Chapter Three

Dead Body

Guy Randall’s body had been on the pavement for nearly ten minutes.

A woman’s footsteps approached along the street from which he had turned. She reached the same corner, looking at the lamp which was out now – it had been broken by the murderer. She hesitated, then walked on – and saw something dark lying near the kerb. She drew to one side nervously, but as she got nearer she saw that it looked like the body of a man. He wasn’t moving.

“Are you—are you ill?” she asked timidly.

The man neither moved nor answered.

Then a door opened across the road and a man called heartily: “Good night, my dear, good night!”

Light streamed out, touching the body of the man and showing a patch which glistened red on the pavement. The woman threw back her head and screamed. Across the road, the man gave a startled exclamation, and the woman with him called: “What’s that?”

The woman standing by Randall’s body screamed again, and the man ran across the road to her, while the woman in the doorway shouted: “Be careful, be careful!”

Another man turned the corner and a motorist swung his car into the road, its headlights revealing the whole scene and showing the bloodstains on Randall’s shirt, near the V of the waistcoat. The motorist pulled up; a middle-aged woman who joined the little group looked down at the dead man, and exclaimed: “It’s Mr Randall!”

She was a boarder at Maybank.

The man from across the road was on his knees beside the still body. He straightened up and spoke unsteadily.

“Better not touch him,” he said. “Better have the police. Better ‘phone.”

The morgue was a low building attached to the police station, and nearly two hours after he had been discovered and pronounced dead by a doctor, Randall, stripped of his clothes, was lying on a cold, stone slab. A bright light shone above him.

The police-surgeon, Cumber, and his assistant, who were examining the body, paid little attention, at first, to anything but the two bullet wounds, one high and wide of the heart, the other through it.

A knife glinted beneath the bright light. Cumber lost himself in his work, and if he noticed the door opening, he did not look round. A big, sturdy, youthful man with close-cut dark hair and a fresh complexion walked across to the bench, and Merrick, the assistant, glanced at him. With a few deft movements, Cumber brought the two bullets nearer the surface, then motioned to Merrick, who took them out with a pair of forceps.

Cumber looked up.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?”

“Hallo,” said the newcomer, who was Detective-Sergeant Goodwin of New Scotland Yard. “They told me you’d got a corpus, so I thought I’d have a look-see.”

“You’ll have Adams after you,” said Cumber. “He hates you Yard smarties nosing around before he’s had a look himself. And he’s due any time.”

“I’ll chance it,” said Goodwin. Then suddenly his rather amused smile was wiped away. A look of alarm and incredulity replaced it, as he saw the dead man’s face. He took a step forward, his hands clenched.

“Don’t get worked up, it isn’t West,” said Cumber.

“It’s uncanny,” Goodwin said. “It’s his double.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” retorted Cumber. “There’s a certain likeness between the dead man and Roger West, but it’s superficial. Colouring, the fair, wavy hair, shape of the eyes and the upper part of the nose, but that’s about all.” He gave a little laugh. “I don’t mind admitting that it shook me when I first saw him, and the others here were startled. We telephoned the Yard, and were told that West had been there until half-past nine and this chap was found just after nine o’clock. No need to worry.”

“Of course not,” said Goodwin mechanically. “He isn’t so like as I thought at first glance, anyhow. But this will give West a jolt.”

“Maybe,” said Cumber, “but it takes a great deal to upset that young man. Well, no need to stay here. I shan’t do the PM tonight,” he added. “Probably tackle it first thing in the morning. Anything else you want here?”

“What do you know about him?” asked Goodwin.

“Not my show,” said Cumber with a shrug. “Better see what you can find out inside. And don’t forget Adams will be after your blood, he’ll suspect you of trying to take a job away from him.”

“Ass,” said Goodwin flatly.

They left the body in the cold, bleak room, in charge of the morgue-keeper, and went into the Divisional Headquarters next door. Hardly had they arrived than Superintendent Adams, a square-shouldered block of a man, came hurrying in. He shot an unfriendly glance at Goodwin from his cold, dark-blue eyes, and then snapped out question after question. Cumber answered them patiently enough on the way to the superintendent’s second-floor office. Adams went to his desk, sat down, and picked up a report.

“Want me any more?” asked Cumber.

“Eh? Oh no. ‘Phone you later.”

Adams nodded and said “Good night,” and rang a bell. A thin man in plain clothes came in.

“What’s all this, Elliott?” asked Adams.

“All in the report, sir.” Elliott had a squeaky voice and a prominent nose. “Nasty business – gave us a shock; the deado looks like Mr West.”

“Who?” Adams barked.

“Chief Inspector West, sir, of the Yard.”

“Oh,” said Adams.

“That’s why I’m here,” said Goodwin untruthfully.

Adams grunted and picked up the report. He read it aloud, but in exasperatingly low-pitched voice, preventing Goodwin from hearing every word.

Roger West was at home.

It was nearly midnight, and he yawned as he looked into the glowing embers of a fire which his wife, Janet, had lit because the evening had been chilly and friends had been in. West felt relaxed, pleasantly tired, and happy.

Janet came in carrying a tray; there were sandwiches as well as coffee.

“Ah, that looks good,” said Roger.

“I’m glad the others wouldn’t stay for some,” said Janet, stifling a yawn. “I—”

The telephone bell rang.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Janet. “They’re not going to worry you at this time of night.”

Roger chuckled as he stretched out his hand to lift the receiver.

“Probably one of the guests has forgotten something,” he said lightly. “Hallo.”

Janet saw him frown; so it wasn’t a forgetful guest. With a gesture of annoyance, she pulled up a small table and put down the tray. Then she sat back in her own arm-chair and watched Roger, who was holding on. It was now pleasantly warm in the room, which was comfortably furnished; a cheerful, modern room in a cheerful, modern house in Bell Street, Chelsea.

“Yes, speaking,” Roger said at last.

A pause and then he asked: “Who? … Oh, Goodwin. Yes?” He listened for a moment, and then said: “Well, if you really think it’s urgent … Yes, all right.”

He replaced the receiver and was about to speak when Janet exclaimed: “Roger, it’s too bad! Night after night you’ve been out. It just isn’t fair – there are times when I hate your job!”

“There are certainly times when I hate it too,” said Roger. “But this time—”

“That’s not true. You love every minute of it. If you had to choose between giving up your job or me, it would be me every time. Don’t deny it, you know it’s true!”

Roger was so startled by the outburst that he looked at her in amazement. He saw the tears in her grey-green eyes. Saw the signs of strain on her face. With her dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders and looking quite at her best, Janet was lovely.

“You see, you know it’s true or you’d say it wasn’t,” she said in a muffled voice.

Roger stood up abruptly, and knocked the table with his knee. The cups of coffee shook, coffee spilled over the edges and into the saucers.

“Oh, you fool!” exclaimed Janet.

But he steadied himself, put one arm around her, and in a moment she was pressing close to him and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. He led her to a chair, sat down, and drew her on to his lap. By that time she was groping for his handkerchief. She rubbed her eyes and blew her nose.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself,” she mumbled, “but I was hoping that you’d have a few days off, or at least not be so busy; and now Goodwin rings you up in the middle of the night and you’re going off to the Yard.”

“No,” said Roger. “Goodwin’s coming to see me and it’s not official – not yet, anyhow. Nice chap, Goodwin – he’s just been promoted to first-class sergeant. He’s taken something so seriously that he wants to have a word with me about it, and I didn’t like to turn the chap down.”

“I’m not sure that this isn’t worse,” said Janet. “That brings the office right to our very doorstep.”

Goodwin hadn’t arrived when they had finished the snack, and Janet decided to go to bed. Roger went upstairs with her, and they stepped quietly into the nursery. There slept Martin called Scoopy, their elder boy. He lay on his back, breathing softly through his nose, fair hair untidy and draped over his eyes, a look of concentration on his broad, strong face. They stood looking at him a few minutes; then they went into the small spare-room, in which the second child, Richard, slept. The boys made too much noise when they were together in the nursery.

As they came out of the room and shut the door, the front door bell rang.

“I won’t be long,” promised Roger.

Janet squeezed his hand, and he went downstairs to let Goodwin in.

At the age of thirty, Goodwin had done very well at Scotland Yard. He had been transferred from A Division three years ago, with the rank of detective-officer, and had stepped up through third and second-class sergeant to his present first-class. After two or three years at his present rank, he was almost certain to get an early inspectorship. Roger thought he looked tired, but his eyes lighted up at the sight of the beer Janet had brought in.

Roger poured out and said: “Sit down, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Goodwin sipped his beer.

“Ah, thanks. Look here, sir, have you a brother?”

Roger’s eyebrows gave a comical lift.

“Brother? Well, yes. He—”

“In London?”

“No, he emigrated to South Africa years ago. But what’s my family got to do with your worries?”

Instead of answering, Goodwin took a large envelope from beneath his coat and extracted a photograph, about 9” x 5”. He handed it to Roger; obviously it had recently been printed, for it was damp to the touch. Roger turned it over, and saw Guy Randall’s face. Then he saw the drool of blood-bubbly saliva at the lips, and asked sharply: “Accident case?”

“No. Murder,” said Goodwin, and began to talk more freely.