Chapter Thirteen

Jeremiah Scott Pays a Call

Half an hour after West had left the Tucktos office, Jeremiah Scott left Deverall and went out to the car-park. His car was a powerful, grey Chrysler, modern, glittering, and stream-lined. He looked about him carefully when he turned into the main road, but saw no sign of West. It was twenty-five past five when eventually he found himself in Hurlingham. He pulled up in a side-road, took out a book-map of London streets and found Kent Street, the name of the road his brother had mentioned over the telephone. He drove swiftly to Kent Street and pulled up a few doors away from number 41, for which he was looking. He sat in the car for a few minutes, looking round constantly, until he was certain that no one was watching him, then he got out and went to number 41.

He banged the heavy brass knocker.

No one answered, and he knocked again and rang the bell. There was still no answer.

He tried once more, but only silence greeted him. He turned away from the porch and went into the small front garden – and then he stood quite still, shocked into immobility.

West and two other men were approaching from one direction and two big fellows, with ‘plain-clothes officers’ written all over them, were coming from the other. A uniformed constable stood by the Chrysler.

After the first shock, Jeremiah Scott forced a grin.

Roger turned in at the gate.

“Paying a call?” he asked casually.

“Since when have I to ask permission to call on friends?” retorted Scott.

“You haven’t,” Roger assured him. He smiled at Scott’s glaring face. “Don’t get worked up,” he said. “While I was with you, your brother Michael telephoned you. We want to interview him – and it seemed that you might be planning to see him. Yes?”

Scott made no answer.

“Let’s see if we can make them hear,” said Roger.

He went to the door and gave a heavy knock, which echoed along the street; but there was no response, and Scott’s grin broadened.

“I thought I might find a customer in,” said Scott airily. “But it’s not our lucky day, is it, West?”

“There’s a lot of the day left yet,” said Roger. He turned to Peel, who was just behind him. “Our other chaps will be at the back by now, won’t they?”

“Ages ago,” said Peel.

“All right, let’s see what we can do,” said Roger.

“Got permission to break in?” asked Scott.

“Yes,” said Roger shortly.

He examined the lock of the door while his men examined the windows, all with a deliberation which seemed to afford Scott a cynical amusement. Meanwhile Peel had found that he could open the window of the front room by slipping a knife between the frame and the catch. He threw the window up.

As he did so there was a bellow at the back of the house; a pause, and then a shrill blast of a police-whistle. “Got someone!” cried Peel.

“Watch Scott!” Roger snapped to one of his men, and followed as Peel climbed through the window. There was no noise in the house, but the whistle shrilled out again and they could hear voices. Roger reached the passage first, then rushed along the side of the staircase. The kitchen door was shut. He turned the handle but the door was locked; and he put his shoulder to the panels and heaved. It made no impression. Peel came up, and they tried between them, but couldn’t shift the door. There were sounds of scuffling inside – but the noise stopped abruptly and the door was unlocked by a detective, whose hair was dishevelled and who had a scratch on his right cheek, but who said triumphantly: “Got him, sir!”

“Who?”

“Michael Scott – well, he’s all done up with sticking-plaster and his right hand’s bandaged, I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

“That’s fine,” said Roger. “Now we can bring the brothers face to face.”

He looked past the Yard man to the scullery door, through which Mike was being hustled by two more detectives. Mike’s nose was bleeding at the tip and he was breathing hard; it was as if he knew that this was the first step on the road to the gallows. Jeremiah Scott was in the hall.

He caught his breath when he recognised his brother. But obviously neither he nor Roger were prepared for the sudden outburst of vituperation which poured from Mike’s lips.

“You ruddy witless fool, you brought them here!” He spat the words out. “I’d like to cut your throat, you’ve shopped me, you …”

He went on and on, and Jeremiah Scott, for once not smiling, stood quite still and stared at him.

At last Roger said sharply: “That’s enough.” He looked at Peel. “Handcuff him, and then let’s look through the house. I want you to stay,” he added to Jeremiah, who had taken out his gold cigarettecase, and proffered it to his brother. Mike took a cigarette, the last thing he did before the handcuffs were slipped over his wrists. He gave a grin that was almost shamefaced.

“Don’t say a word,” advised Jeremiah. “Don’t give anything away, Mike. I’ll get a good lawyer.”

Mike nodded, his rage forgotten.

The gas was hissing softly.

They found no one in the ground-floor rooms, but some playing-cards were on the table in the middle room, and a pile of dirty crockery was on a chair – evidence that several people had been there.

Roger and Peel went upstairs. As soon as they reached the landing, Roger put a hand on Peel’s arm, a gesture of urgency.

“Smell that? It’s gas. Come on!”

They found Sybil Lennox just as Mike had left her, in a gas-filled room.

Twenty minutes later the doctor arrived. Sybil had been taken into another bedroom, and was under a heap of bedclothes. The doctor grunted and bent a long stare at Roger.

“Kept her warm – good. Haven’t tried artificial respiration, I hope.”

“No, there wasn’t much trace of breathing, it would only do harm. An ambulance is on the way.”

“Good, good.” The doctor began to open his case.

The ambulance arrived and Roger went downstairs, to where the brothers Scott were waiting in the front room. Neither of them had made any statement. Michael was tight-lipped and obviously frightened; Jeremiah gave Roger the impression of being more worried about his brother than himself. He was abrupt with both of them, and sent them to Cannon Row, after charging Mike Scott with driving a taxi-cab without a proper licence – which charge made Jeremiah pull down his long, lower lip in a cynical smile. He charged Jeremiah with ‘withholding material evidence in connection with an offence.’

Peel came into the room while Roger was alone.

“Any word from upstairs?” asked Roger.

“No, they’re still busy.”

“Having quite a time, aren’t we?” asked Roger. “What’s in the room where we found Sybil Lennox?”

“Not much,” said Peel cautiously. “She handled the tubing and the gas-tap all right, but I can’t find any other prints.”

“Let’s have a look,” said Roger.

The tubing and the tap, as well as other things in the room, were smeared with grey powder. Roger studied the position of everything for a long time.

“Is she left-handed?” he asked.

“No report of that,” said Peel.

“She isn’t – she did everything right-handed when I saw her,” said Roger, “and yet her thumb-print is where her forefinger print should be.” He held the tubing while standing over the chair, and the grip was pretty well the same as the prints.

Peel’s eyes glistened.

“She didn’t do it herself, then?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Roger. “She could hardly have been standing up and holding the tube. Look for the tiniest fraction of print from Mike’s fingers, will you?”

“He probably wore gloves,” said Peel, “but I’ll have another go. I—but I’ll tell you what, sir. I noticed several long, fair hairs on his waistcoat, fairly low down. If he lifted her—”

“They’ll find them at Cannon Row,” said Roger. “All right, get cracking.”

He searched the room for papers, but found nothing of interest. Her handbag had the usual oddments, and – the bullets. He put them carefully away.

By the time he had finished, the men who had been searching downstairs had finished their job, and Roger found a little heap of papers and documents on a table in the front room. The house had been let furnished on a six months lease to ‘Michael Scott,’ whose address was given as Lanton Hotel, Bayswater. There were several letters to Michael, two from women, one from a bookmaker. That was all, except three pieces of folded paper which, when opened, proved to be programmes of matches played at Craven Cottage, the Fulham Football Club’s ground. They were fortnightly – whoever had brought them had attended three successive home matches. The half-time scores were filled in, and two or three of the players names were scored with pencil markings.

“Not much there,” said Peel. “Any idea what’s behind it?”

“Damn-all,” said Roger. “Except – we don’t get murder laid on as thick as this because a man takes a dislike to another’s face. I’ve been thinking of any big rackets, but I can’t think of any this might touch, except – food. Perriman’s are one of the biggest food firms in the country.”

Just then a man came quickly down the stairs and Roger went to the door. It was a white-smocked ambulance man.

“She’ll be all right, with luck,” he said. “Thought you’d like to know.”

Near neighbours were shocked by police questions and told varying stories, but some things emerged. A dowdy, old woman came in daily to the house, but no one knew her. A young, well-dressed girl had arrived in a taxi the previous evening – but no one could describe the taxi, although one man said he thought the driver had gone in with the girl and another man had driven the cab away.

No one mentioned the other two men, but several neighbours said they had seen a man loitering near the house the previous day. He was described as plumpish and dark-haired, and wore a black-and-white check coat and grey flannels. That struck a chord in Roger’s mind but meant nothing to Peel.