Inspector West Takes Charge (21 page)

‘You thought it was me, Harrington,’ Hauteby said. ‘You will remember that I told you that I had not sufficient capital myself, but that I thought I could induce someone else to put it up. I did. Transom financed you seventy-five per cent. I did the rest.’

‘But I thought I was poison to him!’

‘So you were,’ said Hauteby. ‘But he was not fool enough to allow personal dislike to interfere with business. After he had thought over your proposition, he saw its possibilities. So did I. Neither of us wanted the other directors to have any share, so Transom put up most of the money, and I supplied the rest.’

Widdison kept clicking his teeth; so far as it was possible for him to look anything but grotesque, he looked angry.

‘All right,’ said Roger. ‘We now know who financed you, Harrington, but we don’t know why you wanted to keep Mr Hauteby’s name out of it.’

‘He made it a condition,’ Harrington said. ‘In any case the process is on the secret list, and I had strict orders from the Ministry of Supply to keep it that way. I was puzzled by the things that were happening, and wanted to sit back and watch them work out. I knew that there were people trying to discredit me, and I thought that it was the family and probably the other
Dreem
directors. It looked like an effort to get rid of me, and take over the process. That wasn’t an idea I wanted to put up to you, though. I thought the police were there to find the answers, not to be spoon fed. I preferred to look on,’ he added. ‘I might have taken a different view but for my wife. I wanted the marriage kept quiet, too. But there was queer business all along the line, and I intended to find out who was behind it.’ He paused, and put his pipe between his teeth. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he said, ‘I had no other motive.’

‘Hadn’t you, darling?’ asked Garielle.

She came in from the door, which had opened quietly. Her face was pale, but pallor could not rob her blue eyes of their brightness, nor affect the beauty of her movements. She had changed from Air Force blue to lemon-coloured two-piece with a white blouse, frilly at the front.

Harrington said: ‘Garry, you don’t want to –’

‘I do want to,’ interrupted Garielle Harrington. ‘I’m tired of it all, darling. We can’t go on being fools.’ She looked at Roger. ‘Bill was vague and obstructive because I wanted him to be. I told you that we had met by accident for the same reason.’

It was a fact, reflected Roger, that there was no sound in the room but her quiet voice. Every eye was turned towards her, every face held an expression of tense anticipation It was more than the fact that everyone looked towards the speaker, more than the effect of an exceptionally beautiful woman on an audience of men. The inflexion in her voice hinted at revelations, but there was even more to it than that. It was as if Hauteby, Widdison, and Harrington were afraid of what those revelations might be.

Harrington said nothing.

‘I persuaded him to be evasive with his story. I persuaded him to keep you guessing. And I helped him all I could. You see, although I had quarrelled with my father, he was still my father. I thought he might be involved in all the crimes. I knew he was working with the man Potter, and I’d heard of Potter’s reputation. Father was afraid, too. He lived with that kind of fear which dogs a man everywhere, and which he can’t hide no matter how hard he tries. I thought that he was deliberately trying to ruin Bill because of his objections to our association, but I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t try to rationalize my ideas; they were vivid impressions and deep fears. Something was going on underneath the surface, and I did all I could to make sure that you didn’t suspect my father. I thought he would realize that whatever he was doing would have to stop once the police were in it. It was a case of divided loyalties, Inspector. Bill backed me up. It’s as simple as that.’

She went over to Harrington, and slipped an arm through his. He pressed her to his side, and smiled down with a twisted but reassuring smile. They looked quite homely outlined against the dull red fire.

Lampard broke the silence.

‘You suspected your father of some kind of criminal enterprise, Mrs Harrington. Do you still maintain that you had no idea what it was?’

‘Except that it involved my husband, I knew and I know nothing,’ said Garielle. ‘But I can tell you one thing. Father had some papers hidden in the house.’ She glanced up at a clock fastened to the wall above the mantelpiece, turning her head to do so. ‘I don’t know what they are, but I know that clock can be taken away, and there is a safe behind it. The keys are in amongst those which you took out of father’s pocket, Inspector Lampard.’

Just as every eye had been turned towards Garielle, they now turned towards the clock. It was an oak-faced, intricately carved example of an early Georgian clock-maker’s art. Its loud ticking could be heard in every comer of the room; the ticks were exaggerated by the tension.

Lampard said: ‘How did you come to know about this?’

‘Mother has just told me,’ said Garielle. ‘It’s time we knew the worst, I think. Or the best.’ For the first time she allowed some feelings to show, and she bit her underlip. Then she took a grip on herself, while Lampard turned to Wade.

‘Where are the keys, Wade?’

‘Here, sir.’ Wade took a small attaché case from the floor at the side of Transom’s desk.

Lampard opened the case, pulled out a piece of dark cloth, unfolded it, and spread the contents of Transom’s pockets on the desk. A leather key-case was amongst them. He picked this up and opened it.

‘Do you know which key, Mrs Harrington?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Hauteby and Widdison were sitting forward in their chairs, staring at Lampard. The tension was almost red hot.

Lampard crossed to the mantelpiece. Harrington and Garielle moved aside so that he could get to the clock more easily. The clock did not shift at the first attempt, but Lampard persisted, and eventually found the secret. He pressed a piece of the carved woodwork, which released a spring which held the timepiece close to the wall. It came away on a hinge. Behind it was a round wall-safe, with a sunken handle. The keyhole was on the right-hand side.

Roger was studying the
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directors. Widdison had his hands tight on the arm of his chair, and Hauteby was sitting bolt upright. Harrington and Garielle, nearest Lampard, were looking at him with an interest only a little less tense. Wade was gaping, as Lampard began to try the keys, one after another, showing no signs of tension or excitement.

The fifth key fitted. Lampard turned it.

There was an audible gasp from Widdison, and Hauteby shifted in his chair. Roger glanced away. Lampard was lifting something from the safe. He had a seated envelope in his right hand, and explored the inside of the safe for anything else; apparently there was nothing, for he withdrew his hand.

‘This seems to be it.’

Hauteby moved again.

He did two things at the same time, standing up and taking his right hand from his pocket. The electric light shone on the barrel of an automatic. He backed swiftly towards the wall alongside Lampard; it was the only place which he could reach quickly while keeping the whole company covered.

Wade drew a hissing breath.

Roger saw the red-faced Inspector out of the corner of his eye. Wade was picking up the attaché case, obviously preparing to throw it. Hauteby fired a single shot. The bullet buried itself in Wade’s shoulder, and the case dropped with a clatter to the ground. Wade clutched his shoulder, but stood staring, swaying.

The echoes of the shot floated about the room.

‘Give me that envelope,’ Hauteby said harshly. ‘Put it on the arm of my chair.’

Lampard’s grip tightened on the envelope.

‘I’ve warned you,’ Hauteby said. His face was twisted, his lips drawn together in a thin line, ‘I mean to have it. Don’t throw your life away.’

Roger wondered it was really happening, whether it was possible-that the man seriously expected to get away with the envelope. Other police were downstairs, more in the garden; the shot would have been heard. But there was no sound but the heavy breathing of the men and Garielle.

Lampard threw the envelope into Hauteby’s face.

Hauteby thrust up his left hand and snatched the envelope out of the air, then shot out his right foot as Lampard came forward. A crunching sound came as his foot went into Lampard’s stomach. Lampard groaned and sank down. Hauteby slewed the gun round towards the others, saying: ‘Get near Widdison, all of you.’

‘Don’t,’ Garielle exclaimed suddenly. ‘Bill, don’t, it’s useless!’

Roger saw Harrington’s hands clench, knew that the girl expected him to rush at Hauteby. If Harrington did it would be suicide.

He had to get that gun and make sure no one was hurt. He had to make Hauteby drop both the gun and envelope to make the effort which Wade and Lampard had already tried, so disastrously. It gave him a numbness in the pit of his stomach, especially as Harrington and Garielle moved back towards Widdison’s chair, and Hauteby turned to him. The man was ruthless. He meant to get away with that envelope, and did not care what he had to do to achieve it.

‘I’ll give you thirty seconds,’ Hauteby said.

Roger swallowed a lump in his throat.

‘I don’t know that I need that long.’

This was the moment he had to make his move. His mind was curiously void of fear. Police outside should be here by now, it was as if this case had a jinx. What a way to take charge! He took a step towards Widdison’s chair, and stumbled over the edge of a skin rug. He straightened up, as Hauteby’s gun moved. Hauteby did not press the trigger, or utter further threats, but the stumble had helped he thought Roger had lost his chance.

Roger stumbled again, and fell.

He was on the ground, when he saw the stab of flame from Hauteby’s gun. The crack of the shot was loud; a dull plop came as the bullet buried itself in the floor ahead of him. He rolled over towards Hauteby. Harrington shot out a hand and swept the ornaments from the mantelpiece towards the crook. A vase struck Hauteby’s shoulder, as a second bullet nicked Roger’s arm.

Hauteby was off his balance, and slewed his gun round towards Harrington, but Harrington was on him in a flash. The crack of his fist on Hauteby’s chin echoed nearly as loudly as the pistol shots.

Harrington saw Hauteby’s gun arm fly upwards, and he seized the man’s wrist. The gun dropped, as Roger was picking himself up slowly, scowling because of the pain in his arm. Hauteby was stretched out, unconscious, and the gun and the letter were in Harrington’s hand.

‘Got ‘em both,’ Roger remarked absurdly.

‘Got them both,’ said Harrington. ‘I’d like to break this swine’s neck.’ He bent down and lifted Hauteby bodily, then dropped him into the chair. He pressed a bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece. ‘Where the hell are your men?’

‘If you’ll raise a shout on the landing, someone will come;’ said Roger. ‘May I have those?’ He kept his left arm close to his side, the elbow crooked. There was a throbbing pain half-way between the wrist and elbow, but he did not say that he had been injured.

Harrington handed over the gun and envelope and went into the passage. His bellow echoed back into the room, but there was no answering call, and no one responded to the ringing of the bell in the domestic quarters.

He called: ‘I’ll go and rout ‘em out, West.’

‘We’re all right here,’ said Roger. ‘Miss Transom, would you mind looking at Wade’s shoulder?’ He did not want to give Wade any attention himself, he was still afraid that Widdison might have a trick up his sleeve. Widdison had not moved since the threat from Hauteby; he sat back in his chair like a grotesque dummy, his deep-set eyes glowing.

Garielle moved towards Wade, who had dropped into a chair by the desk. Lampard was trying to sit up; he kept his hands pressed tightly against his stomach, and his face was a greyish-green, as if he was suffering from severe air-sickness.

‘Take it easy, Lampard,’ said Roger.

A shout came from Harrington, loud at first then fading away in a gurgle. Garielle swung round from Wade. The cry tapered off into a gasping note, followed by a sudden thudding noise; Roger had a swift vision of Harrington falling down the stairs.

He said to Garielle: ‘Stay where you are.’

He pushed her aside as he reached the door. As he showed himself in the dimly-lighted passage, he saw a flash of flame ahead of him. It showed a glimpse of a huge figure. The bullet smacked into the door, not an inch from him. He fired, but missed, and then from the other end of the passage another bullet struck his shoe.

He backed swiftly into the room.

‘Bill, I must go to Bill,’ cried Garielle. She tried to push past Roger, but he blocked her way. He caught a glimpse of the massive figure again and fired, heard a gasp and thought he had made a hit, but before he could be sure he slammed the door, then turned the key in it. Garielle shot out a hand to get the key, but Roger put it in his pocket, saying: ‘You wouldn’t get a yard along the passage. Don’t act like a little fool.’ He kept the gun in his right hand and went swiftly to the telephone, heard the operator’s voice and said: ‘Tell the Guildford police to send a strong force to Yew House, and give me Mrs Prendergast’s house, Delaware.’

He waited for the girl operator to say: ‘Yes, sir, right away.’

He heard the ringing sound, not once but half-a-dozen times.

Then came a sudden silence.

‘The line’s cut,’ he said, and turned. There was a rap on the door.

A man spoke in a voice he did not recognize.

‘Hand out that envelope, West. We’ll leave you alone then. You can’t get help, the line is cut. I’ll give you three minutes.’

Lampard had pulled himself up to a sitting position against Hauteby’s chair. Widdison crouched back in his, staring at the door, no more life in him than in a corpse. Garielle had stopped glaring and was eyeing Roger with a scared look in her eyes. Wade was slumped over the desk.

Roger said nothing, and the man went on: ‘You can’t get out. The police have gone, and the servants. The house is empty, except for you and us. If you don’t surrender those papers, West, I’ll destroy them. There’s only one way of doing that. By fire.’