Inspector West Takes Charge Page 6

  In the floodlight the body, covered with an old canvas sheet, looked dark and sinister. Lampard joined Roger.

  ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘I got a look.’

  ‘Didn’t recognize him, did you?’

  Roger said; ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’ He knelt down and pulled the sheet away from the small face, which was unmarked. A little hooked nose, tiny cauliflower ears, a weak chin; this was a burglar named Abie Fenton. In Roger’s mind, Potter’s voice seemed to be speaking insidiously. On the bus and at the Yard Potter had implicated Abie Fenton, not Clay.

  Now Abie Fenton was beyond everyone’s reach.

  ‘Why, I know him,’ said Lampard, with a rare flush of excitement ‘Half a minute. He’s been on wanted posters Fenton. That’s right, Fenton. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger agreed.

  He was thinking: the three Prendergasts, now Fenton, and God knows who next.

  He thought with a stab of fear - where the hell is Mark?

  7: Mark

  The glow of a cigarette in the darkness caught Mark Lessing’s attention. He was twenty yards or so behind Roger and Harrington, for his coat had caught on a hook, and he had been a long time getting through the window. The glow puzzled him, but as he passed it he realized what it was. He did not draw up at once, but ran on for a few yards, then stepped on to the grass verge. He made no sound as he retraced his steps, peering through the dark night until the red glow showed again. It was farther away from the road than when he had first seen it, moving slowly across the thicket. The noise of a car engine sounded, followed by the squealing of brakes, but he did not let himself be distracted.

  He took advantage of the car noises to hurry forward. He needed to go faster than his quarry, who was walking diagonally away.

  The glow curved an arc towards the ground, and remained there, fading slowly.

  They were at the edge of the copse, and a field stretched beyond, with the man’s figure discernible. Narrowing his eyes, Mark could see the head and shoulders. They stopped moving; a faint sound told Mark the other was climbing over a stile.

  Mark followed into an open field.

  The other’s footsteps made a padding sound on the soft and springy turf. The wind swept across the field, piercing, unpleasant.

  Mark was thirty yards or more behind his quarry, and the wind was blowing into his face; there was little chance that he would be heard, certainly none that the man would hear him.

  A second stile was different from the first. High hedges rose on either side. Mark caught his coat on the right hand side, and the jerk almost threw him. The other was walking more quickly along the road away from the gates and from Roger’s party.

  Mark stepped into the roadway.

  He heard a rustle of movement, half-turned, and saw a shadowy figure close behind him. He struck out, but before he struck the other, felt a heavy blow on the back of his head. He threw his hands up to keep off a second blow and plunged forward, not losing consciousness but with a furious pain in his head. The second blow came, jolting his forearm. He threw himself forward, fear almost at screaming point.

  He was aware of voices. A man flung himself at him, seeking for his throat. He remembered vividly the moment when he had been attacked in bed, believed that this was the same man. The pressure increased remorselessly. Mark felt his lungs swelling, tried to breathe, gasped and struggled.

  He felt blackness sweeping over him like a great wave.

  His two assailants dragged him into the hedge, and a torch shone into his face.

  Charlie Clay said: ‘It’s the b... Lessing.’

  ‘He’s going to get his before long.’

  ‘We wanted the other so-and-so.’ Clay swore under his breath, and stirred Mark with his foot. ‘What do we do with him?’

  ‘Leave him,’ said the other man. ‘He didn’t recognize us.’

  ‘What would the Guv’nor say?’

  ‘Let’s lift him.’

  Clay bent his back and the other helped to hoist Mark on to Clay’s shoulders. Clay staggered under the weight but recovered and began to walk along the road. Despite the burden he walked more quickly than his companion. They walked for five minutes before reaching a narrow path leading off the road. On either side stretched gorse-clad land, and here and there the black outline of fir trees stood against the stars.

  Beneath their feet the fine sand of the path gave way. They slipped and slithered. Clay’s breathing grew laboured, but he stuck it until the path began to slope upwards. He put Mark down.

  ‘Let ‘im roll down into the ditch.’

  ‘Go easy,’ the other said urgently.

  Clay laid Mark on the side of the path and deliberately kicked him into a ditch. He lay huddled in it, out of sight, and unlikely to be discovered even by day in this stretch of country, which was wild and desolate.

  ‘Tie ‘is ‘ands and feet,’ Clay ordered.

  That was done, and a handkerchief was forced roughly into Mark’s mouth. Then the others went on, by the light of the stars. The path led to a wicket gate and a small cottage. They passed this, reached a wide drive, and approached a house with a long roof showing unevenly against the star-lit sky. They went to a side door, which the smaller man opened with a key.

  ‘Let’s have some light,’ said Charlie Clay.

  They stood blinking at one another in bright light, and then went in different directions. Charlie walked heavily along a red-tiled passage towards a low, oak-beamed hall, and up a flight of oak stairs which turned in the middle at a half landing. He had to duck to avoid hitting his head against the beams, and his shoulders hunched when he reached the landing and went along the main one of two passages.

  He tapped at an iron-studded door.

  Potter’s thin voice came: ‘Come in.’

  Potter was sitting in a high-backed chair a finely carved monk’s seat. He was behind a leather-topped desk. His dark clothes and high collar, and the gloom in the room, which was lighted only by the flames from a blazing log fire in a red-brick fireplace, put the clock back. Potter looked like a soul-less judiciary, an image of Bloody Jefferies. The firelight made one side of his face red, and set the other in shadow, just a pale blur.

  Clay gulped, and did not look towards the fireplace. Sitting there in a more modern chair was a man whose face was entirely hidden in shadow, but whose eyes glinted red in the dancing fire.

  ‘Yes, Clay?’ said Potter.

  ‘Never got him,’ Clay said, after a deep breath. ‘Got the Lessing b . . .’

  ‘Modify your language,’ Potter said coldly. “Where is Lessing? You haven’t brought him here?’

  ‘Took ‘im off the road, and he’s lying down by the ‘ill. You know the place, just this side of the road. No one will find him this side of tomorrow’s breakfast,’

  The man by the fire moved slightly.

  ‘You witless fool,’ Potter said dispassionately. ‘Why didn’t you leave him on the doorstep and telephone for the police? Get him away from there at once. Take him to the other side of Delaware. Use one of the cars, and go the long way round. Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘He won’t forget the bonk on the head for a long time.’

  The man from the fireside spoke, clearing his throat and then saying: ‘Why don’t you bring him in and question him?’

  ‘You are as big a fool as Clay,’ said Potter. ‘Lessing won’t talk, whether he knows anything or not. After the discovery last night there’s little chance that he has any idea of what is happening, beyond the broad outlines, and that won’t help him at all. If we bring him here –’

  ‘He needn’t get away,’ the other said coldly.

  ‘And we’d have an unnecessary corpse on our hands. Get one thought out of your head, Duke. We have been sailing far too close to the wind already.’ Despite the colloquialisms, his voice made the words sound pedantic. ‘All right, Clay. Report as soon as you are back.’

  Clay nodded, and went out.

  P
otter turned to a file of papers open on his desk, but made only pretence at reading them; the light was not good enough to enable him to see more than the vague lines of writing. After a pause the man by the fireside said: ‘How cold-blooded can you get?’ He tried to get out of his chair, unsuccessfully. He glared at Potter, who returned his gaze evenly, then pushed the papers on one side and leaned back. He put his hands and forearms along the wooden arms; he needed only a flowing gown and skull cap to make him look like an Inquisitor from the dark ages, but the red firelight dancing on his face gave him a satinist air.

  ‘Duke, you sometimes forget that you, Clay, and the others are living on licence my licence. Do you ever think of where you would be but for me?’

  ‘You can cut that out,’ Duke retorted. ‘You’re in as deep as any of us. You’re through if we’re through. Don’t forget it. I’m tired of sitting around and doing what you say, I’ve been doing it for too long. When are you going to kill Harrington? The way you talked, you should have had him a month ago.’

  ‘He won’t last much longer.’ Potter’s thin hands bunched. ‘Duke, you don’t seem to appreciate the difficulties. We nearly got through without a serious hitch, but one more Prendergast was too many. Three accidents’ his lips curled. ‘Three accidents were too many, and West was not the only man to be suspicious. We might have got clear but for Lessing. He –’

  ‘He got you on the run,’ Duke snapped. ‘You were crazy to go to his flat.’

  Potter said sharply: ‘He might have had those papers.’

  ‘Might have,’ sneered Duke. ‘Potter, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I don’t like the way my mind’s gone round. I’m asking myself if those papers ever disappeared. If I thought you’d pulled a fast one, I’d break your neck. Don’t argue! You don’t frighten me any more. Were those papers ever stolen?’

  Potter breathed hard through his nostrils.

  ‘Yes, they were stolen. If the police find them, or if Lessing should, they’ll finish you, Clay, and me. The police aren’t going to find them.’

  ‘If Lessing didn’t take them, who did?’

  ‘I shall find out,’ said Potter.

  ‘Haven’t you any real idea?’

  ‘At the moment, no.’

  ‘So someone’s running around with a load of dynamite big enough to blow us all sky-high,’ Duke said. ‘Potter, you must have some idea who took them. Who would raid your house? Who could take that chance? You’re working with others. Who? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ snapped Potter. ‘I am working with others, yes. They are in high positions, and are far too reputable to have burgled the house or to have employed anyone to do it. I am working for men who will not take personal risks. They work through me. The prize was big and I took the chance. A great deal has gone wrong, but we can put it right, if we keep our heads.’ He paused for a moment, and then said abruptly: ‘We will have a rehearsal. What is your name?’

  Duke leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Harrington. William Ellsworth Harrington.’

  ‘When were you born?’

  ‘January 30 1908.’

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘19 Hemsley Road, Harrogate. Yorkshire.’

  ‘What was your mother’s maiden name?’

  ‘Prendergast, Emily Joanna. And I can do the rest without being prompted,’ Duke went on. ‘My father was William Ellsworth Harrington the first. He was a gentleman-farmer, too much gentleman and too little farmer. He died in 1914, in France. My mother died in 1918, from the Asian influenza. I was brought up by an adopted aunt who made plenty of profit, my mother having left her all she’d got a couple of thousand pounds or so. I escaped from auntie’s loving care in August 1924, after leaving Harrogate Grammar School where I’d gone with a scholarship from Towngate Road School. I emigrated to South Africa, got tired of oranges and lemons and skipped it to Singapore, where I got tired of selling phoney jewellery to tourists. I had a dab at rubber-planting in Borneo and later in South Malaya. I got ideas about rubber and developed them, but was swindled out of my patents. I took a freighter to San Francisco, where I had some new ideas, and made a pile. I came back to England because of the war and joined the Navy.’

  ‘Why did you join the Navy?’

  ‘I guess I liked salt water. I gave my name as Duke Conroy because I didn’t want to let my family get in touch with me, and also because when I jumped Johore State my employers didn’t like it and set the police after me. I thought I was wise to be incognito. I was torpedoed in the South Atlantic and badly smashed up. I still can’t walk properly and I’m hoping English surgeons will be able to improve on the first sawbones. That’s the story,’ Duke finished, ‘but I’m telling you that –’

  ‘I will not have you –’

  ‘You sit back and listen,’ Duke said roughly. ‘I’m dumb but not so dumb. Maybe we could have put that line over if Harrington had been bumped off before Lessing and West learned about him, but since Claude Prendergast has gabbed, it’s all through. I’m not going on with it.’

  ‘You will go on with it,’ Potter said, ‘or the police will learn that before you became “Harrington” in South Africa you committed two murders in Southern Rhodesia. But we need not discuss that. Lessing and West know someone who calls himself Harrington, and part of his story. What of it? When Harrington’s dead, there will be plenty of evidence that he is not the real son of Emily Joanna Harrington, wife of the late William Ellsworth, daughter of the late Septimus Prendergast. Harrington’s identity will be discredited, and yours established.’

  ‘I tell you it won’t work. West won’t believe it, and –’

  ‘West will have to consider the evidence,’ said Potter. ‘I have the necessary documents proving that you are the genuine Harrington, and others proving that the Harrington now at Delaware is a fraud. Leave the legal side of this to me.’

  ‘Like hell I will. What’s Harrington going to be dumb all the time? Won’t he spill his yarn to Lessing tonight? Even if he doesn’t, what will the police do if he’s killed?’

  ‘When we get to Harrington he is not going to be killed, he is going to commit suicide. He will leave the necessary evidence, that, with Abie Fenton and others, he arranged the murders of the Prendergasts. The evidence will be irrefutable, I shall see to that. The police will have their murder theory vindicated, and a dead murderer with a motive which stands up. Meanwhile, I shall have found you.’

  Duke drew a deep breath.

  ‘Your spiel’s good,’ he admitted slowly. ‘You make it sound as if it can work.’

  ‘Of course it can work. If the police try to prove Harrington’s identity now, any papers they may find at his flat will be faked. I’ve made sure of that. Harrington will look like a phoney from the beginning it will be an advantage rather than a disadvantage that the police have found him before we arrange his suicide. The police will dig more deeply, and find that you are the real Harrington, not Conroy, guilty of two murders in Rhodesia, and –’ Potter stopped, and showed his teeth. ‘Supporting evidence is always valuable, Duke. I hope that in future you will not be foolish enough to doubt whether I can or cannot make the necessary arrangements. Our concern is not Harrington, but the stolen documents. I shall know who has them by tomorrow.’

  ‘Or do you just mean hope?’

  ‘We will call the two words synonymous.’

  They stopped talking; Potter switched on a small table lamp and began reading through the papers on the desk. Duke picked up a magazine, and turned the pages idly. After half-an-hour he looked up and said: ‘Clay’s a long time.’

  ‘He is being thorough,’ Potter said, and went on reading. But Clay did not arrive in the next hour.

  8: Not Nice for Mark

  Roger was with Lampard and Dr Tenby for over an hour after returning to Delaware. The telephone wires to London and to Guildford were kept busy. A nurse arrived from Guildford, and Dr Tenby spent a lot of time with her in Claude’s room. Claude was not dead
, but his condition was serious. Tenby would commit himself no further than that he was suffering from a form of hypnotic poisoning and that he might be able to pull through. Meanwhile, his wife should be summoned.

  Maisie was not at the Braddon Square house. The servants there gave a list of places where she might be, but did not seem optimistic.

  Policemen from Guildford were reinforced by members of the local Home Guard platoon in a search for Mark Lessing; after an hour Roger refused to believe that Mark had disappeared voluntarily.

  ‘He won’t like the hunt for him if he’s gone off on his own,’ Roger said.

  ‘Never mind about that,’ Janet retorted. They were with Harrington in the lounge. ‘If he’s gone away on some wild goose chase without letting us know, it’s his fault if he’s caused a sensation.’

  Harrington looked from her to Roger.

  ‘Between you and me, I’m finding that a bit beyond me. Do things often happen this way?’

  ‘About once in a thousand times. Don’t imagine this is typical of a policeman’s life. Normality it is boring in every phase, ours not excepted. Whatever you call this, it isn’t boring.’ He lit a cigarette and asked: ‘Can’t you remember anything that Maisie Prendergast or Potter said which might give an idea why they contacted you?’

  ‘They were vague all the way,’ Harrington said. ‘The only time they asked more than indirect questions was when they wanted to know what I’d been doing since I left England. I left when I was a boy,’ he added off-handedly. ‘My parents died early, and I learned that my mother had had the thick end of the stick from her family. In spite of all the Dreem millions, she died of influenza through lack of expert attention. It was only by an accident after she was dead that it was found she had a couple of thousand pounds worth of Dreem shares. They went in trust to an aunt who brought me up and she spent it all.’ Harrington’s grey eyes grew thoughtful. ‘I’ve travelled a lot since then, but I’ve never forgotten those days.’

  ‘You’ve been on your own a lot?’

  ‘That hasn’t anything to do with the past,’ said Harrington. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stared into the fire. ‘Is there any point in my staying any longer?’