The Case Against Paul Raeburn (8 page)

“You can’t do it!” Warrender cried but all his confidence had gone.

“Miss Franklin had the opportunity to make a statement here, and refused,” Roger said. “She will now have to come with me to Scotland Yard, and I shall not allow you to be alone with her before we leave.”

“Raeburn can break you over this, and he will,” Warrender said savagely, and turned and went out of the room.

Eve was sullen, but she dressed and went downstairs to the car with Roger and Turnbull. Warrender was not in sight. The girl got into the back of the car, and Turnbull sat beside her. Roger drove towards the park, taking the long way round along Flodden Road. As they passed Brown’s apartment house, the girl glanced at it, then looked straight ahead.

When they reached Scotland Yard, she went up the steps in front of the men. In the doorway she stopped short. The big, round-faced solicitor, Melville, was standing in the hall.

Turnbull whispered; “They moved damned quick.”

“Didn’t you expect it?” asked Roger.

Melville was smiling expansively.

“Hallo, Miss Franklin, you’re in difficulty, I’m told.” The solicitor took Eve’s hand, and turned to Roger. “What is it you want from my client, Chief Inspector?”

Roger didn’t hesitate. “I want a statement from Miss Franklin about her meeting with her friend Tony Brown last evening.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be difficult. If you ask Miss Franklin nicely, I’m sure she will oblige. Brown was accidentally killed by gas poisoning, wasn’t he?”

“You might wait for the result of the inquest before deciding.”

“Now, now, Chief Inspector, we needn’t get heated about it,” protested Melville. “I’m only talking as a friend. Did Brown come to see you last night, Miss Franklin?”

“Yes, but he didn’t stay long,” Eve said, hurriedly. “He wanted to take me out, but I had another engagement, so I couldn’t go.” As the words spilled out, Melville’s man-in-the-moon smile grew broader. “He didn’t like it, and we had a few words, that’s all.”

A quarter of an hour later, she signed a statement, and flounced out of the Yard.

“Handsome,” Turnbull said, when they had gone, “they’ll try to take the skin off your back for that. You took a hell of a chance to make the girl crack, but it didn’t come off.”

“I’m looking forward to the
Cry’s
next edition.” Roger glanced at his watch, as he spoke dryly. “Do you remember the little man who left Eve’s house just before we arrived?”.

“You bet I remember him.”

“Someone went to warn Warrender, and that little man was the most likely one,” Roger said. “Try to get tabs on him, will you? Melville smiled and Warrender blustered, but they were scared in case Eve talked too much.”

Turnbull, known as the toughest man at the Yard, said deliberately; “I’m getting scared because she didn’t. Watch your step, Handsome.”

For the second time Roger saw his own photograph staring up at him, this time with a caption: the man responsible. The
Cry
had not spared him; the term third degree was freely used, and Eve was built up as a victim of police persecution. It was wholly scurrilous, but one inevitable consequence was that his personal stock would fall.

Next morning, two other newspapers took the same line as the
Cry.
It was difficult to go about the Yard looking as if nothing was the matter, but Roger managed it.

He did not go to the inquest on Tony Brown, at which the verdict was Death by Misadventure. Eve’s evidence of Brown’s visit made splash headlines in several newspapers. He and Eve, Roger thought ruefully, were sharing press prominence. He checked every incident, everything new and old about Halliwell, his arson and frauds, and his associates; he checked the Raeburn ménage closely; he had every stage of Eve Franklin’s life checked, and especially her recent activities. Nothing helped. Deliberately, he kept away from Tony Brown’s sister, but he had her watched, and he kept a sergeant at work on Brown’s activities.

Turnbull put in every spare minute he could on the case. Mark Lessing studied every report, and spotted nothing new.

Two days after the inquest, Roger was dealing with some routine work when the door was flung open,

“What’s all the hurry?” Eddie Day demanded, and when he saw Turnbull, he sniffed. “
Some
people would knock on the door before bursting into a superior’s office,”

Turnbull grinned at him as he strode across to Roger, and announced: “We’ve got a line.”

The way Roger’s heart pounded told how vitally important this case was to him; it was not only a personal challenge, with his future at stake, but at the back of his mind was fear of the great damage Raeburn was already capable of doing through his newspapers and with his money.

“It’s the man we saw coming out of Eve’s house when we called,” Turnbull went on. “We’ve got tabs on him at last. His name’s Tenby and he’s got a record. How about that?”

“What’s he been in for?” Eddie’s curiosity overcame his annoyance.

“Counterfeiting, seven years ago. Since then he’s been fined a few times for passing betting slips. He was broke until a few months ago, but recently he’s started throwing money about, and he’s supposed to have a taste for practical jokes. Shall I have a go at him, or will you?”

“Who found him?” asked Roger.

“I’ve been through twenty thousand photographs in Records, and came across him there,” said Turnbull. “The minute I recognised him, I put Symes on to make a few inquiries, and I’ve just had his report.”

“Think Symes can handle this?”

“He’s dead from the neck up. I –”

“You and I want to keep out at this stage,” Roger said. “We need a good, youngish chap. How about young Peel? “

“He’ll do,” Turnbull conceded, reluctantly. “Never keen on using him, as his brother’s a CI, but you know them well enough to slap the young one down if necessary, don’t you?”

“He might not need slapping down,” Roger said. “Get him, will you?”

The little man named Tenby sat in a corner of the Red Lion, in the Fulham Road, with a whisky-and soda in front of him and a blackened cigarette dangling from his lips. He was red-faced and long-nosed, with a habitually fretful expression. He looked searchingly at the dozen men and women in the saloon bar, rather as if he were sizing each one up.

Detective Officer James Peel stood against the bar, drinking beer from a tankard. He was tall, broad shouldered, and slim-waisted, with narrow hips, and he looked in the pink of condition. His light grey flannel trousers were newly pressed, and his brown tweed sports coat hung open. He laughed easily, showing big white teeth. People were usually attracted to him on sight.

The barmaid was no exception.

“You’re not so busy tonight,” observed Peel.

“Busy enough,” retorted the barmaid. “We’ve got to keep our eyes open when there are people like you about, you know.”

Peel laughed, dutifully.

“Coming again?” she asked.

“I think I will.”

A large party came into the saloon bar, as a tankard was put in front of him. He paid for his drink, and moved away to make room for the newcomers. His gaze roamed about the room; he looked at and past Tenby, and then went over and sat near by.

Tenby’s bright eyes were turned towards him.

“Good evening,” said Peel, civilly.

“Evening,” said Tenby. “Better in than out.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad tonight.”

“Bad enough,” said Tenby. “Perishing.” To Peel’s surprise, he took a bag of chocolates from his pocket and popped one into his mouth, then began to sip his drink.

Peel took out a pipe and filled it. There were two other men from the Yard outside, ready to follow Tenby to his room, just off the Fulham Road. Peel had some idea how much depended on his success with this miserable-looking little man. As far as he could judge, Tenby was here simply to drink and enjoy himself. The crowd at the bar came over to the chairs, but there was not room for them all to sit together.

Peel stood up. “Mind if I join you, and make room?” he asked, and sat down by Tenby.

“Mixed crowd,” remarked Tenby, gloomily.

“Well, live and let live,” said Peel.

“That’s all very well, but why don’t they?” Tenby’s voice was thick, and he did not seem to know what he was saying. “Look at this,” he added, and tapped his glass. “Two-an’-a-kick for a bloody nip.”

“Got to pay for the peace,” said Peel.

“Peace? Who said anything about peace?” Tenby sipped again, and put down a nearly empty glass. “Don’t you come the old soldier over me. It’s nothing to do with peace
or
war, it’s the flicking government. Waste millions, don’t they? ‘S’awful, that’s what I say.”

“They ought to economise,” agreed Peel, solemnly.

“You’re right they should, but take it from me they won’t. Civil servants, look at the perishers, running around everywhere. Waste . . . and
paper.
Look at the waste
paper.
A lot less forms and a bit more progress, that’s what we want.”

“You’ve never said a truer word.”

“’S’right,” said Tenby. “I never will, neither.”

He turned his head and looked straight at Peel for the first time. Behind his narrowed lids, his small blue eyes were very bright. They seemed to hold no expression, although their directness was completely at variance with his muddled talk and his wet cigarette.

“Have another?” he asked.

“Well –”

“On me this time.”

“Well, thanks.” This seemed like progress, Peel thought.

Tenby got up and waddled to the bar. He looked tipsy, but he had not been here long, and had made one drink last for over half an hour. Was he following up some hard drinking at home, or was he putting on an act?

He came back with a foaming pewter tankard for Peel, and his own short drink, and dumped them down on the table.

“Never mix me drinks,” he said earnestly. “Good rule.”

“None better,” agreed Peel.

“Talking of the government,” Tenby said, “what about the police?”

“Ah.”

“That feller West.”

“West?”

“’And some, they call him,” said Tenby. “Don’t you read your papers? Shocking! Wastes a lot o’ government money – that’s
our
money, chum – an’ then he has a go at a girl in her flat. Shocking,” he added, shaking his head. “More in that than meets the eye, if you ask me. Ought to be slung out on his neck, that’s what.”

“You’re probably right,” agreed Peel.

Tenby leaned forward.

“You’d never believe it,” he declared, “but I’ve been inside.”

“
You
have?”

“’S’right. I was framed. And I been fined. Twice. Betting slips. What harm does a bit o’ betting do a man, that’s what I want to know? The government has premium bonds, ain’t they? They’ve got the pools, ain’t they? Tote, too. But they has to pay a lot of big, fat, slab-sided coppers to go about picking on the likes of me for taking a few slips. If I had my way with the police, do you know what I’d do with them?”

“No.”

“Drown ‘em!” declared Tenby.

Peel chuckled. “A bit drastic, old man.”

“Maybe it is,” growled Tenby. “But it’s painless, that’s more than they deserve. The way they treated that girl, and the way they tried to pretend Raeburn was a crook when he’s a bit of all right – ‘Strewth, I know what I’d do with ‘em.” He looked straight into Peel’s eyes. “Drown ‘em,” he repeated, and sipped his drink.

“There are some poor coppers about,” Peel agreed.

“
Poor!
” Tenby exclaimed. “They get paid, don’t they? That’s more than some people. I was trying to keep body an’ soul together when they nobbled me. Don’t mind telling you, mister, I haven’t forgotten, and I haven’t forgiven them, neither. If I can do them a bit of dirt, that’s me – Bert Tenby’s the name.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” said Peel.

“I don’t care whether you blame me or not,” said Tenby. “Why, I’d be hard put to it to keep body and soul together, if it wasn’t for a bit o’ luck I had.”

“Ah,” said Peel.

Tenby opened his eyes wide. They looked so innocent, in spite of his manner, that Peel hardly knew what to make of him.

“You struck lucky, did you?”

“Penny pool, nearly five thousand,” announced Tenby, “and I didn’t pay no tax. A cool five thou’.” He gave a slow, childlike smile. “Bit of all right, eh? Do you know what? A rozzer come up to me in the street just afterwards. ‘Bert,’ he says, ‘I want to know where you got your dough from.’ ‘Dough?’ I says. ‘Dough,’ he says. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘you can bloody well find out, copper.’ That’s what I said, and walked away from him. Proper mad, he was. More pools and less policemen, that’s what I’d like to see.”

“Well, it’s all a matter of opinion,” Peel said.

“So what?” asked Tenby, and ate another chocolate.

Peel could find nothing more to say, and not altogether because he was now sure that this man was toying with him. It was something else, even more worrying. He felt hot – much too hot. There was a pricking sensation in his hands and feet, and his neck and face were beginning to tingle. He looked at Tenby, whose face seemed to be going round and round. The little bright eyes were staring.

“You okay?” asked Tenby, leaning forward.

“I – I – yes, I’m all right.”

“You look bad,” said Tenby, interestedly. “Take it easy.”

Peel felt that he could not get up from his chair if he were paid for it. The tingling had become a scorching sensation, his face and head seemed to be on fire, and his back and chest were burning. He knew that he was beetroot red, and people were staring at him.

Tenby’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Sure you’re all right?”

Peel did not answer, just stared at him.

Tenby’s lips were parted, showing uneven, discoloured teeth in an expression which was more leer than grin; obviously, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His face seemed to come very close to Peel, and then to recede to an immense distance. The saloon bar was going round now; the murmur of voices was louder in Peel’s ears. He tried to sit upright, but could not.

He had been poisoned. He had let Tenby get those drinks; watched him, believing he was doing well, and he had been poisoned.