Inspector West Takes Charge (11 page)

He went up to the first floor and rang the bell.

A girl in WAAF uniform answered his ring. It was Garielle Transom. Roger recognized her at once as the original of the photograph from the
Echo.

Good evening,’ said Garielle Transom.

‘Is Mr Harrington in, please?’ Roger asked, trying to hide his surprise.

‘Not at the moment, but he usually gets in about half-past six,’ said Garielle. ‘Can I give him a message?’

‘I’ll wait, if I may.’ Roger hesitated and said nothing more until she stepped aside for him to enter a tiny hall which appeared to have no furniture but a rug and a hat-stand. ‘My name is West. Roger West.’

Garielle appeared disinterested; he watched for any reaction which might suggest that Harrington had talked to her of the happenings at Delaware, but if she had heard of Roger West before she didn’t say so.

‘If you’ll wait in here,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell him as soon as he comes in. You’ll have to excuse me, I’m preparing supper.’

She smiled; her blue eyes were lovely.

For some minutes he did no more than look at the deep crimson paint of the door of the room into which she had shown him. The fact that it had once flashed through his mind that the WAAF visitor might be Garielle Transom had made the encounter more of a shock.

He lowered himself to an easy chair. It was so well sprung and deep that he went further than he expected and hit his head against the back, which was soft and yielding; a chair made for comfort and nothing else.

The room was large, and the far end held a dining table, sideboard, and four chairs.

There were no pictures on the walls, but there were three delicately painted masks, all women’s faces. The outlines were thin and severe, there was no beauty in them except the colouring; this was a place for Mark rather than Roger. In one corner of the lounge was a baby grand, in inlaid walnut; the general effect was one of luxury. The rest of the furniture was also of inlaid walnut. The radiogram in the corner nearest the fireplace was what a salesman could say with honesty was a ‘handsome piece’.

Two vases on the mantelpiece made Roger widen his eyes; through Mark, he knew enough about pottery and china to know that they were no ordinary pieces.

A set of bookshelves on one side of the fireplace was equally instructive. A leather-bound set of Conrad was almost the only approach to anything light. There were some text-books on rubber; there was a Livy, a
Rise and Fall, Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

Roger was looking at these when the door swung open, and Harrington appeared. His face was set.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said with deliberation.

Roger said:
‘A la
Maisie Prendergast? What have
you
been drinking? Absinthe?’

‘I’ve no time to waste with you. I don’t propose to be harried by you or all the policemen at Scotland Yard. I’ve had too many asking questions at my factory as it is. What
do
you want?’

‘Finding out that you and Miss Transom were acquainted was only a matter of time. Why be so upset?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘And
Dreem
business.’

Harrington glowered; his hands were bunched by his sides. Roger passed him. Gabrielle Transom approached from another room. He could smell grilled bacon.

He admired the grace with which the girl walked. She unfastened a towel from her waist, one that had served as an apron.

‘Bill,’ she began, ‘don’t you think –?

‘No, I don’t,’ growled Harrington. ‘I’ve had enough of the blasted police force. They’ve been watching me all day, putting impertinent questions to my workers and neighbours, and generally asking for a pain in the neck. If West doesn’t make himself scarce quickly, he’s going to get one.’

‘Not a pain in my neck,’ said Roger. ‘Just a headache thinking about you,’ It was cheap but might make Harrington worry, later. He inclined his head to Garielle, and went out of the front door. He had a feeling that Harrington was urged to kick him, but he forced himself to make a decorous exit, and did not look round when he reached the landing of the staircase.

The door banged. Harrington seemed much more upset than police investigation justified. He must have known that they would check.

Roger whistled under his breath as he went into the street. A man was walking along it, also whistling; Roger approached him, and said: ‘I’m Inspector West.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Big brown eyes were on Roger. ‘Detective Colton of
Kingston,
sir.’ It was Colton who had telephoned.

‘How long will it take you to get another man here?’ Roger asked.

‘About fifteen, to twenty minutes, if I telephone. Or perhaps it would be better if you phoned. There’s a kiosk at the next corner.’

‘You phone,’ said Roger. ‘Say that I’ve asked for it.’ He watched the CID man go along the street, and glanced up at Harrington’s flat. The curtains were pulled aside, and Harrington was looking out. Roger fancied that he saw the girl by his side.

Roger strolled past.

He waited at a corner until the reinforcements arrived from Kingston. One man he detailed to watch Harrington, the other the girl who, the first detective told him, had arrived at about half-past three. He was reminded that it was not going to be easy in the black-out.

‘Do the best you can,’ Roger said, and walked briskly towards Kingston Hill.

Harrington was no longer looking out of the window. Roger started to whistle again, and eyed the kiosk on the corner of the next street. He felt that he needed more information about the Transoms, and particularly on how Harrington stood in relation to them. He did not believe that Harrington was ignorant of Garielle’s identity, and while it had not been incumbent on him to do so there was no apparent reason why he should not have told of his association with a member of a
Dreem
family on the previous night.

Roger entered the kiosk and rang up Sergeant Sloane, asking him to find out how Harrington stood with the Transoms. He was concentrating on this, and did not notice the man who approached the kiosk slowly. A man who had come from Hill Mansions Road, with a muffler well about his neck and wearing a large hat; it was too large, and had a very wide brim. A dozen people had passed the kiosk, but this man was obviously making for it.

‘Yes, ring me at Fulham,’ Roger said, and rang off.

The large hat filled his immediate vision, and the owner of it opened the kiosk door. Roger doubled his fist instinctively, and then saw an eye peering at him from beneath the brim, a bloodshot but humorous, familiar eye.

‘Hold it,’ implored Lessing.

Roger stepped on to the pavement, took Mark’s arm, and led him away.

‘Why the swaddling clothes? Aren’t you supposed to be resting in your little flat?’

‘I was tempted,’ admitted Mark. His other eye appeared. He had dispensed with bandages and was managing with sticking plaster. He had a headache, he said, but nothing else. ‘I wanted to see more of Harrington.’

‘Wrapped up like an imitation Texan,’ jeered Roger. ‘You could have been knocked into the middle of next week. Harrington doesn’t want visitors tonight.’

‘So I guessed,’ said Mark. ‘I was in a flat opposite. I bribed a little maid for a window seat. Ten shillings and my charm showed me most of what happened, although I didn’t hear the bull bellowing. He did bellow, didn’t he?’

‘Did you see the girl?’

‘I’ve already prepared a story that will make Janet set about you with more than the kitten,’ Mark said. ‘Who is she?’

‘Garielle Transom,’ said Roger.

‘I take it that Harrington is having an
affaire,
and objected to you muscling in?’

‘Are you really as dense as you make out?’

Mark frowned. ‘About what? I – Good God,
Transom!’

‘The penny has dropped,’ said Roger sardonically. ‘Yes, that’s Harrington’s lady love, and in the words of the politicians it opens up avenues for exploration. She knows him well, she has her own key, and she was taking a housewifely interest in his supper. A matter of some interest.’

Mark said: ‘What’s the stronger, word? What are you going to do?’

‘All I can,’ said Roger. ‘It looks like a job for you, to begin with. I wish you hadn’t been cracked over the head, you’d have been fit enough for it otherwise.’

‘I’m fit,’ asserted Mark. ‘What do you know about Garielle and her family?’

Roger told him what little he knew.

By then they had reached Roger’s car which was parked close by.

‘Which way are you going?’ Roger asked.

‘Delaware Village,’ replied Mark. ‘Then to Yew House, and the Transom
ménage.
I’ve evolved a very convincing story,’ he added with a grin. ‘I am working for a solicitor acting on behalf of an unnamed relative of the Prendergasts. No names, professional etiquette and all that. The relative is worried because of the possibility of murder, and wonders if so-and-so could give him any information. Such as, were any of the family of P. worried before their death. The idea,’ added Mark, ‘was evolved before I knew of Garielle. I’d thought of looking up each of the
Dreem
directors. You don’t want to do that officially yet, do you?’

‘No,’ said Roger. ‘You be careful, and report after each visit.’

‘You shall have a report whenever I get one. Or if I’m told by a friend of a friend that Widdison is a terrifying old bird, McFallen a gay Scot with a bright sense of humour and a love of whisky, and Hauteby is a man of flint. He’s younger than the others, and obsessed by business. He combines the duties of secretary and general manager of
Dreem,
hence his position on the board. A protégé of Septimus P., I gather.’

‘Tackle him carefully,’ said Roger. ‘And in case you forget,
I
don’t know what’s in your mind. There’s another thing,’ Roger went on. ‘Why are these directors so interested in Potter? Two of them are, anyhow.’

‘Another thing?’ echoed Mark. ‘I thought that was the same one. Give me a lift into Kingston, will you?’ he added. ‘I’m so hard up for petrol I daren’t chase around for Harrington in the car, and had to take a taxi. If you happen to have a spare coupon –’

Roger grinned. ‘I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.’

Half an hour later Roger, having dropped Mark in Kingston to pick up his own car, drove into the garage of his house, the doors of the garage being open, and then went in the back way.

The kitten arched its back cautiously against his legs.

‘Hallo, Omen,’ said Roger. ‘You’re improving.’ He whistled, and shouted: ‘Half-past seven and I’m home.’ There was no answer, and he frowned as he went into the lounge, then mounted the stairs two at a time and searched the three bedrooms and the bathroom. He called: ‘Jan, where are you?’

The kitten began to purr against his legs.

‘This is nothing to celebrate,’ said Roger. ‘Where is she? Next door, I suppose, and I don’t want half-an-hour’s chat with the Featherbys. You couldn’t take a message for me could you? No, I thought not.’ He lit a cigarette and stared reproachfully at the closed door of the kitchen, absurdly put out that Janet was not there to meet him. He laughed suddenly, remembering the lonely hours she had spent here recently,
and reminding himself that she was not due back until eight o’clock or at least did not expect him until then.

The telephone made him jump.

‘That’ll be her,’ he said, and lifted the receiver eagerly, to be greeted by a man’s deep voice, and feel astonishingly disappointed.

‘That you West?’ asked the voice, and went on: ‘It’s Simmonds, here, of AY Division. I thought I’d better ring you.’ Simmonds was a divisional superintendent.

‘The thing is,’ he went on, ‘that your wife has had an accident, West . . . no, nothing very serious, a bit of concussion. She’s at the Memorial Hospital. Oh, that’s all right, goodnight.’

Accident, thought Roger, his heart thumping. How on earth could it have happened? Where had she been? What had happened to her? He took the car out again after shutting the door on the kitten, which had begun a fugue in
miaow
major. Ten minutes later he was at the hospital; in twelve he was being reassured by a matron.

‘She’s perfectly all right, Mr West. It will be wise for her to stay here for the night, as we’re not in any hurry for the bed, and she’ll be better if she doesn’t get up. Slight concussion, perhaps, but little more than a severe shaking.’

Roger felt weak with relief.

He was led to the ward where some dozen patients were in bed. Janet was near the door. Her face lit up when he entered.

‘I wondered if they’d let you in,’ she said after he had kissed her. ‘I kept emphasising the fact that you’re a policeman, and I expect it worked. I was such a fool! I’d meant to make some scones, but Mrs Featherby came in and I didn’t have time. I thought the shop on the corner might have some. I just walked right into the car.’

Roger said: ‘You did, did you? At the end of the street’?

‘Yes, opposite the shop. I thought I heard a
miaow
and looked round as I stepped off the kerb, you know how it is sometimes.’ Janet was too excited, her eyes were over-bright and she had a slight flush. ‘I saw it and jumped back. I didn’t actually get hit, that’s the absurd thing. But I banged my head on the kerb. I know what Mark felt like last night now!’

‘I wish you didn’t’, said Roger.

‘Are you home for the evening?’

‘Yes.’ As soon as he said it he wished he had said ‘no’.

‘It would happen,’ mourned Janet. ‘I was going to come home, but they persuaded me to stay here. I’m not very steady on my legs. Can you spend the evening with Mark?’

‘I shall,’ Roger promised her. ‘But you –’

‘I’ll be all right, and the nurse is a dear. You don’t mind me staying? I mean, if you’d rather I came home, I will.’

‘Forget it,’ smiled Roger. ‘I’m so relieved it’s no worse that I shall probably open a tin of sardines for Quisling.’

‘Who?’

‘Quisling,’ said Roger firmly. ‘His
miaow
did the damage, didn’t it? The Fifth column.’ He stayed for ten minutes, telling her a little about the events of the day.