Inspector West Takes Charge Read online

  Then two more large men appeared, and one of them said: ‘Morning, Mr Lessing.’

  ‘Nice work, Roger,’ Mark enthused. ‘They’re after Clay.’

  Outside, he waited in brilliant sunshine by a tobacconist’s in whose window was a large sign.

  ‘No Cigs, No Tobacco, matches, flints don’t blame me, I can’t help it’

  The effects of war-time shortages were still acute.

  Mark waited in the busy Strand for fifteen minutes, until a small crowd appeared at the entrance to the block of offices. The CID sergeant came first, Charlie Clay followed, Potter by his side, and the other plainclothes man brought up the rear.

  ‘Potter’s office is empty. Is this where I burn my fingers?’ Mark knew that if he broke the law by going into Potter’s office, Roger could not help him but he never would have another chance like this. He moved across the road and entered the building again. He tried the lift, and found that it was now working. He went up to the fifth floor, half of which was Potter’s, the other half being shared by three small firms. Two of the latter were empty, according to notices on the plate-glass doors.

  No one was in sight.

  Mark walked along the rubber-covered passage, past the door marked ‘Potter & Son, Solicitors, Inquiries’ to one which announced: ‘Potter & Son, Private’. He examined the lock.

  ‘As I don’t carry dynamite, that’s no good,’ he said aloud,

  He lingered by the door, which was fitted with a brass Landon only an expert cracksman could force, and then only with the necessary tools and with plenty of time. Then he stood in the passage, hopefully. Before long, he heard the whine of the lift, and stood out of sight.

  As the lift rose, he saw a tiny red hat, beneath it a thatch of reddish hair, beneath that in turn the big and heavily-rouged features of Maisie Prendergast. Reaching only just above the level of her shoulder was her husband’s fair hair. Mark kept out of sight as the Prendergasts stepped passed him, and went to Potter’s office.

  Maisie’s fat, beringed hand was clutching her husband’s arm. Claude was wearing pale pink corduroy trousers, a waisted sports jacket and a red shirt, the collar of which rode above his coat. Vast crepe rubber soles made him look splay-footed. Maisie’s hat provided all her colour, except cosmetics and red shoes; her two-piece costume was of dead black. Across the shoulder and the hips she made two of Claude, and her dressmaker had under-estimated the size of her posterior.

  The door closed on them.

  Mark approached it, in time to hear Maisie declare loudly: ‘But there must be some mistake.’ Her effort to refine her coarse voice would have been funny in other circumstances, but Mark was in no mood to see the funny side. ‘We had an appointment for twelve noon. Didn’t we, Claude?’

  ‘We did indeed,’ answered Claude.

  ‘Mr Potter wouldn’t keep me waiting,’ went on Maisie, implying: ‘mustn’t.’

  A girl was full of apologies. Mr Potter had been called away unexpectedly, but there was no doubt that he would be back just as soon as possible. Would they wait? No, said Maisie, it was such an uncomfortable office to wait in; she couldn’t understand why Mr Potter did not pay more attention to the comfort and convenience of his clients. They would go across the road and have an early lunch at Mott’s. Mr Potter would find them there when he returned.

  Mark went down by the stairs, and was out of sight when the Prendergasts reached the lift. He was in the Strand in time to see them crossing the road and entering Mott’s Chop House,

  He weighed up the situation carefully.

  By suggesting his visit to Potter, Roger West had admitted that he shared his, Mark’s, suspicions. The fact that the police had found Clay in Potter’s office meant that Potter was under suspicion. But there was a limit to what the police could do. Mark Lessing doubted if they could keep up surveillance of Potter’s office for long.

  ‘Yet Potter needs watching,’ Mark said aloud. He reached another building in the Strand, nearer Trafalgar Square; Potter’s offices were between Aldwych and Fleet Street. This time a lift with a boy in attendance took him to another fifth floor and he entered by a door marked: ‘Morgan & Morgan, Private Inquiries’.

  A small outer office was occupied by a typist at her machine, with a little fat man sitting on the corner of her desk. His red face and bulbous nose were familiar throughout London police courts and particularly well-known in the Law Courts; it was related that Pep Morgan had given more evidence in divorce suits than any man alive.

  He swung off the desk, his brightly polished shoes twinkling over the brown linoleum.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Lessing! Nice to see you again. Get that started, Flo, I’ll finish it as soon as Mr Lessing is through with me.’ He pumped Mark’s hand and led the way to an inner office.

  ‘Now what’s troubling you?’ he demanded, proffering a cigarette case. ‘Can’t Inspector West help you this time?’

  ‘The law is the law, and the Inspector a part of it,’ said Mark. ‘If only he would retire! He and I together, Pep, would put you out of business in a fortnight.’

  ‘You’d be coming round begging for help,’ chuckled Morgan, ‘before you’d been established a week.’

  ‘Seriously, Pep,’ said Mark. ‘The Prendergast affair –’

  ‘Still worrying about that? Let sleeping dogs lie, that’s my advice.’

  ‘The trouble is I can’t sleep. Can you put a man or two to keep an eye on Potter’s office, and let me have a list of his visitors?’

  ‘Gabby’s a cool ‘un, you know. Had this business for twenty-five years, and I wouldn’t like to say how many times he’s done enough for a seven years sentence. If he can snap his fingers at the police, he can snap them at anyone. I should hate to annoy Gabby.’

  ‘My flat was burgled last night, probably by a man named Clay. Clay’s just been arrested in Potter’s office. He may have been reporting on his mission.’

  ‘Or he may have been asking for legal help. I’d rather the police did the watching.’

  ‘The police won’t tell me what they find even if they watch. Just the names of his callers, that’s all. If you should happen to learn where he goes and who he goes to see, I wouldn’t mind hearing.’

  ‘I know what you want,’ Morgan said. ‘Everything and anything you can get about Gabby Potter. I’m not saying it couldn’t be done, but I wouldn’t like Gabby to know I had anything to do with it. I’m wondering whether you know how many people who offend Gabby get beaten-up? I wouldn’t say that he knew anything about that,’ Morgan went on cautiously, ‘but it’s a funny coincidence. I’ve known two or three people who thought they could find something about him, and after they’d tried they had a very nasty experience, and finished up in hospital. Handsome West knows it as well as I do. If he can’t get Potter, what chance have I got?’

  ‘Well, if you won’t, Pep –’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ interrupted Morgan. ‘I know a man who might do it. He does odd jobs for me, but it isn’t well known. Just leave it to me. I’ll telephone you this afternoon if I can’t fix it for you. Er does Handsome know about it?’

  ‘No,’ answered Mark, ‘but I’ll make sure he learns how helpful you’ve been.’

  ‘If you ask me, Handsome will run into trouble one of these days. The VIPs won’t take kindly to having him cut through red tape. He’s young, you know, and could do with a bit of experience, but if he keeps his nose clean, he’ll go places.’

  ‘And if he becomes a Yard VIP you’ll be glad you cooperated with his friend Lessing,’ Mark observed.

  They both laughed.

  4: Family Suspicion

  Charlie Clay had two things in his favour, Roger soon learned; an alibi and a legal adviser. Potter stayed with him while Roger questioned him, and put in caustic comments from time to time.

  Charlie, Roger inferred, had been told on the East End grapevine that the police were after him, and had rushed to Potter’s office for legal aid.

  ‘It’s quite clear
that there is no justification at all for this persecution of my client, Inspector. He can prove he was nowhere near this Mr Lessing’s flat last night. I think a letter or two to the newspapers might ensure that a man who is striving in every way to lead a straightforward and honest life will not be badgered by unimaginative policemen. You must realize the delicacy of your position, Inspector.’

  Roger said shortly: ‘Take him away, but if we break that alibi, look out.’

  ‘You cannot do the impossible,’ Potter said coldly.

  He went out with a hand on Clay’s arm.

  Roger stared out of the window of the interviewing room. Potter might try to cause trouble.

  He went off moodily to lunch. When he returned to the office he was button-holed by an eager Eddie Day: ‘You’re for it. The AC’s after you. I think Potter got on the phone to him. Said he’d ring again. Mark my words; you’ll slip up one day if you don’t stop working out-of-hours with your friend Lessing. He put you on to Charlie Clay, didn’t he?’

  ‘Charlie Clay’s fingerprints did,’ answered Roger.

  Ten minutes later a curt voice requested his presence in the Assistant Commissioner’s room. Curtness was not particularly alarming, for the voice was that of the AC’s secretary, who had never been known to be anything but brusque. The AC was a man of moods, Roger knew, and particularly touchy about newspaper criticism, which Potter had threatened.

  Sir Guy Chatworth was sitting behind his large highly polished desk in his highly polished office with electric light shining on his pale, highly-polished cranium. He had a fringe of dark brown hair, flecked with grey, and a deceptive appearance of amiability. He looked like a prosperous country doctor, not a soldier turned policeman.

  ‘Ah, West. I’m glad you’re back. I want a word with you. Pull up a chair.’ Chatworth at his friendliest was Chatworth at his most dangerous. His affability could become acid criticism. All he needed to do now to prepare a general assault on the follies of young inspectors was to offer cigarettes.

  ‘Have a cigarette,’ he said, pushing a silver box over. ‘A light –’ He flicked a lighter into flame and leaned forward, the flame reflecting on his polished head. ‘Now, west, I think you can give me some explanation of a peculiar state of affairs which has existed, I believe, for some time. Your interest, which appears to be more personal than professional, in the Prendergast family.’

  ‘I’m rather at a loss to understand you, sir,’ Roger said.

  ‘Indeed?’ Chatworth raised his eyebrows. “I had hoped that my approach was lucid, but of course I stand corrected.’ Sarcastic old devil ‘Let me frame my question in a way which cannot be misunderstood. Are you satisfied with the inquest verdicts on the three Prendergasts?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Have you ceased giving the matter your consideration?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah.’ Chatworth’s voice lost its purr. ‘I’m glad you have been so frank. I am equally glad that you realize that the inquest verdicts were wrong. How much time are you spending on the case?’

  Unbelievingly, Roger thought: ‘He’s with me!’

  ‘Officially, none, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve given a lot of thought to it, at home, and –’

  ‘With Mr Lessing’s help?’

  Roger gulped. ‘We have discussed it, yes, sir.’

  ‘Interesting man, Mark Lessing,’ observed Chatworth. ‘If he were a pathologist; now well, he isn’t. But he has a good mind and an extensive knowledge of criminology. Rather given to intuitions, though. A dangerous proclivity. West, I have had a number of varied reports during the past few hours, and I gather that Lessing was visited last night and assaulted, and that afterwards his flat was ransacked. I gather also that you were on the spot in a remarkably short time; that no effort to catch the men was omitted; that you thought Clay was one of the pair, and that Mr Gabriel Potter resented your interest in Clay. Nothing in the reports suggests it, but I infer that you think Lessing has deliberately proclaimed interest to goad someone to attack him, and you think he has succeeded.’

  ‘I do,’ Roger admitted, dry-mouthed. Was this benignity real?

  ‘You might be right, too,’ Chatworth said bluffly, ‘I don’t like to hear that Potter’s taken over the legal side of the Prendergast business. I dislike Potter as much as you do, but I may respect him more. Still there is a possibility that three murders have been done. I think I dare risk incurring some opprobrium by investigating the possibility. Be careful with Potter. Beware of him. But worry him.’

  Roger said: ‘Do I understand, sir, that I am detailed to investigate the Prendergast deaths?’

  ‘Shall we say a fortnight?’ suggested Chatworth. He pushed his chair back. He was big, burly, and impressive. ‘That’s all, just now. Keep me advised, call for help as little as possible, and tell your friend Lessing from me that he must not take too many risks, nor disregard the general principles of the law, not even with Potter. Perhaps I should say especially not with Potter.’

  He nodded, smiled, and sat down, while Roger went out brushing his hand over his forehead; it was damp.

  Half an hour later, when he let himself into his house he almost fell over the kitten.

  ‘What, still here?’ he asked. ‘Bless your padded feet, stay until this show’s over.’

  He stopped, for Janet opened the lounge door. Beyond her, sitting in an easy chair with his profile showing, was Claude Prendergast.

  Roger had dealt only with the third Prendergast death, which had taken place in London. As such, he had been obliged to look on Claude with the sympathy one would extend to a man suddenly bereaved of his whole family while enjoying something like half-a-million pounds as a consolation. Claude had shown no grief nor, Roger admitted, any great pleasure. He had remained a small-minded, vain, uneven-tempered little man who liked garish clothes, dancing, hot rhythm, alcohol in moderation, and a good time.

  Janet put a finger to her lips.

  ‘Hallo, darling, I didn’t expect you so early.’ Sotto voce : ‘Mark brought him.’ She stood aside for him to enter, and instinctively he looked for Maisie; Maisie was not here. Mark was. He uncoiled himself from an easy chair. Claude’s pink and white face grew more pink than white.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Roger, smiling at Prendergast.

  Prendergast rose, and extended a long, white hand, the best formed part about him. His face was round and flat, his pale eyes were like limpid grey saucers, his fair hair was smeared back and too heavily greased, and there were distinct bumps on his narrow head.

  ‘Mr Lessing suggested that - er - you might er–’ He looked at Janet.

  ‘Miaow,’ called the kitten from outside.

  ‘I’ll go and look after that kitten,’ said Janet, tactfully.

  Prendergast saw the door close behind her with obvious relief. Mark began to talk. He had been at his flat when Mr Prendergast had called with a story which Roger should certainly hear in an unofficial capacity, preferably. Mr Prendergast fully understood that if any time came when it was impossible to treat it as a private matter then it would have to become a professional one. Not that there was anything for Scotland Yard, yet.

  Claude lit a cigarette with a shaky hand.

  ‘I’m dead scared, you mean,’ he said, and uttered a nervous little titter of a laugh. ‘Er - don’t know that it’s your pigeon, West. Only came here at Lessing’s suggestion. Er-thought he was a private eye. You know what I mean.’ He tittered again. ‘Found out he isn’t, or says he isn’t. I er look here, Lessing, you’d better do the talking.’

  ‘Mr Prendergast believes he has been followed about recently he and his wife have been living at their London home and twice he has nearly been run down by a car,’ Mark said flatly. ‘He suddenly realized that it is possible that his grandfather, father, and brother were murdered. He made another somewhat alarming discovery. He always believed that he was the last Prendergast. That isn’t so. That is, he has a relative, a cousin, his father’s sister’s only son. He had
heard vaguely that there had been an aunt, but nothing else. He gathered she had married without parental approval, and Claude thought it was a damned good thing, Grandfather Septimus having been a crotchety old beggar, Victorian to the last ditch. Wouldn’t even permit cocktails. Drank only port and Madeira.’

  Mark told the story in his own voice but with a manner so perfect an imitation of Claude’s jerky delivery that it might have been a verbatim tape record. From time to time Claude nodded, and at the end broke in abruptly: ‘You see what I mean, Superintendent,’ Roger smiled to himself at this piece of blarney. ‘Didn’t think enough of the others to worry much whether they were dead or alive. Loosened the old purse-strings a bit, that was the main thing. Bit of a shock when Waverley, my brother, was bowled over. Often had a drink and a hundred up with hint Good sort, at heart. But I hadn’t given a thought to murder. Should have realized what your questions were driving at, of course, but didn’t. Knocked over, y’know. After all, half-a-million’s half-a-million. There’s the business, too. Only seen it as a source of free smokes before, but now well, it’s set me thinking. Couldn’t let the business go to the dogs. As a matter of fact,’ went on Claude diffidently, ‘I had a bit of a tussle with my wife about that. She didn’t see why I should suddenly become interested in Dreem, but a fellow can’t help himself.’

  ‘Naturally not,’ Roger said.

  ‘Then I learned about this cousin bloke,’ went on Claude. ‘Maisie, that’s my wife, told me about him. Actually we had a bit of a row, and she asked me why the devil I didn’t let someone with a business head run the business, if I was so keen on it. Then I wormed it out of her, there’s this bloke Harrington. Er –’

  Claude dried up, and leaned back in his chair. That Claude was a frightened man was more than obvious from his unsteady hands and quavering tenor voice.

  Mark looked at Roger, and said: ‘There’s another thing, Roger. Mrs Prendergast talks in her sleep, and –’