Inspector West Regrets Read online

  ‘Is Miss Griselda Fayne here?’ roared the fat man.

  The baby’s screams grew louder. Janet flew up the stairs. Mark hurried along to the kitchen, but found that the door was locked.

  ‘Yes, she—’

  He broke off, for in the faint moonlight he saw Griselda running quickly along the path which led from the back garden to the front. The fat man heard her footsteps and turned. Behind him was a second man, who immediately gave chase. In the road was a car or taxi, and the fat man swung round towards it.

  Roger said: ‘Whoever you are, I—’

  ‘You have terrified her, sir!’ roared the fat man, ‘and I give you fair notice, you will rue the day when you filled her fair heart with terror!’ He turned to face Roger and, without warning, gave him a terrific buffet across the face which made him lose his balance. The engine of the car started up. The fat man reached it and climbed in at the back; the car was moving away before Mark reached the gate or Roger had recovered. The footsteps of the man and the girl echoed faintly along the street.

  ‘All right!’ called Mark, joyously.

  He made a flying leap at the car, which was reversing in the road, but the fat man struck out at him and Mark fell heavily into the road.

  Roger needed no telling that further pursuit was useless. The car disappeared, and the last he saw of it was the dim glow of the rear lights. Griselda and the man chasing her had already turned the corner. There was just a chance of catching up with them, and he ran to the corner, but from there he could see no one.

  Roger reached Scotland Yard the following morning, a little after half past nine, to find Eddie Day at his desk and two of his fellow inspectors reading the morning papers. One of them looked up, and said with a grin that ‘Handsome’ had a good press. Roger had already seen the paper, in which the murder of Kelham’s son had been given front page headlines.

  ‘Handsome!’ said Eddie, ‘you aren’t half going to cop it one of these days, you mark my words. AC’s been on the telephone three times for you already, and the last time he sounded as if he’d have your head, he did really.’

  Roger laughed.

  ‘Now look here, West,’ said Chatworth, ‘you must do better than this, you know. It’s nearly ten o’clock, and I have been waiting to see you since nine. Now, let’s forget it,’ he added, brusquely. ‘Have you checked Kelham and the man Blair?’

  ‘I gave instructions for a check to start this morning, sir,’ said Roger. ‘I can give you a little more information about the time of the murder. We’ve established the fact that it was between five-five and five-twenty. I’ve had no reports in this morning yet.’

  ‘How’d you know the time?’

  ‘Miss Griselda Fayne told me,’ said Roger, and launched into an explanation without saying when he had seen Griselda. Chatworth looked at him from beneath his shaggy brows, but did not interrupt.

  ‘Hum, yes. What time did this scene with the girl occur,’ he said, when Roger finished.

  ‘Between one and two o’clock this morning,’ said Roger, blandly.

  ‘Then why the devil didn’t you say so before?’ demanded Chatworth. ‘What else have you got up your sleeve, young fellow?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing up my sleeve,’ said Roger, virtuously, ‘but I’m rather hoping that you have, sir.’

  Chatworth said: ‘Confound you, can’t I call my thoughts my own! As a matter of fact,’ he added, abruptly, ‘certain Cabinet Ministers are a bit troubled by Kelham’s increasing influence. It’s very widespread. We had nothing else to bite on so I started you going. The death of his son is a great help—callous way of looking at it, but there it is.’

  When Roger left the office he wished rather ruefully that it were a more straightforward business.

  ‘Were those letters typed on the same machine, Eddie?’ he snapped as he entered his own room.

  ‘Yes, they were. They were typed on a Royal portable, recent manufacture, or else one that hasn’t been used much, because there were only two tiny flaws in the type,’ Eddie went on, warming to his task. ‘The “s” is a bit lower than the rest of the letters and the foot of the “i” is broken. Parky’s going over them for prints, now.’

  After telephoning and finding out that no one had yet come in with the reports, Roger sent a note through that anyone connected with the affair who had a Royal portable typewriter should be detained. Then he decided to visit Griselda’s hostel.

  Outside the hostel, which was an ordinary house in Buckingham Palace Gate with a notice-board outside, was a Yard man. He had nothing to report. Roger knocked at the door, a trim maid opened it, and in a few minutes he was talking to a matronly woman who wore pince-nez and her hair drawn tightly back from her forehead to a bun at the nape of her neck. She oozed efficiency, and her little office was neat and workmanlike.

  ‘I should like to look at Miss Fayne’s room,’ he said, after introducing himself.

  ‘It’s most unusual,’ said the matron.

  ‘I could get a search warrant,’ said Roger, ‘but I don’t want to make it as formal as that.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ said the matron. ‘Very well, Inspector, please come with me. I am terrified lest any of my staff should discover the presence of the police,’ she went on as they walked along the passage and up the stairs. ‘Already the man whom, I understand, you have stationed outside, has aroused their interest.’

  It was a small room with one narrow window, a single bed, a dressing table, a small wardrobe and, by the window a typing desk with a standard machine on it. The keynote was tidiness. There were a few personal oddments, but for the most part the room had the look of a hotel bedroom and an office combined. There was one photograph on the dressing-table, of an elderly man.

  Roger looked at it, and then at the desk. Standing by the desk was a portable typewriter in a case. As he picked it up, he saw the Royal trademark on a small label at the side.

  Chapter Seven

  More Evidence Against Griselda

  Griselda Fayne, it appeared, was a shorthand typist and secretary without a regular employer but with a select circle of clients. She was kept very busy, the matron told Roger, and frequently went out of London for two or three days. She was, if the matron was any judge, extremely efficient. So was Roger, who went through the drawers in the desk and found all the equipment that might have been expected, including an address book, a file of receipts and accounts, and a list of orders. There were also some manuscripts in longhand waiting to be typed. In spite of the matron’s obvious uneasiness, he took the small typewriter, the address book, files and manuscripts away with him. As he walked to his car he almost banged into a man hurrying along with his head down.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, and stood aside.

  Before he realised the danger, the man swung round and punched him in the stomach. At the same time another man who had been at the opposite corner rushed across the road and hooked his legs from under him. As he fell, Roger let out a single piercing yell. The typewriter case hit the ground with a loud clatter, the lock burst and the typewriter itself showed in the open case. He saw that as one of the men kicked at his hand, and made him let go. The typewriter had saved him from the worst effects of the fall, and he squirmed forward, but one of the men thrust his head against the pavement and another began to pull at his coat sleeve. The papers he had taken from the hostel fell out.

  A man snapped: ‘That’s them!’

  Roger tried to twist round, to save the papers. He saw a hand shoot out and grab them, and was thumped on the side of the head. That put an end to his resistance. He heard heavy footsteps, and then the welcome sound of a police whistle. There were more footsteps behind him, and he knew that Gardener was on the way. A piercing blast on the whistle almost deafened him. Gardener raced past, without wasting time to inquire after him, and when he got up, unsteadily, he saw the man who had attacked him disappearing round the corner towards Sloane Square. The plainclothes man who had been on duty at the front of
the hostel was lumbering across the road in pursuit.

  Two or three people came up, and one started to brush Roger down. He had suffered no serious injury, although his nose felt tender, and when he touched it his finger was covered with blood. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief. Another good Samaritan picked up the typewriter, and said gloomily.

  ‘Well, you haven’t done that any good.’

  They ran to the car only to find that the tyres had been slashed.

  A cab was coming up, and Roger waved it down. He muttered his thanks to his helpers, grabbed the typewriter and jumped into the cab, saying: ‘I’m a police officer. Go towards Sloane Square.’

  In a few seconds Roger, leaning out of the window and dabbing at his nose, saw one of his men still trundling along a side street, and Gardener, fifty yards ahead, racing in the wake of a small Morris car. As far as he could see, the driver of the car had stalled the engine and Gardener was gaining on it.

  Roger snapped: ‘Pick up that man and then follow the car.’

  The taxi driver put on a burst of speed, then braked abruptly alongside Gardener. The little car had gathered speed and was twenty feet away. Roger saw Gardener make a flying leap for the taxi. He fell into it, Roger slammed the door, and the driver put on speed.

  ‘Gee-whiz!’ gasped Gardener. ‘What a do!’ as they sped west out of London.

  ‘Looks like we’re heading for Maidenhead,’ said Gardener.

  The effort to shake them off came in Reading, and Roger gave up all hope of keeping the little car in sight. He was going to tell the man to get to the Newbury Road when they swung round a corner, and, with people on the pavement crying out in alarm, caught sight of the Morris not thirty yards ahead of them. It managed to gain a few yards after a traffic block, however, and soon they turned on to the Newbury Road.

  Suddenly a hand appeared at the side of the Morris and something hurtled through the air. It hit the ground a few feet in front of the taxi, and smashed. Pieces of glass hit the windscreen, and the driver wrenched his wheel, but went on.

  ‘Your milk bottle,’ said Roger, with a grimace.

  The next moment there was the loud report as a tyre burst. The taxi lurched to one side, but the driver kept control. They wobbled to a standstill at the side of the road, and the little car turned a bend and disappeared from sight.

  ‘Well, what a damned shame!’ exclaimed Gardener. ‘I do call that bad luck, I really do!’

  Roger was too full for words. He opened the door and jumped down, but not before the taxi-driver had started to get the spare wheel out and the punctured tyre off. Gardener lent a hand, and within five minutes they had started off again. There was little prospect of catching up, however, and the cabby said: ‘S’no use, I suppose. If I—’

  ‘We’ll go on as far as Newbury,’ said Roger, ‘they might be going to a house I know near there.’

  They passed the drive gates of Kelham’s house too swiftly for Roger to distinguish the name on them. As the taxi squealed to a standstill, a man came from the hedge and stared at them open-mouthed.

  ‘Why Inspector? gasped Sergeant Mellor. ‘I never—’ He stared at Roger’s nose. ‘I mean, here I am, sir, as instructed.’

  ‘Good! Has a small Morris arrived here?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Haven’t seen one,’ said Mellor, ‘but it might have gone the other side, sir, there are two drives. You can’t see what happens on the other side, because the house is on the hill, as you see.’

  ‘Yes. Is Kelham still here?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ said Mellor.

  ‘Good! Mellor, show Gardener where to go to get the best view of both drives. Gardener, do you know Mr. Andrew Kelham by sight?’

  Yes, sir.’

  ‘Signal to Mellor if you see him leave by the other drive,’ said Roger. You might tell Gardener who else we’re looking for, Mellor. All right, driver, up to the house, please.’

  It was an attractive-looking house of reddish-yellow brick, with a red-tiled roof and gables. He had never met Mrs Kelham and had often wondered why she never came to London. Kelham had said for some time that she was in poor health, but it was surely a serious illness if it kept her indoors all the time.

  He rang the bell, still feeling a little breathless.

  A young maid opened the door.

  ‘Is Mr Kelham in?’ asked Roger.

  ‘I think he’s engaged, sir’ said the maid. She stood aside for Roger to enter, and asked him his name. He was on the point of handing her a card when he heard a booming noise from upstairs. He looked up sharply. A door had opened and the voice grew louder.

  ‘I give you my word, Andy, it will not do, it just will not do!’

  ‘I don’t think—’ came Kelham’s voice, much quieter; then apparently the door closed and Roger did not hear what followed. The maid was looking at him expectantly, and he drew his hand from his pocket and, choosing a name at random, said: ‘Gardener, George Gardener. I have a message from Miss Fayne for him.’

  ‘If you will please take a seat, sir, I will tell Mr Kelham,’ said the maid.

  As he watched her walking up the wide staircase, he was pondering on the fact that the booming voice belonged to the fat man whom he was so anxious to meet.

  Chapter Eight

  The Fat Man is Indignant

  After a short interval the maid returned.

  ‘Mr Kelham will be engaged for the next twenty minutes or so, sir,’ she said. ‘Will it be convenient for you to wait?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Roger.

  He had seen which upstairs room the girl had entered, and he stepped to the opposite side, so that if Kelham or the fat man looked out to see who he was, they would be disappointed. He could just see the bottom of the door, however, and he saw it open; he thought he heard a whisper before it closed. It opened again in a very few minutes, and this time he saw a man’s feet. He thought it was the fat man, although he could only see the bottoms of his trousers and his highly-polished shoes. The fellow tiptoed, and was obviously intent on coming to the banisters to peer down.

  Roger stepped forward swiftly and sat in an easy chair, with his back to the landing; he doubted whether either the fat man or Kelham would recognise him. Faint, furtive movements continued to come from the landing, and he thought he heard a whispered: ‘Confound the fellow, he’s sitting down!’

  Then the door closed again.

  Roger jumped up, looked about him to make sure that he was not observed from anywhere else, and dashed silently up the thickly carpeted stairs.

  He stepped close to the door.

  ‘I tell you I’ve never heard of the fellow. Gardener? Griselda knows no one named Gardener. I am sure of that.’ It was the fat man.

  ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ said Kelham, irritably. ‘This man has probably heard from her.’

  Roger thought: ‘So she got away from the fat man!’

  ‘I’m going to see who it is,’ Kelham said, firmly.

  The door opened, and Kelham stopped on the threshold, startled. He recognised Roger on the instant, and Roger thought that alarm mingled with his surprise. There was a short, tense silence. Then: ‘Good morning!’ said Roger, brightly.

  ‘What does this mean?’ snapped Kelham, angrily. ‘I understood you to say that your name was Gardener, Inspector.’

  There was an explosive sound from the fat man, whose shadow was visible on the wall by the door. It moved suddenly, and Roger, determined not be denied an interview, pushed past the startled Kelham. A door, obviously leading to the next room, was closing, and he heard the lock snap.

  ‘West!’ cried Kelham.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Roger, and pushed past him again into the passage. He slammed the door, and then stood quite still, hearing Kelham move across the room, but looking towards the next door along the passage. It was opening slowly. He pressed close against the wall as the door opened wider and the fat man peered out.

  ‘Alexander!’ came Kelham’s voice in an urgent whisper.


  The fat man started, but Roger stepped forward swiftly and, before the fat man could close the door, reached it and put his foot against it.

  Beyond the fat man he could see Kelham at another open door. Kelham looked alarmed, while the fat man, a truly enormous fellow, back slowly away, staring at Roger fixedly.

  ‘Haven’t we played hide-and-seek enough?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘Who—who is this man?’ demanded the fat man, in a piping voice. ‘Andy, do you allow such gentry to roam at large about your premises? Am I mistaken, or is this fellow here without any right? Is he not, in fact, trespassing?’ His voice grew deeper as he recovered his composure, and Roger admired his presence of mind.

  ‘You know who I am,’ said Roger. ‘I haven’t forgotten your strong-arm stuff last night, Mr Alexander.’

  Kelham said: ‘Inspector, I must request you to leave my house immediately. I shall complain to your superior about your unwarrantable intrusion.’

  ‘Let us ask him, rather, why he told us so untruthfully that he had a message from poor Griselda,’ said the fat man. He moved forward with his hands outstretched, his lips parted, his whole expression one of incredulous hope. ‘My dear sir, I beg you to be frank!’ There was a catch in his breath. ‘I beg you to be wholly frank. Have you tidings of my niece? Can you tell me where to find Griselda Fayne?’

  ‘I wish I could,’ said Roger.

  ‘So—she is lost, poor child, she is lost,’ said Alexander, and he resumed his former pose. ‘I was afraid of it. A reckless child as far back as I can remember, always headstrong, never amenable to avuncular discipline. Poor, poor child. My heart grieves for her.’