An Apostle of Gloom (22 page)

“I wasn't wholly sure that she told me everything,” he admitted, “but I can't believe that she would have been fool enough to have given me quite such a direct hint if she were guilty. Then there are the dictaphone records. If you're asking me to believe that Malone went there to get one just to create effect and to distract attention from her – well, sir, I can't believe it.”

“Oh,” said Chatworth. “Well, what
do
you believe?”

Roger hesitated before he said: “We might not have got to the bottom of it yet, sir. If – allowing it as an assumption, nothing else—”

“Very
nice of you,” said Chatworth, thinly.

‘That's right, be clever,' thought Roger. Aloud, he said: “If she did lead me there and is a party to it, it would only be because the Society is no longer useful and that she has taken up the second line of defence – or the people who work with her have. On the other hand, if she were genuinely interested in the Society as a relief organisation and had reason to believe that it was being used for something else, the method she adopted might be explained.”

“Astonishing!” Chatworth said. “I knew she was a lovely woman, but—”

Roger stood up abruptly, looking at the A.C., who had the grace to colour. As he stared at his superior, Roger was conscious of Abbott staring up at him. He sent a glance at the Superintendent's thin face, saw the expression, one almost of expectancy—was it
frightened
expectancy?—on it. He remembered everything from the beginning of the case and he was suddenly aware that one thing had been taken for granted.

His expression altered.

Abbott said: “What are you thinking, West?”

“Oh, I'm trying to imagine whether anyone else could be behind it,” Roger said, and then ruefully: “After all, if you have the list of the supporters of the Society you've plenty to choose from, haven't you? We may only be at the fringe of the affair yet. Seriously, sir – I ask you to pull Oliphant in if you must, but leave Mrs. Cartier for the time being.”

Chatworth pursed his lips, and said after a long pause: “I'll think about it, West. Have a couple of men ready to go with you to Chelsea, for Oliphant, in case we act at once. I'll call you in a few minutes.”

“Very good, sir,” said Roger, formally.

He wished he could hear what Abbott said to the A.C. as he went to his own office. It was empty, and he was glad that he could sit back at his desk and stare ahead of him without being harassed by curious officers. He hated the thought that had come to him, he wished that it had not. He saw the whole thing in a different perspective, something greater than a hoax, something even more serious than he had yet imagined. He saw what appeared to be the
only
effective way in which he could have served a useful purpose had the case been proved against him.

Supposing a man at the Yard
was
taking bribes?

Supposing the whole thing had been built up so that suspicion, which would be inevitable, had fallen on him, not on the real culprit.

Abbott?

Malone had said the Yard couldn't keep him if they got him. Was this confidence founded on the fact that he was sure of help from inside the Yard?

The telephone rang and he answered it quickly, surprised to hear Chatworth so soon on the line – he had not yet even detailed the sergeants. Then Eddie Day came in breezily, his prominent teeth bared in a smile of welcome.

“Eddie, get two sergeants here for me – I'll be back soon,” Roger said. “I'm going to see the Old Man.”

Mention of Chatworth was quite enough to prevent Eddie from trying to delay him. He walked quickly along the corridor and up the stairs, entering on Chatworth's gruff ‘come in.'

Abbott had gone.

“Close the door, West,” said Chatworth. “Sit down.” He linked his fingers together and placed his hands across his paunch and peered over his glasses. “Now, what's on your mind?”

“I think I've told you ev—” Roger began.

“No you haven't,” Chatworth barked. “Something is worrying you, I saw your change of expression. What is it?”

Reluctantly, Roger said: “Well, sir, I can't understand why I was framed. The Oliphant business and the 13th might be enough and yet – oh, it doesn't make sense! What would—”

“Ah!” said Chatworth. He leaned forward, pressing the backs of his hands against the side of the desk. “Does anything else puzzle you, West? Or have you allowed yourself to be dazzled by your change of fortunes and forgotten to think?”

“I don't follow you,” Roger said, but then added sharply: “Do you mean – the manner of my suspension?” When Chatworth glared at him he remembered his anger at the methods adopted, the fact that he had been treated as if already condemned. He said slowly: “Look here, sir, is there unquestionable evidence of a leakage at the Yard?”

“Yes,” said Chatworth, and exhaled with a noise like a collapsing toy balloon.

Before Roger could speak, after the silence which followed, the telephone rang. Chatworth frowned, and lifted it promptly. His frown disappeared in an expression of amazement. He snapped: “Yes, I'll come!” then banged the receiver down and jumped to his feet. “Come on, West,” he said. “Malone tried to break out of his cell, he got a key from somewhere.”

Roger exclaimed: “A key! So that—”

“Proves it, yes,” said Chatworth.

They found that a sergeant and three policemen at Cannon Row had managed to overpower Malone, after he had unlocked the door of his cell and, with a last furious burst of energy, had fought to escape. Of the evidence which Chatworth obtained, the important points were that Cornish had brought Malone and the others to Cannon Row and then gone on to the East End, that Malone had been visited by Abbott, alone, and later by Abbott and Tiny Martin.

With those things established and Malone on the way to hospital – it was amazing that he had had the strength for his effort after his severe battering – Chatworth and Roger returned to the A.C.'s office, facing the established fact of a renegade at the Yard and the need for prompt action.

 

 

Chatworth began to speak swiftly but in a low voice. He had long suspected that information was being allowed to escape from the Yard. Two or three arrests of men wanted for various crimes – all in the East End – had been prevented because the suspects had been warned and had managed to escape; they were in hiding. After the first two – in the November of the previous year – he had kept a careful watch, and had given Abbott and Tiny Martin the task of trying to find the leakage. There had been other leakages, less serious but quite unmistakable. Raids on West End clubs had failed because the proprietors had been warned in advance. Two small fences had been able to get rid of stolen jewels before their premises were searched. As far as Roger and the rest of the Yard knew, these were incidentals, cases which had failed at the last moment – as many did, there was nothing unusual about it. Chatworth had drawn a line between them all, connecting them and growing more than ever certain that information was being sold.

Abbott had worked quietly. Malone's name had been heard more often and Roger's associated with it. Abbott had tried the obvious thing, and approached Leech.

“And from then on it appeared to be a clear-cut case against you,” said Chatworth. “You know what happened after that. The dictaphone record proved that you were not the man. However, there is someone involved. Malone getting the key proves that beyond doubt. You suspect Abbott, don't you?”

“I couldn't go as far as that,” said Roger, “but he has crossed my mind. He told me that he had seen Malone, and only a policeman could have given Malone the key. It wasn't necessarily Abbott, even if he is the obvious man to suspect – I don't trust the obvious, sir.”

“Charitable of you,” growled Chatworth. “Who else?”

“It could be Sergeant Martin, who is familiar with all that Abbott does – and he was at the cell. But – it needn't be either of them.”

“You think it is, but you're trying to be fair,” said Chatworth. “All right, West! However, Abbott was very anxious that you should arrest Mrs. Cartier immediately. He tried to persuade me to give those instructions, but your case for her was a strong one. She must be watched, but there is no need for immediate action. We've uncovered the main plot, we must find who is letting us down.” The words sounded absurdly inadequate.

“Have you any course of action in mind, sir?” asked Roger.

“Yes. To use Oliphant as a bait. We won't go for him yet, but we'll broadcast the fact that it's only a matter of time before we do – I've given Abbott those instructions. If Oliphant remains where he is—” the A.C. shrugged. “It might be that whoever has been selling out thinks it's too dangerous this time. On the other hand, he'll probably be warned, and if he tries to get away we can pick him up. We should be able to find out who's told him to make himself scarce.”

“Ye-es,” admitted Roger, frowning. “I don't like it, sir, but—”

Chatworth said: “Oh, I'm thoroughly enjoying myself!” He snapped his fingers in exasperation. “I know how you feel, West; I'm all at sixes and sevens myself. In a police force of some twenty thousand men there are bound to be some rogues, but I don't like to think that any of them reach a position of responsibility. There's another thing we have to admit – it has completely disrupted our organisation. I've never known so many things go awry at the same time – and what's the reason?” Chatworth answered himself, after a pause: “Because I haven't felt that I can wholly trust anyone.”

Roger had a curious sensation – he felt sorry for the A.C. Of all the men he had imagined able to stand squarely on his own feet, Chatworth was the strongest. Now he was confessing that the situation had got beyond him. The vacillations of the official attitude suddenly became logical.

Roger smiled. “You know, sir, we aren't doing too badly! Malone and his mob under arrest, the Society fraud proved, most of the agents, guilty and innocent, known to us. At another time we'd be congratulating ourselves. Within forty-eight hours we should know whether Mrs. Cartier
is
the brains behind the scheme, or whether it's Oliphant or someone whom we don't yet know.”

“Ye-es,” said Chatworth, relaxing into a smile. “Comforting common sense, West, thank you!” He rubbed the side of his head. “Do you think it possible that whoever is giving information from here
is
the real leader? Is that in your mind?”

“No more than vaguely,” Roger said.

Chatworth considered. “Fair enough,” he conceded.

“Are you having any individuals in the force watched, sir?” Roger asked, studiously avoiding names.

“Difficult to set the police to catch the police,” Chatworth said, “especially after our one complete failure. I shall leave it to you.”

“With full authority?” Roger asked, quietly.

“With full authority to act,” Chatworth said.

“Thank you, sir,” said Roger, and found it difficult to conceal a smile of gratification.

“Except,” said Chatworth, “you will tell no one here what you are doing. If you want anyone followed without his knowledge, whoever you use must believe that there is some danger for his quarry and that he's acting as a bodyguard – you can arrange that, of course?”

“Of course, sir,” echoed Roger.

Ten minutes later he was sitting at his desk. No one else was in the office, and he was grinning much as he had done in the taxi.

The quick changes of mood which he had felt that day were natural enough. The latest development, grave though it was from the official point of view, did not affect him personally. The
volte face
was remarkable – from being suspect Number One he had become the only man wholly in Chatworth's confidence. That, and Janet's news, offset the depressing effect of what had happened at Bell Street and the problems which remained unsolved.

The telephone rang. “Mrs. West is on the line, sir,” the operator told him.

“Put her through,” Roger said quickly. “Hallo . . . Jan, have—”

“I would like to ring Malone's neck!” said Janet, with deep feeling, “but I'm told that Bill Tennant didn't do a bad job! Darling, I”—her voice sounded bright—”wanted to tell you not to worry about the lounge, it—I mean, they have left us something and—well, it doesn't really matter all that much.”

Roger said: “Bless you, my sweet!”

“I mean, don't brood about it,” Janet said. “How are things going?”

“Not badly,” said Roger, switching his mind with difficulty. “I—er—look here, ask Mark and Tennant to meet me at the Green Cat – Mark knows it – at half past two, will you? Unless they're both too tired, that is. I think I can find something for them to do.”

“Mark's here,” said Janet, “will you have a word with him? Mark!” she called and then Mark's voice sounded on the line.

Roger did not see Janet turn from the repaired telephone and look about the room, with tears in her eyes and her cheeks very pale. Roger had not seen her expression when she had arrived, nor watched her forcing back her tears when she saw the chaos. But Mark saw her as he spoke to Roger and he sounded rather subdued. Roger put it down to the fact that his friend was tired; he confirmed the arrangement to meet at the Green Cat, and rang off. He was smiling widely when the door opened and Eddie Day came in.

“Now what's the matter with you, Handsome?” demanded Eddie. “Strike me, you look as if you'd lost a tanner and found half a crown! Been promoted?” he added, almost anxiously.

Roger laughed. “No, Eddie, I won't be able to go any higher until I'm in the middle forties, if at all, so cast the green mote out of your eye!”

Eddie, jealous of his inspectorship, looked relieved.

“Things going all right, then?” he asked.

“Not badly at all,” said Roger. “You haven't seen Abbott, have you?”

“Just come from him,” said Eddie, frowning. “Cold fish all right, he tried to tick me off. Me!
He
doesn't look as if he's come into a fortune, if you ask me, he looks as if he's got something on his mind.”

“Does he?” asked Roger, perfunctorily.

He made one or two phone calls, wishing Cornish were at the Yard. But the fair-haired Inspector was working in AZ – his old Division – which he knew thoroughly, trying to find out more about Malone and keeping an eye open for Pickerell. Pickerell, Mrs. Cartier and Oliphant, Roger thought, might give him the answer to the major problem – that of the renegade policeman.

“Seen Sloan?” asked Eddie Day, looking up from his desk.

“Sloan? No!” Roger was eager. “Is he back?”

“I saw him coming in, half an hour ago,” Eddie said. “Looks as if he's been somewhere the sun shone – better weather than
we've
had.”

Detective-Inspector William Sloan, until recently Sergeant Sloan and Roger's chief
aide,
was a tall, not bad-looking man, with mousy hair, a rather speculative expression in his brown eyes. Roger sent for him; Eddie went out and Sloan said that he had come back two days early because he had heard a rumour of Roger's trouble. He looked genuinely relieved at the present position.

“Oh, it passed,” Roger said, “but the A.C. feels pretty sure that there is a leakage.” He looked at Sloan evenly. The other did not answer, but after a pause he smiled faintly and nodded.

“What I want to do,” said Roger, “is to make sure that no one has a crack at Abbott or Martin.” He paused; he thought that Sloan was probably the only man at the Yard, Cornish possibly excepted, who would be able to read between his words. “They've been up to the neck in this business and they might be in danger, even though Malone's gone,” he added. “But then, you don't know what's been happening?”

“I've heard all about it,” said Sloan. “I've been in the canteen.”

“Good! Take a couple of reliable men, will you, and guard Abbott and Martin with their lives!” Roger smiled. “Don't let Abbott know what you're doing, or he might get annoyed. It doesn't take much to upset him.”

“I follow you,” said Sloan, sombrely.

“You'll turn in the usual reports, of course,” said Roger, “and phone me if there's anything urgent. Oliphant is suspect Number One at the moment – had you heard of that?”

“Everyone here seems to have heard,” Sloan told him.

“Nice work,” Roger said.

But he believed that it was a mistake and was glad it was Chatworth's responsibility, not his. If Oliphant were warned, anyone at the Yard might be responsible. Had only a limited number known of the solicitor's connection with the case, the issue would have been narrowed. Now it was done, he would have to make the best of it, but it made new difficulties.

In the course of the next hour, several reports were telephoned to him. The men watching Oliphant had nothing to report. The solicitor had not left his house but had been seen at the front window. He had had no callers. Mrs. Cartier was at her flat, but her husband had gone to the City and had last been seen entering the building which houses the head offices of the Cartier Food Product Company – it seemed likely that Cartier was taking one of his sporadic plunges into the affairs of the Company from which he obtained his wealth. There was no trace of Pickerell, but Cornish, telephoning personally, said that several more of Malone's men had been located and there were rumours that a man answering Pickerell's description had been seen in the East End the previous evening.

“Good man – go to it!” Roger said.

“Ought I to have a word with Abbott?” Cornish asked.

“Why not?” asked Roger, putting Cornish through.

He telephoned the letting office at Bonnock House, talked for some time, and, at half past twelve, he went down to the canteen, had a snack, and then left for Pep Morgan's office – he had telephoned to say that he would be there about one o'clock and asked for Pep's chief operatives to be present. Maude greeted him, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She told him that she had been to see Pep that morning and that he was making a good recovery.

“I didn't think it would be too bad,” said Roger. “Where are the men?”

Maude cocked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating Pep's private office.

The lanky Sam was propping himself up against the window, a stolid, chunky individual – the man who had been at Bell Street and who had left soon after dawn that day – was sitting on Morgan's desk. He swore that he had heard nothing of the taxi-driver's arrival in the garage; Dixon had been there before Pep's man had arrived on duty. The other men, middle-aged fellows with jaundiced looks in their eyes and the world-weariness which comes to men whose lives are bound up with the sordid business of domestic disruption, were sitting on upright chairs. All of them eyed Roger hopefully.

“Okay, Boss,” Sam said, “shoot.”

Roger smiled. “Look here,” he said, “this is more official than it was before – I'm no longer the bad boy of the Yard. But I want some help.”

“So you really admit there
are
detectives outside the Yard?” Sam said, admiringly. “You learn quick, Handsome!”

“I hope you will,” Roger said.

He told them what he wanted. The Cartier
ménage,
the Society offices and Oliphant's house were all to be watched, but they were not to disclose their presence to any police who happened to be near the scenes. They were the second line of defence, he said – the police would be recognised by the crooks but they might not be. Since Malone's gang had been rounded up, they need not expect much in the way of violence, but he would expect precise reports as to who had gone into the buildings, and who had come out.

He thought Sam seemed disappointed, but the men went off cheerfully enough.