Chapter Five

The First Crack

Sybil didn’t answer.

“After all, the brief-case was stolen,” said Roger.

“He—he might have lost it.”

“Oh, come!” protested Roger. “He had that huge order in the brief-case, and a single slip of paper which represented his greatest triumph. It meant everything to him, didn’t it? When you were here that day, didn’t he actually say to you: ‘We’re going places – we’re in the money?’”

After a long pause Sybil said: “Yes, he did at lunch.”

“That could only have been the result of his good news that day, couldn’t it?” demanded Roger.

“I—I suppose so.”

Roger stubbed out his cigarette. His voice altered, became sharp, decisive.

“You only suppose so. What else could it have been? In what way could he have been ‘in the money’ except through his work?”

She said: “Oh, it must have been that!” She seemed to have forgotten that at lunch-time Randall had not yet obtained the order.

“Are you sure?” asked Roger. “Or are you hiding something from us, Miss Lennox?”

“I—I wasn’t thinking.”

The waiter came up and put their plates in front of them, giving her a momentary respite. Sybil started to eat.

“Miss Lennox, I am sure you will regret it if you’re not completely honest with us,” Roger said.

She turned the full boldness of her gaze on him, and said deliberately: “I know of nothing else that Guy was doing to make money. Just now, I was thinking of everything that his success would have meant to us. We were so very happy.”

“I simply want the truth, Miss Lennox, and must get it,” Roger said gruffly. “There’s another thing. When you came here on the day of Mr Randall’s death, you were followed.”

“I was not!”

“But I have clear evidence that you were.”

She cried: “Someone’s lied to you.”

He didn’t press the question, and the waiter brought the second course. They were half-way through it when the head-waiter came up and murmured: “You’re wanted on the telephone, sir.”

“Oh,” Roger hesitated, then stood up, dropping his table-napkin on the table. “Thanks. Excuse me a moment,” he said, and followed the head-waiter.

Immediately they were out of the room, the other man said: “I’m sorry, sir, but I thought it best to say that. Actually Louis wants to speak to you urgently.”

Louis was standing in the gloomy hall, near the staircase, and as soon as Roger reached the foot of the stairs, he said hoarsely: “Come ‘ere, sir – you might be seen. The chap’s outside. The one that followed ‘er, I mean. Come up just like ‘e did before, only she never saw ‘im. Didn’t look over ‘er shoulder, any’ow.”

“You ought to have been a policeman,” said Roger. “Go outside and keep an eye on him. I’ll send a man down soon. If this merchant moves off before Miss Lennox comes out, yawn twice, where you can be seen from here.”

“Oke!” Louis entered into the plot. “I’m on my way.”

On the landing nearby were two telephone boxes; Roger stepped into one, and was quickly on to the Yard. He asked for Sloan.

“Bill? Roger here,” he said quickly. “I want a good tailer at Sibley’s pronto. Can do?”

“Yes,” said Sloan.

“Good – and listen. Sybil Lennox will probably leave Sibley’s in about half an hour, and be followed by a man dressed in a shiny navy-blue suit. Height about five seven.”

“Want ’em both followed?”

“Yes.”

“What happens if they split up?” asked Sloan.

Roger said: “Better send two men.”

“I’ll get cracking,” promised Sloan.

Roger replaced the receiver and slipped out of the box. When he reached the dining-room, he beckoned Goodwin, who got up immediately.

“The man who followed her the other day is outside. I’ve sent for tailers, but they may be too late. If our man moves off, the commissionaire will look into the hall and yawn twice. You follow. If Louis doesn’t signal, wait for me. Don’t let the girl see you when she leaves.”

“I hope the chap moves off,” said Goodwin.

The girl looked up, unsmiling, as Roger returned to the table. He told her that Goodwin had to go off on another job, and over the sweet, then coffee and cigarettes, they said little.

They finished just before two o’clock. “Is there anything else?” asked Sybil. “I must get back to my office.”

“I think we’ve said all we need say for now,” said Roger.

“I’ve said everything I can,” the girl assured him as she stood up. “Mr West, if you think you have to question me again, I’d be glad if you won’t telephone me at my office. They will always give me a message at my rooms, but my employer is touchy about private calls while I’m at work.”

“I’ll avoid calling you at the office if I can,” promised Roger.

She went off, and Roger smoked another cigarette. Before it was finished, Goodwin came in, looking glum. Roger grinned.

“So he waited for her?”

“Yes. Peel and Harrison are following them,” said Goodwin. “I took a dekko out of the window.”

“Did they go off together?”

“No. The man stood in a shop doorway, and I don’t think she noticed him. He let her go half-way down the street before he followed.”

“Anyone else about?” asked Roger.

“I didn’t see anyone,” said Goodwin. “I would have if anyone had been there.”

“Jack, keep one thing in the back of your mind all the time,” advised Roger. “A man was waiting round the corner for Randall, and put two bullets into his chest at point-blank range. Whoever did it was a tough customer. We’ve got to take every precaution. I’ve already arranged with old Sibley to use the back door.”

He paid his bill, and they went through the kitchen quarters, where the chef, in his tall, white cap, and his satellites were relaxing after the midday rush. The head-waiter led the detectives through, and they stepped into a dingy side-street, where there were some coster’s barrows piled up with fruit and several small shops. They reached Shaftesbury Avenue.

“Now what?” asked Goodwin.

“Slip along to Sibley’s front entrance and make sure that no one’s watching it,” said Roger. “Then go back to the Yard. If I’m not in when Peel and Harrison report, follow up anything that looks urgent.”

“Right-o,” said Goodwin. “What are you going to do?”

“Have a word with Sybil’s landlady,” said Roger.

Brill Street, Chelsea, was similar to Bell Street where Roger lived only in its name. Its tall, grey, terraced houses all looked alike, except that a few had recently been painted; the tiny front gardens were mostly paved or cemented over. Some were private houses, but as Roger walked along the pavement towards number 37, where Sybil Lennox lived, he saw that almost every other front window had a notice, such as: Bed & Breakfast; Apartments; Vacancies. He went up the four steps leading to the front door of number 37 and rang the bell. A woman opened the door. She was middle-aged, grey-haired, sharp-featured, and wore a dark-blue dress.

“I’ve only one room and it’s on the top floor,” she announced in a flat voice.

Roger showed her his card and said: “You’re Mrs Clarke, aren’t you?”

“Oh, the police,” breathed the woman. “What’s it about – that Miss Lennox?”

“No,” said Roger. “That Mr Randall.”

“Same thing,” said the landlady. “You’d better come in, I suppose.” She drew to one side, and he passed into a narrow, gloomy hall. “That room there,” she said, pointing, and he went into the front room which was crammed with bric-a-brac.

“I never did like that girl. Stuck up little brat, and not so particular as she might be,” Mrs Clarke said with a sniff. “Too many men friends, if you ask me. But I’d some rooms vacant and I’ve got to live. She paid her rent all right, I will say that for her, but … I never could really trust her. She must have had a good job to spend all that money on her clothes.”

Roger nodded.

“And then there were the men,” said Mrs Clarke. “Mind you, not a man stayed the night here – nor tried to. But I can’t stop them girls seeing friends in their rooms, although out they go at ten o’clock, and they know I don’t like it.”

“So Miss Lennox has several men friends visiting her, does she?” asked Roger.

“She used to have.”

“And you stopped it?” murmured Roger.

“I want to be honest,” said Mrs Clarke self-righteously. “She stopped it herself. And I know why. Beneath her, she decided – she hadn’t no time for the likes of them when she was in the money. The last one called about three months ago – and after that it was all Randall. Not that he came in here. I never set eyes on him except when he was in his car.” Mrs Clarke meandered on. Rather grudgingly, she admitted that the girl had appeared to be very happy after Randall had come on the scene, following a weekend she had spent at Brighton.

It wasn’t very illuminating, and Roger began to think that the visit might prove a waste of time. He would have liked to see the girl’s room, but had no excuse for searching it.

He got up – and as he did so there was a thud above his head.

It made him glance up, but nothing prepared him for Mrs Clarke’s sudden gasp, and her tense: “Who’s that? Who is it? It’s a burglar!”