

  “Except for priority, calls sometimes take a day,” Standish had said. “Think yourself lucky.”

  Nightingale was trying to bury his impatience in the Johannesburg Star. Roger was sifting through reports from Pretoria and Johannesburg about the hunt for Faith and her kidnappers. Whenever he thought of the girl, he had a tense feeling of anxiety, quite sure that when she had called him she had been in terror; and probably for the first time in her life she had come up against this kind of harsh reality. There were photographs of her from the newspaper files. There were also photographs of her car, the nearside rear tyre worn to ribbons where she had driven on it in desperation; and of the bullet, a Lambetti .22. There were photographs of the rifling on the bullet, of the tyre-tread of the Ford Consul as well as Faith’s Jaguar, and there were fingerprints, blown up to twenty times their normal size. These were Faith’s and those of a dozen other people who had been in the telephone kiosk fairly recently. Roger had the same sense of organisation and thoroughness and of everything being under complete control as he had at the Yard.

  The strangeness of the fact that everyone here was in uniform was wearing off; they might look and sometimes behave like soldiers, but they were just as much policemen as the CID at home.

  “When the hell’s that call coming through?” Nightingale muttered. He flung the newspaper aside. “Can’t you do anything to hurry it?”

  Roger didn’t answer, but passed him some of the reports and then read a timetable of reports about black or dark-blue or dark green Ford Consuls which had been seen in the vicinity during the night or in the early hours of the morning. Four were marked with a red asterisk; these were cars whose owners had not been traced. One of them, registration number SX2134, had been singled out for special attention, because of its speed, just as one might have been in Greater London. It had been seen racing through the suburbs of Johannesburg away from Pretoria, travelling through the towns of Heidleburg and Rensdorp, and was known to have joined the National Road from Johannesburg to Durban about forty miles out of Johannesburg. Wiess had put out a general call for it, and all its movements would now be traced.

  A telephone bell rang. Nightingale jumped up and snatched at the receiver, grated, “Hallo?” then muttered under his breath and thrust the instrument into Roger’s hand.

  “For you.”

  “West,” said Roger, quietly.

  “Have you seen the reports on the Consuls?” It was Standish, from next door.

  “I’ve just finished,” Roger replied.

  “We’ve had two more on SX2134,” Standish said. “It’s still heading towards Durban. It’s being driven by a small man who might possibly answer the description we had last night, and a bigger man is sitting next to him. There’s no report of a passenger, but three reports say that rugs are spread over the back.”

  “Is it being followed?” Roger asked.

  “Yes, by a patrol car of the Orange Free State. It will be picked up by Natal police very soon.”

  “And stopped and searched?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Nightingale was leaning across Roger’s desk when he rang off, and their faces were very close together. Roger wondered about the man’s relationship with Faith, whether he had a much deeper personal reason for anxiety than he had yet said.

  “Was that about Faith?”

  “Might be, might be not,” said Roger. “The police are not missing any tricks, and—”

  The telephone bell rang again, and once more Nightingale snatched up the receiver, only to hand it to Roger, for it was the call to London. He stood up very straight, staring at the wall over Roger’s head, in much the way that Soames had in his office. Roger motioned to the extension telephone. There were noises on the line, words like, “You there, London?” and “This is London, one moment, please,” and then suddenly Soames’ voice sounded; and there was no doubt that it was The Globe editor; his voice had a timbre which could not be mistaken even over six thousand miles.

  “Hallo. Is that you, Faith?”

  Nightingale said, “No, Jack, it’s not.”

  “Jim!” Soames’ voice changed its tone. “Don’t tell me she managed to get you out, you half-wit. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Jack, I’ve got bad news for you. Faith didn’t get me out; West did that.”

  “Who?”

  “Handsome West.”

  “Oh, the copper. Good for him. How’s Faith?”

  “Jack,” Nightingale said, “Faith’s been sticking her neck out, and—”

  Soames chuckled.

  “I’ll bet she has. Have you ever known her keep it in? How is she?”

  Nightingale was finding it difficult to put the truth into words. Now, although he should have given the answer, he moistened his lips and gulped. Again it occurred to Roger that he might feel deeply for the girl.

  “Are you there?” Soames demanded.

  “Mr Soames, this is Roger West,” Roger said. “I’m sorry to tell you that your niece is missing, sir. We have every reason to believe that she has been taken away against her will.”

  He gave Soames a chance to comment, but when the old man did not take it, he went on, “The South African police are doing everything they can to find her, and you can be sure that once she is found we’ll look after her.”

  Soames said, “Missing? Kidnapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who—” Soames seemed to choke. “West!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’ve got to find her.”

  “Everything possible is being done,” Roger said. “There’s one thing you can do.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell Nightingale that if he knows anything or even suspects anything about this, if he can even guess where Faith might be, he must tell the police.”

  After a pause, Soames said, “Yes. My God, yes. Jim – are you there?”

  “I heard,” said Nightingale, stiffly.

  “Tell them everything you can. D’you hear me? Tell them everything. You’re always holding out on me, you’re always telling me you know what’s best, but don’t hold out on the police over this. Not over Faith. She—West?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you think she is in danger?”

  “She could be,” Roger said.

  “Jim,” said Soames, thickly, “you heard West, you heard me. If you know anything, tell the police. Hear me? Tell them.”

  “If I knew anything at all I would tell you,” Nightingale said. “But I don’t know a thing.”

  Roger felt almost sure that he was lying.

  Standish asked a few routine and formal questions: where Nightingale intended to go, where he proposed to stay, whether he intended to travel by air, road, or rail. Nightingale was obviously champing at the bit, and when at last he stalked off, saying that he was going to Johannesburg to consult his newspaper’s office there, Roger felt that he was carrying a tremendous burden. Standish stood at the window and looked out, and Roger joined him and saw the newspaperman striding purposefully along the street. The only other people on foot in the street were Bantus.

  “We’ll know, wherever he goes,” Standish said confidently. “Any idea what he’s keeping back?”

  “No. I’ve an idea why he might want to keep something back, though. He may think he can do a private deal for the release of the girl. Supposing he tries? What will you do?”

  “Supposing we wait for it to happen,” said Standish almost sharply. He waited until Nightingale turned out of the street, and as he went back to his desk his telephone bell rang. He picked up the instrument as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Captain Standish.”

  It was a considered pose, of course. He was out to impress Roger all the time. Suddenly his expression changed and all
pretence was dropped.

  “The fools!” he roared. “Where . . . yes . . . damaged? . . . on fire.”

  Roger stood rigidly by the desk. Judging from Standish’s manner, this was shocking news. He saw a mind picture of Faith Soames, as she had been in his room last night, leaning back and tempting him, quite sure that he could not resist her.

  “Use aircraft, of course,” said Standish. “Of course.”

  He banged down the receiver and stared at Roger, and for the first time Roger saw him really shaken. “That Consul went over a cliff in the foothills of the Drakenberg, near Ladysmith. It caught fire. The police in the car which picked up its trail lost it on a by-road. The driver was obviously trying to evade them. It isn’t yet known whether the occupants were injured or not. It isn’t even certain whether they were in the car when it went over the edge.”

  Standish was clenching his hands tightly, and Roger wondered if, in fact, there was worse to come, when he went on, “The accident occurred only thirty miles from Van der Lunn’s mountain home.”

  23

  TOWARDS THE MOUNTAINS

  Roger could picture old Soames’ despair, knowing how much the girl meant to him. He could picture the blazing wreckage of the car at the foot of a ravine, and he could almost see the way the flames devoured the human flesh and blood. But there was no certainty that it had happened. He wanted to go to the scene and be on the spot when the rescue party went down to see if there was anything left to rescue, but he knew that was impossible.

  Standish was saying, “. . . it’s time we got there.”

  “Where?”

  “The airport,” Standish said.

  Roger stared; and then he remembered Joshua Bradshaw.

  “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “Half an hour,” Standish said. “I wish—”

  He broke off when his telephone bell rang again, and snatched it up, quite as anxious as Nightingale had been.

  “Captain Standish? . . . very good.”

  His tension left him, but exasperation replaced it as he put the receiver down.

  “I have a verbal report to make,” he said. “I cannot come personally to the airport. I will send Lieutenant Lukas with you, and he’ll do everything he can to help. All you have to do is make sure the man is on the aircraft, and if he is, point him out.”

  “There’s someone else I could probably identify,” Roger said.

  “Who?”

  “Faith Soames.”

  Standish looked as if that comment took him by surprise. He frowned, then shrugged it off without comment, just ‘I daresay.’ He pressed a bell, and a very tall Lieutenant of Police came in. He had thick hair at the back of his head, but was almost bald in front – and again that reminded Roger of a Bradshaw; of Rebecca, with her hair straight back from her forehead and then a frizzy mop behind the band which held it in place. He had met Lukas already, and obviously the policeman had been briefed.

  “The important thing is to keep out of this man’s sight,” said Standish.

  “Yes. If you have any word of the girl, can you let me know?”

  “I will telephone a message to the airport,” Standish promised. His telephone rang again. He answered it quickly, then shook his head at Roger, and gave full attention to the call. Lukas led the way out of the office, out of the building, into a police car with a Bantu driver waiting to take the wheel. Traffic was thick, and for the first time Roger realised that driving habits here were different from London, and the drivers seemed to take even more chances. One man cut in almost savagely as they approached a junction; another car cut in from the other side. Roger’s heart was in his mouth, but the police driver seemed to accept it as normal.

  He drove fast once they were on the open road, heading for the airfield at Kempton Park. The roads were good and straight, there were a lot of young pine trees lining some of them, and some new housing estates. Outside the airport there was a huddle of taxis and private cars, and an air of eager anticipation.

  As they drove through the main gates, the driver spoke to a guard in Bantu, and then reported in English, “It is due in five minutes, sir.”

  “Just good time,” Lukas remarked.

  Roger half expected some word from Standish, but there was no message, and he told himself that it was folly to expect one. Why should he be so edgy about that girl? Would he have been, had it been anyone else? He didn’t know. Soon they were led by an airport police lieutenant to the control tower, and to a seat close to a man wearing earphones and talking into a mouthpiece; obviously he was giving landing instructions. On a radar screen on one side there was the light dot which showed the aircraft coming in to land. An atmosphere of bustle was everywhere. Barelegged and bare-footed porters, mostly tall and handsome and very fit, pushed barrows and trucks towards the spot where the airliner would come in. Two ambulances and two fire engines stood ready for emergency, a fuelling truck was in position.

  What had seemed at first a dot in the sky soon became a recognisable shape, but there was little noise in the control tower. The radio was silent now. The aircraft appeared to be straight in front of them, losing height rapidly. Yet it still seemed a long way off. It touched down, seemed to bound, touched again, and then with a lordly air of disdain, it slowed down on the runway and came gently to a stop.

  Soon, the steps were pushed into position, the door of it opened, a stewardess appeared, then two officers, then the passengers began to straggle out.

  The fifth man was quite unmistakably Joshua Bradshaw.

  Bradshaw had a passport in the name of Bell, but everything else on it seemed to be accurate. Roger wondered how often he used it, and how long he had had it; they were questions which must soon be answered, but he had no time to worry about them then.

  Lukas, by Roger’s side, was already on the telephone to Standish. Roger watched the man whom he had last seen at Common View Hotel as he walked towards the Customs offices. It was very hot out there, and Joshua seemed to be sweating; he kept dabbing at his forehead with a grubby handkerchief. He kept looking round, too, almost as if he were fearful, and seemed to enter the Customs offices with relief.

  Lukas said, “Yes. He is here.”

  He handed the telephone to Roger. “The Captain would like to talk to you.”

  Roger said, “Hallo?”

  And his heart began to thump.

  “I can tell you one more thing,” said Standish. “Nightingale went to the Johannesburg newspaper offices as he said, but left after five minutes. He has borrowed one of the newspaper’s cars, and is now heading south-east, along the main Johannesburg-Durban road towards the Drakenberg. It is beginning to look as if he and the others will converge there.”

  “We’ll soon know where Bradshaw’s going, as well,” Roger said.

  “If he heads for the same direction, then I think you should, too,” said Standish. “Stay there until we’ve some news – I’ve given Lukas instructions. If Bradshaw hires a car or is met by one, and heads for the Drakenberg, then I think we ought to fly to Ladysmith. That is near the place where the car went over, and by the time we reach there we shall know whether that car had passengers or not. Are you ready to fly?”

  “Any time,” Roger said.

  “I thought you would be,” Standish said drily. Something seemed to have put him in a much better mood. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  He rang off. Roger moved to the other side of the control tower, and was then taken out along the roof until he could see the passengers as they cleared Customs and went to the waiting taxis and cars. Bradshaw went to a big black Chrysler, and a man in a chauffeur’s uniform came up and saluted by touching the peak of his cap. They shook hands. There seemed to be no formalities at all, but Bradshaw got in, and took the wheel. It was a moment or two before Roger realised the significance of th
at.

  Lukas said, “It is a private hire car, of the drive yourself kind. I think that Bradshaw will drop the chauffeur at some convenient point, and then drive on by himself.”

  Roger watched as the Chrysler moved off, turned two corners, and shot out of the main gates. It swung towards Johannesburg.

  “He knows the airport and knows the road,” Roger said. “He’s probably been here often before.”

  “I think you are certainly right,” said Lukas.

  Two smaller aircraft came in during the next half an hour, while Roger made a pretence of looking over the airport buildings. The sun was very hot, but the air so dry that he did not feel it except on the back of his head; he wished he had a hat with him. There was no shop near by. He ought to buy something to cover his head. If he were going to be out in the sun often he would need one. He kept passing his hands over the back of his head. Lukas took him to the airport restaurant for a drink or coffee; he chose coffee. He had nearly finished when a Bantu policeman in immaculate uniform came up and saluted.

  “You are required on the telephone, Lieutenant. There is one close by.” He led the way to a telephone in the wall, took off the receiver and handed it to Lukas. No one else appeared to take any notice of them at all.

  Lukas said, “Yes . . . yes, Captain . . . he has?”

  There seemed a very long pause before he spoke again, and then it was with obvious satisfaction. “Very good, sir. I will.”

  He put the receiver down, turned to Roger, and said, “Bradshaw dropped the chauffeur outside the hire company’s garage in Eloff Street, and then went off along the National Road towards Durban. Nightingale has already driven sixty miles along the same road.”

  “Sixty?”

  “You are not used to our fast main roads,” Lukas told him. “Are you ready?”

  “When you are.”