Chapter Fourteen

Missing Man?

At a quarter-past seven, Roger reached Scotland Yard feeling that he couldn’t complain about results.

Sybil Lennox would be well enough to talk next morning.

Roger walked along the cold corridors, meeting no one, and opened the door of his office. He smelt cigar smoke; the Assistant Commissioner smoked only cheroots or small cigars.

Chatworth looked up from Eddie Day’s desk. He was in a dinner-jacket and smoking a cheroot.

“Oh, hallo, sir,” said Roger brightly.

“Remember me?” Chatworth asked sourly. “Why haven’t you been to see me today?”

“It’s been a bit of a rush,” said Roger defensively. “You’ve heard what happened at the garage—”

“Yes, all right,” said Chatworth, who had obviously intended to be difficult, but now changed his mind. “Kirby – killed, murdered, you say, although every eye-witness seems to think it was an accident. You saw Relf murdered by being knocked off the roof, but he could have slipped. Michael Scott, missing for a while, but no real evidence that he was the driver of the taxi-cab. The girl, vanished. Not a very pleasing picture, is it?”

“We haven’t got much for the Old Bailey yet, sir,” said Roger, sitting on the next desk. “But there’s a move forward. We can put Scott up in the morning on a trivial charge and get a remand. We found the girl just in time to save her life.”

Chatworth took the cheroot from his lips. “So you haven’t been wasting all your time. How’d it happen?”

Roger gave a good outline of the story in ten minutes. Chatworth nodded with satisfaction and stood up. “Well, I’ll leave it to you – but keep me informed.”

“I will, sir.”

Chatworth went off.

Roger crossed the yard to Cannon Row, where he found a solicitor named Greenwall with the Scott brothers. Greenwall was a first-class man with an irreproachable reputation. As Roger expected, he took the line that while the police had reason to hold Michael Scott, his brother was a different matter.

“I might agree, if he’d say why he went to see his brother,” said Roger.

“Oh, he’ll do that,” said Greenwall, glancing at Jeremiah, who gave his half-sneering grin, and said that he had heard from Mike that he needed some money and was in trouble, and had gone straight to the house, because he wanted to help. He couldn’t reasonably be detained any longer.

Roger said so.

“Then I’ll have my worldly possessions back,” said Jeremiah. “Your men took everything out of my pockets.”

“That’s normal enough,” said Roger. “I’ll get them.”

The contents of Jeremiah’s pockets were on a table in the Station superintendent’s room. Roger glanced through them, and one thing in particular caught his attention. Jeremiah’s gold cigarette-case was only one of many valuable items – everything there, in fact, might have been found in the pockets of a really wealthy man. Then he caught sight of a small folder, like a tiny book with a stiff cover. It was upside down when he first saw it, but he turned it round and read:

Membership Ticket. Fulham Football & Athletic Club, Ltd.

The sergeant put everything in a large envelope and Roger took them along with him to the charge-room. Jeremiah left soon afterwards. Mike, who had refused to make a statement, was lodged in the cells at the police-station, and Roger had a word with Greenwall, who asked lightly: “Having him up in the morning?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell you in advance that I’m going to apply for a remand on the grounds that more serious charges are pending,” said Roger. “That’ll have to do you. I think you’ll find that Michael Scott is deep in an ugly business.”

Greenwall shrugged his shoulders and went off.

Peel was already busy at a microscope, looking at some fine golden-coloured hairs. Several had been taken from the back of the chair in which Sybil had been found, others from Mike’s clothes; they were identical.

“We’ll get him for attempted murder, anyhow,” said Roger. “And I think I’ve placed the plump man who was seen at Kent Street. You saw him last night, didn’t you? Soaked through, but in a black-and-white check coat.”

“Clayton! The Echo reporter,” said Peel.

“That’s him,” said Roger. “He got there ahead of us. Smart chap, Clayton. Oh, well. You get off.”

Left alone, he found a fact constantly breaking into his thoughts. Three programmes of Fulham football matches at Kent Street, and a membership ticket for the same club in Jeremiah’s pocket.

He reached Bell Street just after nine-fifteen, and Janet was at the door.

“Aren’t I nice and early?” said Roger.

“You could have been later! Darling, some good news, they think Goodwin will be all right!”

“Thank God for that! Mrs Goodwin knows?”

“Yes, we’ve just come back from the hospital. She’s upstairs – thank heavens, she’s broken down now, and I thought she’d better get to bed early. You won’t mind the camp-bed again, will you?”

Roger chuckled. “Again! I’d like to try it for a night.”

Mark Lessing grinned at him from the doorway. From the kitchen came the smell of frying onions, and Roger heard someone moving about; their daily help had obviously ‘stayed on.’

“Hungry?” asked Janet.

“Starving. You didn’t wait dinner for me, did you?”

“No, yours is being cooked,” said Janet. “It’s a grill – hurry up and wash.”

Roger ate in the dining-room. Janet sat at the table with him, drinking a cup of coffee. Mark Lessing lounged in an easy chair with his coffee-cup balanced precariously on the arm. Janet talked about the boys and Goodwin’s daughter, Marjorie – they were getting on famously. Afterwards she went into the kitchen to help the woman with the washing-up, and Mark grinned lazily from his chair.

“Now let’s have some inside dope, Roger. Found the girl?”

“Yes,” said Roger. “That reminds me. I haven’t seen much of the newspapers today. Let’s go into the other room and see what they have to say.”

The papers were full of the deaths of Kirby and Relf and the disappearance of Sybil Lennox. The Echo hinted darkly at organised crime. The report had been written by the Tommy Clayton who was so often on the spot.

Roger handed the paper to Mark.

“See anything much in that?” he asked.

“Oh, sheer guesswork.”

“Clayton’s a good guesser,” Roger agreed. “Might be something in this.”

“It’s coming to something if the Yard wants a lead from the Press,” remarked Mark.

“We get plenty,” Roger said. He reached forward for the London telephone directory, ran his fingers down the columns until he came to the Claytons. Soon he dialled a number, and a woman answered him.

“Is Mr Clayton in, please?” asked Roger.

“Who is speaking?” The woman’s voice was sharp.

“Inspector West of New Scotland Yard.”

“And you want to know …” The woman caught her breath and then added tensely: “No, he hasn’t been home since yesterday morning. I’m his wife. I’m afraid that something’s happened to him.”

“I expect he’s been sent on a special job,” said Roger soothingly. “I saw him last night.”

“I telephoned the office,” said the woman. “They say that he often stays away without telling them where he is, they don’t think anything of it. But he always rings me up or sends me a wire. I really am worried.”

“I can tell that you are,” said Roger quietly. “Leave it with me, Mrs Clayton, I’ll find out where he is.”

He replaced the receiver and looked thoughtfully at Mark, then told him of Mrs Clayton’s worry. Next, he telephoned the Echo. Yes, it was true that Clayton hadn’t reported since sending in his report on the Randall case and the Relf business.

“And you can’t help me to trace him?” said Roger.

“No, but Tommy’s all right. He can look after himself.”

Roger put down the receiver. He fiddled with the newspaper, thinking a great deal about the reporter who had first appeared in this case when he had tried to intercept Roger at the Yard. His arrival at Wignall’s garage had seemed just quick work on the part of the newspaper, but if he had been in Kent Street that afternoon, if he was now missing …

The telephone bell rang, and he took off the receiver.

“Roger West speaking.”

“Oh, West – Echo here again.” It was the news-editor. “You’ve started me worrying about Clayton now. His wife was on the telephone earlier in the evening. Are you seriously worried?”

Roger said: “Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know what to make of it. Still, you’d better know that he believes that Perriman’s, the food people, are concerned. He struck something when he was writing up some food monopoly and price-ring stuff. Didn’t say much – he never does unless he can prove his case – but he thinks they might be a pretty bad lot.”

“Perriman’s?” murmured Roger. “Thanks, we’ll check right away.”