Inspector West Regrets Read online

  Roger said, quietly: ‘You found that difficult, Blair, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was damnable!’ cried Blair. ‘I worship the very ground she treads on, and I had to scheme ways of getting them together, had to—God forgive me if I’ve harmed her!’ he added, and turning away sank into a chair and covered his face in his hands.

  Chapter Four

  The Girl Who Carried a Gun

  While Blair sat with bowed head, Roger went to the desk and, for the first time, read the three letters which Blair had tried to conceal. They were all typewritten, and bore neither address nor signature. He thought that the typewriter was the same as that used for the anonymous letters to Sir Guy; in any case it would be easy to make sure of that.

  They were threatening letters, and the first, dated a month before, was typical of all three. It read:

  If the police don’t get you first, I’ll put paid to your account, Kelham. You’re living under the shadow of death. Any moment might be your last. The only reason I haven’t killed you already is that I hope you’ll be hanged, you devil.

  When he had finished reading them, he glanced up to see Blair looking at him. The man’s haggard face reflected the torment of his mind, and his eyes seemed to burn.

  ‘Do you know who sent them?’ Roger asked, suddenly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Mr Kelham know they were in here?’

  Blair muttered: ‘He—he’s never seen them.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Roger.

  ‘I always open all his post,’ said Blair, ‘and he’s got too much on his mind to worry about listening to the babbling of a lunatic! I—I always thought I might be able to find out who sent these, so I kept them here.’ Blair eased his collar. ‘I’m the only person who knew they arrived.’

  ‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘Why were you so anxious to prevent me from seeing them?’

  ‘I—I didn’t want you to know that anyone had called him a murderer.’

  ‘Is he a murderer?’ Roger asked, equably.

  A tap at the door heralded a policeman with sandwiches and coffee. Blair first declared that he could not eat, but he set to with a will after eating one dainty sandwich, and drank coffee greedily. His gaze did not leave Roger, but it was not until his appetite was satisfied that he said: ‘There isn’t much more that I can tell you, West. If there’s any truth in these accusations, it happened before I knew Andrew Kelham.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Roger, ‘but you’re not familiar with all his current activities, are you?’

  ‘I think so. I’m his confidential secretary. He doesn’t go anywhere without telling me where he’s going, as far as I know, and usually I go with him. There—there’s one other thing that I suppose you’ll have to know.’ He paused. ‘My father owned a small steel works, years ago. He wasn’t well, and the business was failing. I—I was at Oxford. I knew nothing about his financial troubles until he died. Then I discovered that he was in debt to Andrew Kelham, who had foreclosed on the business. Within a few weeks the orders started coming in again and the works were prosperous. I came here feeling pretty vengeful. I would gladly have throttled Kelham, but to my surprise I found him very decent. I learned that he had offered my father a directorship on the new board. Well, the upshot of it was that I accepted the offer of a secretarial post from Kelham, and he’s never failed me. That’s the whole truth, West. I once hated the man bitterly, but I’ve come to love him.’

  ‘Have you tried to find out who threatened him?’

  ‘So far I’ve only toyed with the idea,’ said Blair.

  ‘Did Anthony Kelham ever receive similar letters?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of any,’ Blair said.

  ‘Have you any theory at all as to why Anthony was murdered?’

  ‘I—no, none at all,’ said Blair.

  ‘That isn’t quite true, is it?’ asked Roger. ‘You have a shrewd idea that he was killed in mistake for his father. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘I can’t imagine any other reason. You’re pretty quick, aren’t you?’ said Blair bitterly.

  ‘From some angles they’re much alike,’ said Roger. ‘Do you think Mr Kelham believes that possible?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about it to me.’

  ‘Right!’ said Roger. ‘That’ll do for this evening—except that I’d like you to write a log of your activities today. And when it’s done I’ll have to ask you to leave this room. It will be locked up until we want it again.’

  When he was alone in his office he wrote a brief report and then a list of inquiries to be made early next day.

  One fact stood out clearly; the murderer had gained admittance to the flat by use of a key. He should have found out whether there was a master-key at the flats, held by the management, and he should have asked Blair who had keys to the flat. Presumably all the Kelhams and Blair had one apiece, and possibly the daily servant.

  ‘Confound it!’ exclaimed Roger, ‘I’ve missed that point!’

  He rang up Blair immediately and asked him for the woman’s name and address; Blair gave it to him without hesitation, and told him that she had a back-door key. Roger looked at his watch; it was not much past ten o’clock, and there was still time to interview the woman. Her name was Ricketts and she lived in Lambeth, not five minutes’ drive away from the Yard, on the fourth floor of an ancient tenement.

  Roger sought a knocker unsuccessfully, and then banged with his fist.

  ‘These places do stink, don’t they?’ whispered his driver, Gardener.

  ‘Some of them,’ said Roger, and banged again.

  There was no answer, but a door opened on the top floor and a bedraggled-looking woman came down, followed by a younger woman dressed smartly; even in the gloom her bright lipstick was visible.

  ‘Who d’jer want?’ demanded the first woman, gruffly.

  ‘Are you inquiring for Mrs Ricketts?’ asked the second, politely.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘Isn’t she in?’

  ‘She came in—’ began the younger woman.

  ‘Shut yer trap, Lucy, and don’t talk out of yer turn!’ snapped the other. ‘Wot jer want ’er for?’

  ‘Just to ask her a few questions,’ said Roger, pleasantly, and took out a card. ‘I am from—’

  ‘I know a busy when I sees one,’ growled the older woman, clearly hostile. ‘Worriting decent folks, that’s wot yer up to.’

  Gardener bridled, and Roger hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters. In a few minutes Lucy held the stage, and she had not finished speaking when Roger felt the first tremor of alarm. Mrs Ricketts had returned from her work just after half past five, as she always did. According to custom, she and her daughter should have gone to supper with their upstairs neighbours; the two families had meals together on alternate evenings. Mrs Ricketts’s daughter had gone to the pictures unexpectedly, however, and Mrs Ricketts had not put in an appearance. Lucy and her mother had banged on the door several times and received no answer; it was obvious that they were both puzzled and worried, for it was not their neighbour’s habit to spend the evenings away from home.

  Roger made no comment but simply put his shoulder to the door and pressed with all his weight. The lock groaned.

  ‘Here, let me, sir!’ cried Gardener.

  He was a heavier man than Roger, and the lock gave way. While Gardener tried to keep the neighbours out, Roger went into the tiny flat. Standing on the threshold of a dingy bedroom, Roger looked down at the body of Mrs Ricketts, by the side of the bed. She had been strangled.

  Later that night Roger drove towards Chelsea slowly, his thoughts confused. The motive for the murder of Mrs Ricketts was obvious. The man who had shot Anthony Kelham had gone straight to Lambeth to stop her telling who had borrowed her keys. Yet he felt uneasily that this was one of those cases in which nothing was quite what it seemed.

  The curtains at the house in Bell Street were drawn ,but there were several chinks of light. As he put the car into the garage at the back of t
he house, he reflected that Janet must have decided to wait up for him.

  Janet opened the door and greeted him.

  ‘You needn’t have stayed up, Jan, I—’

  ‘Is that Inspector West?’ demanded another voice, and a second figure appeared and pushed past Janet; it was Griselda Fayne.

  Chapter Five

  A Story From Griselda

  ‘However urgent it is,’ said Roger, firmly, ‘I’m going to have a wash to freshen myself up. It’s waited for so long that another ten minutes won’t spoil it. I’ll wash in the kitchen,’ he added, for Janet’s benefit.

  Griselda Fayne’s blue eyes were angry, but she raised no objection. On the way to the kitchen, Roger squeezed Janet’s waist and kissed the lobe of her ear.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, darling.’

  ‘You couldn’t help it.’

  ‘How’s Scoopy?’

  ‘Fast asleep, bless him!’ After putting on a kettle, she went on quickly: ‘She arrived just after midnight. I told Bill Sloan that he’d better go when eleven o’clock came and you weren’t back. Mark Lessing stayed to keep an eye on things. I went up to bed, and the knocking at the door woke me.’

  ‘Did she say why she came?’

  ‘Only that she wanted to see you.’

  ‘I could help her at Scotland Yard as easily as I could here,’ said Roger. ‘I’m not fond of people who use Bell Street as an unofficial confessional.’ He saw Janet’s frown and laughed as he finished drying himself. ‘Sorry, sweet, I’ll treat her nicely! Sing out for Mark, will you?’

  ‘Mark!’ called Janet, obviously torn between making Mark Lessing hear and avoiding disturbing the baby. Mark heard, however, and came at once.

  ‘Roger’s got a down on her,’ said Janet.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ said Mark, ‘but it’s probably only because he’s tired.’ He grinned amiably at his friend.

  He was a tall, spare-built man, with a chin too pointed and a nose too curved for good looks, yet he was impressive. His chief claim to fame were several small books on what he liked to call criminal lore, containing analyses of several spectacular cases; without them, he often said, the remarkable history of Chief Inspector West would never have been written. He declared modestly that he always liked to lend a hand, and most of the people at Scotland Yard respected him and valued his opinion.

  ‘So it’s only because I’m tired, is it?’ asked Roger. ‘We’ll see. Do you know what’s happened?’

  ‘No,’ said Mark and Janet, in unison.

  ‘Her fiancé, or her ex-fiancé, was murdered tonight,’ said Roger, ‘and his name was Anthony Kelham.’ He grinned at Mark’s startled expression. ‘I’m also told that she carries a gun. Get hold of her handbag on some pretext, Mark, and check up, will you? I can’t, because I’m an officer of the law!’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Mark, confidently.

  They let him go back alone, but both of them crept along the passage. He left the lounge door open, and they could just see Griselda standing by the piano and looking through an album of popular classics. Her blue leather handbag was on the piano.

  He went straight in, put his hands on her shoulders and moved her to one side, opened the piano and played one or two notes, softly. Griselda was taken aback. Then Mark, turning over a page, knocked the album off, and she immediately bent down to get it.

  Before she straightened up the bag was open, and in Mark’s hand was a small automatic.

  ‘Well, well!’ he said, stupidly. ‘What’s this?’

  Roger stepped into the room, with Janet pressing close behind him.

  Griselda saw the open handbag and the gun, and her eyes blazed – and yet she stood quite still.

  ‘I’ll take charge of the gun until you produce your licence,’ said Roger. ‘Thanks, Mark. Miss Fayne, if you will be so unorthodox as to come and visit a policeman in his home, you must expect your motives to be suspect. I understand that you always carry this gun.’

  She drew in her breath: ‘Of all the beasts, Charles Blair is—’ She stopped, took her bag from Mark’s hand and closed it quickly. ‘You probably won’t believe me, but I came here to tell you about my quarrel with Tony and all that ensued.’

  ‘Is that all you came to see me about?’

  ‘No,’ she said. She shot a glance at Mark, as if she felt that she could hope for moral support from him.

  Janet said: ‘I’ll fetch the tea, Roger. I won’t be a moment.’

  She came back almost at once with the tea-tray and biscuits. Absently, Griselda accepted a cup, refused biscuits, and, between sips, she looked at Roger and said: ‘You know that I’ – a sip – ‘nearly killed Tony Kelham a few weeks ago.’ She sipped again. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I want you to tell me,’ said Roger, evasively.

  ‘That means that you do know. All right, Mr West, I will tell you my own version. Tony Kelham goaded me into a fury in which I would gladly have killed him, and I tried to kill him. He told the truth about my father, and that hurt. The truth,’ she added, and caught her breath, then drank more deeply. ‘He died in a lunatic asylum, to which he had been sent after he tried to commit suicide. He was driven to that, and probably to insanity, by—Andrew Kelham! He had a prosperous business. Kelham became a partner, and tried to buy my father out. In the end, father interfered with the accounts, and rendered himself liable to prosecution. So he tried—well, I needn’t say that again. I suppose you’re wondering why I allowed myself to become engaged to Anthony Kelham. I will tell you. I thought that through his son I might be able to avenge myself on Andrew Kelham.’ She caught her breath. ‘There have been times when I would gladly have killed them both!’

  Roger said: ‘You’re certainly being frank.’

  ‘I haven’t finished. I was at the flat early this evening,’ she said, in a toneless voice. ‘I suppose I was the last person to see him alive.’

  This was frankness with a vengeance, thought Roger, and he felt a sneaking shame because he had doubted the girl’s sincerity.

  ‘Why did you go to the flat, Miss Fayne,’ he asked, gently.

  ‘I just wanted to see Tony. We had made up our differences—I think he had done so genuinely, and I pretended to have done so. I did not know that he was coming to London until Charles Blair told me this morning. I got there just after five o’clock, and he admitted me himself. I left soon afterwards. I went home—’

  ‘Do you mean to the hostel?’

  ‘Yes. I’d arranged to meet him again at half past seven, and arrived a little early. Immediately I knew what happened I realised how it might look if you knew I’d been there before, and so I said nothing. After I’d thought about it I decided that I had been a fool, and I telephoned Scotland Yard. They said you had gone home, so I came here.’ She looked defiant. ‘That is the whole truth.’

  ‘Apart from everything else, you’ve already helped,’ said Roger, ‘because we now have a fairly good idea of what time he actually reached the flat. Do you know if he’d been there long when you first came?’

  ‘I think he’d only just arrived—he still had on his hat and coat. I know that I was there at five minutes past five, because I tried to get there exactly on the hour but was held up.’

  ‘Why were you so anxious not to miss him?’ asked Roger. ‘On your own statement, you were not really fond of him.’

  She stared at him, biting her underlip, not answering.

  ‘Well, I can’t make you talk,’ said Roger. He took out the gun and examined it thoughtfully.

  ‘He wasn’t shot with that gun!’ cried Griselda.

  ‘You can hardly expect me to take your word for that,’ said Roger.

  You don’t need my word, you can tell by the wound, it—’

  She broke off and bit her lip again, as Roger said grimly.

  ‘How do you know the size of the wound, Miss Fayne?’

  Chapter Six

  Griselda’s Confession

  In a low voice, she said wearily ‘I went ba
ck, and saw him dead.’

  ‘How long after your first visit?’

  ‘About a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘So that establishes the time of the shooting,’ said Roger. ‘It was between five minutes and twenty minutes past five. That’s useful, Miss Fayne.’ His mild voice gave no warning of the question to follow. ‘How did you get in the second time?’

  ‘The door was open.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am! The door was unlatched and I went in and saw him sitting there. I thought at first that it was Andrew Kelham, and then I realised that it was Tony. I just turned and ran away. I knew that I would be suspected because of what had happened once before. But I couldn’t keep away, so I came back and—and the sight of you scared me.’

  ‘I’m afraid that story does not sound very plausible, Miss Fayne. In view of all the circumstances, I shall have to detain you,’ Roger said, harshly.

  Janet drew in her breath, and Mark stirred. The girl looked at Roger without speaking, but her cheeks were ashen again, and her hands began to tremble.

  ‘Telephone the office for me, Mark, will you?’ said Roger. ‘And ask them to send someone over; any sergeant will do.’

  Mark looked reluctant, and Griselda managed to say: ‘You—you can’t arrest me.’

  A thunderous banging on the front door startled them all. Mark paused on the way to the telephone, and Janet glanced upwards, thinking of the baby. The knocking was repeated, and Roger moved towards the door, with Mark following him.

  From upstairs there came the shrill wail of the child.

  It was all hopelessly confused.

  Janet screamed as Griselda Fayne rushed at her, swinging her bag. She sent her staggering to one side, and her cry reached Roger as he opened the front door and as Griselda reached the passage Mark half-turned, and received the handbag full in the face before Griselda ran along the lighted passage to the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. Janet had not recovered, the baby was now crying insistently, Mark and Janet banged into each other in the passage, and Roger could not give his attention to the man on the doorstep; he did notice that he was a very fat man.