Chapter Seventeen

The Flush

The startling thing was the difference in appearance of the two women who spoke with Maureen O’Malley’s voice. Finding an impersonator had taken only an hour and a half – one of the policewomen had listened to O’Malley and then picked up her voice perfectly. Now, Roger stood outside a prepayment telephone kiosk in the Yard, while she dialled the number of Mrs Mallows’ flat.

The voice that answered appeared to be that of Nurse Trebizon. That she knew of the identity of James Donovan, and would be willing to pass the message on to him, was what they had to hope for.

The policewoman drew a deep breath and in a voice uncannily like the Irish cook’s, said: ‘Is my brother there?’

The nurse caught her breath.

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about!’

‘Now you listen to me,’ ‘O’Malley’ breathed. ‘I’m risking my neck to warn my brother James. You tell him the police are coming to search every inch of the place, and they won’t be long coming.’

‘But—how do you know?’

‘Because they had me at Scotland Yard for questioning,’ ‘O’Malley’ said. ‘Tell my brother, do you understand? Tell my brother!’

She put the receiver down, and turned to look for approval at Roger, who smiled encouragingly as he opened the heavy door for her to come out.

‘If that didn’t fool her, nothing will,’ he said. ‘Nice work.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Now all they could do was wait.

The moment James Donovan appeared, word would be flashed to the Yard, and Roger had become used to the need to switch his thoughts from one thing to another without being harassed and without vacillating. Back in his office, he went yet again through the reports, then came to a note in Watts’ handwriting, which said: ‘Please go to see Commander Coppell as soon as you come in.’

Coppell –

Coppell’s mood towards him had changed considerably since the beginning of the case, he remembered. From sullen fury he had become mellow, almost friendly.

When he asked himself why, the obvious answer was that the pressure he had been under had been relaxed a little. From the Home Office? From Sir Vincent Pole? There was no way to be sure.

Roger went over everything Coppell had said. His talk of the spotlight, the need for quick results, the pressures on the British film industry, the harm this could do unless the criminals were caught quickly.

He scowled at the window; got up and looked out at a view of the skyline between two modern blocks – this wasn’t half the place the old Yard building had been. He had been able to look down on the Embankment and the river beyond, calm or stormy, grey or vivid blue, and draw understanding from it. It had been as if the Thames had been a running waterway of ideas. There were no ideas out of reinforced concrete and tinted glass.

His internal telephone rang.

He lifted it quickly, half prepared for the familiar voice of the Chief Inspector in charge of Information.

‘You flushed him, Handsome,’ this man announced flatly.

Roger felt a fierce surge of excitement.

‘Is he recognizable?’

‘Made up a bit facially, but there’s no doubt it’s him. The Allsafe man identified him from his walk, and he’s trying to make sure he’s not followed. He’s being tagged better than he knows. We won’t lose him.’

‘We’d better not,’ Roger said. ‘I want a report on every move.’

‘Right. You’ll get it.’

Roger rang off and wiped the sweat off his forehead. The build up of tension in him was rather more than he could explain. It was as if he were moving under the deepening shadow of an impending disaster. Why? Who was in danger now? There had been cases where he had known a murderer might strike again and again but he had always been able to protect the next potential victim. Here, he did not know where Donovan would strike.

‘The bloody Donovans,’ Raymond Greatorex had said.

Roger went back to the window – and a telephone bell rang, so he was back at it in a flash.

‘West.’

‘Good morning, Handsome,’ said Ian Peterson. ‘Glad I found you in.’

‘’Morning,’ Roger said. ‘What’s new?’

‘We know what was hidden in the panel of O’Hara’s bed,’ answered Peterson.

Drugs? Roger wondered, but all he said was: ‘Good work. What was it?’

‘Money—including gold.’

‘What?’ Roger almost gasped.

‘It’s true enough,’ Peterson assured him. ‘Though you can’t see a thing by the naked eye, all the indications are that O’Hara brought currency and gold in large quantities into the country.’

‘From where?’ demanded Roger.

‘The USA, most probably.’

‘How often did he go there?’ demanded Roger.

There was a momentary pause before Peterson answered in a rather deflated voice: ‘I don’t know—but these film stars are always going to and fro.’

‘I don’t think O’Hara went as often as that,’ Roger said. ‘But—’ His mind was working very fast, almost out of his direct control. ‘Have you learned anything about his habits? Was he a womaniser?’

‘Nothing I’ve found says so, except that bedroom.’

‘The mirror room,’ Roger said briskly. ‘Yes. Sandell says he wasn’t a ladies’ man, and you’ve found no evidence—Ian, how many visitors did he have?’

Peterson seemed to catch his breath.

‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘Why the hell didn’t I—’ He broke off, only to go on ruefully: ‘He had a lot, Handsome—mostly film people from all over the world. If you care to look at it that way, he ran a kind of guest house, and was always throwing parties. That seemed normal enough for these types—’ He broke off again. ‘Oh, well, no need for me to make excuses. What do you want me to do?’

‘Find out the names and addresses of his visitors—what staff did he have?’

‘None, now, since Mary Ellen left. There’s a room service scheme to look after the domestic work.’

‘You check your end, I’ll check with the studio,’ Roger said. ‘Thanks.’ He rang off, picking the receiver up almost at once, and when the operator answered, saying: ‘Get me Mr Sandell, of Borelee Studios.’ He rang off, and dialled the internal instrument for Coppell, whose secretary answered. ‘Put me on to Mr Coppell—at once.’ The peremptory tone of his voice got results, for almost at once Coppell said: ‘What’s on, Handsome?’

‘When you talked about this O’Hara case, sir, you said the British Film Corporation was badly worried.’

‘As hell,’ said Coppell.

‘Did they give any special reasons?’

‘I told you. Losing bookings at home and abroad, losing stars to the United States, running into labour troubles which doubled the cost of some of the pictures. They were—God damn it they are—frightened of being put out of business by American opposition. They—’

‘Any talk of takeover?’ interrupted Roger.

‘Fear of it for sure,’ answered Coppell. ‘And another fear they feel that if they lose out on this then the British film industry will have had it. The BFC is the last of any real significance left. There are lots of small ones, but—’

‘Why the hell didn’t you spell this out to me before?’ Roger asked in a taut, angry voice. ‘I—sorry, sir!’

‘I didn’t hear you,’ said Coppell.

‘Thanks. I—may I call you back?’ Roger asked, as his other bell rang. ‘I’ve a call from Sandell on my other line. Oh! Gold and currency smuggling is part of this case, sir.’

‘Good God!’ gasped Coppell, properly impressed.

Roger snatched up one telephone as he put the other down, not realising how perfectly hand, ears and mind were coordinating.

‘Mr Sandell, sir,’ the operator announced.

‘Dave,’ Roger said crisply. ‘Does O’Hara have a secretary at the studio?’

‘There’s a girl who looks after the correspondence of several of the stars,’ answered Sandell.

‘Would she know how often he had guests at his apartment?’

‘She should know everyone who’s been there for the past six months or so,’ said Sandell. ‘But it’s plenty. He put up a lot of Hollywood semi-stars, and a lot from the Continent, too. I’ve never known for sure but I think he had an arrangement with them.’

‘What kind of arrangement?’

‘He was paid for the apartment and services.’

‘What services?’

‘Handsome, don’t be so naïve,’ said Sandell gruffly.

‘I’m not naïve, I just want the answers spelled out.’

‘There are a lot of young actresses who think they can get to fame and fortune in a big bed,’ said Sandell. ‘O’Hara knew a lot of them. Don’t get prudish about this, it happens all the time—it’s part of the game. Some girls even enjoy it!’ He laughed. ‘O’Hara didn’t use any coercion, they knew the odds and he always promised to get them out of trouble if they got into it.’

Roger felt a surge of triumph. He needed no more telling who financed 5c Berne Court. He wasn’t concerned with moral issues, only in facts and rational deductions. Most of the pieces of the puzzle were dropping into place.

‘Why wasn’t this in your report?’ he asked.

‘Don’t ask fool questions,’ Sandell answered roughly. ‘This is O’Hara’s private business. Nothing happens at the studio. My job’s to protect the studio—didn’t you know?’

‘My job’s to find O’Hara’s murderer,’ said Roger roughly. ‘Didn’t you know? This is a damned sight worse than letting Donovan get away.’

‘I won’t be talked to like that by you or anybody!’

‘Won’t you?’ Roger asked, furiously. ‘You—’ He paused, biting his tongue, remembering that Sandell was no longer a policeman with a policeman’s strict code. It suited him to turn a blind eye on occasions and mind his own business. ‘One thing,’ he said, levelly.

‘What?’

‘I’d like the names of O’Hara’s visitors, please. I’ll be at the studios in about an hour and a half.’

‘Do what I can,’ grunted Sandell, obviously equally anxious not to allow the situation to develop into a quarrel. ‘See you.’

Roger rang off.

It was sticky in the office but he could put most of his discomfort down to nerves – the tension building up inside him generated heat through his whole body. He saw the communicating door open, and Watts put his head round, gingerly.

‘What’s on?’ Roger asked.

‘Information’s had another report on James Donovan,’ announced Watts.

‘What is it?’

‘He’s on a Green Line bus going towards Watford, and that particular bus passes through Borelee. Pretty certain he’s heading for the studios, isn’t it?’

Very slowly, Roger answered: ‘Yes, it is.’ He stood up, slowly. ‘So am I, and I’d like to be there first. What’s the bus timetable, do you know?’

‘Leaves Victoria at 2.15, is due at Borelee at 3.46,’ answered Watts.

Roger glanced at his watch.

‘I can make it easily enough.’

He told Watts what Peterson had told him, and the additional information from Coppell. He saw the scowl on his subordinate’s face, then for the first time heard Watts explode.

‘How the hell do they expect you to solve a case if they hold half the facts back?’

‘Good question,’ said Roger grimly. Here’s a better one.

‘Coppell can’t have any ulterior motive, he badly wants the case solved, but Sandell could have a motive. He could know about the smuggling.’

‘That would square with a lot that he does,’ Watts said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Roger. ‘I’m going to Borelee. You keep tag on the situation here. I’ll take a driver and one other man.’ He thought of Pell as he spoke, of sitting next to the man on his previous journey to the studios, and he could see that the same thought struck Watts. It was hard to realise that Pell was dead. ‘Who’ve we got?’ Roger asked.

‘Greenwood and Smith are standing by, sir.’

‘Thanks,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll be downstairs in a quarter of an hour.’

In twenty minutes he was in the back of a black Ford, weaving through the heavy traffic, sandy haired Greenwood and compact Detective Officer Smith in front. Every four or five minutes the radio crackled, with stage by stage news of the progress of the Green Line bus. They saw a bus at the turn off to the M1 – the bus went by the ordinary main roads.

‘That’s it, sir!’ Greenwood said. ‘Wonder why he’s heading for Borelee now, sir. Putting his neck in a noose, so to speak.’

‘You couldn’t be wondering any more than I am,’ Roger said gruffly. And he thought: I hope it isn’t too late before we find out. There was another thing at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put a name to it.

‘Does Mr Sandell know he’s on the way?’ asked Greenwood.

‘If he knows, I haven’t told him,’ Roger said. ‘He expects me. You keep in touch with Information, and have the studio surrounded so that once he’s in he hasn’t a chance to get out. When I’m with Mr Sandell, you go to Division. I want every man we’ve got in the studio to carry two of those miniature fire extinguishers; the ones that make a lot of foam. Get ’em somehow, and have plenty in reserve.’

‘You’re expecting—’ began Greenwood.

‘I’m expecting you at the studio with the sprays as soon as you’ve got everything laid on,’ Roger said, and turned briskly away.

‘Right, sir,’ the detective sergeant said.