7. News of Carney

Mark hadn’t reached the gate. Roger tapped at the window, and beckoned as he put the receiver down. Mark came hurrying back, Scoopy and Richard whispered their secrets in the hall. “She’s gone,” Roger said, as Mark came in.

“Who’s she?”

“Half the cause of Janet’s trouble, I think,” Roger said. “Aren’t the boys going to school today?”

“It’s Saturday,” came in chorus.

“Of course it is, I forgot. Stay down here and amuse Uncle Mark for a few minutes.”

Roger went upstairs, and found Janet lying across the bed, her face buried in her arms. He closed the door quietly. She wasn’t crying now. He went to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “How often has Lobo’s woman telephoned, Janet?”

She stiffened and raised her head.

“You know?”

“She came through just now. Why didn’t you tell me you were being worried?”

“I didn’t want to, you’ve so much on your mind.” Janet sat up, and groped for a handkerchief; he gave her one. “She’s called me three times in the last two days. Always from a kiosk, it wasn’t any use having the call traced. I knew that, or I would have called the office. What—what did she say?”

“Pretty much the same stuff she’s said to you, I fancy. It’s only an effort to get me jittery.”

Janet sniffed. “Yes, of course. I’ve tried to tell myself that, but—Roger, I just can’t stand this pressure any more. I hate being like this, shouting at the boys, always being in a bad temper, but—I can’t help myself. You’re so tired when you get home, or else you bring work with you. We never spend time together, it’s work, work, work. And it’s no use pretending. Lobo scares me. When that woman called herself Miss Lobo, I nearly dropped the telephone. I hate the boys’ picture books with wolves in them. It’s becoming an obsession, and—”

She began to cry again.

“It won’t last long,” he assured her gently. “Jan, why don’t you go away for a bit, and take the boys? There’s nothing I can do about it, I’ve got to go on working until we catch Lobo.”

“I’m going to stay here. If anything happens, at least I’ll be where I ought to be.”

“I don’t get it, Jan. There have been worse jobs than Lobo. You were going to pieces before he became really savage - long before the murders. Until then, it was just another job, and it got you down. Is there anything else?”

“No. No, it’s just that my nerves are on edge all the time. I’ll be all right. Mark’s promised to move in, until you’ve caught Lobo. I’ll feel safer if there’s a man in the house at night. I can’t rely on you.”

It didn’t sound like Janet speaking. He felt suddenly resentful, and his head throbbed.

She stood up and went to look at herself in the mirror. “Oh. I look dreadful! Roger, go down and apologise to Mark for me, and tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Right.” His resentment melted. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him; and she resisted. Not strongly; no more than she had done a dozen times in the past, at the beginning or even near the end of a tiff. But this was more than a tiff. He wanted her to yield against him, and she held herself stiff. Even when he kissed her, there was no response. He forced himself to pull her hair gently, an old intimate gesture, and hurried downstairs. The boys were hard at work on a train set which Scoopy had managed to keep in fair repair since Christmas.

“How is she?” asked Mark.

“She’ll be down in a minute. It was that damned woman who telephoned with some nonsense threats. One more reason for wanting to get Lobo. Er—Mark.”

“Yes?”

“I’m very glad you’re staying. Thanks. If you think there’s anything else I can do, tell me. I have been away a lot lately. Too much. I suppose, in a way, Janet’s jealous of the Yard.”

“That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

Roger said: “I suppose it is.”

Memory of those few minutes in the bedroom worried him. The daytime noises were unfamiliar, while he lay in bed trying to sleep. The vacuum droning, the boys playing in the garden, hushed now and again when Janet or Mark called out to them. But there was no real quiet. He was a long time getting to sleep, and he kept thinking about the way Janet had stiffened when he had tried to kiss her. It went deeper than ordinary nervousness; Janet had lived through too many dangerous periods to be affected like this.

Was it just that she was tired? It must be. Work had to come first; it was absurd to think that Janet was jealous of the Yard. True, they’d spent only two evenings together during the past three weeks, and he was often home late and always rushing off next morning. Get Lobo settled, and perhaps things would ease off.

At four, when he woke, Janet was out with the boys; she wouldn’t be back until six. His resentment flared up; he hoped he hid it from Mark.

He was out of the house by five o’clock, on edge to get to the Yard before the day was over. Finish the job. Then worry about Janet.

He went first to his own room. There, Chief Inspector Eddie Day, one of the four men with whom he shared the office, sat at his desk and brooded over some counterfeit five-pound notes. Eddie was a specialist on forgery, and he liked to have a watchmaker’s glass screwed into one eye. He was a big man, with a barrel-like stomach, large fat face, conical-shaped head, and small feet. He had protruding teeth, thin gingery hair, and nothing could ever disguise the fact that he had been born within the sound of Bow Bells; his Cockney was as native as any East Ender’s, for all his care with his aspirates.

“Hallo, Eddie.”

Day took the glass from his eye.

“So you have come in,’’ he said. “I’ve been wondering what’s got into you, Handsome. Thought you’d be around, after what happened last night.”

“Who’s on the warpath?”

“Why, Chatty! Come storming in, half an hour ago, and I couldn’t tell him where you were. I did my best for you, Handsome, said you’d had a nasty biff last night, maybe you weren’t feeling so good. He’s pretty mad, and,” - Eddie sniffed - “come to think of it, there’s reason, isn’t there? Fancy letting Lobo drive off in your own car.”

“Yes, fancy.” It would be easy to get mad at Eddie. Roger went out.

Cortland was alone in his office; he looked up and growled: “And about time.” Roger sat down, opposite him. “Had the AC on the warpath. He doesn’t like these requests for carrying guns.”

“Well, I’m going to carry one.” Roger offered cigarettes. “What he really means is that the newspapers have upset him, and the Home Office is probably telling him that something must be done. What’s cooking?”

“The only two things worth knowing came from Hounslow. They think they know the man Carney. Not on their records, or we’d have him down for that, but the photograph rang a bell with two or three of their men. I told them you’d be there some time this evening. Better call them if you want to go somewhere else.”

“I’ll go out there. Anything from Taggart?”

“Your two little men are still at Ma Dingle’s. They spent a couple of hours at the Rose & Crown at lunchtime. No, they didn’t go out last night.”

“Where’s Chatty now?”

“He won’t be in again today - only looked in for half an hour to blow off steam. He approved of you concentrating on Lobo, but he wants results.”

“Did you ever know a time when he didn’t? And don’t we?”

Cortland looked at him curiously.

“Lobo’s got under your skin, hasn’t he?”

“In more ways than one. And this is a formal request for a special watch to be kept on Bell Street. They’ve been worrying my wife with threatening telephone calls.”

“Oh, have they? You can tell her she needn’t worry, Roger. Sorry about it. I—” Cortland broke off as the telephone rang; it was his habit never to say a word to anyone with him, once the telephone had started ringing, until he’d finished with the caller. “Cortland … Yes, he’s in the office …”

Roger took the telephone.

A man said: “It’s Bray of Hounslow, here. I think we’ve traced your man Carney. He lives at a country house, not far from Feltham, just on the fringe of our district. He doesn’t call himself Carney, he’s known as Tich Smith. Shall I make preparations for a raid?”

“Not yet, please.” Roger was urgent. “I’ll be right there.”

 

Roger first noticed the car on the road between Brentford and Isleworth. He couldn’t very well miss it. A gleaming Chrysler convertible, painted pale blue, it purred past him with a woman at the wheel. Even if the car had been unremarkable, he would have looked twice at the woman. You saw a woman like that perhaps once or twice a year; caught a glimpse of her, and she was gone, never quite forgotten but only half-remembered. Beauty, poise, mastery of the car, all combined to make him notice her; so did her hat, a ridiculous thing which seemed to be made wholly of feathers. A cigarette was white against her red lips, and the eye toward him was narrowed, as if to prevent the smoke from getting into it.

He saw the car again, parked near Pears’ Soap Factory, at Isleworth. She was opposite a newspaper shop, reading a newspaper. That was a reasonable enough explanation of her stopping there. He tried not to look at her, but couldn’t resist a swift glance; and she was looking at him. She didn’t smile, yet contrived to be provocative as she peered at him over the top of the newspaper.

He drove on; and thought of Janet.

He didn’t see the blue Chrysler again for some time.

Bray, the Hounslow Superintendent, was a big, tidy man, with a large square jaw and a quiet, countryman’s voice. He had a comprehensive report ready, typed in triplicate. The house where “Tich Smith” lived was called Morden Lodge. It lay between the Great West Road and Hounslow Heath, and was a hundred yards from a by-road. Several acres of overgrown, weedy grassland, neglected trees, and stunted shrubs surrounded it. There was an orchard, which was carefully tended; Morden Lodge had started as the country home of a wealthy man, had become a hotel, then the house of a market gardener, then a fruit farm. Just before the war it had been sold to a man named Paterson, a widower, who lived there with his unmarried daughter. Carney appeared to be the odd-job man at the house. There were two other menservants, whose wives also worked there - so there was no excuse for the neglect in the grounds.

Paterson was a jewel merchant in a big way, and travelled to London three or four days each week. A jewel merchant might well be involved in Lobo’s jobs, to dispose of the stolen gems.

The household ran three cars. It didn’t occur to Roger to ask whether one of them was a blue Chrysler.

Since tracing Carney, Bray had arranged for the house to be watched, sending two men to dig up the roadway nearby, but not too close to rouse suspicions.

“I think we might raid it soon,” Bray said.

“Yes, but we can wait a bit.” Everyone was in too much of a hurry. “I’d rather watch everyone who comes out of the place, find out more about Paterson and his daughter, that kind of thing. We haven’t got much to go on yet.”

Bray looked disappointed and disapproving.

“Do you know how long Carney’s been there?” asked Roger.

“For some time - a year or two, at least. What’s the objection to picking him up right away?”

“We could only hold him on suspicion, and if we do that, we’ll warn everyone else connected with the business. We can make sure they don’t leave in a hurry, that’s our first job. If there’s any sign of a general move away from the place, pick ‘em up. It means having the grounds watched, of course, can you manage the men for that? I’ll look after the trailing.”

“I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

“Thanks. Now I’d like to borrow a man who can take me round,” said Roger. “I’d like to know the approaches to the house, where it can best be watched from - the usual stuff.”

“I’ll get someone.” Bray pressed a bell-push. “Here’s a map of the house and grounds, I had it drawn this afternoon. All approaches are clearly marked there.”

“You’re good,” said Roger, warmly. “Thanks.”

Bray thawed …

Roger drove, a lanky Hounslow plain-clothes man sat next to him. Morden Lodge was fringed by trees, and could be seen from the road only through gaps in a tall hawthorn hedge. It looked a monstrosity in the evening light; Victorian elegance at its worst, with two red-brick turrets, heavy gables, big ugly windows. On one side of the house were stables, which the Hounslow man said were still used for horses; they kept four. The garage was on the other side, and couldn’t be seen from the winding road. By-roads surrounded the seven unkempt acres, and three gates led from the grounds to the roads; each was suitable for motor traffic.

After making a complete circuit, they approached the front entrance, where a pair of white gates, in need of paint, stood open. Farther along a brazier glowed red and friendly in the gathering gloom. Bray had been wrong there; if Paterson had a guilty conscience, those pseudo-workmen would cry suspicion.

Roger caught a glimpse of a car turning from the distant main road, but it was soon lost to sight. He couldn’t hear the car approaching, so switched on his headlights; the headlights of the other car shone out immediately. He dipped his, and pulled well into the side of the road. The other car came into sight. Dusk shadowed its light blue and partly hid the woman at the wheel.

The red tip of a cigarette glowed near her mouth.

“That’s the daughter,” said the Hounslow man as the car passed them. “She’s hot stuff. I happen to know, because—”

He didn’t finish, for a rending crash from behind them cut across his words. Brakes squealed, and as Roger jammed on his, a shot rang out.