Chapter Eleven

The Donovans

Roger took one look at the photograph, and knew there could be no mistake. In the same instant, he thought of Greatorex’s: ‘The bloody Donovans’, and of the prisoner who would now be at Brixton. He could go and see the man before the day was out, and ought to be able to get something from him. And the general call for this James Donovan, with all description and details, could go out with no delay. Sandell might be badly shaken, and with plenty of cause, but this could save the police hours if not days.

‘I want this rushed to Information,’ he said, touching the photograph.

‘I’ll send a motor cyclist up with it.’ Sandell rang for a man and gave brisk instructions.

‘Thanks,’ said Roger. ‘May I use your telephone?’

‘Help yourself.’ Sandell pushed the instrument and the file towards him. ‘Need me for ten minutes?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll get things moving,’ said Sandell. ‘Check Donovan’s movements, and buddies—he’s Irish and the Irish stick together.’ He went out, purposefully, already half recovered.

Roger shifted closer to the telephone, lifted it, found he had a direct line, and called the Yard. In seconds, he was reading out the description of James Donovan: and the more he said, the more it seemed as if he were reading out a description of the man who had visited the kitchen at 5c Berne Court.

‘Get it out at once,’ he ordered, ‘and when Chief Inspector. Watts arrives with a sketch tell him we’ve now a photograph. Report to Mr Sandell at Borelee as well as to our people if mere’s any news.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Anything else in?’ asked Roger.

‘The Donovan girl is still unconscious,’ said Information. ‘They say she’ll live.’

‘What about the charge against Patrick Donovan?’

‘Remanded for eight days, sir.’

‘Any complaints about the delay?’

‘None at all.’

‘Good. Is Mr Coppell in?’

‘No—I happen to know, sir, he looked in here with two Australian cop VIPs only half an hour ago, and told me he was going to the City of London police and wouldn’t be back until late.’

‘Thanks,’ Roger said. ‘As soon as you can, let Watts know about James Donovan’s photograph.’

‘I will, sir.’

Roger rang off, sat back in a comfortable chair, and moistened his lips. He realised that he was very thirsty, and would like nothing more than tea. He got up, and went to the door through which the Allsafe men had come, and looked through. A man and two girls were beyond a glass-walled partition which seemed to be soundproof. The man in the pale grey uniform sprang up and came into the anteroom.

‘Something you want, sir?’

‘Could you manage some tea?’

‘I certainly could, sir! Coming up.’

‘Thanks.’

Roger saw that there were several offices here, all divided by glass partitions; there was no privacy – nor was there any chance at all to dally or misbehave. He went back to his chair. Sandell had been gone for over ten minutes, and Roger would be quite happy if he were away for another twenty. It was hard to remember all he had done during the day. He seemed to have been going from crisis to crisis. He wanted time, an hour at least, to sit back and think. When things happened so fast it was easy to overlook all the significance, to miss angles of vital importance. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, for instance, if he listed all the people who were involved. He took out a notebook and pencil, and began to make the list.

1.Danny O’Hara – now dead.

2.Mary Ellen Donovan – unconscious from morphine poisoning which may have been administered by

3.James Donovan, on Allsafe’s staff at the Studio and the man who had attacked and nearly killed

4.Raymond Greatorex, who had telephoned to say he had information.

5.Patrick Donovan, who claimed to be the father of Mary Ellen and who might – there is no proof – be the brother or a relation of James Donovan.

6.Mrs Ivy Mallows, and her domestic staff.

7–8.Nurses Smith and Trebizon.

9.The cook, Maureen O’Malley.

10.Dr Galbraith, something of a puzzle, reserved and noncommittal.

11.The man said by Donovan to have been at O’Hara’s apartment.

12.The anaesthetist.

He made a note to have Galbraith checked, put down the pencil and glanced up as the door opened. It was the guard, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘Hope that’s to your liking, sir.’

‘I’m sure it will be.’

‘Had a call from the Superintendent, sir. He’s been delayed for about twenty minutes and would be obliged if you could possibly wait.’

‘I’ll wait,’ Roger said.

The tea was hot and fairly strong, just as he liked it. This was better than he would get at the Yard. He wondered how much Sandell earned; with his Metropolitan Police Force pension and his salary here, he must be doing very well. Amazing, his change of attitude – amazing and welcome. As he drank his second cup of tea, Roger put in another call to the Yard, and Information.

‘Ask East End to let me have a comprehensive report on Dr Galbraith, the doctor whom Mrs Mallows called in.’

‘Right, sir. Before you ring off—’

‘Yes?’

‘Your office would like a word with you, sir.’

It wouldn’t be Watts. It was, in fact, a detective sergeant who worked with Watts, and until that moment Roger had forgotten that he had a slight Irish brogue, which was hardly surprising, for his name was O’Brien.

‘What is it, O’Brien?’

‘Mrs Mallows telephoned, sir, and said she wouldn’t leave a message but would be glad if you would ring her back as soon as you got in.’

‘Do you have her number?’ asked Roger.

‘Whitechapel 22147,’ O’Brien answered.

Roger made a note of the number, checked there was nothing else in about the case, had more tea and another biscuit, then sat back for five minutes, pondering all that had happened at 5c Berne Court, and forming a vivid mental picture of Mrs Mallows herself, as well as recalling all that Pell had found out about her. When he was confident that he had overlooked nothing, he dialled the Whitechapel number. The ringing sound went on for so long that for a moment he thought there would be no answer, but at last Mrs Mallows spoke, a little breathlessly.

‘Ivy Mallows speaking.’

‘You asked me to call you back,’ Roger said. ‘I’m—’

‘Superintendent West!’

‘That’s right,’ said Roger.

‘Thank you—thank you very much for calling. I—I’m a little out of breath, one of our patients threw a fit. We had no idea she was an epileptic. It’s—it’s over, now.’ She breathed heavily for a few moments but was still distressed as she went on: I wanted to tell you that I’ve remembered the name of the man who was in Maureen’s kitchen that morning. It was Donovan. He’s been here occasionally.’ Ivy Mallows paused for a moment, and then went on: ‘I—I can’t tell you how anxious I am to get this unhappy business over.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ said Roger, evenly.

‘Do you—do you have any idea how Mary Ellen is?’

‘No change I’m told, but not in danger.’

‘Thank God for that!’ There was undoubted relief in the woman’s voice. ‘At least I can’t be accused of murdering the child.’

‘You aren’t accused of anything, yet,’ Roger reminded her. ‘Who sent Mary Ellen to you, Mrs Mallows?’

After a pause, she said: ‘You know I can’t betray a professional confidence, Superintendent.’

‘You are no longer qualified to practise, are you?’ Roger asked.

‘That does not in any way lessen my views on professional etiquette,’ she retorted.

Roger hesitated, and then said: ‘I think you should consider the situation very carefully, Mrs Mallows. If, as you say, you’re not actually or knowingly involved in what is going on, I think you owe it to yourself to tell us everything you know or suspect. If you don’t you could be in serious trouble. If you do, your confidences won’t be betrayed unless you are needed as a witness.’ When she made no comment, he went on: ‘Have you been listening to the radio?’

‘Radio? Good gracious, no! Why do you ask?’

‘I wanted to find out whether you could have heard the man’s name over the radio,’ Roger said mildly. ‘We’ve identified and issued a description of him which should have been broadcast by now.’

After a very long pause, Ivy Mallows said: ‘At least you’re very frank, Superintendent.’

Roger rang off on her echoed ‘Goodbye’, contemplated the telephone for a few minutes, and then studied his notes. Unless Sandell returned soon, he ought to leave; it would be an hour before he was back in London. He would let the local Divisional man cover the routine, and would have to call in at Divisional Headquarters before he left the district.

The door opened, and Sandell came in, moving very quickly and silently for so big a man. He gave the impression of being grimly pleased with himself.

‘What have you got?’ asked Roger, as the other rounded his desk and sat down.

‘Plenty,’ said Sandell. ‘A hell of a lot has been going on under my nose here, Handsome. But first there’s a thing I do know about. I had to get authority from my chief, Sir Vincent Pole, to tell you.’ Pole was perhaps the best known figure in the British entertainments industry, his name a household word, his face as familiar as a film star’s. ‘We’ve had a lot of trouble here in the past few weeks. Sabotage.’ He ground the word out. ‘Among other things, takes of films which have already been edited have been destroyed. It’s been a hell of a job.’

‘Why did you keep it to yourself?’

‘Orders,’ growled Sandell. ‘Sir Vincent didn’t want publicity. He wanted it hushed up, preferred the expense of shooting and editing all over again to a scandal. There’s so much bloody competition from Hollywood and the Continent, and the British film industry is so weak, he didn’t want to take any risks.’

‘Risks of what?’ demanded Roger.

‘Use your head,’ Sandell said gruffly. ‘If films are late on release they’re late earning money. If the big circuits think British Film Corporation are in trouble they’ll contract elsewhere. Sir Vincent thought it vital that we stop the trouble ourselves.’

‘And have you?’ asked Roger, tardy.

‘Like hell we have! But I can tell you what we have done. We’ve isolated a kind of incendiary substance which the devils use. Had fire and explosives experts to help. It’s powder which works the same way as phosphorus when exposed to the air. Catches alight, and makes everything it touches inflammable. Damnable stuff. So far it’s only been used in the editing and—cutting rooms, but it could be used on the stages—anywhere. I’ve doubled the fire guard here in the past two weeks.’

It was useless to say: ‘You should have told us.’ No good could come of reproach or recrimination, and at least Sandell had come out with the story now. Roger had a flashback to his talk with Coppell. Had Sir Vincent Pole told him of this trouble? Had he thought it necessary to conceal the fires from him, Roger?

There wasn’t much point in getting worked up about that, either.

‘Will you let me have a detailed report?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Thanks. What’s been going on under your nose that you didn’t know about?’ This wasn’t the moment to say so but on the present showing Sandell wasn’t doing a very good job at all. Was that because he had more than he could cope with?

Sandell looked as if he were fighting hard to maintain his self-control, but there was a grating tone in his voice.

‘Apparently O’Hara and Greatorex have been fighting like cat and dog for the past few weeks. Each is being considered for the lead in a big musical to be made in Hollywood. Compared with what they earn here, they would get a fortune. There are some American producers and scouts over here—tell me when there aren’t—and the word is that they were about to recommend their choice. Don’t ask me who they’d selected.’

Roger remarked automatically: ‘That could explain one of them gunning for the other, but—’ He caught his breath as understanding flashed into his mind, and in the momentary pause, Sandell said drily: ‘If Greatorex fixed the assault on O’Hara, to put him out of the running, and if O’Hara has friends who would hate Greatorex’s guts for doing it, then they would hit back, wouldn’t they? See how quickly I learn the West method!’

‘You learn!’ Roger said. ‘Yes.’

‘What’s going through your mind?’ Sandell demanded sharply. ‘What’s wrong with my theory?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Roger said. ‘Absolutely nothing, except—’

‘Except what?’ asked Sandell.

‘That there is another possible explanation.’

‘Try me,’ said Sandell.

‘A third candidate for the job who would be glad to see them both out of the running,’ answered Roger.

After a pause, Sandell nodded, slowly, judicially.

‘I suppose you’re right. You could be right, certainly. But these two men are the only ones in British films who could play the lead in a mammoth musical. I certainly can’t think of another.’

‘It’s worth checking anyhow,’ Roger said. ‘Who are the Americans concerned?’

‘The producers, you mean? They’re in London, they don’t spend much time here. I can give you their names and addresses, but it may take half an hour to get the information.’

‘Telephone it to my office, will you?’ Roger requested. ‘I ought to be on my way.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for your help.’ Almost at once, he added: ‘I take it you’ll be doing a general report for your masters?’

‘And will I please take an extra copy for Superintendent West?’

‘Two copies,’ begged Roger. ‘Thanks. And can you get me over to Division?’

‘Send you on your way at once,’ Sandell promised.

Ten minutes later Roger was at the modern building which housed the Division, talking to a balding, painstaking Superintendent who, simply confirming what Roger already knew about the escape of James Donovan, brought him up to date on details of the search in the area. He was able to report also that Raymond Greatorex had been operated on for a fractured skull, but wasn’t on the danger list.

‘Any point in my going to see him?’ asked Roger.

‘None at all—he won’t be conscious until tomorrow,’ the Divisional man said. Then he drew his breath as if making a great effort, and asked: ‘How did you get on with Sandell?’

‘Better than I expected,’ Roger said.

‘He went too far and knew it, so he had to butter you up a bit,’ said the other, making no attempt at all towards hiding his dislike of the Allsafe chief at Borelee. ‘If I were you, Handsome, I’d take everything he says with a pinch of salt. A tablespoonful, if it comes to that. Any so called security chief who takes on a man like James Donovan is either playing at some funny business or not quite right in the head. Donovan’s one of the toughest men in the business. He was a mercenary in Africa for years, after being on the Kenyan Police Force. They fired him, before we handed over,’ went on the local Superintendent. ‘What did Sandell want with a tough guy like Donovan unless he was expecting serious trouble? Answer that, Handsome, and you may have the answer to a lot of other questions.’