A Part for a Policeman Read online

  ‘Right, sir. Before you ring off—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your office would like a word with you, sir.’

  It wouldn’t be Watts. It was, in fact, a detective sergeant who worked with Watts, and until that moment Roger had forgotten that he had a slight Irish brogue, which was hardly surprising, for his name was O’Brien.

  ‘What is it, O’Brien?’

  ‘Mrs Mallows telephoned, sir, and said she wouldn’t leave a message but would be glad if you would ring her back as soon as you got in.’

  ‘Do you have her number?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Whitechapel 22147,’ O’Brien answered.

  Roger made a note of the number, checked there was nothing else in about the case, had more tea and another biscuit, then sat back for five minutes, pondering all that had happened at 5c Berne Court, and forming a vivid mental picture of Mrs Mallows herself, as well as recalling all that Pell had found out about her. When he was confident that he had overlooked nothing, he dialled the Whitechapel number. The ringing sound went on for so long that for a moment he thought there would be no answer, but at last Mrs Mallows spoke, a little breathlessly.

  ‘Ivy Mallows speaking.’

  ‘You asked me to call you back,’ Roger said. ‘I’m—’

  ‘Superintendent West!’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Roger.

  ‘Thank you—thank you very much for calling. I—I’m a little out of breath, one of our patients threw a fit. We had no idea she was an epileptic. It’s—it’s over, now.’ She breathed heavily for a few moments but was still distressed as she went on: I wanted to tell you that I’ve remembered the name of the man who was in Maureen’s kitchen that morning. It was Donovan. He’s been here occasionally.’ Ivy Mallows paused for a moment, and then went on: ‘I—I can’t tell you how anxious I am to get this unhappy business over.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said Roger, evenly.

  ‘Do you—do you have any idea how Mary Ellen is?’

  ‘No change I’m told, but not in danger.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’ There was undoubted relief in the woman’s voice. ‘At least I can’t be accused of murdering the child.’

  ‘You aren’t accused of anything, yet,’ Roger reminded her. ‘Who sent Mary Ellen to you, Mrs Mallows?’

  After a pause, she said: ‘You know I can’t betray a professional confidence, Superintendent.’

  ‘You are no longer qualified to practise, are you?’ Roger asked.

  ‘That does not in any way lessen my views on professional etiquette,’ she retorted.

  Roger hesitated, and then said: ‘I think you should consider the situation very carefully, Mrs Mallows. If, as you say, you’re not actually or knowingly involved in what is going on, I think you owe it to yourself to tell us everything you know or suspect. If you don’t you could be in serious trouble. If you do, your confidences won’t be betrayed unless you are needed as a witness.’ When she made no comment, he went on: ‘Have you been listening to the radio?’

  ‘Radio? Good gracious, no! Why do you ask?’

  ‘I wanted to find out whether you could have heard the man’s name over the radio,’ Roger said mildly. ‘We’ve identified and issued a description of him which should have been broadcast by now.’

  After a very long pause, Ivy Mallows said: ‘At least you’re very frank, Superintendent.’

  Roger rang off on her echoed ‘Goodbye’, contemplated the telephone for a few minutes, and then studied his notes. Unless Sandell returned soon, he ought to leave; it would be an hour before he was back in London. He would let the local Divisional man cover the routine, and would have to call in at Divisional Headquarters before he left the district.

  The door opened, and Sandell came in, moving very quickly and silently for so big a man. He gave the impression of being grimly pleased with himself.

  ‘What have you got?’ asked Roger, as the other rounded his desk and sat down.

  ‘Plenty,’ said Sandell. ‘A hell of a lot has been going on under my nose here, Handsome. But first there’s a thing I do know about. I had to get authority from my chief, Sir Vincent Pole, to tell you.’ Pole was perhaps the best known figure in the British entertainments industry, his name a household word, his face as familiar as a film star’s. ‘We’ve had a lot of trouble here in the past few weeks. Sabotage.’ He ground the word out. ‘Among other things, takes of films which have already been edited have been destroyed. It’s been a hell of a job.’

  ‘Why did you keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Orders,’ growled Sandell. ‘Sir Vincent didn’t want publicity. He wanted it hushed up, preferred the expense of shooting and editing all over again to a scandal. There’s so much bloody competition from Hollywood and the Continent, and the British film industry is so weak, he didn’t want to take any risks.’

  ‘Risks of what?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘Use your head,’ Sandell said gruffly. ‘If films are late on release they’re late earning money. If the big circuits think British Film Corporation are in trouble they’ll contract elsewhere. Sir Vincent thought it vital that we stop the trouble ourselves.’

  ‘And have you?’ asked Roger, tardy.

  ‘Like hell we have! But I can tell you what we have done. We’ve isolated a kind of incendiary substance which the devils use. Had fire and explosives experts to help. It’s powder which works the same way as phosphorus when exposed to the air. Catches alight, and makes everything it touches inflammable. Damnable stuff. So far it’s only been used in the editing and—cutting rooms, but it could be used on the stages—anywhere. I’ve doubled the fire guard here in the past two weeks.’

  It was useless to say: ‘You should have told us.’ No good could come of reproach or recrimination, and at least Sandell had come out with the story now. Roger had a flashback to his talk with Coppell. Had Sir Vincent Pole told him of this trouble? Had he thought it necessary to conceal the fires from him, Roger?

  There wasn’t much point in getting worked up about that, either.

  ‘Will you let me have a detailed report?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Thanks. What’s been going on under your nose that you didn’t know about?’ This wasn’t the moment to say so but on the present showing Sandell wasn’t doing a very good job at all. Was that because he had more than he could cope with?

  Sandell looked as if he were fighting hard to maintain his self-control, but there was a grating tone in his voice.

  ‘Apparently O’Hara and Greatorex have been fighting like cat and dog for the past few weeks. Each is being considered for the lead in a big musical to be made in Hollywood. Compared with what they earn here, they would get a fortune. There are some American producers and scouts over here—tell me when there aren’t—and the word is that they were about to recommend their choice. Don’t ask me who they’d selected.’

  Roger remarked automatically: ‘That could explain one of them gunning for the other, but—’ He caught his breath as understanding flashed into his mind, and in the momentary pause, Sandell said drily: ‘If Greatorex fixed the assault on O’Hara, to put him out of the running, and if O’Hara has friends who would hate Greatorex’s guts for doing it, then they would hit back, wouldn’t they? See how quickly I learn the West method!’

  ‘You learn!’ Roger said. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s going through your mind?’ Sandell demanded sharply. ‘What’s wrong with my theory?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Roger said. ‘Absolutely nothing, except—’

  ‘Except what?’ asked Sandell.

  ‘That there is another possible explanation.’

  ‘Try me,’ said Sandell.

  ‘A third candidate for the job who would be glad to see them both out of the running,’ answered Roger.

  After a pause, Sandell nodded, slowly, judicially.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. You could be right, certainly. But these two men are the only ones in British film
s who could play the lead in a mammoth musical. I certainly can’t think of another.’

  ‘It’s worth checking anyhow,’ Roger said. ‘Who are the Americans concerned?’

  ‘The producers, you mean? They’re in London, they don’t spend much time here. I can give you their names and addresses, but it may take half an hour to get the information.’

  ‘Telephone it to my office, will you?’ Roger requested. ‘I ought to be on my way.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for your help.’ Almost at once, he added: ‘I take it you’ll be doing a general report for your masters?’

  ‘And will I please take an extra copy for Superintendent West?’

  ‘Two copies,’ begged Roger. ‘Thanks. And can you get me over to Division?’

  ‘Send you on your way at once,’ Sandell promised.

  Ten minutes later Roger was at the modern building which housed the Division, talking to a balding, painstaking Superintendent who, simply confirming what Roger already knew about the escape of James Donovan, brought him up to date on details of the search in the area. He was able to report also that Raymond Greatorex had been operated on for a fractured skull, but wasn’t on the danger list.

  ‘Any point in my going to see him?’ asked Roger.

  ‘None at all—he won’t be conscious until tomorrow,’ the Divisional man said. Then he drew his breath as if making a great effort, and asked: ‘How did you get on with Sandell?’

  ‘Better than I expected,’ Roger said.

  ‘He went too far and knew it, so he had to butter you up a bit,’ said the other, making no attempt at all towards hiding his dislike of the Allsafe chief at Borelee. ‘If I were you, Handsome, I’d take everything he says with a pinch of salt. A tablespoonful, if it comes to that. Any so called security chief who takes on a man like James Donovan is either playing at some funny business or not quite right in the head. Donovan’s one of the toughest men in the business. He was a mercenary in Africa for years, after being on the Kenyan Police Force. They fired him, before we handed over,’ went on the local Superintendent. ‘What did Sandell want with a tough guy like Donovan unless he was expecting serious trouble? Answer that, Handsome, and you may have the answer to a lot of other questions.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Coppell Growls

  Roger stepped out of the Divisional car at the Yard, thanked the driver, and went into the new building. He had hardly reached his office before the inner door opened and Watts appeared, wearing the unmistakable look of trouble. As he opened his mouth, Roger raised a hand, and Watts stood there with his mouth open, looking a little ridiculous.

  ‘I need to breathe,’ Roger said, as he sat at his desk. ‘What is it? The Commander?’

  ‘Right in one, sir,’ said Watts. ‘He wants—he would like to see you at once.’

  ‘Do you know specifically why?’

  ‘No, sir, only that it’s about the O’Hara case.’

  ‘Yes. What about Mary Ellen?’

  ‘She’s come round,’ said Watts, ‘but she doesn’t know what happened—I doubt if she even realises that anything happened, she just dropped off to sleep again.’

  ‘Has the cook there seen a photograph of James Donovan?’

  ‘Pell was to have taken one and shown it to her.’

  ‘Right. Let’s talk to—’ began Roger, when the telephone bell cut across his words. He motioned to Watts, who lifted the receiver. Roger almost expected to hear Coppell’s voice reverberate from the telephone with the inevitable rasp of wrath, but no voice boomed and Watts said: ‘Put him through.’ He was looking at Roger and whispered: ‘Pell, sir.’

  Roger stretched out for the telephone.

  ‘Hallo, Pell. What do you have for me?’

  ‘The man who was at 5c Berne Court this morning was undoubtedly James Donovan,’ Pell reported. ‘I had to go and find the cook to confirm—she was out shopping. There’s no shadow of doubt about it. It appears that either he lied to her about being a friend of her cousin, or she lied to you.’

  Roger frowned. ‘She’s a natural liar, like Donovan.’ He paused. ‘We need to make sure she isn’t involved,’ he added cautiously. ‘Will you do that, Pell? Check the cook, her friends, her home town—the lot. And check the Donovans’ activities in this country, and Mary Ellen. Don’t attempt to contact the Irish police yet, the Commander has that in hand.’

  ‘The Com—’ began Pell, as if he did not believe that the Commander was an active investigator. ‘Very good, sir.’

  Roger rang off.

  There were a thousand and one things he wanted to do, but the most important was to sit back and get the whole case in perspective. There were so many different angles, so many people involved. The incendiarism at Borelee was another disquieting factor he ought to check quickly. He sat for a few seconds, Watts watching him, then sprang up almost to attention.

  ‘This won’t do! Have you had a chance to get my file on the case up to date?’

  ‘Yes—on the desk behind you, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Roger picked up a thick file, saw a copy of the photograph of James Donovan and a vivid description on top, others of Mary Ellen and her father, nodded, and went out. Everything was clipped into place in the file, and as he walked along the spotless passages, oblivious of the many who passed him, he skimmed report after report. There were photographs of the two film stars, without descriptions, there were brief notes of all inquiries including the present stage of the search for James Donovan. As he opened the door of the room where Coppell’s secretary worked, he thought: his brother might know.

  Coppell’s present secretary was a middle-aged woman, to many forbidding, to Roger now, disapproving.

  ‘Commander Coppell is waiting for you.’

  Roger looked at her as if he hadn’t heard.

  ‘Telephone Chief Inspector Watts in my office, will you. Tell him to try to find out if the Donovan at Brixton knows where the other Donovan is.’

  ‘The Commander is—’

  ‘Did you get that?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Roger gave a perfunctory tap at Coppell’s door, and at a growled ‘Come in,’ entered a bright, spacious office, comfortably furnished with easy chairs some distance from the big flat topped desk. Coppell looked up as the door closed. It was impossible to judge his mood, except from his secretary’s agitation.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Coppell said, and asked in the same breath: ‘Got James Donovan yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Watts should have caught him.’

  ‘That’s what Watts thinks, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘The odds were with Donovan,’ Roger said. ‘But for Watts, we wouldn’t know yet who we were after.’

  Coppell’s head seemed to settle further into his neck.

  ‘Don’t come the bloody protector of your staff,’ he growled. ‘Watts is one of our senior men, he should have stopped Donovan.’ Roger forebore to comment. ‘How is the case as you see it now?’ Coppell demanded.

  ‘I’m not seeing it clearly yet,’ Roger admitted, and Coppell’s lips tightened, as if he were stopping himself from saying ‘Well, open your eyes.’

  ‘There are three main factors,’ Roger went on. ‘First—Mary Ellen Donovan and her drugging at the nursing home. Second there is the visit to O’Hara’s apartment and the attack on Greatorex, which were almost certainly related. There is some evidence, too, that Greatorex knew and had reason to fear the Donovans.’ He expected Coppell to ask what evidence, but the big man sat silently with his fingers interlocked, and his elbows on the desk. ‘Third, there is the fact that both men were apparently in the running for a very big part in a Hollywood production, which proves how right you were to be worried about the international repercussions.’

  Coppell gave a sudden, fierce grin.

  ‘Don’t blarney me,’ he said. ‘What you mean is you don’t know what it’s all about yet, and you’re not sure it’s
because of Mary Ellen.’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Roger said. ‘And I’m not likely to be while facts are withheld from me, sir.’

  ‘What do you means, facts withheld?’ demanded Coppell.

  ‘For one thing, there have been outbreaks of sabotage—in the form of fire raising—at Borelee, and Sandell had to get Sir Vincent Pole’s express permission to tell me about them. Is it Pole who has been pushing the Home Secretary, sir?’

  Coppell hesitated for a long time, and then answered: ‘Yes. But I didn’t know anything about the sabotage. How serious is it?’

  ‘It’s worrying Sandell, who will let me have a full report,’ Roger said. There was no point in rubbing in the dangers of being uninformed, and he went on: ‘I’ll get busy on it first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Coppell, and then added unexpectedly: ‘Head feel in one piece?’

  ‘It’s much better than it was, thank you.’

  ‘You don’t look as if you were at death’s door like you did this morning,’ Coppell went on with another fierce grin. ‘I want to ask a personal question.’

  Roger felt his nerves going taut.

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘How is your wife?’ asked Coppell.

  ‘If you mean she—’

  ‘I don’t mean anything, I asked a straight question,’ Coppell said, and he almost glared.

  ‘I should say she is very tense and urgently needs a holiday, preferably a long one,’ said Roger.

  ‘Any troubles with those boys of yours?’

  ‘None at all,’ Roger was surprised into answering freely. ‘Martin isn’t doing particularly well, but he’s not an anxiety. Young Richard’s on top of the world.’

  ‘So you’re the one responsible for any nervous tensions,’ Coppell said, and in a louder, domineering voice, he went on: ‘I’ve been checking your night duty hours. You thought of doing that, lately?’

  Roger said heavily: ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘I’ll save you the trouble.’ Coppell pushed a sheet of paper across the desk; it slid over the shiny surface and Roger had to grab it to save it from falling; he had a glimpse of typewriting, in columns: ‘In the last ninety two days—three months—you’ve been on investigations involving night work forty eight times. You’ve had only one weekend—two days in a row rating a weekend—in those thirteen weeks.’ Coppell glared accusingly. ‘What makes you so greedy for work?’