A Sharp Rise in Crime Read online

  ‘Oh, I sold a few paintings but if I hadn’t picked up odd jobs—I was a postman for three months and in a bookshop for six!—I couldn’t have got by. I—er—well I thought Australia would bring out all that’s best in my work, but instead it made me wonder if there is any best.’

  ‘And you’re going to find out here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin answered. ‘I’ve decided that if I can’t break through at least enough to make a living in England I’d better try something else. I’d been thinking like this for a long time, and then I got a chance to work my passage on an old tramp steamer coming from Brisbane to Rome, of all places. Then I found there was a cruise ship in Naples which wanted dining-room stewards – and here I am!’

  Roger chuckled.

  ‘It sounds quite a trip!’ He eyed his son thoughtfully for some moments, and then asked: ‘No trouble?’

  ‘No, Dad. Why?’

  Then what’s on your mind?’ Roger demanded.

  ‘Oh, lord,’ breathed Martin. ‘Does it show as plainly as that?’

  Yes. Are you planning to get married, or is there a girl who—’

  ‘Good God, no!’ Martin burst out with such vehemence that his father laughed. The silence which followed seemed not only deep but profound. There was a footstep upstairs – Janet might be coming down at any moment and if anything was certain it was that he had to tell his father about the photograph and Coppell while they were alone. No footsteps sounded on the landing or the stairs, however, and Roger put a hand lightly on his son’s arm and said: ‘Tell me, old boy.’

  ‘It’s nothing directly to do with me,’ Martin said.

  ‘Mysteriouser and mysteriouser!’ Roger said lightly.

  ‘Dad – I’m as worried as hell.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Don’t pull any punches. Tell me.’

  Roger watched as Martin drew a deep breath, and using as few words as he could, explained what had happened, and about what he had told Coppell. All the time his eyes, burning, were studying his father’s handsome face, a face he seemed to be seeing for the first time tonight: stern; drawn; jaw and lips set. Not once during the narration did he interrupt; but twice he fingered the scar beneath his chin.

  At last, Martin finished, saying miserably: ‘Ever since I told him about the scar I could have kicked myself.’

  ‘Nonsense. You would have been a fool not to. In any case – Coppell didn’t really come for a photograph, he came to look at the house and find out if there was any evidence that I’d been throwing money about lately – evidence of any kind. Let’s go and see that pretty picture.’

  He led the way into the dining-room, and Martin took the picture out of the album. Roger studied it, pursing his lips. It seemed a long time before he put it down. Then he said mildly: ‘One thing you have to get absolutely clear in your mind, Martin.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That is not me.’

  Martin muttered, relief so great that he tried to hide it: ‘I knew it couldn’t be, and yet it was so damnably like you I even found myself wondering. Dad, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Martin, it’s a long time since you and I agreed we wouldn’t be sorry about telling the truth.’ Unexpectedly, Roger burst into a chuckle. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. Your mother will swear it’s me when she first sees it. I think we’d better keep this from her until the morning.’

  At that moment, they heard a sound, as of a catch of breath, at the door. They spun round. Janet wasn’t in sight, but there was no doubt she was outside. Roger went to the door and saw her at the foot of the stairs. She had put on a pale blue dressing-gown and taken a lot of trouble with her hair, but the radiance had gone from her face.

  ‘Come in, Jan,’ Roger said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, stiffly. ‘If there’s something you don’t want to tell me, that’s quite all right with me. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. I wouldn’t have but I heard Martin say he was sorry, and—’

  ‘You shall now hear why,’ Roger said, ‘even if it does mean a sleepless night.’ He went forward, and putting his arms round her kissed her gently. ‘Now come and pour out that coffee and listen.’ He led the way, and Martin who had left home at a time when there had been some problems between his parents, followed, frowning. Soon they were sitting round the table in the room next to the kitchen. Roger switched on the record-player, filling the air with music, soft, symphonic, soothing. ‘Now,’ he repeated, ‘take one look at this—I’ll allow you ten seconds!—and tell me who it is.’

  He handed her the photograph, face downwards. She flipped it over and then gasped: ‘Why, it’s—’

  ‘Ten seconds!’ roared Roger. ‘Count up to ten, Martin.’

  There were moments of startled silence before Martin began to count, slowly and deliberately. All the time Janet stared down at the photograph, gripping it tightly.

  ‘… eight … nine … ten.’ Martin finished.

  ‘It’s you!’ cried Janet, her eyes flashing, her voice actually quivering with tension. ‘It’s you, and you must be waiting for … Oh, what a horrible thing to happen, tonight of all nights.’ She glared at Roger as he leaned towards her, then suddenly gripped the picture as if to rip it apart. Before she could start, Roger had it from her, and tossed it aside. She watched him, eyes bright, lips parted, colour mounting to her cheeks, her anger so great that she could hardly get the words out. ‘It’s an awful thing to show me, it’s—it’s like flaunting another woman in my face and in front of my son—’

  ‘Jan,’ Roger interrupted, ‘you’re behaving like a spoiled brat in a tantrum. Stop it.’

  ‘You’ve the nerve to stand there and insult—’

  ‘And you’ve the nerve to jump to the conclusion that the photograph’s of me.’

  ‘But it is.’

  ‘You of all people ought to know better.’

  ‘Now if you think a little blarney—’

  ‘Martin,’ said Roger, turning away as if he knew that it was impossible to reason with her, ‘will you look up Commander Coppel’s home telephone number, it’s on the list stuck at the back of the telephone book, and ask him if I can come and see him right away – at his place or at the Yard, I don’t mind where.’

  Martin hesitated, as if to ask: ‘Dad, are you sure?’

  ‘What on earth has Coppell to do with this?’ demanded Janet, her mood suddenly quieter.

  ‘He had this sent to him as proof that I am a master criminal,’ Roger said, drily. ‘I have somehow to convince him that I’m not. Martin happened to—’

  ‘But it’s ludicrous!’

  ‘What is ludicrous?’

  ‘Suspecting you of being a criminal!’

  ‘A master criminal.’

  ‘Any kind of criminal. The man must be mad.’

  ‘He’s not mad,’ Roger replied quietly. ‘He must have had good reasons for coming here and looking for photographs to compare with this one—’

  ‘Coppell here?’ She spun round on Martin. ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘We had a bit of a do, actually.’

  ‘Speak plain English! What is a bit of a do?’

  ‘First, I gather, Martin nearly broke his arm, and then he nearly broke his neck, and finally they parted friends – except that Martin had to tell me about it tonight. You may or may not believe it but that photograph is a fake. It is not me. It is being used to involve me. I don’t know who took it or who the man is but I’m going to find out.’ He waited for a few seconds and then his voice quietened. ‘I didn’t want to spoil tonight for you, Jan, and nothing need have happened until the morning.’

  Janet said in a mumbling voice: ‘It does look like you. Why should you say I’m the one person who should know it’s not?’

  ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ Roger said, enormously relieved that the atmosphere was so much lighter. ‘It was taken within the past forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t been with you every minute of the last forty-eight,’ Janet retorted tartly. ‘I
t looks as if I should—’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Martin interrupted. ‘Mum, please.’

  Chapter Seven

  Blow Hot, Blow Cold?

  Roger knew his wife perhaps better even than he knew himself. Knew her faults and failings; knew the moods of jealousy which could possess her, turning her into a shrew for a few dreadful minutes; at their worst, a few dreadful hours. But of late, because he had been able to spend more time at home because of a new form of work he had been given, only the best side had shown. The good, the adorable, the kind, the generous, the understanding. Of all the things that had happened on this strange night, perhaps the worst was to see how swiftly Janet had reverted to one of her old, savage, vitriolic moods; how thin was the line between good and bad, even now. Perhaps for the first time – although he had suspected it before – the demands of his work, the conditions of living, were not the causes for her moods. They were just Janet. And now, in or fast approaching the change of life, how much more likely it was that she would flare up out of calmness; how much more necessary to help her.

  Now, a protest had been wrung from Martin who had seldom – virtually never – taken sides between them on any issue.

  He watched the struggle going on in Janet, as he watched the pain growing in his son’s eyes. Then to his enormous relief he saw Janet’s face clear and heard her say: ‘Give me another clue, then.’

  Roger simply ran his hand over his forehead and thick, curly hair, and over the back of his neck to his jacket collar. Next, he smoothed the side of his face just below the temple. Martin watched with as much bewilderment as Janet, until a sudden enlightenment appeared on her face.

  ‘You’ve had a haircut!’

  ‘A week ago.’

  ‘You were letting your hair grow too long.’

  ‘Even Richard said so, before he left.’

  ‘And—’ Janet turned to the photograph, now in Roger’s hand. ‘He hasn’t had a haircut.’

  ‘Dad,’ protested Martin in an astonished voice, ‘surely you didn’t let your hair grow as long as that!’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘After all you’ve said about mine!’

  ‘Yours was deliberate, mine was finding time,’ Roger said. He slid his arm about Janet’s shoulders and placed the photograph on the table, then said to Martin: ‘There’s the newspaper clippings book over there behind the sewing machine. Fetch it, will you?’ They waited as Martin went across to a shelf above the sewing machine; lying flat on this were several big Press cuttings books, and Roger added: ‘The top one.’ Martin brought it over and placed it on the table then opened it to a recently filled page. There was a head and shoulders portrait of him as he peered up at a window where thieves had broken in the previous night. The angle of this picture was remarkably like the one in the picture sent by Police Officer Alice Brace, and it showed him before his haircut.

  ‘Dad,’ Martin said in a strained voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This hair is longer and more curly than the man’s on the bed. Especially at the back of the neck. Chaps at school used to say you had your hair curled at a hairdresser’s because it curled so tightly at the back. They teased Richard about his, too.’

  Roger was smiling as he said: ‘The observant eye of the artist, you see.’

  ‘Detective.’

  ‘I feel such a pig!’ said Janet in a subdued voice.

  ‘Pour me out some more coffee and all will be forgiven.’ Roger smiled at her. ‘And don’t tell me I’m not playing fair if I go and see Coppell.’

  ‘You’d certainly better go and see him,’ Janet said. ‘If he comes here I might fly at him.’ She looked at the photograph and then at Roger, bewilderment in her eyes. ‘All the same, it really does look like you. That scar makes it almost incredible that it isn’t.’

  ‘It’s not such a coincidence as all that,’ remarked Martin. ‘Look how many people have broken noses or snaggle teeth or quick tempers—’ He was grinning broadly at his mother.

  ‘I don’t really think you’ve improved,’ Janet said. ‘Darling, why don’t we go upstairs and talk while your father telephones Coppell. We’ve so much to tell each other—’ She broke off, drew in a deep breath, and gasped: ‘Heavens, I haven’t told you about Anne! She must be wondering what on earth’s been going on. Anne—’ she began, and told Martin much that he already knew as they went upstairs.

  Roger watched them go.

  When they were talking to Anne Claire, he went into the kitchen and rinsed his hands and face in cold water from the tap, dried thoroughly and thoughtfully, then went along to the front room, carrying the two photographs. By the side of a large armchair, which had become so shaped to his body that it was the acme of comfort, was a telephone on a small table, with a list of private numbers of senior officers at the Yard by its side. He did not open it for Coppell’s number at first, however, but leaned back and closed his eyes. He was tired, but that wasn’t the reason for his relaxing. He wanted to think; be sure he had all the facts clear in his mind so that he could talk with complete knowledge to Coppell; but there was more. He wanted to see the implications of this, if there were any; wanted to know what conclusions could be drawn, whether the likeness was sheer coincidence or whether there was some other possible significance. At last, he glanced at his watch. It was half-past eleven, and if Coppell had gone to bed he wouldn’t be in his best mood – and he wasn’t prone to good moods anyway. But he had been here; broken in, or—

  Roger smiled very faintly to himself and then looked up the number. Coppell lived in Camberwell; somehow the south of the river suited him. The dialling sound began; six brrr-brrrs and he was either asleep or out.

  At last, the ringing sound broke, and Coppell growled: ‘Commander Coppell speaking.’

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Roger, his voice non-committal, ‘this is West. Would you mind answering me a simple question?’

  Coppell’s normal reaction would be something to the effect that he was the one to ask the questions. Instead, in a much quieter voice than usual, he said: ‘Depends what it is.’

  ‘How did you get into my house tonight?’

  ‘I had a key,’ Coppell said. ‘From way back.’

  ‘Did you apply for a search warrant?’

  ‘No.’ Coppell spoke bluntly. ‘News of search warrants gets out. Thought I’d better handle this one myself.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Roger said. ‘So no one else knows of this—ah—suspicion?’

  ‘Five senior officers know about the photograph and reported the likeness and the scar under your chin to me. No reason to believe they’ll talk, unless someone gives them cause. You, say, or me.’

  ‘I hope neither of us need to,’ Roger said. ‘The photograph isn’t of me, sir.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘I’ve satisfied my wife without trouble.’

  Coppell gave a half-laugh.

  ‘Have you satisfied that son of yours?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He’s quite a man,’ Coppell said, ‘he could have broken my arm and he did knock me out with a punch the like of which I haven’t felt for many a long day. I used to box, you know.’

  ‘He’ll be glad to talk to you about it, sir,’ said Roger. ‘Would you like to see me at once?’

  After a pause Coppell asked: ‘Why?’

  ‘There are one or two angles we might be able to think about before morning,’ Roger told him.

  Coppell hesitated again, and then he asked: ‘Won’t the telephone do?’

  ‘If that’s what you prefer, sir.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Very well,’ Roger said. With half of his mind he wondered why Coppell was so positive. Was his wife away? Was he—well, none of his, Roger’s, business. Was it just that he did not want to wait the twenty minutes or so it would take Roger to get to Camberwell, or the fuss of making coffee or serving drinks? Oh, nonsense!

  ‘I think the evidence – condition, length and texture of hair �
� is quite conclusive but we’ll need our photographic lab boys on it first thing in the morning. The second thing is – that scar.’

  ‘Damned peculiar,’ Coppell said.

  ‘Yes. I can understand a man having a scar the same shape, and in the same place, as mine, but I can’t understand him looking so much like me.’

  He left the words hanging – and they hung for a long time before Coppell roared in his best manner: ‘What the devil are you driving at, West?’

  ‘I thought it was obvious, sir.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t obvious to me – let’s have it, and no fancy words.’

  ‘The man apparently looks very like me. He has a scar on the underside of his chin, and allows himself to be photographed so that the scar shows. He then murders the woman police officer but not until she’s sent out the photograph. And but for one thing I would say it looks as if he wants it to be thought that he is me.’

  Coppell did him the compliment of breathing hard into the telephone but not saying a word.

  ‘And I think we ought to make finding out the reason absolute priority.’

  Coppell was still breathing hard, but this time he did ask a question.

  ‘You said “but for one thing”. What thing?’

  ‘Police Officer Brace didn’t say who it was.’

  ‘There’s an answer to that,’ said Coppell.

  ‘I’ll be glad to hear it, sir.’

  ‘Suppose she sent an earlier message saying it was you, but the message didn’t reach us. That way she wouldn’t think it necessary to repeat the identification. In any case the photograph would surely be enough. Wouldn’t it? Eh?’

  ‘Probably,’ Roger agreed, and then because there was no point in leaving anything in the air, he went on: ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir. Where is the body now?’

  ‘The mortuary in Kingham Street.’

  ‘Who did the autopsy, sir?’

  ‘Your pal Appleby,’ answered Coppell.

  ‘Good,’ Roger said. ‘I’d like to go and see him in the morning before coming into the office. Who’s in charge of my investigation?’

  Coppell growled: ‘Superintendent Trannion.’

  ‘It’s a long time since I worked with St. Matt,’ said Roger, and then caught himself out in a yawn. ‘Well, that’s all from my end, sir. If you’d like a recap—’