Chapter Sixteen

Despair

Maureen O’Malley sounded in an agony of despair. Her expression was almost unbelievably despondent, the tone of her voice held tragedy. Other things came through: her love for Ivy Mallows, her gratitude, her devotion. There seemed hope, too, that she would tell him all she knew, now that the ice was broken.

‘The doctor is a very remarkable woman,’ Roger said.

‘She’s an angel of mercy,’ declared Maureen O’Malley. ‘If ever a saint lived on this earth it’s Dr Mallows, sir.’ For the first time her eyes, bleary from lack of sleep and tears, seemed to clear, and she looked at him straightly. ‘As God is your judge,’ she said, ‘tell me she won’t die.’

Roger was acutely aware of the policewoman, watching tensely.

He was aware of the throb in the Irish woman’s voice, but did not believe it was blarney. She spoke absolutely from the heart, and he did not think that he should do anything more to play on her nerves.

‘She is very ill,’ he said. ‘But she is alive and the doctors think she will recover.’

‘How—how badly is she burned, sir?’

‘Badly about the legs, and she had burns on her arms, but her body wasn’t touched.’

‘Praise be to God,’ said the woman, and she crossed herself with slow deliberation. But her fear remained and she raised her hands as if to fend off some fearful blow. ‘But her dear face,’ she said. ‘What of her dear, dear face?’

Gently, gladly, Roger answered: ‘There won’t be any scars.’

‘Thank God, thank God, thank the Holy Trinity!’ O’Malley’s eyes lit up almost with exultation, all the fear was driven away. ‘The doctor’s not scarred for life, praise be!’ She leaned back in her chair, and Roger turned towards the policewoman. ‘Get some tea.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The woman moved silently from the room as Roger stood back. O’Malley’s colour was better but her breathing was worse – asthmatic, brought on by the anxiety. Her eyelids kept on flickering, and a vein in her neck beat rhythmically.

Suddenly, Roger asked: ‘Don’t you want her to die?’

She started up.

‘That’s a wicked question,’ she said. ‘I’d give my own life for hers, and you know it.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Roger, more sharply. ‘If it hadn’t been for you—’

‘I didn’t start that fire!’ she cried.

‘Never mind the fire,’ said Roger. ‘Why did you put them to sleep?’

She didn’t answer, but her eyes dropped, giving her a very cunning look.

‘If you don’t tell me, they may try again,’ Roger said.

‘Try—try what again?’ she demanded, wheezing very badly.

‘To kill Dr Mallows,’ Roger said.

She caught her breath, and gripped the arms of her chair.

‘You—you’re having me on!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Roger retorted. ‘Someone made you put a sleeping dose into their food. They told you it would just send them off to sleep. Isn’t that right?’

‘That—that’s it,’ she muttered.

‘But in fact they put Dr Galbraith and Dr Mallows to sleep so that they would die in the fire. You don’t need telling that twice. Do you?’ he demanded roughly.

‘I—I suppose so,’ she muttered. ‘As God is my judge, sir, I didn’t know.’

‘You must realise that they’ll try again as she’s still alive,’ Roger insisted.

‘She—she’s in hospital, so he can’t!’ she cried.

‘Oh yes he can,’ said Roger. ‘If he can do all he’s done so far he can get into the hospital, and her life wouldn’t be worth a tuppence piece. Don’t fool yourself and don’t fool me, O’Malley. Who is he?’

She closed her eyes, and crossed herself. Roger saw her lips move, as if in prayer. He hoped the policewoman would not come in for a few minutes, believing that Maureen O’Malley was on the point of breaking. He studied her features closely, one by one, and then noticed something that hit like the kick of a mule. There was a marked likeness between her and James Donovan. It was in the broad forehead with the rather full eyebrows, in the shallow ridge between her eyes, the nose that looked broken but wasn’t. When she went on praying to herself, he asked very quietly: ‘It was your brother, wasn’t it?’

Her lips stopped moving; her whole body went still and for a few moments she hardly seemed to be breathing.

‘It was James, wasn’t it?’ he insisted.

Without opening her eyes, she answered huskily: ‘Surely be to God, it was James.’

‘Your brother?’ he insisted.

‘Yes, that’s the truth of it,’ she said, and opened her eyes a fraction. ‘I didn’t go telling you, now, you told me, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Roger, gently. ‘You didn’t betray him.’

‘He’s my own brother, don’t you see I can’t betray him?’

‘Yes,’ Roger said again. ‘Where is he, O’Malley?’

‘That’s a thing I do not know.’

‘It won’t help you to lie,’ Roger told her. ‘It can only do harm.’

‘And it won’t help you to ask me where he is,’ she said with shrill insistence. ‘I don’t know.’

‘When did you see him last?’ Roger asked.

‘Why, yesterday morning, at the home.’

‘Was he the friend of a cousin you talked about?’

‘And why shouldn’t I lie to save my own brother?’ she demanded with a flash of spirit.

‘Why should you he to save the brother who tried to kill the doctor?’

O’Malley didn’t speak at once, but he noticed the way her lips twisted, as if she were about to burst out crying. This was a moment to ease off the pressure, and again he hoped that the policewoman wouldn’t return with the tea. After a few moments, he went on: It was James who gave you the drug, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was my own brother James.’

‘Why would he want to kill the two doctors?’

‘I can’t believe—’ she began, and her lips puckered again. ‘He’d never mean to do such a thing.’

‘Maureen,’ said Roger. ‘Why did James say he wanted them to go to sleep?’

‘He—he said he wanted to get some papers.’

‘To break in, you mean?’

‘That’s the truth,’ she said. ‘It’s the whole truth. He said that Dr Galbraith had some incriminating documents and he could be sent to prison, all he needed was half an hour in the house, undisturbed. I didn’t think it would do them any harm. I gave some of the powder to Mary Ellen and she was right enough soon afterwards.’

‘So you acted in good faith,’ Roger said. ‘No one will blame you too much if you tell me what happened—everything, O’Malley. What kind of crime had James committed? What were he and Patrick doing in London?’

‘And Patrick’s in prison, if there wasn’t enough trouble already.’ Maureen O’Malley sighed. She opened her eyes wide. ‘I don’t know, Inspector, I swear I don’t know. They are both in trouble, that I do know. First Patrick and then James wanted me to help, and—I helped as best I could. That’s all I know—except that when James telephoned me last night and told me to put the good doctors to sleep, I didn’t think he meant for ever. I swear it on my knees before St Patrick. Holy Mother of God, such a thought didn’t enter my head. I thought he wanted them asleep while he searched for the documents, and I didn’t think—’

She hesitated, and sat up again, making a great effort. ‘I still don’t believe it!’ she cried. ‘He would never murder anybody, it couldn’t have been my brother James!’

‘If it wasn’t James, who was it?’ demanded Roger. ‘Not Patrick, he’s in prison. So who was it?’

‘How should I know?’ she cried. ‘But it wasn’t James!’

‘Where is James?’ Roger demanded. ‘If he didn’t do it, what harm will you do by telling me where he is?’

‘Do you think I’d be fool enough to tell you, even if I knew?’

‘I think you might be sensible enough to tell me, knowing there is a possibility that it was James and that he might try again to kill Dr Mallows.’

‘I don’t believe it?’ she cried.

‘Then if it’s not James, it’s someone else,’ said Roger softly. ‘Someone who’s blackmailing him, someone who is making him commit terrible crimes he doesn’t want to commit. If it’s not James, I need to know even more than ever where he is, to save him.’

‘How—how can you save him?’

‘If he’s being blackmailed, how can he save himself?’ demanded Roger. ‘Is he—’

He broke off.

Just as there had been a flash of understanding when he had realised that this woman was a Donovan, now it sprang to his mind that there was an obvious place for her brother to be: at 5c Berne Court, the last place anyone would expect, but easy for Donovan to get into. The police watch on the flat must have been careless, although it was not a difficult feat for anyone to break in, with its several exits and entrances.

‘He’s at the doctor’s home, isn’t he?’ he asked, quietly. ‘He’s at 5c Berne Court?’

Her eyes were pools of anger and distress. ‘It’s the devil you are! You can see into my mind. But I didn’t tell you. You must swear to that! It was you who told me.’

Roger didn’t speak, but for the first time wanted the policewoman back. Opening the door he saw her standing with Coppell, a tray in her hands.

Coppell said: ‘All right, you can go in now.’

He made way for her, then moved to Coppell’s side, looking through the inner window at the policewoman who was already putting the tray down and speaking briskly to Maureen O’Malley.

‘Raymond Greatorex said “the bloody Donovans”,’ Roger remarked grimly. ‘I wonder what this is all about?’

‘What made you realise who she was?’ asked Coppell.

‘Her face,’ Roger said simply. ‘There is a strong family likeness.’

‘Her face didn’t tell you that James is at Berne Court,’ retorted Coppell gruffly. ‘Just guesswork, eh?’ He grinned in that savage and yet restrained way he had shown lately. ‘Will you go to check yourself?’

‘I’d like to strengthen the cordon around Berne Court first,’ Roger said. ‘Make sure Donovan can’t get out if he is there, and check one or two other things before we make a raid.’

‘Such as?’ asked Coppell.

‘The medical report on Patrick Donovan, Greatorex’s condition, Mrs Mallows’ condition, the arson report, Sandell’s report—the lot,’ Roger added.

‘On the theory that if it’s all in your brain box it might come out when it’s most needed. All right. Need to see O’Malley any more?’

‘No, sir.’

They began to walk away, and as they reached the point where Roger had to go in one direction and Coppell the other, Coppell spoke quietly.

‘Call on me for anything you want, Handsome. Clear the job up as soon as you can. The Commissioner wants to see it in the bag. Vincent Pole is terrified in case this puts film exports back by millions—and his profits, too. I told the Commissioner you’d have it sewn up within forty eight hours.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Roger said.

But he went off, feeling lighter hearted than he had for a long time. Coppell had come right round, and was actually backing him to the Commissioner. If they kept this up they would be on better terms than they had ever been. He quickened his pace towards his office, then changed his mind and went down to the Information Room. He gave special instructions about the watch on Mrs Mallows’ flat, then went to his own office, told Watts what he had done, and asked: ‘Has that medical report on Patrick Donovan come in yet?’

‘Ten minutes ago,’ Watts told him. ‘He’s as sane as you and I.’

‘Good. Any chronic disorders?’

‘His liver’s not so good—he drinks too much Irish whisky.’ Roger nodded.

‘What’s next?’ he asked.

‘Mr Raison’s here, sir.’

‘Send him in,’ Roger said, eagerly.

Raison, short, tubby and red faced, came in and shook hands. Characteristically, he began to talk earnestly after the briefest of courtesies.

‘You were right last night, Mr West. This fire was caused by Phosphol, a delayed action incendiary powder. Once it starts to ignite it spreads like lightning. Generates phenomenal heat in double quick time. No doubt that was used—no doubt at all. And you’re involved in this film star case, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with it?’ Roger asked.

‘Very much indeed! This powder in very diluted form is used for mock fires during film making. Anyone who’s familiar with it would know where to get it and how to concentrate it. I—but I’m talking out of turn.’

‘Not for a half a second,’ Roger assured him. ‘It’s just what I wanted to know. Is there a way to stop the fire spreading?’

‘Simple, if you can get at it in time. Cover it. Any foam extinguisher will do, but not when the fire’s really got a hold. I’ve seen experiments with this stuff which have burned down a small house in fifteen minutes.’

‘And there’s no doubt this caused last night’s fire?’

‘No doubt at all.’

When Raison had gone off, Roger told Watts to check manufacturers and distributors of Phosphol, told him to keep telephone calls away, and then began to study Sandell’s main report. It was comprehensive, succinct and unexpectedly colourless. He had employed James Donovan because Donovan was known to be tough and a worker. He had known of his reputation as a mercenary and had not seen any reason not to employ him. Donovan’s special job had been to go round the big stages and make sure no one was lurking there—a lot of damage could be done during the night to wiring and to sets ready for the morning’s takes. As far as Sandell knew, Donovan had done a satisfactory job. He had shown no particular interest in O’Hara or in Greatorex. As far as Sandell could find out, he had never acted as an extra before.

Roger put it aside, and turned to the one about the sabotage. It said little more than he had told Roger yesterday, except that he named Phosphol, and said he was trying to trace the suppliers.

What was needed now, thought Roger, was a word with Mrs Mallows or Raymond Greatorex.

And he wanted a reason why the Donovans should so hate Greatorex and O’Hara.

It was after lunch before he made up his mind what to say to Coppell, who answered his own telephone this time.

‘Well, Handsome?’

‘I’d like to give James Donovan a chance to escape,’ Roger said, and after a few moments’ pause, added: ‘I’d like to see where he goes.’

‘It’s your case,’ said Coppell. ‘Don’t lose him.’

‘I won’t lose him,’ Roger said gruffly.

Nevertheless, he felt some misgivings. There were times to allow a man to roam free, but James Donovan was not only a killer but a man of great resource. Arrested, he could do no harm, but there was no reason at all to believe that he would talk if he were picked up at Berne Court.

There was no actual certainty that he was there, either.

Roger went along to East End Division. Campbell was not on duty but the Superintendent in charge had worked out a comprehensive plan of campaign. Berne Court was in fact surrounded by two cordons, and word was flashed to Divisional Headquarters whenever anyone went into the building or came out.

‘Everything’s covered,’ the superintendent assured him. ‘You needn’t worry at all, Handsome.’

Roger said: ‘Well, I do. If he leaves, I want him trailed, not picked up. I want to know where his next hiding place will be. And I want to flush him out from it, soon. Any ideas?’

‘Can’t say I have,’ the Divisional man said. ‘If he’s there he’s bound to have outside contacts, though. One of those could telephone him we’re on the way, if only we knew which one he would believe.’

Roger stood looking at him for a long time, and then said softly: ‘I know who he would believe. She’ll do very well, in fact. All we want is a woman with a voice which sounds like Maureen O’Malley’s.’