Inspector West Takes Charge (20 page)

‘How about
that,’
Mark whispered.

‘Quiet,’ breathed Roger.

It was deathly quiet, after Harrington stopped, and the silence lasted until someone began to breathe heavily. Then came little clucking sounds, probably from Clara Transom.

Transom exploded: ‘Your
wife!
Garielle, he can’t mean that! It can’t be true. You haven’t married this mountebank! I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it!’

‘Will a marriage certificate convince you?’ asked Garielle, and a rustling of paper sounded. ‘Would you like to see it now?’ She spoke as if it was all she could do to stop herself from shouting. The tension in the room must be at breaking point.

‘Why does Transom hate Harrington?’ Mark could not keep quiet.

‘We’ll find out.’

Clara Transom exclaimed: ‘Oh, Garry, Garry. Why, why did you have to deceive us!’

‘Because if I hadn’t father would have tried to stop our wedding,’ Garielle said evenly. ‘There would have been another horrible outburst in the newspapers. Do you think I want my affairs put in the headlines because my father’s a crank on the subject of women? A dozen times a
hundred
times! I’ve asked him why he objected to the man I love. He’s never tried to answer it. He’s always put me off by saying that he wanted someone better for me.
Better !
’ Her scorn was scathing. ‘He would like to lead me to the altar with some ape with a title. Look at the specimens he’s had here to parade in front of me!’

After a short silence, Transom said: ‘No, it wasn’t that, Garielle.’ His voice was low-pitched, a most surprising thing. ‘I wished you to marry well, Garielle, but I desired your happiness above all things. I knew that you could never be happy with this fraud. He is no more William Harrington than I am; He is no relative of the Prendergasts; he has simply pretended to be in order to get the
Dreem
company. But what can I do now? What can I do?’

Garielle said: ‘Daddy, you must believe –’

‘It cannot be forgotten,’ Transom said.

There was an edge to Harrington’s voice. ‘Who put this idea into your head, Mr Transom? If those policemen –’

‘It has nothing to do with the police. When I knew that you were associating with my daughter I made inquiries. I received positive proof that you are not Harrington. Your name is Duke Conroy.’ Transom was speaking with an obvious effort, and there were long pauses between some of the words. ‘I had documentary proof of this. I was prevailed upon to keep silent because it seemed the wiser course. I never dreamed of this.’

‘Daddy, it isn’t true.’

Harrington said: ‘Who gave you the information?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘For better or worse you’re my father-in-law,’ Harrington said sardonically. ‘I’m not going to be evaded like this. Who was it?’

‘His name –’ began Transom.

Abruptly, without the slightest warning, a
crack
sounded behind Roger and Mark, the sound of a rifle shot. Something hummed past them. It struck Transom on the side of the head. There was a short, devastating silence before Roger and Mark swung round.

As they turned they caught a glimpse of a man not twenty yards behind them, his face hidden by a slouch hat pulled low.

Roger shouted, and dropped to his knees. Mark followed. A bullet shot over their heads and struck the wall of Yew House. Roger rose to his knees cautiously, hearing movements ahead of him. He saw the man who had now turned away from them; the top of his rifle showed above his head. He was racing towards a thicker belt of trees.

‘Careful, Roger!’

Mark drew an automatic from his pocket as he straightened up. The man’s hat and the top of the rifle continued to show. From somewhere farther to the north came the shrill blast of a police whistle, but it was too far away to offer any direct threat to the rifleman.

Mark fired, aiming low. The bullet lost itself amongst the shrubs, and the man ran on. Mark moved towards a clearer spot, and then caught a glimpse of the other. He fired twice, from the hip, saw the man stagger and sway forward, only to recover and go on running. His speed was reduced, but his recuperative powers were good. He swung round, lowering the gun.

He was no more than twenty yards from Mark, and Roger could not see how the man could miss.

Mark squeezed his trigger again, as the rifle spoke. Its bullet went hopelessly high, while Mark’s hit the rifleman in the chest. The man coughed, then dropped his rifle. As he crumpled up, his face was hidden. They saw only that he was a small man.

He sprawled forward on his face.

Behind Roger and Mark, Harrington came running and close on his heels came Garielle. From the shrubs to the north of the house two policemen broke into sight, running hard but at first purposelessly. Then they saw the others and headed towards them.

From the open window a scream was coming, a high pitched, unremitting scream.

Harrington stopped and said to Garielle: ‘Go to her, Garry.’

Garielle turned and went back to the house.

Mark and Roger were the first to bend over the wounded man, a man who might be dead. Roger went on one knee and removed his hat; and then stared down at an old, lined face, at grey hair, and lips which were working in pain.

An echo of Janet’s voice was in Roger’s ears.

‘He’s rather a dear,’
she had said. ‘He’s rather a dear.’

There he was, coughing now and with his face twisted, the rifle not a yard from him, and the evidence of Roger and Mark to convict him of the attack on Transom if nothing else. It was Petrie, the Prendergasts’ servant.

‘He’s rather a dear,’
Janet had said. ‘He’s rather a dear.’

Lampard’s men couldn’t be blamed for letting this old man go wherever he wished. No one could be blamed but another director of
Dreem
was dead.

Roger walked slowly from the study at Delaware into the lounge. It was empty, and there was no fire. The darkness of evening spread over the countryside, but the blackout was not drawn, and there was a little light in the big room, although it was full of shadows. From outside there came the sound of birds, settling for the night, and from inside the sharp rattle of curtains being pulled across rails.

Roger stood by the window, looking out, and was there when the door opened and a woman appeared.

‘May may I do the blackout, sir, please?’

‘Yes,’ said Roger. He turned from the window, and caught a glimpse of the sight he had been waiting for; the gleam of car lights coming along the drive. He was on the porch to receive Lampard and Mark, who climbed out of the Guildford Inspector’s car hurriedly.

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Mark. ‘The same gun without a doubt. Same markings on the bullets that killed Anderson, Clay, “Smith” and Transom. Petrie was the rifleman, and he’s on what the hospital calls the danger list.’ Mark paused, then added: ‘It’s said he’s never used a gun until he joined the Home Guard.’

Roger nodded, and Lampard stepped through into the hall, taking off his hat.

There was a sense of anti-climax about the arrival, although the news that Petrie was alive was welcome.

‘I’ve been through his papers,’ Roger said. ‘There’s nothing there to indicate why he did it, or that he’s involved with Potter or anyone else. He’s worked for the family for twenty three years. It doesn’t make sense. None of the case makes sense. There’s murder after murder, and nothing we can do to prevent it. We’re within ten yards of him and we let Transom die. We’re no farther on than we were when we started. Or have you been gifted with a vision?’ he demanded sourly.

‘No visions,’ said Mark. ‘No self-reproach either. I haven’t any ideas in the back of my head. If I had, Petrie wouldn’t have worried me. How’s Maisie?’

‘All she says is that she doesn’t believe it,’ Roger reported.

‘Claude’s conscious, but I haven’t told him yet. He’s much better,’ he added, as if he was searching for something good to say, ‘At least we’ve saved his life. Others could be more valuable.’

‘I think we should get to Yew House again,’ Lampard said. ‘Wade has been there alone too long on his own already.’

‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘Mark, you stay here and keep an eye on Maisie and Claude. I don’t feel that anyone’s safe now. You’ll be ‘shooting me next,’ he added, and then suddenly laughed, with a slight easing of his depression. ‘Five more minutes like that and I’ll be asking for a nice safe job as a fighter pilot. Ready, Lampard?’

The telephone bell cut across Lampard’s ‘yes’.

Roger reached it, to hear the bright voice of Inspector Wade.

‘May I speak to Mr Lampard, please?’

‘Hold on.’ Roger put the receiver of the old-type instrument into Lampard’s hand. Wade’s voice crackled without making sense to Roger and Mark, but it did not last for long. Lampard replaced the receiver, and looked round.

‘Widdison and Hauteby have just arrived at Yew House,’ he announced. ‘It’s certainly time we went there.’

It took them twenty minutes to reach Transom’s. Outside Harrington’s car was dwarfed by a Daimler with a chauffeur leaning inelegantly against one corner. He straightened up as the two policemen arrived; but eyed them vacantly.

A servant opened the door.

‘Mr Harrington said, sir, would you please go to Mr Transom’s study?’ There were tears in the woman’s eyes, and she sniffed as she finished.

‘Thank you,’ said Lampard, and led the way upstairs.

Roger had seen little of the big hall and the wide gallery. He had a feeling that he had stepped out of the present into the past, but he paid little attention to the hall or the gallery as he followed Lampard to the room where a sliver of light showed under the door. Lampard tapped, and entered.

Harrington was standing with his back to the fireplace; Hauteby and Widdison were sitting on either side of the fire, while in the background Wade hovered, shiny-faced and smiling. Roger had expected to see Garielle, but she was not there.

‘Hallo,’ said Harrington. ‘I thought you’d be back earlier.’

‘We couldn’t make it,’ said Lampard.

Roger studied Widdison and Hauteby. Widdison looked a much older man than his years, his face was wizened and his eyebrows jutted; the word ‘ogre’ was at least justified by appearance. His face was brick red. His eyes were buried in deep sockets, and his mouth appeared to be shrivelled, so that a set of dentures showed plainly; large, ugly dentures, also revealing his gums.

Hauteby was a dark man, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, black haired. He was dressed immaculately, his hair brushed sleekly from his high, smooth forehead. One of a type, Roger thought, whereas Widdison was certainly unique.

They were the only remaining directors of
Dreem,
Claude excepted.

‘Your man asked us not to look through any papers,’ Harrington said. ‘We’ve obeyed instructions.’ There was a note of sarcasm in his voice, but he looked tired. ‘Did you get the man identified?’

Widdison leaned forward.

‘That’s right. Who was it?’

‘Petrie, the servant of the Prendergasts,’ Lampard said.

‘Good God!’ gasped Widdison. His voice croaked, there was bewilderment in his expression which looked convincing, ‘Petrie, the old snake! Why, he’s been.’

‘He’s been a servant of the family for many years,’ said Roger. The keenness of his voice made Lampard stare. ‘Not a man one would expect to go suddenly killer-crazy. He’s, certainly killed three people whom he might have believed were parties to murdering the Prendergasts, the family he has served for so long.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Widdison again; it was a blasphemy.

‘Have you any reason for suggesting that?’ Hauteby’s eyes were restless as they looked at Roger.

‘The obvious one,’ Roger said, concealing the fact that the idea had come almost with the words. ‘What other motive could there be?’ The idea had come when he had realized who the rifleman was. He needed time to investigate it more thoroughly, and he came out with it because it would obviously worry both Widdison and Hauteby. ‘What brought you here, gentlemen?’

‘We were told of the murder,’ Hauteby said. ‘We came to offer sympathy and help to Mrs Transom. If Petrie thought
we
killed his employers . . . but why should he?’

‘You had a meeting here the other night with a Mr Gabriel Potter,’ Roger said. ‘Sir Andrew McFallen was to have been here, but he was killed. I understand that Potter rejected a proposition which you put to him. It is possible that the murders are connected with that proposition. I want to know exactly what it was.’

Widdison croaked: ‘Damned if you will!’

‘Are we to take that as a refusal to co-operate with the police?’ Lampard demanded.

‘Take it as what you like,’ said Widdison. ‘It’s our business. Nothing to do with you or anyone else.’

Roger said: ‘Harrington, when you were talking to me last evening you promised to advise your backer that we wanted to know who had financed you. Have you done that?’

‘Yes,’ said Harrington.

‘Are you prepared to disclose his name?’

‘He refused permission.’

Lampard said: ‘There are limits to the obstruction which we can permit, Mr Harrington. You may have promised not to disclose the name of your backer, but that is unimportant compared with the issues now.’

Harrington looked at him stubbornly.

Widdison and Hauteby turned from Roger to Lampard, as if uncertain from whom to expect the next question. In a detached fashion Roger thought that he had perfected this dual role with Mark, but had not expected Lampard to slip so easily into the habit. It served the purpose of confusing the others, of adding to their uncertainty; and there was nervousness here as well as apprehension. There was nothing normal about the reactions of any of them, Harrington possibly excepted, and Harrington had kept far too many facts to himself.

Hauteby said: ‘I don’t think there is any reason why I shouldn’t tell you, Inspector. Mr Transom backed Harringtons Limited.’

‘What?’

‘Oh no, he didn’t,’ said Harrington. ‘You did.’

Now it was coming out. Lampard had known what to expect. Hauteby and Harrington glared at one another, while Widdison made a clicking noise with his false teeth.