Chapter Two

The Widow

Roger did not move from his position. The woman, still frozen, began to move slowly back towards the car. A policeman, who had been on duty at the porch and must have gone inside the hall for some reason, appeared suddenly; obviously it was the sight of him which had affected Angela Margerison. The policeman’s voice sounded, pleasantly enough.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Er—no. No thank you.” Her voice was shrill, as if edged with fear. “I’ve come to the wrong house.” She turned hastily and stretched out her hand to open the car door. Roger walked swiftly across the room and into the hall. The constable, quite young, moved nearer to her.

“Are you sure you’re all right, miss?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I—I thought someone I knew lived here, it must be the wrong house.”

“May I know the name?”

She didn’t answer this time but scrambled into the car and slammed the door. She looked terrified. The policeman moved forward very quickly, calling: “Just a moment, miss.” But the car engine raced, and the girl slammed it into gear without glancing at him.

He did exactly what Roger hoped he would: grabbed the handle and opened the door. His voice sounded almost absurdly quiet when he repeated: “Just a moment, miss.”

She shot the car forward, and the movement jerked the handle out of the policeman’s grasp. The door itself swung wildly. She spun the wheel to pass the police car, and for a moment it looked as if the door was bound to slam into the other, but it missed by a fraction of an inch. The constable, his arm badly wrenched, reeled back into the garden wall, and the engine roared.

Roger raced to the front of the police car.

Two or three people were in the street, watching aghast; and Green and another man were in the doorway of the house next door, looking petrified. To them, to everyone in sight it looked as if Roger was going to run straight into the side of the little car, now only a foot away from him.

“Stop!” he roared. “Stop!”

The girl gave him a glance of sheer terror. The car was now going too fast for him to reach the swaying door. The wheels swung away from him, as the girl leaned sideways to grab the door as it swung close. Her eyes looked huge; her lips were set, showing her teeth. The door slammed. Green and another man raced up, but there was now no chance of catching up with the Mini, which spun left round the corner and out of sight.

“You—you all right, sir?” a man gasped. It was Green.

Roger muttered: “Yes. Drive after her and put a call out for the car as you go.” He saw Green now at his best, for the man’s reflexes were quite remarkable and he was at the wheel of the black Rover and on the move as quickly as the girl had been; and as it moved off, Roger saw him stretching out for the radio phone tuned in to Information at the Yard.

The policeman was now standing upright, while an elderly woman, obviously anxious, leaned towards him.

“Are you all right?” she demanded. “Are you hurt?”

“No—no, ma’am.” The constable straightened up as Roger approached. He looked shaken and dishevelled, his helmet, on one side, giving him the look of a musical comedy policeman. “I’m sorry I let her go, sir.”

“She was pretty slick,” Roger said. “We’ll get her eventually though.”

“What on earth—” began the woman, and then she stopped, looking from one to the other in astonishment. “Is she wanted—by the police?”

“You could say that,” said Roger, smiling to reassure her. “Do you live in Lyon Avenue?”

“Oh, no. I live in Laurel Avenue, it’s two streets along,” the woman answered. “I was just passing, that’s all. I was only passing.” She was middle aged, red faced, carrying a packed shopping basket. “I must hurry, I’ll be late for my son, he’ll be home for his lunch by now.” She turned and began to walk away very quickly.

Roger said: “Are you really all right, Constable?”

“Oh, yes, sir!”

“Good.” Roger went towards the house, and then out of the corner of his eye saw the uniformed man’s right hand, with a smear of blood on it. The blood was almost exactly at the same place as Venables’. “Better go inside and wash that,” Roger said gruffly, and went ahead; hesitantly, the man followed him.

Venables was in the hall.

“It’s coming, sir,” he said eagerly.

“What’s coming?”

“The tool kit—for prising the floorboards up.”

“Oh, of course.” How easy it was to forget when under pressure. “All right, do a bit of first aid in turn, will you, until it comes.” He went upstairs where men who had rushed to the windows were now getting back to the job of searching. One plainclothes man came to the head of the stairs to meet Roger.

“Hallo, Smith,” Roger said. “Found anything?”

“Not a thing, sir. The place is as clean as a new pin.”

“It’s the same downstairs,” Roger told him, “but there’s an indication that a lathe may have been stuck down on the floor of one of the rooms. Venables has sent for tools. Go and help get some tiles up, will you?”

“Right away, sir.”

Roger nodded as he passed, and then went into each of four bedrooms, a bathroom and a W.C. Two more detectives were examining the rooms, which were all absolutely spotless. Roger went to a back window and looked out over the long narrow garden. It was well kept, with a lawn on one side, a crazy paving path in the middle, a flower bed already dug over for winter planting.

A man was behind him.

“Neat looking place, sir, isn’t it?”

“Someone was proud of his garden,” Roger said. “Anyone been out there yet?”

“I think Detective Venables has, sir.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Roger looked right and left, to the houses in the street opposite, their backs all facing this way. There was ugliness and yet symmetry in the red brick buildings, the grey slate roofs, the identical outbuildings, attached to the houses. Most of the gardens were well cared for, but none better than this.

He recalled his interview with the house agent, round the corner in the High Street.

“Mr. Denton moved in on Monday 1st, sir. There’s no doubt about the date. He paid in cash, and took possession before the papers were through. But money makes the mare to go!” The house agent, almost startlingly old and skinny, had given a sudden, rollicking laugh.

The great robbery had taken place on March 10th, about seven months ago. It had probably been planned weeks earlier and, always provided this was the house used by the thieves, this place had been made ready. And whoever had been here had loved gardening.

He drew in his breath, making a sharp hissing sound, swung round and called downstairs.

“Smith! Are you there?”

“Sir!” called Smith, from the passage by the side of the stairs.

“How much have our chaps done in the garden?”

“Practically nothing, sir. Venables was out there for a few minutes, that’s all.”

“Where is Venables?”

“Here, sir,” the lanky young man called.

“I want you to show me what you did in the garden,” Roger ordered, and hurried down the stairs. As he reached the foot, the Rover pulled up alongside and next to Green, Roger saw a scared looking Angela Margerison: so that chase hadn’t lasted long, and Green had fully justified himself as a man of action. Venables now appeared in the passage alongside him, his expression one of great eagerness. Roger said: “I won’t be a minute,” and strode towards the door, reaching the little porch as the woman came round from the far side of the car.

Woman! She wasn’t much more than a girl. When he had seen her before, Roger had realised that; been convinced, too, that she had not known that her husband had been involved in the big robbery. Yet her flight made him wonder. Would she have come here except to visit her husband?

He felt a deep sense of disquiet.

He had been in charge of the investigation since the night that the news had broken. He was responsible for all that had happened, including allowing Angela Margerison to go unwatched. It now looked as if that had been a mistake. The way her car had first drawn up outside the house indicated a certain familiarity, as if she had visited it often before.

Now, ahead of Green, who looked enormous behind her, Angela came towards him. Fear still put a bright sheen in her eyes. She was tiny, but with a trim figure; her legs and ankles were magnets to a man’s eyes; so was her bosom. She wore a black suit with a frilly white blouse and frilly cuffs. He felt that he had known her for a long time.

Green spoke, as if eager to help her.

“She pulled up the moment I overtook her, sir.”

“Very sensible of you,” Roger told her drily. He spoke casually so as not to add to her nervousness. “How often have you been here before, Mrs. Margerison?”

The answer came like a reflex action.

“Never. It’s the first time.”

Roger did not believe that for a moment. When one came to a strange street, one drove slowly, looking about with great care, anxious not to overshoot the house one was looking for. And he had seen the assurance with which she had drawn up; the assurance of familiarity; but he decided this was not the moment to force that issue.

“Why did you come?” he asked next.

“A friend—a friend telephoned and said he was here, and I so wanted to see him.” She had a pleasant speaking voice, and now there was great earnestness in her manner. She even stretched a hand towards him, fragile looking, beautifully kept.

“Who was the friend?”

“I—I don’t know his name, he was a friend of David’s.”

She had her story off pat; had doubtless had time to think it up when she had been on the run, which meant she had a good, clear mind. Now her soft lips and deep blue eyes seemed to plead with him to believe her. And Green, for some reason, seemed anxious for her; perhaps because she appeared to be so fragile and helpless.

“I see,” Roger said. “Sergeant, take Mrs. Margerison to Scotland Yard and have her wait there until I’m back. I’m not charging her yet, if she wants legal advice or a solicitor to be with her next time we talk, that will be in order.” He nodded, and half turned.

“Oh, please!” Angela exclaimed.

Still on the move, he asked: “Please what?”

“Don’t make me come to Scotland Yard. I’ve told you the truth, I swear.”

Roger turned round, very slowly, and faced her. He was not only impressively handsome, there was something commanding and yet forbidding in the set of his lips and the hardness in his eyes. The girl woman’s lips quivered and the fear was back in her eyes.

“You are lying,” he said icily. “You are quite a bare faced liar, Mrs. Margerison. I will see you at the Yard.”

He turned again, as the girl drew in her breath, almost like a whimper. Venables was in the doorway, head bent to avoid banging it. He looked first over Roger’s head to the woman; he had never seen such a beautiful little creature in his life! But quickly his gaze shifted to Roger; and as quickly he dodged to one side to allow the superintendent to pass, then turned to follow him.

As they strode along the passage and into the garden, the girl returned to the car, with Green’s hand on the top of her arm, both protectingly and restrainingly. It was almost as if he feared she would pull herself free and make another dash for safety.

But she did not.

Detective Officer Venables watched West’s back and shoulders and the back of his head, noticing the sprinkle of grey in his hair which nevertheless looked flaxen from a distance. He was seeing, as he always did, a dozen things at the same time. He had a remarkable capacity for observation, which came naturally to him, and an almost unbelievably retentive, even photographic mind. These things he knew. What he didn’t yet know was how he could best use these qualities in his chosen profession, and so far he hadn’t been too impressed by his colleagues. Green, for instance, worked by rule of thumb, missing absolutely nothing and deducing shrewdly from what he saw, but trained mind or not, my God, there was an incredible lot that he didn’t see. And most of Venables’ seniors, from sergeants through inspectors to superintendents had little time for him. They told him what to do and expected him to do it, and often appeared to take little notice of his extensive and detailed notes; secretly he doubted whether these were read through, and so he grew to doubt whether they were worth making.

At least, no one had told him not to, and so he went on doing them.

He typed his reports, and so was able to keep a carbon copy for himself, for he had discovered even at school that what one knew thoroughly at one period, one could forget, or remember inaccurately, at another. He kept his reports as a detective officer in a loose leaf folder in his room. Though this one was fairly thin as yet, there were three thick volumes compiled in the three years he had served in the uniformed branch.

When he had realised that he was going to work on an investigation with the renowned “Handsome” West, he had had a fit of the shivers, due entirely to excitement. For West was the man he most admired. In the first place he was perhaps the most successful senior officer at the Yard, and a man whom everybody liked. Well, nearly everybody. He seldom threw his weight about; he sometimes drove his men but never as much as he drove himself. And, his reputation claimed, he treated his men as human beings, not as cyphers.

Venables now knew exactly what that meant, and since West had shown such obviously genuine concern for his cut finger, and since he had taken notice of his observations and not brushed them aside, as Green had, he felt a warm glow whenever he thought of West.

That glow had cooled, for the first time, when he had heard West talk to the woman whom Green had brought back. And it seemed to fade entirely as he saw West’s set face, the sternness, even a hint of ruthlessness in his expression. He realised for the first time that West would be a very bad man to cross. And he sensed, without knowing what it was, some extra tension about him now: as if there were other contributing factors to his mood, it wasn’t wholly due to the woman.

They reached the back garden, beyond the passage, and West slackened his pace, then suddenly stopped and stared at a spot in the lawn. Venables followed his gaze, and for the first time noticed that some of the turf was slightly raised – as if it had been dug up, and then put down again: there were even marks where some heavy round object had been used to thump the grass down.

And he, Venables, hadn’t noticed that before.