An Apostle of Gloom Read online

  “Oliphant,” said Mark, quietly. “Didn’t you say that he handled Cox’s defence?”

  Janet answered for Roger. “Yes.”

  “You think—” Mark began, but then his voice trailed off.

  “I can’t think of anything else which might have made Malone and his leaders fear that I might have seen what was happening,” Roger said. “He doesn’t often visit the scene of the crime – he usually gets to the case when it’s too late – but he was very quick this time. Supposing he was briefed by Malone or whoever Malone is working for? Supposing he realised afterwards that his eagerness might have been suspect? He would tell his client, of course. The client is superstitious. It happened on the 13th – ‘one of these days West is bound to see something funny in it, we’ll have to make sure that he can’t do any harm’. It would answer nearly everything,” Roger said.

  “Would Oliphant”—Mark paused, for he knew the solicitor well and found the suspicions hard to believe—”let anyone go for you, Roger?”

  “He might,” said Roger. “He might even have thought that I was keeping something up my sleeve – I was feeling in a good mood that morning and I put in one or two cryptic statements, the kind of hot air that bubbles out when everything has gone well. Oliphant might have misread my attitude. He might have discussed it with his client. You know, Mark, the framing was clever. Not too obvious, just enough to make reasonably sure that Chatworth would have to take notice of it. Whoever planned it knew Leech’s reputation with us. Malone might have known everything else, but he couldn’t have known that we relied so much on Leech. Oliphant would. I wonder”—he stood up slowly—”I wonder who the legal adviser to the Society of European Relief is? Mark, telephone Mrs. Cartier and ask her, will you? I—no, that would be asking for trouble. She might not be quite so honest as she’s made out, in spite of Malone’s visit. We’d better phone the Yard.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Mark, promptly.

  When he left the room Roger and Janet eyed each other very thoughtfully, Janet with a hopeful gleam in her eyes, Roger still deep in the problem. Oliphant loomed so much in his mind that he did not notice the louder note of Tennant’s voice in the next room.

  The door opened and Tennant strode out, beaming, holding Lois by the hand – and Lois seemed much more at peace.

  “It’s all right!” declared Tennant, triumphantly.

  “What’s all right?” asked Roger, startled.

  “I’ve fixed it – I mean, we’ve fixed it,” said Tennant, squeezing Lois’s waist. “She’s told me everything, West, everything. There’s no need for you to question her again, I’ve got it all written down. You want the names of the people she went to see, don’t you?”

  “I do,” said Roger, at last forcing himself to think of something and someone other than Oliphant.

  “I knew you would,” said Tennant, “and she’s remembered a dozen – they’re all on the list, and the gist of what she told you.” He put a small note-book in front of Roger, and beamed widely. “All written in ink and Lois has signed it. But,” he added with a quick frown, “you’ve got to keep your side of the bargain. I don’t know much about the law but I do know there’s such a thing as King’s Evidence. If this isn’t King’s Evidence, I don’t know what is!”

  Roger smiled. “Yes, you’re right.” He looked at Lois reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it, Lois, it will all work out well for you. We’re far more interested in finding these people and getting at their crimes than we are in punishing a girl for a momentary temptation.” He wondered if it were wise to deal with that quite so lightly and decided that it would do more good than harm; no one could have repented a crime more than this girl.

  She looked more rested, tired but with a settled expression in her eyes.

  Before he looked at the list, Roger said: “There’s just one thing. While Malone is free—”

  “I’ve talked to her about that,” Tennant said: “this afternoon you said the safest place for her would be a police cell, didn’t you? Confound it, Malone can’t get into one of those! Well,” he looked brightly into Roger’s eyes, “Lois agrees!”

  Lois nodded.

  “Good girl!” said Roger, warmly.

  He did not know how Tennant had contrived it but he had made the girl feel that it was wise and safe to trust the police. She did not protest, nor did she try to stipulate any conditions.

  Before going to Mark, who was still on the phone to the Yard, and taking over from him, he ran his eye down the list of names and addresses which Lois had dictated to Tennant, thinking that it would probably be enough to break the case wide open. The last entry but one made him start and look up eagerly into her eyes.

  “Oliphant – Mortimer Oliphant, at Cheyne Walk, Chelsea?”

  “Yes,” said Lois, quietly.

  “Did you go there often?”

  “We-ell – half a dozen times,” said Lois, “and sometimes he came to the office, he was the Society’s legal adviser. Pickerell always saw him alone.” She hesitated. “I rather liked him, he was always very friendly.”

  “Oh, yes, he would be,” Roger said, “he would be very friendly indeed! Lois, you’ve done marvels!”

  Mark came back as he spoke, like a man with good tidings, but suddenly deflated when he learned that Lois had already given the information. It was not a case, Mark said much later, in which he had the best of luck. He heard of the other arrangements and shot a glance of congratulation at the triumphant Tennant, who seemed to see nothing ironic in the fact that he had succeeded in persuading Lois to find safety in a police cell.

  Roger felt on edge, in spite of the way the case was shaping. He wanted to see Oliphant, to report his discoveries, to make sure that Lois was safe. Vaguely, he realised that few men had made such an impression on him as Malone. He did not feel sure that the short journey to the Yard could be negotiated safely and he went out, to see Pep Morgan’s men and the two police who were watching the hotel. They assured him that nothing suspicious had happened. He sent one of the police to the Yard to get a car, not taking the chance of getting a hired taxi that was employed by Malone. He laughed at his fears and yet remained on edge while he sat at the back of the car with Lois.

  The policeman drove.

  Tennant had been persuaded, with some difficulty, to stay behind. Mark had accepted the inevitable with commendable fortitude, but Janet would have her hands full with the two impatient men – she had been much more herself.

  The girl was very quiet. She did not seem to share any of his alarm.

  As they turned into Parliament Square, he said: “We won’t be long, now.”

  Lois spoke quietly.

  “Mr. West, I—” she paused.

  “Yes?” said Roger.

  “I—ought to thank you. Those tablets—”

  “Forget them,” Roger said. “I have.” As he spoke he realised what a fool he was, how the spectre of Malone and the dazzling prospect of outwitting Oliphant had driven other, more practical, thought from his mind. “That is, I’d forgotten you were going to take them,” he amended hastily. “Where did you get them from, Lois?”

  “Pickerell,” she said, quietly.

  “You know what’s in them?”

  “Yes,” she said, “they’re cyanic acid.”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “My oath, that’s doing it properly! Did he tell you what was in them?”

  “No,” said Lois, “I took some from a bottle on his desk. He always had them by him. I’ve heard him say that he would rather die than be caught. I—I felt the same, so I took them. I don’t think he missed them.”

  “How did you know what was in them?” Roger asked.

  “He once told Malone.”

  “Oh,” said Roger.

  He wished he could understand why she had been quite so determined to ke
ep silent. She must have realised the gravity of the situation. Time and time again she had been compelled to face up to it, and yet until almost the last she had refused to speak. Then, for the first time, he wondered whether she had told all the truth. He was going to assure Chatworth that she had; meant to use his influence to make sure that she was not victimised; yet – could there be something else?

  He was uneasy when he walked up the steps of the Yard and yet he did and said nothing to give Lois an inkling of his doubts. Although it was late, he took her to Abbott’s office. He wished some other Superintendent were in charge, for Abbott might have a bad effect on her. Surprisingly, however, Abbott greeted her without a fuss, listened to the story, and then spoke gently and reassuringly. Perhaps, thought Roger, Abbott understood something of what was in the girl’s mind and the importance of what might come from it. At all events, the man did nothing to make Lois regret her decision and, less than an hour afterwards, Roger took her across the dark square and through the gates to Cannon Row, where she was housed in one of the rooms, not a cell. Roger saw her quiet smile, and could not believe that she had deceived him, yet he still remained uneasy.

  Only when he was back in Abbott’s office did he realise that he had seen nothing of Malone.

  Then he told Abbott about Mortimer Oliphant.

  Chapter 20

  JANET DELIVERS NEWS OF IMPORTANCE

  “What do you suggest we do, West?” asked Abbott.

  The question was typical of the change in the man; at another time he would have given instructions and not listened to any argument. He had the reputation of being quite the most self-sufficient officer at the Yard. Now he seemed sincere as he waited for Roger to reply. It was eleven o’clock; they could hear the sonorous notes of Big Ben.

  “We-ell,” said Roger, “I don’t think we should act too quickly, do you?” Abbott shook his head. “We’ve this list of names to investigate and when we’ve interviewed each man we should have a better idea of what it’s all about.”

  Abbott looked surprised.

  “The disposal of looted goods, surely?”

  “The looting took place a long time ago,” Roger reminded him.

  “So you think there’s something else?”

  “Yes. It could be Black Market, ordinary theft, smuggling—” Roger shrugged his shoulders. “Theorising isn’t going to help much, but I can’t believe it’s only looting. Pickerell wouldn’t keep tablets of cyanide of potassium in his desk and probably in his pocket because he was afraid of being picked up for trafficking in looted goods.”

  “No,” admitted Abbott, “I had missed that.”

  “And I think it knocks out the more straightforward crimes,” Roger went on. “It could be espionage very carefully hidden, and yet I’m inclined to doubt that.”

  “You’ve no hard and fast ideas?”

  “None,” admitted Roger; “all I know is that it’s something of exceptional size. Malone’s gang, Oliphant, the Society – suggesting something which has been working for nearly three years – the murder of Joe Leech and, probably, that of Mrs. Cox – add those things together and you have a formidable business, which no ordinary motive will account for.”

  Abbott pressed the tops of his thin fingers together, admitting: “I am inclined to agree.”

  “And, of course, the Society is of primary importance,” Roger said. “I wish I were more sure of Mrs. Cartier. She’s given me an uneasy feeling that she hasn’t acted for the best of motives. Perhaps she got in touch with me for some deep reason of her own and she hasn’t told me anything like all the truth. You’ve checked up on her and her husband, of course?”

  “Yes,” said Abbott. He pushed a file across to Roger and sat back. “Read the reports – there’s no hurry,” he said.

  The office, on the third floor of the Yard, was very quiet as Roger read through the report on Mrs. Cartier. She was of French birth but had become a naturalised Englishwoman in 1936 – the year before her marriage to Sylvester Cartier. Daughter of a wealthy Lyons merchant, she had been educated in England for several years. She had been one of the first to offer hospitality to Frenchmen who had come from France before the 1940 débâcle and her interest in her native country had, it appeared, always remained strong. According to the report, she had first thought of the Society of European Relief when she had been approached by some Frenchmen of the professional classes who had been unable to find their niche in England or with the Free French authorities. There were many cases of hardship. She had helped them and then extended her activities. The Society had been in being for a little more than a year and it had a great deal in its favour. Wealthy Frenchmen in England and wealthy Francophiles had contributed towards the funds. Apparently Mrs. Cartier did most of the canvassing for money herself, and there was nothing surprising in the fact that she obtained good results – most men would have found the way from their hearts to their pockets after a visit from Mrs. Sylvester Cartier!

  There was nothing beyond that and the fact that she had married Sylvester Cartier in 1937.

  Another report, on her husband, was much more brief. Cartier had inherited a large fortune from his father – Roger suddenly realised why the name was so familiar. Cartier’s Food Products, of course! They were known everywhere – the name was almost as familiar as that of Heinz, Chef Brand and a dozen others. He felt annoyed with himself for having missed it.

  Educated at Eton and Balliol, a dilettante, a collector of objets d’art and antique furniture, Cartier appeared to have lived a life of leisured ease. He was on the director’s board of Cartier’s Food Products but apparently took little active interest in the company’s affairs. He had been prominent in polo circles, had travelled widely, had a widely renowned library, dabbled in philately, was a member of three exclusive clubs. ‘Correct’ was the word to apply to Sylvester Cartier; no man’s record could have been more in keeping with his elegant appearance. There was a note saying that he had been rejected by the Services because of evidence of valvular disease of the heart. Before the war, he had always wintered in France. He had a house at Weybridge – Roger remembered seeing that in the telephone directory – as well as a flat in London under his wife’s name and a large country house in Dorset.

  Roger finished and looked up, ruefully.

  “There isn’t much to glean from those, is there?” he said.

  “Not a great deal about either of them,” said Abbott. “What isn’t in the report is that he always mildly disapproved of his wife’s activities.”

  Roger shrugged. “He would probably think that waging the war was the job of the common people.”

  “I think you’re right,” Abbott said, “but he is not alone in that.”

  “Who are the family solicitors?” asked Roger.

  Abbott smiled bleakly. “Not Oliphant! Rogerson, Keene, Keene and Rogerson, of Gray’s Inn Fields. Quite irreproachable.”

  “Yes!” Roger was crisp, he stood up and began to pace the office. “They’re both so irreproachable that it seems almost too good to be true and yet, I can’t help feeling that I am spreading suspicions too widely. She might have meant everything she said, and if Malone had the slightest suspicion that she was one of his employers, he certainly wouldn’t have treated her so roughly. I think we’d better concentrate on the list of names and addresses, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Abbott, briefly, “especially Oliphant.”

  Roger said: “Will you leave him to me?”

  “To you?” asked Abbott, slowly, and then more briskly. “Yes, I think that’s wise, West. You won’t encourage Lessing or this friend of Miss Randall’s to do too much off their own bat, will you?”

  Roger smiled. “They’ll be good!”

  He left the Yard soon afterwards, wishing that he had his own car with him, and decided that he would go to Bell Street and get it out of the garag
e, first thing in the morning – he could use it now, although while under suspension he could not have done. He heard Big Ben strike midnight. The moon was bright and shimmered on the water, it threw the clock and the Houses of Parliament into soft relief. The scene was exactly the same as when he had left the night before, when he had been far less troubled than he was now.

  Lois – Mrs. Cartier – Oliphant – the grim scene beneath the floorboards at the New Street house, all harassed him. Twice as he walked towards Parliament Street, he turned abruptly at the sound of footsteps behind him. Once a soldier passed, another time a woman hurried furtively onwards. He had thought of Malone on both occasions – Malone was far too much on his mind. Two taxis passed him but were occupied. It would not take him twenty minutes to walk to the Legge Hotel, yet the fact that he could not get a cab annoyed him, and he thought longingly of his car. There was a garage at the hotel; it might be a good idea to go to Chelsea and then drive to Buckingham Palace Gate. That was absurd, he told himself, he would have to get a cab in order to reach Chelsea. He—

  That taxi driver!

  He had telephoned the house several times, but Morgan’s man, tired of his vigil, had nothing to report. He had asked Cornish, earlier in the day, to try to trace the man – no news meant that Cornish had failed. He had learned the man’s name – Dixon. Dixon had followed Cartier’s Daimler; the fact that he had not returned was peculiar, to say the least of it.

  “Oh, he phoned up and found no one in and gave it up as a bad job,’ Roger thought testily.

  Eventually he had to walk to the hotel.

  He told the others what had happened but remained preoccupied. There was no answer when he called Bell Street, but just before he went to bed the telephone rang. It was Cornish in an apologetic frame of mind. He was at the Yard and knew that Roger had been there until midnight, so he hoped he hadn’t brought him out of bed.

  “Oh, no,” said Roger. “Have you found that cabby for me?”

  “You mean Dixon?” said Cornish. “No, I haven’t, Roger. In fact, I meant to tell you earlier in the day that I was put on to another job and couldn’t follow it up myself. But there is one peculiar thing—”