A Sharp Rise in Crime Read online

  He broke off again, and now his face was almost puce in colour.

  ‘Here they are, sir.’

  Chapter Nine

  Steps

  Roger studied the charts with quickening interest. Piccadilly Circus, the Strand, Leicester Square and Notting Hill Gate – in these places one would expect to see a high rate of such crimes as pocket-picking, bag-snatching and shoplifting, but even so, the figures were surprisingly high.

  So were crimes of violence both for profit and without known motive.

  Roger handed them back.

  ‘Thanks. What do you gather from them?’

  Almost desperately Marriott said: ‘It really isn’t any of my business, sir.’

  ‘Unofficially – all of this is off the record,’ Roger went on, ‘unless I come and see you about releasing the graphs yourself.’

  ‘You’re very good, sir,’ Marriott said. ‘Well – it does rather look as if the discipline – the thoroughness of precautions – is rather slack, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger answered. ‘Too slack.’

  ‘But you do see that if I were to make such a suggestion—’

  ‘I see that if you were asked to make a report based on information which comes through this room you would have to use your graphs, and anyone who studied them would draw obvious conclusions,’ Roger said quietly. ‘And it could come to that.’

  ‘Meanwhile I’ll just keep these by me,’ Marriott said.

  Roger half-turned, saying: ‘Do that,’ and then turned to face the other man, suddenly frowning. Marriott looked first puzzled and then alarmed. Roger moved back to his desk and sat on the corner.

  ‘Do you have a camera?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir – why?’

  ‘I’d like to have those graphs photographed in colour,’ Roger said. ‘I lost the only copy of a piece of evidence that I had, once. Any objection?’ When Marriott didn’t answer Roger went on: ‘One of my sons has a polaroid which takes colour prints without the usual negative. If we take two sets, I can lodge one in my bank and yours wherever you like.’ He paused before asking again: ‘Any objection?’

  ‘The more I think about it the more I think it’s a good idea,’ Marriott said. ‘Would you take the photographs yourself?’

  ‘Either myself, or my son.’

  ‘Morning or early afternoon is the best time,’ Marriott told him, and now there was eagerness in his eyes. ‘And the sooner the better, I should think.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ agreed Roger, ‘I’d like to call my home.’ In a few moments he was talking first to Janet, and then to Martin, who sounded in high fettle.

  ‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘I can use it … Not sure how much film there is and I may not have enough ready cash … Okay, I’ll ask Mum … Royal Automobile Club at half-past eleven, fine. Okay, Pop! See you, I—hold on!’ He shouted the last two words and Roger held on for a few moments, his ear ringing. Then Janet came on the line.

  ‘Darling,’ she said in a subdued voice.

  ‘Hallo,’ Roger said, conscious of half-a-dozen pairs of eyes on him.

  ‘I couldn’t be more sorry about last night.’

  Momentarily, Roger wondered what she was talking about, then quite suddenly he realised, and laughed on a light note, wholly reassuring.

  ‘Forget it. It would have fooled anybody.’

  ‘Well, yes, perhaps. But I’m not “anybody”, and it shouldn’t have fooled me. I love you, Roger. I love you so very much.’

  On the last word, she rang off.

  He replaced the receiver slowly, as sure as he could be that she felt what she said with all the emotion in her and yet if something happened to spark the flame of jealousy again she would behave in exactly the same manner. He gave a sigh of good-tempered exasperation. It was then half-past ten, and he wanted to walk to the R.A.C. which should take no more than twenty minutes. Walking cleared his mind for thinking. He left a note with Marriott where he was going, then went out by the Queen Victoria Street entrance. The sky had cleared and there was a bright sun, but it was still cold.

  There were several ways to go to the Royal Automobile Club in Pall Mall; he chose the one which wound through side streets and mews until at last he came within sight of the tops of the trees of St. James’s Park; now all he had to do was cross the park and go up the steps into Carlton House Terrace, splendid in its recent reconstruction. He stood there, with the whole panorama of the park stretched before him; the lake, the trees, the flowering shrubs, the huge beds of flowers he couldn’t place from here. He sniffed the scent of newly-cut grass – yes, here, actually in the heart of London, and in the distance was the clatter of the big motor mower which was trimming the turf.

  Suddenly, he ducked down.

  On that instant, something smacked into the stone wall of the steps, and chippings flew about his legs and ankles. Before he could look round, before he even realised what was happening, another smack came close to his face and chippings stung his cheeks and lodged in his hair.

  He was instantly, dreadfully, afraid.

  If there was someone there deliberately shooting at him, determined to get him, he wouldn’t have a chance.

  He felt a red-hot pain in his left forearm.

  There was a protective iron rail on one side of the steps and he grabbed this with both hands, gritting his teeth against the pain as he hauled himself up until, with a great effort, he could swing himself over. He fell headlong onto the newly turned soil of a flowerbed, had a picture of an elderly woman with a fork in her hands. He rolled over, soil getting into his eyes and mouth and nostrils, almost choking him. When he lay still he was on his back and the woman was closer; she had rammed the fork into the earth, no long holding it as if it were a weapon of defence. He looked about him, and then managed to ask through the soil in his mouth: ‘Someone’s shooting. Be careful.’

  ‘You come with me, young man,’ the woman said, with the calm practicality of one who has lived through two world wars, ‘and get that dirt off you.’ She helped him with welcome strength and skill until he was on his feet. At the top of the steps was a cloakroom, and she left him there while he took off his jacket and brushed himself down. He looked searchingly through the window, but all he could see were a few people walking along Birdcage Walk and a solitary rider cantering out of sight.

  The left sleeve of his shirt was thick with blood.

  He rolled this up, gingerly held the wound under the cold tap, saw that it was only a shallow groove which needed attention but wasn’t going to get in his way very much. First rinsing out his mouth, then dousing himself under a stream of water which now ran warm, he felt much better. As he finished, the woman came back.

  She said severely: ‘May I ask, young man, if you are on the run from the police?’

  ‘No,’ Roger answered. ‘I am—’

  Then she saw the wound, blood still welling up but not running so freely.

  ‘Well,’ she remarked, ‘at least I know that I am not the victim of a practical joke. Have you washed that well?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘What caused it?’

  ‘A bullet.’

  ‘Oh, dear me. Well hold it under the cold tap again for a moment, while I get the first-aid box. I always keep that at the foot of the main stairs, so handy for gardening accidents. Nurturing flowers appears such a gentle pastime to those who have never done it. Is that hurting?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘False courage, young man, is another guise for vanity.’ She talked all the time until she was back with a big metal box on which was a faded red cross. ‘Now let me see that wound … Have no fear, during both world wars I was a fully trained nursing auxiliary … I shall first bathe it with an antiseptic lotion—’ Bottle and cotton wool were both most professionally handled, as she sponged the wound with a strong smelling antiseptic. Next, she spread a salve over a piece of lint and said: ‘This will prevent it from sticking.’ She taped this in position at either end,
and asked: Have you any preference for adhesive plaster or a bandage?’

  ‘Which do you think is best?’ he asked.

  ‘A bandage here – it need not be too big for the sleeve, and it prevents any movement.’ Her wrinkled fingers moved deftly. ‘Now – you realise that for comfort as well as for quicker healing you will need a sling, don’t you?’

  Slowly, Roger said: ‘I hadn’t. But I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘You are an understanding young man,’ she approved, ‘but then, you have been frightened. Are you aware that it is really my duty to report this whole incident to the police?’

  Roger smiled.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you will come upstairs and have some coffee with plenty of sugar in it while we discuss—’

  ‘I really must go, I’m afraid,’ Roger said. ‘If you could ring for a taxi I would be more than grateful.’ He took out his card and showed it to her. She read it, with a sniff of amusement.

  ‘Good gracious, and here am I advising you to tell the police. But Superintendent, you really need rest, and coffee—’

  ‘I’ve an appointment I mustn’t break,’ Roger said, ‘but there’s one thing I would dearly love.’

  ‘What is that, Superintendent?’

  ‘To come and have coffee – or tea if that would be better – just as soon as this case is over.’

  ‘Why, that would be delightful!’ she declared. ‘And I shall hold you to it, have no doubt. As for a taxi, they are very difficult at this time of morning, my husband will be happy to take you wherever you wish to go.’

  Her husband, small wrinkled, gnome-like, appeared almost more imperturbable than she. He seemed happy enough to leave his Times crossword puzzle and his high-backed winged chair in a book-lined study to take Roger to the club.

  ‘Most interesting place, did you know? I knew it before the war when it was the German Embassy. Actually met Kaiser Wilhelm there myself – I was a junior in the Diplomatic Corps in those days. Such a pity, such a pity. If there’d been no First World War, there would have been no Second World War. No Kaiser Wilhelm being pushed by his politicians and so no Hitler. Strange, eerie life, Mr.—ah—Superintendent West. Did you ever pause to reflect …’ He talked as he drove with an assured skill at least as great as his wife’s at first-aid, threading serenely through the traffic in his ancient Rolls-Royce. ‘Eerie, is perhaps the word. I mean, the point is, if you hadn’t walked down those steps as that lunatic shot at you, and if my wife hadn’t been working in the garden – mind you, she usually is – and I hadn’t stayed in this morning, whatever happens after your forthcoming meeting at the R.A.C. might have been quite different.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Roger agreed, happy not to talk. His arm was throbbing badly.

  They turned at last. Pall Mall, from the Trafalgar Square end. The driver began to slow down.

  ‘Mr. West,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you could help me. I’ve a problem that has been worrying me most of the morning. A second opinion, unhampered by overlong brooding, is so often successful. Number 17, across. The clue is “Instrument is harp, not piano, girl concludes”. Ah, here we are.’ A tall, elderly doorman came forward to open the door. ‘I should never have worried you. Do look after that arm. And be careful.’

  ‘How about harmonica?’ suggested Roger.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Harmonica,’ Roger repeated.

  ‘Oh, my dear fellow! Harmonica! Of course. I shall be forever in your debt. Do come and have tea some day. Soon. Goodbye, goodbye. Harmonica, of course!’

  It was a quarter-past eleven.

  In the main hallway of the club was a very old car, more brass than steel, with huge, solid-rubber tyres, and standing by the rope which cordoned this off was a tall, thin, rather ungainly man, the same kind of build as Chief Superintendent Partridge. He was reading the details of the veteran car and over his shoulder Roger read: Darracq, 1893. The man half-turned as Roger said: ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  Dan Appleby looked at the sling and asked: ‘Been in the wars before or after our appointment?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘Roger,’ stated Appleby, ‘you see in f-f-front of you a very f-f-frightened man.’ Roger had never heard him say anything remotely like that, yet looking into Appleby’s rather pale blue-grey eyes he had a sense that the remark was meant to be taken seriously. ‘Come and find a quiet corner.’ He led the way into the huge smoking-room with its dark murals and darker leather chairs, so placed that two people could talk with little risk of being overheard. As he ushered Roger to a spot he had obviously pre-selected, a maid appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘Would you like your coffee now, sir?’

  ‘Please,’ said Appleby, and waited for Roger to sit down. Then without preamble or the slightest hesitation and in a voice which was much freer from the stammer than usual, he stated: ‘Official opinion. No reasonable d-d-doubt. The woman taken out of the Thames and identified as Alice B-B-Brace was wearing her clothes, had the same kind of f-f-figure, same colour hair, almost identical f-f-features, was approximately the same age, b-b-but was/is not Alice Brace. I c-c-can understand anyone im-im-impersonating the living, but why sh-sh-should anyone want to impersonate the dead?’

  Chapter Ten

  Impersonation – Dead or Alive

  Roger heard the words but did not at first take them in. ‘Why should anyone want to impersonate the dead?’ He was aware of Appleby watching him intently; the pathologist could always be relied on not to push too hard. The girl coming up with coffee gave even longer respite, and Appleby poured out, black, and pushed the hot milk round so that Roger could pick up the jug. He poured a little, sipped, and then said: ‘If it comes to that, why should they try to impersonate a policeman, alive or dead.’ He took out the zip-fastened briefcase and extracted the two pictures – the one a clipping of the newspaper, the other the enlargement sent out by Alice Brace.

  Appleby considered them, looked up, and asked: ‘W-w-what happened to you j-j-just now?’

  ‘I was shot.’

  ‘This case?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Then we add a new dimension. Why impersonate you and when on the point of success, try to kill you?’

  ‘Kill?’ Roger asked. ‘Or frighten?’

  ‘Why frighten?’

  ‘Dan,’ Roger said, ‘there’s to be a kind of trial by my peers this afternoon, to find out whether I’m being impersonated or playing a double game.’

  ‘B-b-bloody fools!’ ejaculated Appleby.

  ‘Thanks. My point is I need someone unprejudiced, to talk to.’

  ‘Such as me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Talk on.’

  ‘The first inkling I had of this was last night,’ Roger said, sipping coffee and explaining as much as he needed to about Martin. ‘One or two things I’ve now discovered is that my work of late has been very light, whereas the Yard’s been up to its neck in urgent jobs.’ When Appleby didn’t answer, he went on: ‘Some of the urgent jobs should have come to me.’

  ‘So – have they suspected you for some time, and have they been watching you. Have you any idea?’

  ‘Not the foggiest,’ Roger said. ‘There’s talk of a meeting with my peers and I think they’ve met before on this job, leaving me out.’

  ‘Can’t spare you?’ hazarded Appleby.

  ‘They’d work me to death normally,’ Roger answered. ‘I am ordered to clear all my other cases off my desk.’

  ‘Ready to be fired or ready to be assigned to a different job?’

  Roger shrugged.

  ‘Any real idea which?’ Appleby persisted.

  ‘No,’ answered Roger with complete candour, ‘in some ways I am so angry about it I could just blow up.’

  ‘Don’t blow up,’ pleaded Appleby. ‘This Policewoman Brace – did you know her?’

  ‘Slightly.’

  ‘I offer myself as a living sacrifice,’ Appleby said. ‘E
ver anything between you?’

  ‘No. I doubt if I’ve often been near enough to her to hold hands. Besides—’

  ‘I know, I know, faithful unto death. Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Not at my best,’ Roger confessed. ‘My arm’s hurting like blazes and I didn’t exactly hit the ground like a feather-weight. I ache.’

  ‘My remedy for all ills,’ advised Appleby, fishing in his jacket pocket. He brought out a small white box. ‘Two, every four hours, and if you are used to taking them, three or four every four hours.’ He unfastened the box which had a special kind of catch, and added: ‘A friend sent them. They’re called pill toters.’ He shook three out close to Roger’s cup, and then snapped the lid back and went on briskly: ‘I knew you must be feeling as if you’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You haven’t asked me how come I’m so sure about Alice Brace.’

  Roger, picking up the pills, actually knocked one onto the floor, and let it lie as he asked: ‘How are you so sure she isn’t Alice Brace?’

  ‘Because Alice Brace had an operation for an appendix, three years ago, and—’

  ‘It’s in her police record, and this woman hasn’t got a scar!’

  ‘Such brilliance,’ said Appleby, picking up the pill, dropping it into an ashtray and taking another from his pill toter. ‘I know we are all said to eat a peck of dirt before we die, but I think we should take it inadvertently. Take ’em.’

  Roger took all three tablets and washed them down with coffee, his heart still hammering under the discovery.

  ‘I can give you a picture of the dead woman’s tummy, unscarred, or a whole full length, also unscarred, as evidence,’ he offered.

  ‘Both please,’ Roger said.

  ‘Ghoul.’

  ‘Trannion is in charge of the Committee of Inquiry.’

  ‘Oh, is he,’ Appleby opened a square black attaché case and took out two photographs and a copy of a sheet marked: Alice Brace, Medical History.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Roger warmly.

  ‘My pleasure. Any other immediate questions, Handsome?’

  Roger didn’t answer for what seemed a long time, but Appleby didn’t interrupt, simply studied the cutting from the Globe and the print this woman had sent to the Yard. Then he poured himself out more coffee, draining the pot, and asked: ‘How many?’