Chapter Nine

May

Mrs Rosa Trentham, friend and neighbour of the Bryants for twenty years, closed the front door on the newspaper reporter and then walked quickly and angrily towards the kitchen. As she neared the foot of the stairs and the little room close by, she bit her lips in vexation. The slamming door might wake Kath, May, or Micky. She stopped just outside the door of the little room, listening for any indication that any of the three were awake. It was after two, and she consoled herself that it wouldn’t be too serious if they did wake up; they’d had a good rest.

There was the problem of Kath Bryant, and how best to help her.

Rosa Trentham heard no sound from upstairs, and began to smile and to relax. She actually took a step towards the kitchen door, which was wide open, when she saw the door of the little room move slightly; then a sound came, a sharp hissing noise which scared her.

“What—” she began.

The door was pulled open. She saw a man with a scarf over his face, his left hand level with the handle of the door and his right hand raised and holding an iron bar.

She screamed.

She turned and rushed towards the front door, shouting, “Help, help!” The man struck at her once, and she felt a blow on her shoulder, but it didn’t stop her. “Help, help!” she screeched and touched the catch of the door with her outstretched hand. “Help, murder!”

For all she knew, a second, murderous blow would fall. She couldn’t shout again, but pulled at the catch desperately. For the next few seconds she knew only terror; but the man didn’t strike again.

He was at the back of the house, climbing out of the kitchen window, preparing to race towards the service alley, his motorcycle, and another street.

Cyril Dawson, of the Globe, had almost given up his vigil at the Bryants’ house, and that was not simply because he was out of patience. He didn’t think he would get anywhere if he stayed all day. He knew that neighbours went in and out every hour or so, and so waited for the next visit. It was Mrs Trentham, and she was a few minutes late. He wasn’t surprised at her response to his plea, and in fact was amused by her pretended indignation. He shrugged and turned away, smiling knowingly at the middle aged policeman who was near the edge of the pavement A dozen people, mostly women, were standing around to catch a glimpse of the family whose pictures and names were in the papers.

“I’ll call it a day,” Dawson said.

“Can’t understand why they pay you to hang around like this,” the policeman said.

“Who said they pay me?” Dawson asked, and turned towards the corner.

As he did so, he heard a scream.

He swung round towards the little crowd; the women suddenly went tense, and all listlessness vanished. The policeman winced, as if he’d been hurt, then launched himself forward. He snatched and blew his whistle, and the blast echoed up and down the street.

He flung himself at the door.

“Help, help!” the scream kept coming. “Murder! Help!”

The constable swung from the door towards the window, and cracked the glass with his truncheon. Ignoring the splinters, he put his head down and ploughed a way through, his helmet pushing the longest splinters aside.

As the noise died down, a car turned into the street, and another policeman came running from the corner.

The door opened.

Rosa Trentham came stumbling out, mouth wide open and hands raised, grey hair pulled out of its neat bun and straggling round her neck, her face distorted. Dawson was just in front of her, and she fell into his arms. He could hear her sobbing breath and feel the shuddering tension of her body. From the doorway, he saw nothing but the open door of the kitchen and the stairs leading upward, but the policeman appeared from a room at one side, truncheon in hand, massive and swift moving. He turned and raced towards the kitchen door.

“What was it?” Dawson asked shrilly. “What was it?”

Mrs Trentham just gasped and sobbed.

Dawson eased the woman aside and, as others came up, said hastily: “Look after her,” and ran into the house.

Three things seemed to happen at once. There was another blast of a police whistle, a long way off. There was a black haired youth in battle dress standing at the head of the stairs, looking scared and unsteady; and there was the open door of the little room, and a girl’s hair.

The Harrison girl’s.

“My God!” breathed Dawson. He thrust the door wider open, and stepped inside, and saw May Harrison. He took one look, then put his head round the door and shouted: “Send for a doctor! Get a move on, send for a doctor!” He went back to the girl, who was lying in an odd position on the floor, and now he was torn between helping her and rushing to a telephone.

Her neck was red and puffy. There were scratches at her cheeks. He felt her pulse, holding his breath as he did so. It was beating, but was very, very faint. She needed artificial respiration, now.

“What about the doctor?” he shouted.

Two women had come in from the street, with another policeman. The boy in battledress was saying urgently: “He says we ought to get a doctor, please hurry.” One of the women said brusquely: “Now don’t take on, Micky, I’m as good as any doctor, any day.” It was one of the neighbours, and what she said wasn’t even remotely true, but it steadied Micky. Then, the policeman started to take command, telling them what to do, and began artificial respiration expertly. That took the responsibility from Dawson, and within three minutes he was at a telephone. The Globe had the story before the Yard, but within a few minutes of its reaching the Yard, Turnbull was told.

And he told Roger.

Roger saw Dawson of the Globe, the man who had been at the Mansion House, among the crowd now fifty or sixty strong which had gathered outside the Bryants’ house. There was a tall policeman, too, who didn’t recognise Roger and who stood at the open doorway as if he meant to make sure that no one passed.

Dawson would tell the story best.

“How long have you been here?” Roger asked.

“Three hours,” said Dawson promptly. He had a boyish face and wispy hair which was so fair that the grey in it wasn’t noticed. He told what he knew, and added that he had telephoned the Globe, and just come back to pick up the rest of the story. “I think I’ve earned my special interview,” he added, and grinned.

“How’s Miss Harrison?”

“The doctor’s with her now,” Dawson said, and his grin vanished. “If you ask me—”

“Not dead, is she?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so.”

Roger felt the knifelike stab at his heart; the fear above all fears that a murder which should have been prevented had been committed. If that girl – well, she wasn’t dead yet, was she? He forced himself to speak sarcastically.

“So you’ve made a hero of yourself for the sake of an exclusive interview?”

“If you want a hero, take the copper,” Dawson said. “I’ve never seen a chap take a header into a glass window before. He doesn’t know it, but he’ll be on the front page of the Globe in the morning, and if you could add a caption—”

“Make your own; it’ll be much better,” Roger said. “But if I can fix you something later, I will. Don’t crowd me or the Bryant family, though.”

“Handsome,” said Dawson, “I was in the house, I was the first to find the girl, I was with the brother who didn’t know whether he was coming or going, and I didn’t ask him a single question, just calmed him down. There’s restraint for you.”

Roger said: “Thanks. I hope your editor doesn’t sack you.”

He moved towards the open front door, where Kilby was standing with the constable on guard; a constable now eager to please. Kilby looked big and burly and tense; he wasn’t a tense man by nature.

“Hallo,” Roger said to the constable. “Crowd’s not being too much of a nuisance. I hope.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Good.”

Young Micky was standing on the second or third stair and looking into the room where May Harrison lay. An ambulance bell rang outside. Roger went nearer to the door. A woman he didn’t recognise was bending over the girl, and applying artificial respiration. Another stood with her arm round Mrs Bryant. A doctor was standing up, a little man, elderly, harassed looking.

Kilby muttered: “If that girl’s dead—”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

Kath Bryant was looking at the doctor, as if she was looking at the judgment seat. Her heart, her very life, was in her eyes. Her hands were held forward in silent supplication. It lasted only for a few seconds, yet the silence and the poignancy would be hard to forget.

The doctor said: “She’s coming round. I’m going to get her to the hospital as soon as I can, and make sure she’s all right. Didn’t I hear the ambulance bell?”

There was a bustle at the doorway. Kilby should have been making sure that the ambulance men could come straight in, but instead he was peering over the heads of the women, looking towards May Harrison. Her lips were moving now, and she was gasping for breath, Roger beckoned the men, and pushed Kilby aside. May’s face looked swollen, and her neck was very red and angry looking. The blood which had welled up from the scratches was vivid.

“See them out when the doctor gives the word,” Roger said to Kilby.

“Eh? Oh, yes. See them out.” Kilby threw off his preoccupation, and went to the door to make sure that there was no crushing. More people had come along at the sound of the ambulance bell. Kilby bellowed at them, as if to relieve his feelings.

Soon, the doctor gave the word to move the girl.

The ambulance men were quick and gentle. As they lifted May on to the stretcher, Roger watched Kath Bryant in her agony. Young Micky Bryant was still on the stairs, and when May was taken out, he said in a strangled voice: “She—she isn’t dead?”

“No, she isn’t,” Roger said, deliberately sharp. “Don’t make things out to be worse than they are. Do you know what happened?”

“No. I—I heard someone screaming, came rushing down and—and there was May on the floor, and—”

Micky broke off; voice quivering.

Roger offered him a cigarette, and he took it eagerly.

“If I were you,” said Roger, “I’d go and put a kettle on. If I know women, your mother and her friends will want a cup of tea. Get some aspirins, too.” He spoke as he went into the kitchen. He could see that the back door was open, and saw a constable approaching, probably the man who had chased the girl’s assailant.

The constable was walking slowly, and breathing very hard. He hadn’t a scratch, but a sliver of glass, six inches long, was sticking out of his helmet. Obviously he didn’t realise that. Two other policemen were in the service alley at the end of the little garden, and Roger could hear them talking.

“No luck?” said Roger. “I hear you had a good try.”

The constable said: “Who are—” and then backed a pace. “Sorry, Mr West, didn’t recognise you. No, no luck, sir. The swine turned right out of the gate, and had a motorbike waiting. He didn’t take long scorching along that alley. I caught a glimpse of his back, that’s all. I’ve already telephoned a message to the Division, sir, I’m sure they’ll send a squad along. My colleagues are searching the lane to see whether the chap dropped anything, or whether there are any footprints or tyre tracks. Not likely to be many, I’m afraid; it’s a tarred path.”

“Never know your luck,” said Roger. “Any idea what he was after?”

“Afraid I haven’t, sir.”

“We’d better go and see if we can find out,” Roger said. If there was a thing he didn’t want to do, it was increase the pressure on Mrs Bryant; but it had to be done.

She looked dreadful when he spoke to her.

“Mrs Bryant,” he said, “do you know why anyone should come and attack May? Any reason why anyone would want to break into the house?”

“No,” Mrs Bryant said flatly.

“Did your husband confide in you about everything?”

“Yes, everything.”

“Do you know what he was doing with a hundred pound notes in his pocket when he was killed?” Roger asked, abruptly.

She looked astounded; and it was easy to believe her when she gasped: “Tom with a hundred pounds? Nonsense! It—it just can’t be true.”

He assured her that it was, but doubted whether he had convinced her. That hundred pounds made a mystery of its own, and possibly held the key to the problem. He would have to worry it.

Roger saw the desk in the little room, obviously ransacked, and looked through it; there was nothing of interest, but at least it was obvious that the motorcyclist had come to search the house, and had, made a beeline for dead Bryant’s desk.

Why?

As far as Roger could judge, Mrs Bryant really didn’t know and a detailed search of the room revealed nothing. He left a man to go through the rest of the house, and went back to the Yard. Traffic was thick on the Embankment, and the journey took nearly half an hour.

On his desk was a note in the Assistant Commissioner’s thick, heavy writing.

‘Call me at once.’

Well, Chatworth would have to wait for a few minutes. Roger put in a call to the hospital where May Harrison had been taken. Once he established himself as a Yard man, he was put through to the Ward Sister at once, but she had to go and make inquiries. Roger tapped the desk impatiently with his pencil.

The door opened and Chatworth came in. He was a Goliath of a man who seemed to push the door back with his paunch, and stride forward. The door swung to behind him. He glowered across at Roger, who raised a hand, but kept the telephone to his ear. Chatworth came over, walking heavily, and Roger put a hand over the mouthpiece and said: “Won’t you sit down, sir.”

“Hallo, Chief Inspector,” the Sister said. “I’m afraid I’ve no further news for you. Miss Harrison is conscious but suffering severely from shock. Can I telephone you if there is any further news?”

Roger said: “I’ll be grateful if you will. And will you give a message to Detective Sergeant Kilby, who’s at the hospital?”

“Gladly.”

“Ask him to stand by until I send a policewoman,” said Roger. “And I’ll be grateful if you’ll allow the policewoman to sit by Miss Harrison’s bed.”

“Very well,” the Sister said.

Roger thanked her, rang off, and put the receiver down. He didn’t speak at once. Chatworth still wasn’t pleased, but no longer looked so annoyed.

“Now, what’s it all about?” he asked. “I thought everything was over bar the shouting when we got this Wilson chap and the prints. What on earth did a thief want in the Bryants’ house?”

“All we know is that he searched the room where Bryant used to do his spare time work,” Roger said. “So far we haven’t found a single print or a scrap of evidence—except that he wore a brown suit and a cap. No one seems to have seen the motorcycle clearly enough to tell us what make it was.”

“Better use the BBC again,” Chatworth suggested.

“I’d like to do that,” Roger said, and tried to throw off the depression which had settled when he had seen May Harrison on the floor. At least Chatworth was not being bloody minded. “What about the wholesale fingerprinting at River Way?”

“The PMG says he’ll storm the Home Secretary’s office to stop it—these Post Office chaps are just about as keyed up as they can be,” Chatworth said morosely. “Only sense I got out of him was that two days before Christmas the rush should have steadied. I know we don’t want to wait, but we can’t do that job without full Home Office approval, and it might have to go to the Cabinet. Can you wait?”

“Looks as if we’ll have to,” Roger said. “Can’t expect everyone to see it our way.” He lit a cigarette, as Chatworth took a packet of cheroots from his pocket. “The case won’t open out,” he complained. “We’re as far off a motive as ever. Young Derek Bryant’s been gone for two days without a trace. Now this attack. If Tom Bryant had been a big time crook, the pace couldn’t be hotter.”

“Think he was?”

“Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? The truth is, I can’t even begin to guess. I’d give a lot to find Derek Bryant.”

“Who has a motorcycle,” Chatworth put in.

Roger said irritably: “Oh, I’ve considered the possibility that Derek killed his father, went into hiding, and was driven back home to get something, but it’s still guesswork.”

“Anything from this woman of Carmichael’s, the Chief Sorter?”

“Not yet. Turnbull’s having them both watched. The woman has a flat in a house at St John’s Wood, and there’s no doubt that Carmichael pays the rent. No law against it.”

“Has Carmichael any private means?”

“We haven’t traced any. He lives by himself in a little house at Paddington, humble as can be.”

“What about this man Simm and the van robbery?” asked Chatworth.

“He’s been in the service for twenty years without a blemish,” Roger told him, “and there’s no doubt the stolen bags could have been taken while the van was at the Post Office. More likely he went to have a drink and won’t admit it. Oh, he could be involved. I suppose.” Roger was fumbling among the papers on his desk, and picked up an enlarged photograph of a fingerprint. He frowned at it. “That’s all we found to help.” He searched again and picked up other, similar photographs. “Print on hammer, and print on the glass at Wilson’s room,” he said, and added very thoughtfully, “Not a full print among them—each is a fragment.” He almost forgot Chatworth’s presence as he took a magnifying glass from his desk. There was a full minute’s silence. Then: “That’s damned odd,” he said, “the same section in each case, tented arch, almost identical lines.”

“What’s so surprising?” Chatworth asked.

“Three fragmentary prints, all identical, means he wears gloves with a hole in one finger or thumb, or has some peculiarity—I’ll check with Wilberforce as soon as I can.”

Chatworth nodded, and asked: “Anything else at the Sorting Office?”

Roger said very slowly: “No one says much about Derek Bryant, but he wasn’t as popular as his father. Farnley the Postmaster is worried about the Christmas mails, but seems anxious to be helpful. Carmichael is very nearly obstructive. Getting the parcels and letters through seems to be an obsession with him, and he’s a genius at it. Turnbull’s spending all his time on the job and has a couple of good men working with him, but we draw blank everywhere. Blank on Derek Bryant, blank on Wilson’s motorbicycle, blank on motive—”

Roger broke off.

Chatworth drew deeply at a small, black cheroot, put his head on one side, no mean feat for a man with a neck as fat as a bull’s, and asked gruffly: “What’s got under your skin?”

“I suppose the way the Bryant family has been knocked has really done the damage,” Roger said. “I can’t get the wife’s face out of my mind. Or May Harrison’s. She’ll live in hell if Derek did attack her, and she recognised him. From what I can gather she’s deeply in love with him, and—” Roger broke off with a wry grin. “You see how dispassionate I am about it all. And I’m reduced to guesswork: that Bryant discovered something at the office, was killed because of it, and the killer has some reason to think he might have kept incriminating evidence which might still be at Clapp Street. And from there,” Roger went on heavily, “we have to ask why Bryant sat on something which might be deadly to a killer. Was he the nice chap everyone believed? If there’s anything I’d like to be sure of, it’s that Tom Bryant is proved to have been in the clear. If we have to smear him, I don’t know what will happen to that woman and her family. And if Derek’s in it, too—”

“What you want is an early night and an evening with Janet,” Chatworth said gruffly. “And as from tomorrow, drop every other job you’ve got on hand and concentrate on this one. The Press is hounding us, the Home Secretary is hounding me, and you’re hounding yourself. Give the job all you’ve got, Roger.”

Roger said: “I will. Thanks.”

“Anything at the back of your mind?”

“Only the obvious,” Roger said. “We’ve had Post Office van robberies on and off for years. There’s always been a certainty that the hold up men get inside information. Did Bryant stumble on something? Was he first bribed—and then killed to stop him talking? Is there a big haul planned at the River Way Office this Christmas?” He paused, shrugging. Then: “By the way, will you get the Postmaster General to authorise Farnley, the Postmaster at River Way, to tell me all about the valuables they usually handle? When we know exactly what stuff goes through River Way we might get a line.”

“I’ll fix it,” Chatworth promised.