Chapter Twenty-Four

Programme!

Roger took out Jeremiah’s programme, and placed it side by side with his own. The printing on Scott’s programme was slightly larger than on his, and the margins were a little smaller. The paper was different too.

Roger read one paragraph from his own programme, then the same one from Scott’s. They were identical in most respects, but there were several misprints in Scott’s which didn’t appear in his. Odd letters, words slightly misspelt, something which might mean a code, but –they certainly hadn’t been printed on the same machine.

He lit a cigarette, conscious of a rising excitement.

He finished reading Club Chatter in Scott’s programme, and the final sentence was:

‘We regret that next week’s programme might not be so detailed. This will be corrected at the earliest opportunity.’

He read his own again – that sentence wasn’t in it.

“Now we’ve got something,” he said aloud, nicking over the pages of the directory on his desk, and looked up Osborne’s home telephone number. He put the call in, and was waiting for it to come through when he heard footsteps in the passage outside. Then Chatworth came in.

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

“Making up for lost time?” asked Chatworth, rather tartly.

The telephone bell rang.

“I won’t be a moment, sir … Hallo … Is that Mr Frank Osborne?”

“Yes, who’s that?”

“West here – Inspector West. Sorry to worry you again, but I’m interested in your programmes. Do you have them printed by two different people?”

“We do not,” said Osborne.

Roger said: “Did you have this sentence in this week’s programme? ‘We regret next week’s programme might not be so detailed. This will be corrected at the earliest opportunity.’”

“The man who wrote that must be daft,” said Osborne. “The programme will be exactly the same next week – except that it’s a London Combination game, not a League match. What put the idea into your head, Inspector?”

“I’ve two different programmes of today’s match,” said Roger slowly. “They’re identical in wording, except for that sentence, but they were printed on different machines and on different paper.”

“It could be a pirate programme,” said Osborne. “That’s happened before. Someone prints the teams and makes the thing look like an official job, and gets a rake-off.”

“This has everything the official one has,” said Roger.

“Then it’s not simple pirating,” commented Osborne. “You wouldn’t know what pitch it was bought from, would you?”

“Yes. By the park gates, next to the ground.”

“Was it, then?” exclaimed Osborne. “That pitch is held by a friend of Maidment. It fell vacant a few months ago, and Maidment said he knew a youngster who would like the job.”

“Can you tell me where I can find him?” demanded Roger.

“Now that’s just what I can’t do,” said Osborne. “He reports to the office before each match, and pays for the programmes he’s sold afterwards. I’ll make inquiries, if you like.”

“Better leave that to me,” said Roger.

“If that’s the way you want it, all right,” said Osborne. “Shall I tell you if the boy turns up at the next match?”

“Or before,” said Roger. “We’ll be watching for him next week. Thanks very much, Mr Osborne, good night.”

He rang off, glancing at Chatworth, who said gruffly: “Well, what’s it all about?”

Roger told him.

Chatworth made little comment, but agreed that the journey to Fulham looked as if it would yield dividends. Then a sergeant came in.

“Another report for you, sir – from the South-West Division,” the sergeant said. “Just been brought in, sir – the man who made it met with a slight accident, that caused the delay. It’s been sent by special messenger.”

“Thanks,” said Roger, taking the report.

The sergeant went out, and Roger slit open the envelope. His attention sharpened when he started to read.

“Now what’s this?” demanded Chatworth.

“Listen to this, sir,” said Roger eagerly. “’A woman answering the description of Sybil Lennox arrived at the Fulham football ground at 3:05pm in a taxi, entered the park-end terraces, paying 2/- after buying a programme from a man at the park gates. She was approached by five or six men during the afternoon, and engaged in conversation with each of them for several minutes.”

Roger put the report down, and his eyes were hard and bright.

“If she came up from Brighton, why didn’t we know?” Chatworth demanded. “What’s Mark Lessing doing?”

“I’ll go down to Brighton and find out,” said Roger.

All was not well with Sybil Lennox.

There was nothing on which Mark Lessing could put his finger; nothing worth reporting to Roger. It might have been that the girl was still suffering from shock after Randall’s death – and yet Mark had a feeling that it was something other than that. Sometimes she was almost gay and took part in the general conversation at the hotel; at other times she would shut herself in her room. Once or twice she received letters and telephone calls. The previous evening they had gone to the theatre together, and Mark had found that it mattered whether she wanted his company or not.

It would not be easy to behave dispassionately over a girl of whom he was getting fond. If Roger suspected, he would send someone down from the Yard to watch her. Mark had, in fact, debated with himself as to the wisdom and fairness of telling Roger about it, but had decided to leave it until after the weekend.

Brighton FC were playing at home.

After the theatre, Mark had suggested that she might care to watch a football match, and she had agreed. Next morning – that Saturday morning – just after eleven o’clock, when he had been sitting in the writing-room, she had come in, and said abruptly: “Mr Lessing, I’m sorry, I won’t be able to come this afternoon.”

“Oh?” He felt ludicrous because he showed his disappointment so clearly.

“I’m sorry, but I have to meet some friends,” she said, and went out.

Mark had been a little way behind the girl when she had left the hotel and had walked rapidly towards the main shopping centre. He’d followed as far as the Dome, and then she had disappeared into a shop. He wasn’t sure which one, but he knew that it was one of several near a large cinema. So he had strolled as far as the three shops and looked into each.

Sybil hadn’t been in any of them. One was a Perriman branch.

He had gone across the road, and stood looking in a shop window for some time and had seen a taxi draw up outside the shop. He had been able to see the girl’s reflection in the shop window as she hurried out of Perriman’s and stepped into the cab. By a lucky chance, another taxi near by was empty. Mark had followed the first to the railway station, and saw Sybil go on to the platform for the London trains.

She travelled first.

He travelled third.

Just after three o’clock she had reached the Fulham ground.

He had taken up a position some way behind her, and had not been able to see so much as the detective whose report Roger received later. He had seen several men speak to her after forcing their way through the crowd.

Being afraid of losing her on the way out, Mark had left a few minutes before the final whistle, and had been waiting at the exit. He had caught sight of her broad-brimmed hat as it bobbed up and down among the people. She had joined the queue waiting for trolley-buses, and then gone to Hammersmith, from Hammersmith to Victoria and then to the Brighton platform.

Now they were back at the hotel – it was a little past eight.

He doubted whether she knew he had followed her all day.

She looked up as he entered the lounge after dinner, and her smile seemed to invite him to sit in the chair next to her.

“It’s almost a pity we went to the theatre last night, isn’t it?” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, if we hadn’t gone we could go tonight.”

She laughed. “Oh, I see.”

“We could try the flicks,” suggested Mark. “Care to?”

“I don’t think I’d like to go to the pictures, thank you, but …” She paused.

“A walk?” suggested Mark quickly.

“It would be pleasant, it’s a lovely night.”

“Perfect,” said Mark.

They dawdled over coffee, and then Sybil went upstairs for her coat. She was soon down. Her head was bare, she wore a three-quarter length beaver coat and carried a small handbag and a pair of gloves.

“Sea-front or the back streets?” asked Mark.

She laughed again – and he thought that he detected a nervous note in the sound.

“I know it’s rather silly,” she said, “but I’d rather like to go on the pier.”

“What’s silly about that?” demanded Mark. “Let’s go.”

The main promenade was fairly well lighted, although it was gloomy in places. Couples walked arm-in-arm, murmuring to each other; a little party of girls in their early teens came walking along slowly, giggling among themselves. Two youths stood in the darkest spot, staring – at the girls or at Sybil – Mark had no idea which.

From across the road there had appeared to be a few people near the promenade, but now there proved to be hundreds. A man who had been sitting in the shadows stood up suddenly; Sybil caught her breath and clutched Mark’s arm. He didn’t laugh at her or speak reassuringly; his own heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

The pier loomed nearer, not brightly lighted yet. Mark and Sybil walked more slowly. If she would talk about it, she might feel better and he more courageous.

He said: “Sybil, what is worrying you?”

He hadn’t used her Christian name before.

“Nothing!” she declared, almost too loudly.

Two youths approached close to them, swaggering along and looking as if they were determined to force Mark and the girl to get out of their way. The two youths parted, one going one side, one the other, when they were only a few yards away. Then a car drew up to the kerb, a powerful car. Mark glanced at it involuntarily – and then one of the men reached his side, pressed something into his ribs and spoke very softly: “Don’t make a fuss. Get in.”

“What the devil—”

The man stood grinning at Mark, pressing the ‘Something’ into his ribs.

“In,” the man repeated.

Now Sybil was clutching Mark’s arm. Mark knew that the other fellow was talking to her, in a sibilant undertone. The pressure in his ribs increased.

“In,” the man said again, and now menace was added to his voice as well as the thing in Mark’s ribs.