The Doorway to Death Read online

  “It’s a great relief.”

  Roger’s smile was twisted as he moved nearer the door, making some noise so that the others knew he was coming. He wondered if Samuelson knew that the girl was here.

  Chapter Nine

  Truth?

  Roger went in.

  Scoopy moved round quickly, still a little embarrassed, and the girl stood up. She had something of Quist’s look about the eyes, one which it would be easy to believe was transparent honesty. She was everything her photograph promised, too. Roger didn’t know why, but he hadn’t expected her to have so good a figure; the line of her breast was quite lovely.

  “I’ll pop upstairs and get some work done,” Scoopy said. “Good night, Miss Henry.”

  “Good night, Martin,” she said, and held out her hand. Scoopy smiled with sudden embarrassment, touched her hand and vanished. Roger had a kind of preview, of the boy and a girl; Scoopy was already inches taller than Sybil Henry.

  The picture faded with the smile on the girl’s face. She kept up appearances until this moment, but suddenly her distress and anxiety showed clearly, and she was less sure of herself. Roger shook hands, and asked: “What will you have to drink?”

  She hadn’t expected that. “Oh. May I—may I have a gin and tonic? Or gin and something, anything.”

  “Of course.” There was tonic water. He poured her drink and a whisky-and-soda for himself, sat on the arm of one armchair as she sat in another, opposite; already she was a little more at her ease.

  Roger’s eyes smiled.

  “Here’s to the truth!”

  “The truth,” she echoed, in a moment of sheer relief; she certainly had not expected him to behave like this. “Mr. West, I’m really sorry that I’ve worried you at home, but I didn’t want to come to your office. I—” She had been speaking too quickly, and now paused, but Roger didn’t prompt her. “The truth is that Mr. Samuelson and Mr. Greenways didn’t want me to see you. I think I know why. I think they believe that I’m lying in order to try to help Mick.”

  This would make Samuelson’s face red!

  “Do they?”

  “Mr. West,” the girl said, “I’ve no idea what evidence you think you have, but I’m quite sure that Michael Quist did not kill that woman. It was sheer accident that he ever went to Page Street, and entirely my fault. I’m quite serious. Has—has Mick told you why he went there?”

  She was fresh and attractive, charming and quite a girl to look at – and perhaps she was smart, too. Certainly Samuelson was. He could have sent her along, feigning sweet innocence, to try to learn one or two essential facts. If anyone would tempt a policeman to be indiscreet, a girl of this kind would.

  “Mr. Quist has made a statement,” Roger replied, “but of course I can’t go into details.”

  Sybil seemed to be trying to read his thoughts.

  “I suppose not,” she said slowly, “and I’ll have to take a chance and tell you exactly what happened the night before last. It really began with my father. He has been very strange and different in the past few weeks, without giving any explanation. The night before last he had a telephone call, and went out soon afterwards. Mother was very upset – there had been a quarrel just before he went out. I wish to heaven I’d never thought of it, but I asked Mick to follow father and try to find out where he went. I thought it was to see another woman, but wanted to be sure.”

  She didn’t know that Roger already knew about this, and he didn’t show how much this corroboration of part of Quist’s statement interested him.

  “Mick came back about ten o’clock,” Sybil went on. “He had followed father to a house in Elwell – he didn’t tell me the name of the street. He’d seen father with another woman, and his description of the woman was very like that of this Rose Jensen. He came back, and told me.”

  Sybil Henry stopped.

  Roger took out cigarettes.

  Thrown at a jury by the defence, this girl was enough to swing them right round in Michael Quist’s favour. Samuelson and the others would want to keep her back if they could. After the girl had testified, the defence would almost certainly claim mistaken identity about the man seen going into and coming out of Rose Jensen’s flat. That curious pro-Quist feeling made Roger examine his own attitude closely; and also the facts as known. He had swift mind-pictures of the three witnesses for the prosecution. Mrs. Kimmeridge, who would create a very good impression in spite of being garrulous; Theophilus Pegg, whom no one would like, but whose testimony would probably appear to be unshakeable, and the schoolboy, whom Roger hadn’t really taken to.

  Gould three people make the same mistake?

  “That’s the simple truth,” Sybil Henry said. “I can’t help what others advise, Mr. West. I had to tell you. I’m positive that it is true.”

  “What time did your father get back?” Roger asked.

  She knew exactly what he was driving at; couldn’t have had a moment’s doubt about it. She was switching suspicion from Quist to her father; in a case of divided loyalties, she had chosen to champion Quist.

  Certainly she had tried to open up a new field of investigation.

  “I suppose you think I’ve betrayed my father,” she said, in a quiet voice.

  Roger stood up, briskly.

  “I don’t think anything of the kind, Miss Henry. The chief trouble that we have with witnesses is their tendency to tell only part of the truth. What time did your father get back that night?”

  “About eleven o’clock.”

  “How did he seem?”

  She hesitated, and he half expected her to say that Henry had looked sick, or ill, or shocked or furtive. Then she surprised him.

  “As a matter of fact, he seemed much more cheerful than before he’d gone out, as if something had happened to please him. He’d had a few drinks, I think. I know what it looks like, Mr. West, but I can’t believe that he would behave like that if he had killed the woman. I think you have to look for someone else – other than my father and Michael.”

  “You could be right,” Roger said non-committally. “Are you prepared to swear to this story in court?”

  “Of course.”

  “You know there’s been an eight-day remand, don’t you?” Roger said. “There’ll be a longer hearing a week tomorrow, when the magistrate will decide whether to dismiss the charge or to commit Mr. Quist for trial. Evidence given at that hearing can have an important bearing.”

  “I still hope you’ll have to admit that it wasn’t Michael, and withdraw the charge,” Sybil said quietly. “You will try to establish the truth of what I’ve said, won’t you?”

  “I certainly will,” said Roger. “All right, Miss Henry. Tell me everything that might help, and I’ll check very thoroughly indeed.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  The telephone bell rang before she began.

  There was an extension near Roger’s chair. He moved across and picked it up. It was an even chance that this was someone from the Yard; if it wasn’t, it would almost certainly be a friend of his wife.

  “Roger West speaking.”

  “Good evening, Mr. West.” The smooth voice of the speaker was vaguely familiar. “Will you be good enough to ask Miss Henry to speak to me?”

  Now Roger placed him; this was Samuelson.

  And this was a moment to be very, very wary.

  “I know she is there,” Samuelson went on, still smoothly. “I hope you understand that she is a very important defence witness, Mr. West, and that anything which might be construed into an attempt by the police to prejudice her evidence might have a most unfortunate effect.”

  The girl was pretending interest in a shelf laden with books, and could have no idea that this call affected her.

  Could she?

  “Mr. West—” tartness put an edge to Samuelson’s voice.

  “You do understand that any attempt to persuade a witness to withhold material evidence wouldn’t do anyone any good, don’t you?” said Roger, quite briskly. �
�I’ll ask Miss Henry if she would like to speak to you. Hold on, please.” He put the receiver against his chest, as the girl looked at him, as if startled. “It’s Mr. Samuelson.”

  “But how on earth does he know I’m here?”

  “That isn’t important now – would you like to speak to him?”

  She hesitated.

  “He can’t compel you to do what he wants,” Roger said; “you’re a completely free agent. But if I were you I’d hear what he has to say.”

  After a pause, Sybil said: “Yes, all right,” and stood up and moved towards Roger. He handed her the receiver and moved away. He could guess what Samuelson was saying, but that wasn’t his main preoccupation. His retort about persuading a witness to withhold evidence wouldn’t put Samuelson off his stroke, but a complaint from Samuelson that his, Roger’s, methods had been irregular could do a lot of harm. It was just the kind of thing that Jay would jump at.

  Sybil Henry said: “I’ve made my decision, Mr. Samuelson, and I intend to stand by it, I’m sorry. Good night.”

  She rang off.

  She could be decisive even if she did look fragile.

  Roger felt more than ever aware that he must be very careful what leads he gave her. If he was accused of trying to influence witnesses …

  “Mr. Samuelson just said that I mustn’t tell you what I have already told you,” Sybil said. “Mr. West, you will do everything you can to check what I’ve said, won’t you?”

  “I’ve already promised that I will. How long has your father had this worry?” Roger asked quickly.

  “About three months.”

  “Had you any particular reason to believe it was another woman?”

  “Not at first. I didn’t realise that mother was really worried. She was afraid it was something at the bank.”

  “As far as you know, is everything all right there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen any evidence that your father was conducting an affair? Lipstick on his clothes, for instance, perfume, powder – anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Would you know if your mother had seen any such thing?”

  “I think so. I’m sure she didn’t dream it was another woman.”

  “Has your father any close friends, who might be in his confidence about his affaire?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sybil said hesitantly. “He hasn’t many friends, and the bank dislikes scandal or anything remotely like that, so he wouldn’t be likely to confide in anyone there.”

  “I see. Have you told your mother about this?”

  She exclaimed: “Oh, no! Surely you won’t have to—”

  “I won’t unless it’s forced on me,” Roger promised. “Now, while you’re here – is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  “I don’t think so.” Obviously Sybil was still worried by the last question, and she hesitated. “Mr. West, I don’t want my mother harassed if it’s at all possible to avoid it.”

  “And she won’t be,” Roger promised.

  There was a ring at the front-door bell, and almost immediately a scraping of a chair upstairs; Scoopy’s room was immediately above their heads. Roger was puzzled by the ring. This was a front room, yet he’d seen no car and heard no footsteps. He glanced across at the three casement-type windows, and saw that two were open, one of them near the front porch. It was just possible that someone had been listening there, and had decided to call.

  Scoopy came hurrying downstairs.

  The girl was standing up, looking a little puzzled, as if she couldn’t understand what had distracted Roger.

  The front door opened, and Scoopy said in his most courteous voice, as to a stranger: “Good evening, sir.”

  A man asked abruptly: “Mr. West in?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Scoopy spoke very slowly, as he always did if anything happened that he didn’t understand or didn’t like. “Will you wait just a minute? And what name, please?”

  “He won’t know me,” the man said in the same abrupt way, and then his voice rose. “Get out of my way, you young brute.” There was a brief pause, then what sounded like a scuffle.

  Roger bounded towards the door, opened it and jumped into the passage.

  Scoopy was reeling against the wall, and a man half a head taller and very broad and powerful was much nearer this door, his heavy features set angrily.

  Roger barked: “What the devil’s this?”

  “If you don’t teach that kid of yours some manners he’ll get himself into trouble,” the stranger rasped. “You think yourself pretty good, don’t you, West? It’s time you were taken down a few pegs. What with intimidating witnesses and teaching your son to attack—”

  Scoopy was ashen pale with anger.

  “Dad, I didn’t do a thing. I just asked politely—”

  “… little liar,” the man said viciously; “if you’re not careful I’ll have him up in court for assault and battery. Where’s Miss Henry?” He thrust his face close to Roger’s and sneered: “I know she’s still here; the car’s outside. Trying to make her on the side? I noticed your wife’s out, and with your own kid upstairs you ought to be—”

  Roger cracked his fist against the man’s jaw. As he did so, he saw the other grin, as if that was exactly what he had wanted to happen.

  Two other men appeared, on the porch.

  Chapter Ten

  Photographs

  “You saw him, didn’t you?” the first man exclaimed, “I just asked if I could see Miss Henry, and he took a punch at me. Why, we ought to break his neck!”

  “Why don’t we?” one of the others sneered.

  Roger had drawn back, slowly. He didn’t understand everything, but he understood a lot. They were here to bait him, to establish the ‘fact’ that he had attempted to prevent them from seeing Sybil Henry. That was as far as he got; and for the moment it was as far as he needed to know.

  He said, “Now get out, and hurry.”

  The two men behind the first crowded the doorway. Scoopy was nearer them, still flattened against the wall, very pale, with his eyes glittering.

  “The Henry girl’s here,” the first man sneered. “It’s time you stopped thinking you can throw your weight about, West, you’ve had it.”

  One of the others pushed forward, and in doing so, poked his elbow in Scoopy’s chest. Scoopy drew his arm up, and the man spun round on him, vicious and angry, and slapped him across the face with the flat of his hand.

  “Don’t you raise your fist at me.”

  “Why, you rotten liar!” Scoopy breathed. “You tried to push me out of the way.”

  The man cried: “Call me a liar, would you? Why, I’ll smack you down so—”

  He drove his fist at Scoopy’s stomach, while the man in front of Roger barred his path. Until that moment there was no doubt that everything had gone according to the callers’ plans. It was the last moment, for the punch aimed at Scoopy’s stomach didn’t land. Scoopy wriggled, pushed the fist aside, and the man’s knuckles cracked against the wall. There was a moment of shocked surprise, but the man had no chance to recover before Scoopy went for him savagely, arms working like pistons, cracking him on the jaw, the forehead and the nose.

  The man nearer Roger spun round to join in.

  “That’s plenty from you,” Roger said, and grabbed his arm.

  He put all his strength into a blow at the other’s stomach, and felt his fist bury itself in the flesh, for the man hadn’t stiffened his muscles. The victim made a retching sound and staggered back, while the two men behind him were moving away almost desperately, and Scoopy was driving forward as if he wanted to kill.

  “That’s enough, Scoop!” Roger jumped forward. “Don’t do anything else, or—”

  Then several things seemed to happen at once. Sybil Henry came just behind Roger. Richard, his younger son, came tearing across the road from a neighbour’s house. Janet, his wife, called out in alarm from across the street, and also came running. One
of the three callers was already scurrying away from the house, and Scoopy’s first victim followed him; there was only the man who had started the fracas.

  “Oo, Scoop, what’s up?” Richard cried excitedly. “Oo, I wish I’d been here!” He stormed the porch as the first man turned and started to run. “Oh, no, you don’t!” cried Richard, and planted his six stone squarely in front of the man, who dwarfed him.

  “Look out, Fish!” Roger cried.

  “Richard!” screamed Janet.

  The man swept his arm up. Richard, seeing the blow coming, ducked and went for the other’s legs, but wasn’t quite quick enough. The blow sent him staggering across the garden. The man went running on, and further along Bell Street the engine of a car started up. Roger, looking along, over hedges and past trees and shrubs, saw the top of the car and one man getting in.

  Scoopy was racing after the third man.

  “Scoopy!” cried Janet wildly, and blocked his path. “What’s the matter with you all? Have you gone mad?”

  Scoopy stopped. The running man reached the car and climbed in, and the car started off, its engine roaring.

  “I simply don’t understand it,” Janet West said helplessly.

  They were in the kitchen, twenty minutes later, with the front door closed and the last of the curious neighbours gone, although some of the boys’ friends were still outside, all agog. Sybil Henry had insisted on driving away at once; she had seemed almost distraught. Roger had telephoned the Yard, and arranged for her to be followed home.

  “Why on earth should they come here and pick a fight?” demanded Janet.

  “Well, I don’t know why they should, but they did,” said Scoopy feelingly. “I was never more surprised in my life.” He was feeling his knuckles gingerly.

  “I can’t leave the house for half an hour without this happening,” said Janet, recklessly. She looked strikingly attractive, her eyes very bright because of what had happened, her cheeks flushed and her dark hair ruffled, with its clusters of loose curls. She wore a navy-blue dress with white cuffs at the sleeves and a white collar. “Roger, who was that girl? What has been happening?”