Chapter Seven

A Man Named Kirby

Peel’s eyes glistened.

“So we’ve got it,” he observed. “No doubt that devil had something to do with Randall’s death. Probably his killer – he fired point-blank at Goodwin – aimed at the chest, and the gun was a small one.”

“You saw it?” asked Roger.

“Just caught a glimpse of it in his hand,” said Peel. “And I heard it – sounded like the whine of an automatic to me; it wasn’t a revolver, anyhow.”

“The man had the case in his hand after he’d dealt with me,” said Roger. “He dropped it by accident when he fell over Goodwin. The question is, did he come to get it from here or did he come to plant it on Sybil Lennox?”

Peel said slowly: “If he’d come to plant it, would he have troubled to take it away again?”

“Might have,” said Roger. “It would have been one thing to leave it here without anyone knowing he’d been in the house, another to leave it when he’d been seen and it might be guessed that he’d brought it here. If recent prints of Sybil Lennox are on it, then the case has probably been here all the time. We’ll get a sample of her prints,” he added, looking at the dressing-table. “Got your kit with you?”

“Afraid not, sir.”

“Mine’s in my car, parked along the street,” said Roger. “Get it, will you? I’ll look round.”

Against the wall, opposite the large single bed, was a big wardrobe; in a corner there was another smaller one. A tallboy with eight drawers stood near the bed, and the dressing-table backed on the window.

There were no letters or papers in any of the drawers. He tried the wardrobes. Sybil Lennox had plenty of clothes, and all seemed expensive; he could more easily understand Mrs Clarke’s gossip. Unless Sybil was earning a very high salary, she hadn’t bought these out of her ordinary income.

Peel came in with the case of equipment, and while Roger looked through the drawers at the foot of the tall wardrobe, Peel brushed some of the grey powder over a powder-bowl and a hairbrush handle, and then blew it gently away.

“Good prints?” asked Roger.

“Perfect.”

“Photograph ’em,” said Roger briefly. He knew that Peel would have a Leica with him and was an enthusiast. The camera clicked, and by then Roger had practically finished his search of the room. Nothing of interest was found.

“Lend me a hand with the mattress,” he said.

Peel went to the other side of the bed and they rolled back the mattress, bedclothes, and all. They didn’t have to look any farther, for under the mattress there were some colourful pieces of cardboard, and from several of them two familiar faces peered out – the faces of ‘Mr and Mrs Perriman.’

“So we’ve got his samples,” breathed Peel. “And that means we’ve got her!”

Sybil Lennox worked in the drawing-office of a small firm of architects and surveyors, the firm of Boyd & Fairweather. Boyd was seldom in the office, but Fairweather was usually there, a small, grey, bespectacled man with a shrill voice and a quick temper.

She was not back in the office until nearly twenty minutes to three that afternoon, but he made no comment on her late return from lunch.

Just after four o’clock, the telephone rang; it was for her. She asked in a husky, rather nervous voice: “Who is that?”

She held the receiver tightly; she seemed to sway; she did more listening than talking, and her voice was hardly audible when she said at last: “All right, goodbye.”

Detective-Sergeant Harrison stood near the entrance to a block of offices in which the firm of Boyd & Fairweather was housed, contemplating some aeroplane, steamship, and motor-car models in a toy shop. He saw everyone who entered the office block with a photographic eye, for although others seldom registered him in their minds, everyone registered in his.

It was nearly five o’clock.

Traffic in the Strand was never slack during the day, but during the last ten minutes the crowds, the cars, taxis, and buses had become thicker as rush-hour approached, and there were several hold-ups. People pushed past Harrison. In his mind’s eye he had a picture of Sybil Lennox. A taxi drew up nearly opposite the exit. Harrison simply noticed the fact and also noticed the driver. He had some sticking-plaster over his face and forehead and his right hand was heavily bandaged. He had a rather long nose, with a piece of sticking-plaster attached to the bridge. The tip of the nose was sore, and his right eye was half closed by a bruise.

Harrison walked past him, and therefore past the entrance to the building, so as to get a closer look at the man who lit a cigarette as Harrison passed, and lowered his face towards his cupped hands.

Harrison turned and walked back to his original position. The girl was standing just inside the building. On her face was an expression of rapt attention – she was staring into the Strand, at the taxi-driver. Harrison caught on in a flash; she was waiting for the driver to signal her to come forward!

The plain-clothes man showed no sign that he understood this, but looked into a window where some hand-made boots and shoes were displayed. There was a traffic block stretching from Trafalgar Square; the lights were against the stream. Soon the traffic began to move, and the driver with the bandages tossed his cigarette out of the window. The girl came out, hurrying.

Harrison glanced eagerly at the line of traffic for a taxi with its flag up; there wasn’t one, there wouldn’t be one at this hour. He noted the number and make and colour of the cab. There was a public telephone in a confectioner’s shop nearby; he swung round towards the shop, and almost fell over a little man who staggered away from him.

“Sorry,” muttered Harrison.

“I should ruddy well think you are sorry!” screeched the little man fiercely. He was almost a dwarf, and barely came up to Harrison’s chest. His thin face was suffused with rage, and he hopped about on one foot like a man possessed. “Nearly broke my ankle, you great clodhopper.”

“Sorry,” repeated Harrison. “I didn’t mean—”

“Ought to look where you’re going, you clumsy basket,” screeched the little man. A crowd had swiftly collected; men, women, boys, and girls paused in their homeward rush.

“I’ve said I’m sorry. You’re not badly hurt. Don’t crowd round, please.”

The crowd pressed closer, the policeman’s voice without a uniform was ineffective. The words had incensed the little man even more too; he wanted his assailant’s name and address. Harrison pushed past him and tried to break through the crowd, but it was too thick.

The little ‘victim’ swung his injured leg at him and caught him a terrific blow on the ankle with the toe of his boot. Harrison was suddenly engulfed in pain which ran from his ankle to the rest of his body like a burning flame. He staggered and lost his footing.

It was nearly twenty minutes after Sybil Lennox had entered the taxi before Harrison got his message through to the Information Room.

About the time that the girl appeared at the doorway, Roger West reached Scotland Yard with Peel. He sent Peel along to the Fingerprints Room with the brief-case, his photographs, and the coloured specimens of Perriman’s boxes, all to be tested for prints. He went to his own office, and was glad to find it empty. He picked up the telephone receiver.

“Put me through to the Cheyne Hospital, please,” he said and held on. In the ‘Mail In’ partition was a small automatic pistol with the handle badly scratched, and with a label tied to it; on the gun were traces of finger-print powder. Also tied to it was a live cartridge – presumably the only one found in the magazine of the gun. It was, of course, the gun which had been used that afternoon. The label which Roger read when he pulled it towards him ran:

Walton -22 automatic pistol, found near body of man believed to be Arthur Kirby at scene of accident on Chelsea Embankment, March … at 3:34pm.

The smaller label tied to the bullet read:

Walton -22 automatic pistol bullet taken from gun found near body of Arthur Kirby. See gun.

“You’re through, sir,” said the operator.

“Thanks. Cheyne Hospital? … This is Scotland Yard. A Sergeant Goodwin was brought in this afternoon with a bullet wound in his chest, can you tell me how he is, please? … Yes, I’ll hold on.”

He heard footsteps outside and saw the door-handle turn. Eddie Day’s nose and stomach preceded their owner into the room.

“Why, hallo ‘Andsome! They tell me—”

“Hush!”

Eddie tip-toed towards Roger as the woman at the hospital spoke again.

“The bullet has been removed and the patient is as comfortable as can be expected,” she said.

“Is he on the danger-list?”

“Oh yes. I’m afraid he will be for some time. Am I speaking to a friend of the patient?”

“Yes.”

“I think his relatives should be summoned as quickly as possible,” said the woman.

“I’ll see to it, thank you,” said Roger gruffly.

He replaced the receiver and stared up into Eddie’s face.

“Goodwin in a bad way, ‘Andsome?”

“Very. He lives in the Marylebone Road. I think I’ll go and see his wife myself.”

“Anything I can do while you’re gone?” asked Eddie.

“Tell Peel I’ll be back by half-past five,” said Roger, “and tell him we’ll be working late tonight. He’ll take Goodwin’s place.”

“Right-o, ‘Andsome.”

Roger went downstairs. His car was parked near the front entrance, but as he started the engine, a tubby little man wearing a tweed suit came hurrying across the yard.

“Oi—Handsome!”

Roger looked at him unsmilingly.

“See the Back-room Inspector,” he said. “I’ve got nothing for you just now, Tommy.”

“Oh, come off it,” said the plump little man. “The Echo’s always first – remember the old tag. Just a sentence, that’s all I want.”

“As soon as I can, but not now,” said Roger.

He drove as quickly as the traffic would permit to Goodwin’s home.