Chapter Four

Danger

The case was handled at first by the Divisional staff, and the Yard was ‘kept informed.’ Roger followed the reports day by day. He shared an office with three other Chief Inspectors. Two of them were newly-appointed; one, who seemed to be a fixture at the Yard as well as in his rank, was Eddie Day. The room was a large, airy one, overlooking the Embankment, and was in the new building.

On the Monday morning, Roger entered the office just after ten o’clock. Eddie Day sat at his corner desk by the window, sucking his prominent, yellow teeth. Eddie’s features were pointed, his nose large, and he was fat. He pretended to be reading a report. In fact, from the moment Roger entered he watched him almost furtively, muttering into his chest: “Morning, Handsome.”

“Hallo, Eddie,” said Roger, whose soubriquet, ‘Handsome’ West, was likely to stick while he remained at the Yard. “Had a good weekend?”

“So, so,” said Eddie. “Got some more peas in.”

“Oh, good!” said Roger absently. He sat down, stretched forward for the ‘Mail In,’ and saw a typewritten envelope, an internal memorandum; usually only the Assistant Commissioner sent such missives in a sealed envelope. Eddie undoubtedly knew that the note was from Chatworth, and was aching to know what it contained.

Roger slit it open, read quickly, and pulled a face.

“Anything?” Eddie demanded.

“Eh?” asked Roger, as if startled.

“Come off it,” said Eddie. “Anything from Chatty? You know what I mean.”

“Oh, this note. Yes, he wants to see me this morning,” said Roger. “Adams isn’t very happy over the Randall job. Looks as if he’s going to wish it on to me.”

“That Adams,” grumbled Eddie. “Sits tight on a job when he ought to know better, and then expects us to get him out of a mess. If I was Chatty, I wouldn’t let him get away with it so often. Why don’t you refuse it?”

“I’ll see what he has to say,” said Roger dryly.

“Better hurry, hadn’t you?” asked Eddie. “You didn’t ought to keep the old boy waiting.”

“He won’t be ready until eleven o’clock,” said Roger. “That’ll give me time to look through the reports I’ve had in.” He picked up the largest sheaf of papers in the ‘Pending’ tray, and began to read. From this, he learned the names of most of those people whom Guy Randall had seen on the day of his murder.

There were several pages of notes about each individual, a précis in each case of the verbatim statements which had been taken. And in all of this there were only two unusual things: first, Guy Randall’s brief-case, with the Perriman order and the samples, was missing; second, the dead man’s fiancée, Sybil Lennox, appeared to Adams and his men to be an unsatisfactory witness.

Had a farmer strayed into Scotland Yard, few people would have looked farther for him than the office of the Assistant Commissioner, for Sir Guy Chatworth seemed like a true man of the soil. He wore rough tweeds; his large, square face was weather-beaten, his irongrey hair sat in little, close curls round his head, leaving a large, bald circle at the top. He smoked small, dark cheroots; he was respected by all and feared by some at Scotland Yard; and he was an able man who had the good sense to choose his subordinates carefully.

He greeted Roger gruffly in his office, which was remarkable at Scotland Yard, because – in the spacious days before austerity – he had managed to get it refurnished in a style which he liked. Only Chatworth could have got away with black glass, chromium, tubular-steel chairs, and a general atmosphere which struck a chill into many a man who sat in front of the huge glass-topped desk and looked into Chatworth’s eyes.

“Morning, Roger,” he greeted. “This Randall case. The Division’s got no further with it. Adams thinks”—he managed almost to sneer the word—“that there’s something more behind it than he’s been able to find out. In fact, he hasn’t found much. No motive, unless it’s to do with this girl Lennox – but you’ve kept abreast of the case, haven’t you?”

“Closely, sir,” said Roger.

“Go and see Adams,” said Chatworth brusquely. “Take a sergeant; go through everything in detail.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, off with you,” said Chatworth, but when Roger reached the door, he glanced up and asked: “Decided who you’re going to take with you?”

“Goodwin,” said Roger.

Chatworth grunted; it might have been with approval.

Adams’ collection of written statements was verbose and voluminous, and it took Roger and Goodwin two days to wade through the lot. The routine of this was only broken by an interview with Sybil Lennox. She answered his questions frankly enough, and only showed signs of alarm when he asked her whether she had been followed on the day of Randall’s murder. She denied it emphatically. Otherwise, she behaved much as Roger might have expected.

She hadn’t properly recovered from the shock of Randall’s death, and all the evidence pointed to the fact that she had been deeply in love with him, but she gave the impression that she was holding something back. Undoubtedly Adams had accused her of this; Roger made no mention of it then, and left her, if not happy, at least no more worried than she had been.

For the rest, he learned what the various witnesses had said; and when that was done, he went to interview them one after the other. Thus he learned much of what Randall had done on the day of his death, and discovered that Adams had missed three things – things which he found out only after several more days of patient investigation. They were that Randall had seen Jeremiah Scott that day; that Akerman, one of the buyers at Perriman’s, had heard what Scott had said; and that the proprietress of the boarding-house where Sybil Lennox lived had a poor opinion of the girl. At the end of that patient first period of investigation, exactly three weeks after Randall’s death, Roger sent a chit to Sergeant Goodwin, which said briefly:

‘Meet me at Sibley’s at 12:45 today.’

Roger walked from the street where he had parked his car to Sibley’s. He was brooding over an idea which had occurred to him the day before – a way of breaking down Sybil Lennox’s resistance, or at least of finding out whether it was real or imaginary.

Louis, the commissionaire, recognised the man who walked briskly towards him, with a sense of shock.

Roger saw his intense stare and drew up by his side.

“Good morning, Louis. How are you today?”

“Haven’t got over it yet,” declared Louis. “Just like him, you are, Inspector.” Louis swallowed the last word and then gabbled: “Found-oo-did-’im-in-yet?”

“Still trying,” said Roger. “The last time I saw you, you promised to think over Mr Randall’s visits, especially what happened on that last day. Do you still think Randall’s girlfriend was followed?”

“I’m as sure of it as I’m sure you aren’t Randall,” Louis declared. “I can see the fellow now, so to speak. She always walked as if the devil was on her heels, and he kept up wiv’ her, although he didn’t seem to hurry.”

“Did she always walk like that, or only on that day?”

“Mostly always, except when she was with Randall,” said Louis. “But that day she walked faster than ever. And she kept looking over her shoulder.”

Roger nodded.

“He wasn’t fat and ‘e wasn’t thin,” continued Louis. “Not so tall as you and me, but not really short. Dressed in blue, and was the seat of his trousers shiny!”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“But he was behind Miss Lennox when she came here for lunch and again when she arrived for dinner.”

“I’ve said so, ‘aven’t I?”

“Yes – thanks,” said Roger. “She looked scared too, I think you once said.”

“S’right … and kept looking over her shoulder.”

“Had she ever looked scared before?”

Louis shook his head decidedly. “Nope.”

“I see. Well, she’s coming on her own this morning,” said Roger. “I’m going to see her inside.”

Roger went in, and was greeted by the little, old man with a thin, white beard who was Sibley.

“I have the table reserved for you, Inspector, and you won’t be overheard, I’ve made quite sure of that.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. “You know it’s for three?”

“Yes, it is all ready,” said Sibley.

It was a corner table. Several people looked with undisguised curiosity at Roger, and at Goodwin when he came in. Goodwin’s bulk seemed to fill the room.

“Hallo, sir!”

“Sit down, Jack,” said Roger. “We’ll wait until Miss Lennox arrives before we order drinks.”

“What’s the idea?” Goodwin asked.

Roger said thoughtfully: “She hasn’t yet admitted that there was anything worrying her on the day of Randall’s death, but the commissionaire swears that she was worried and scared of a man who followed her. I thought the atmosphere here might induce her to talk.”

“I see,” said Goodwin, wrinkling his forehead. “They nearly always met here, didn’t they? And when she sees you again—”

“Hush!” hissed Roger.

Goodwin was well-trained, and didn’t glance round. Sybil Lennox entered the room, and everyone noticed her. She looked cool. A well-cut linen frock of apple-green accentuated her figure. Her fair hair, massed in curls, was visible through the net crown of her hat. But it wasn’t her dress, her figure, or her hair which caught the attention – it was her face. The lines at her eyes and the corners of her mouth heightened an impression of sadness and weariness.

Roger watched her closely.

He had already discovered that he looked even more like Guy Randall when a person looked down at him, as Sybil was looking down now. She saw him, missed a step, and clutched her bag. But it was over in a flash, and she composed herself and came forward quickly.

Roger and Goodwin stood up, a waiter pulled back a chair for Sybil, and they all sat down. The wine-waiter thrust a list in front of Roger, who said: “The Chablis, I think.”

“Yes, m’sieu.”

“If that’s all right with you,” Roger added, looking at Sybil.

She nodded, without speaking; her hands clenched tightly on the edge of the table. Roger had discovered that Randall and the girl had usually drunk Chablis here. If she realised that he was deliberately working on her nerves, she gave no sign but slowly relaxed. Goodwin, rather awkwardly, offered her a cigarette. Roger flicked a lighter and, when the cigarettes were alight, dropped it on to the table. Involuntarily, her gaze followed the fall of the lighter – and she drew in her breath and the cigarette fell from her lips.

The lighter was the same make as Randall’s; it was a replica of the one which had been found in Randall’s pocket.

She picked up her cigarette.

“Mr West,” she said, “I can’t understand why you want to see me again.”

“I’m trying to reconstruct that last day in your late fiancé’s life, Miss Lennox.” Roger’s voice was quiet, almost indifferent. “I’m retracing every step he took – hence this meeting.” A waiter came up, with a menu for each of them, a big yellow card. “H’m … pâté, I think.”

Randall always started off with pâté.

“I’ll have some thick soup,” said Goodwin gruffly.

“Hors-d’oeuvre, please,” said Sybil in a voice which was hardly audible. She drew deeply on her cigarette. “I can’t see the point of it, Mr West? He’s gone, you haven’t caught his murderer, this is only … cruel.”

“We’re going to find his murderer,” said Roger in the same quiet voice. “No matter how long it takes us, how often we have to question you, how cruel we may have to be, we’re going to find out who killed him, and the first thing is to find out why he was killed. Miss Lennox, are you sure there was nothing in that brief-case which might have provided a motive?”