18. One Way to Kill

Old Joe, even paler than usual, kept dabbing his face with a red-and-white handkerchief. Cortland sat at the sergeant’s desk, Roger West stood by it, Old Joe looked miserably from one to the other as they checked over the list of articles taken from Magee. He didn’t speak until Cortland looked up.

“Now what about this razor, Sergeant?”

“He didn’t have it, I’m sure he didn’t. I searched him myself, when I came in. I wasn’t happy about him - I told you that, didn’t I, sir? That’s a big razor, he couldn’t have hidden it anywhere about his person. I made a thorough search. He didn’t say anything, just stood there while I did it, as if he didn’t care what happened. I decided his behaviour was unusual, sir, and he needed very careful watching. Until I was called to the telephone, I passed his cell every few minutes. I was most uneasy in my mind about his behaviour, sir. And that razor was not on his person when I searched him.”

“Did you search the cell?”

“Yes, every corner. Nothing was hidden there. I turned over the mattress, sir.”

“Then how the hell did he get it?”

“I—I can only think of one thing,” said Old Joe, and dabbed his forehead frantically. “A constable unknown to me came in just before it happened. Said he’d come from 17, and I remarked at the time that it was unusual to bring a message. Also, he said he’d come about Willy Russell, who was in the next cell - moved him quick when we found out what happened - but he didn’t seem to know Willy.”

Roger was already holding the telephone to his ear.

17 Division had sent no one to Cannon Row …

Old Joe wrote out a description of the phony constable in his slow, regular, and easily read handwriting, pausing occasionally to dab at his forehead.

 

Roger and Cortland went into Cortland’s office, and Cortland grunted.

“It takes some believing.”

Roger said: “We can’t really say Lobo killed Magee, either.”

“He gave him the instrument,” Cortland said heavily.

“It was still suicide, even if it meant that he knew Magee was that way inclined.” Roger lit a cigarette, blew smoke toward the window, and said: “The AC is going to blow up good and proper when the Press gets hold of this.”

“Devil to pay.” Cortland glowered.

“Anything on Magee yet?” Roger asked.

“Yes. Wealthy son of a jeweller friend of Paterson’s who died years ago. Nothing against him. Good-natured lad, never had anything to do with crooks, never seemed too keen on night life, although he haunted the places where Margaret Paterson went. I—” he broke off when the telephone rang, and seemed to withdraw from the room and Roger. “Superintendent Cortland … Good morning, Sir Guy … Yes, Sir Guy.” Cortland looked as if he, too, wanted to dab his forehead. “He’s with me now … I ought to tell you, sir, that—”

“He’s hung up,” he said heavily. “Wants to see you. I’d better come along with you.”

“He’ll probably snarl less if I’m on my own,” said Roger. “Sit tight.”

For some reason, hard to understand, he was almost the only man at Scotland Yard not in awe of the Assistant Commissioner. It was not that Sir Guy Chatsworth was unpopular; there had been few better-liked AC’s at the Yard. Moreover, everyone who came into regular contact with him knew that his gruffness was a pose, that he was jealous of the reputation of his men and was continually campaigning for more staff and better pay and conditions. It remained true that when anything went severely wrong, his wrath made the most hardened CID men feel timid.

Roger tapped at his door and went in.

Chatsworth didn’t look up. He sat at a large, glass-topped desk, a burly man in thick brown homespun, with grizzled hair which was massed in ringlets round his head, leaving him completely bald on top. It gave him the appearance of a fat boy dressed as a man. The room was an astonishing contrast to Chatsworth, who looked as if he had brought a breath of the country into Scotland Yard. It was furnished in ultramodern style; black glass, chromium-and-steel furniture, a black-and-white carpet with a futuristic design on it; black-and-white curtains. His arrival at the Yard had coincided with a limited refurnishing of offices which had long needed it, and he had contrived to make his own choice.

He was writing with a slim gold pencil which looked lost in his big, reddish hands.

Without looking up, he said: “I thought you were on night duty. Don’t you ever rest?”

“When I can, sir.”

“You’re a fool. How can you be on your toes if you’re dopey with fatigue? It’s not the first time I’ve told you about it. Lobo’s not going to be caught by a man who ought to be in bed. Time you learned more sense.”

Roger said: “Would you like my resignation?”

Chatsworth jerked his head up. His face was brick red, deeply lined, with myriads of crows’ feet at the corners of his heavy-lidded eyes. Those eyes were wide open, now; blue, often frosty, often merry - but at the moment, startled.

He said: “I thought you were serious.”

“I am.”

“Don’t talk nonsense! Sit down.” Chatsworth straightened his back and stretched his arms. Then he looked wary. “Why? What have you done now? Lost another car?”

“Lost a witness.”

“Eh? Who? Don’t talk in riddles.” Probably the secret of Roger’s success with the AC was his ability to get Chatsworth on the defensive; he had done so now, and knew that there might be rumblings, but no explosion. He sat down.

“Magee killed himself in his cell.”

There was silence while Chatsworth eased back in his chair, picked up the gold pencil and began to twist it in his fingers. Roger wanted a cigarette and slid his hand in his pocket, but didn’t take out his case.

“How?” asked Chatsworth in a smooth voice.

Roger told him.

“Newspapers got this yet?”

“There were several reporters outside Cannon Row when the ambulance drove off. I think they know. We’d better give them the story, anyhow, or they’ll guess and make the situation worse.”

“Hmm,” said Chatsworth. “Hmm.” He lifted the telephone receiver. “Backroom Inspector, hurry … hallo, Bream? … Release the Magee story as soon as you’re asked for it … Eh? I don’t care if there are fifty in the room, tell them the story!” He banged down the receiver. “Magee was all that important, was he?”

“They didn’t pass him that razor for fun.”

“Don’t be smart! You could have learned plenty from him.”

“Probably. You can’t tell with that type, he wasn’t normal.”

“According to the reports, he confessed to attacking Sloan but not to killing the man Lake. Think he killed Lake?”

“I think he could have, in spite of Miss Paterson’s evidence. She’s friendly toward him, probably tried to make out that he hadn’t the opportunity.” Roger spoke evenly, thinking of Margaret. “It isn’t much use worrying what we might have got from Magee, sir.”

“No. And listen to me, you young pup, you can’t make an insolent remark innocent by adding ‘sir.’ What’s the matter with you this morning?”

“Sorry,” said Roger. “Lobo’s got under my skin. He’s had a crack at me, too, and he’s doing very nicely. But he’s on the run, or he wouldn’t take the chances he’s taking now. Have you had time to study the report?”

“Yes. Haven’t grasped everything yet, but I’ve a fair idea of what’s been happening. Any trace of Carney and the others?”

“Nothing at all?”

“They can’t disappear into thin air. What have you done about Paterson and his secretary, what’s her name? Wolf—yes, Helen Wolf.” He looked at Roger through his lashes, and his bushy grey eyebrows almost hid his eyes. “Significant, isn’t it?”

“It could be. They’re being watched. I shall be surprised if they do anything unusual today, they’ll lie doggo. We might get a lead from them, but we’re much more likely to get one to them.”

“Hmm. Been to Ma Dingle’s yet?”

“No. I expect a report from Taggart any time. I may raid the place tonight.” Roger took out his cigarette case at last; Chatsworth nodded, so he lit up. “I think we might get our lead to Paterson and the woman Wolf through Paterson’s daughter.”

“How?”

“Paterson treats her as if he were living in the reign of Queen Victoria, but the thing doesn’t really add up. He’s been known to give her sleeping draughts to prevent her from leaving the house - did so last night. But she was up to that, and didn’t swallow the tablets. Why was he so anxious to keep her in? Possibly, because he was afraid she would notice queer things that were happening in the grounds or in the gymnasium. Last night, he pretended not to be greatly worried about her disappearance - she often runs out on him - but I think he was alarmed. She hasn’t been to any friends, he probably doesn’t know where she is.”

“Do you?”

“At Sloan’s flat, quite safe. If we keep her there, and she seems prepared to stay as long as we want her to, Paterson might get worried, and being worried, let something out. He’s strangely jittery, and—”

He broke off. He seemed to see Paterson’s eyes, a muddy colour clearing to clear brightness, and suddenly he guessed why.

“And what?” asked Chatsworth sharply.

“Nothing important,” Roger went on quickly, doubting whether Chatsworth would force the question. “On the whole, I think we can say we’re a lot further along the road than we were this time yesterday. I don’t think I shall stand off much until it’s over.”

Chatsworth said: “Now what’s going on in that crafty mind of yours? Be careful what you do with Margaret Paterson. She could be in danger. Don’t want her to go the same way as Magee.”

“No, we don’t,” said Roger, with an emphasis which startled Chatsworth. “She’ll be well looked after. If she wants to go home, we can’t keep her, of course - we can question her again, but until or unless we get fresh information, we can’t hold her.”

“Do what you think is best.”

“Thank you, sir.” Roger stood up, and went out. Paterson’s eyes seemed to be everywhere. He looked in at Cortland’s office, and reported, learned that no fresh news had come in, and hurried downstairs. He drove swiftly along the wide embankment, past the stately buildings beyond the gardens, the last of London’s trams clattering alongside. At Blackfriars Bridge he was held up by traffic, but soon he went into a chemist’s shop, next door to Univex House, in Farringdon Street, near the big market.

A girl said: “Yes, sir?”

“Have you some bismuth tablets?”

“Oh, yes.” She took a small bottle from a shelf behind her.

“Is there a round bottle?” asked Roger.

“I’m not sure—oh, yes. Will that do?”

He judged it to be rather larger than the bottle which Helen Wolf kept in her bag, but it would do.

“Thanks.”

He took out the cotton wool at the top of the bottle, threw half a dozen tablets into the roadway, then walked up the steps leading to the front entrance of Univex House, studied the nameplates, and saw one reading: “Sixth Floor: James Paterson and Company, Ltd.” A CID man standing near the lift came toward him, and studied the nameplates at the same time. A porter watched from a glass-fronted office.

“Anything to report?” asked Roger quietly.

“Both upstairs.”

“Thanks.” Roger went to the lift, and a one-armed attendant whisked him up to the sixth floor. The landing was large, the walls panelled; there was an atmosphere of affluence about the building. Opposite the lift, a door with a frosted-glass panel stood ajar, marked “Inquiries.” There were three other doors, all marked “Private.” He heard voices coming from one of the rooms, but couldn’t recognise them. He tried the handles of the “Private” doors, but all were locked. He went into the inquiry office, a small cubbyhole occupied by a smartly dressed, well-made-up girl with dark, braided hair. She smiled.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning. I’d like to see Mr Paterson.”

“I’ll find out whether he’s in. Will you please sit down a moment?”

“Thanks.”

“What name is it, please?”

“West,” said Roger.

“Mr—West.” There was a faint pause before the “West,” and he knew that she recognised the name, had been told that he might call. She pulled out one of the plugs; a bell rang three times in the office out of sight. There was a pause, before she said: “Miss Wolf, there’s a Mr West to see Mr Paterson, do you know whether he’s in?”

She smiled again, disarmingly.

“I won’t keep you a moment.”

“That’s all right.” Roger sat listening, intently, for any sound in the other rooms. He heard footsteps, but no voices; whoever was in there was whispering. He waited for a few seconds, and then suddenly jumped up.

The receptionist called: “Mr West!”

But he opened the door and stepped on to the landing. One of the “private” doors was opening, and Dr Sorenson came out, missed a step when he saw Roger, and then grinned.

“Well, well! Night and day duty, Inspector?”

Behind him was Helen Wolf, smiling broadly; and behind her, Paterson stood frowning.

“You’re having quite a send off,” Roger said. “Isn’t there a back door?”

“I don’t want insolence!” Paterson barked.

“I’m sure that Mr West didn’t mean to be rude,” said Helen Wolf. “You do look tired, Inspector. It must be so trying for you, working all hours. As you’ve come this way, you may as well come in. Goodbye, Doctor. It’s most reassuring, most reassuring. Pat has been so tired lately, so run down, I was afraid that he might have low blood pressure or something like that. It’s a relief to know that he’s all right, and I will make sure he rests. If only he weren’t so worried about Margaret, he would be much better. Goodbye.” She patted the squat doctor on his shoulder, beamed at Roger, and stood back for him to pass.

Dr Sorenson did not have his bag with him; and could hardly have tested Paterson’s blood pressure without a proper instrument. Roger made no comment. Helen Wolf exclaimed: “Oh!” and hurried out after Sorenson. Paterson put a hand on Roger’s arm, as if to stop him from following her.

The office was large and luxurious, more like a living room or study than a business office.

“What do you want, West?” Paterson’s voice was hoarse.

“Has your daughter returned?”

“No. Haven’t you found her?”

Helen came bustling back and closed the door gently behind her. She was dressed in the same old tweed suit with the short skirt, and the wolves’ heads scarf still dangled over her cushiony bosom. Her fluffy hair was untidy. She tucked in a few loose strands, walked to the large walnut desk and sat down.

“Have you asked Mr West what he wants, Pat?”

“He hasn’t found Margaret. That girl—” Paterson broke off. His lips were set tightly, he did not look as if he were thinking kindly about Margaret. “She must learn to do what she’s told! I won’t have her dashing off like this, she’ll have to be taught.”

“She’ll be all right, Pat. She is young, you know. You worry about her too much. Have you found Carney or any of the others, Mr West?”

“No.”

“Pat and I have been talking,” said Helen, coyly. “We have been wondering how we could help you. It’s rather a shock, you know, to find that these men have been carrying on their crimes under our very noses. We’ve prepared a list of people who have called to see them, and several men who trained at the gymnasium.”

“What did they train for?”

“Why, boxing. Carney was an old prize fighter, he loved training youngsters - he preferred lightweights. Strange, isn’t it? A big man like that always preferred to train lightweights to box, their small size fascinated him. He thought that little people were so much more agile than big ones, could make openings where big fellows just couldn’t find a way past their opponents’ defences. Do you like boxing, Mr West?”

Roger said: “I prefer fencing.”

She laughed; a trilling, gay laugh. But she knew exactly what he meant, her mind was needle sharp.

“I’m fond of fencing, too, it’s so exhilarating. At all events, we’ve prepared a list of some of those who called, it might be a help. And we’ve decided that Pat made a foolish mistake yesterday, when he denied knowing about the boy with the red hair. You may not believe it, Mr West, but Pat is such a sentimentalist. He knows that Margaret has made many young men unhappy. He blames her, too, although I don’t think she should be blamed; no one can help being born attractive, any more than they can help becoming fat.” She gurgled. “Look at me! Pat didn’t want to get the boy into trouble. He’s a nice lad, although rather intense, and he’s worried Margaret’s life out. In fact, one of the reasons why we were so anxious that Margaret shouldn’t leave the house by night was anxiety lest he should try to do her some harm. He was so passionate, and he was twice heard to threaten to kill her unless she would marry him.”

“Really,” said Roger dryly.

“Oh, yes, and although we knew that Margaret was capable of looking after herself, we were worried because she is sometimes so reckless. Anyhow, the red-headed man whom you saw yesterday must have been Alec. Alec Magee. I think he lives in Kensington, but I’m not sure. Would you like to use the telephone?”

“Not yet,” said Roger. He glanced round at her desk, which was in a corner. On it lay her handbag, big, black, and shiny. He wandered over to the desk, knowing that they were watching him closely; in spite of the front she put up, she wasn’t sure of him. Paterson was the more obviously nervous of the two. “Do you carry a gun, Miss Wolf?”

“Gun? Good heavens, no!”

“Miss Paterson makes a habit of it.”

“No!” cried Helen. “Surely she—Pat, did you know that Margaret carried a gun?”

“I did not!”

“It’s a complete surprise. What will the child get up to next?” Helen Wolf sighed, as if in vexation, and came over to the desk. Roger picked up her handbag, and she made no comment. “I’ve never used a gun in my life, I’m always too frightened by the noise. I hate noise.”

“So do creepers.”

She looked perplexed. “Who? Oh, creepers?” She was still perplexed, or pretended that she was. “I suppose that’s a joke, I can’t be very bright this morning. But I don’t carry a gun, look inside my bag if you like. There’s absolutely nothing in it that would do you the slightest harm - except perhaps a nail file. Has anyone ever committed a murder with a nail file?”

“I don’t recall a case.” Roger opened the bag - and dropped it. The contents fell out, and the white bottle marked “Bismuth Tablets” rolled under the desk. He knelt down, and she hurried forward to help him. Her purse had opened, copper and silver rolled about, her keys, make-up, and compact lay at his feet. He turned the bottle of tablets he had bought concealed in his palm, and groped under the desk for her bottle; found it and made the exchange, slipping the new bottle into the bag with the other things that he had collected. Helen showed no sign of vexation.

Paterson said: “Are you always as clumsy as this?”

“Do you know where your daughter is?”

“No.”

“Have you heard from Carney or O’Hara?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

Paterson flushed. “That is the truth.” He looked angry enough to strike out. Helen fluttered between them, as if she were afraid there would be a fracas.

“Mr West, you mustn’t accuse Pat of lying, he’s a most truthful man.”

“I know. George Washington the Second. I don’t believe it. Paterson, you’re asking for trouble - serious trouble. You’ve sheltered a gang of rogues, who—”

“But he knew nothing about what they were doing, Mr West! You must believe that, I beg you to believe it. Why, there has never been a breath of suspicion against Pat, never! His word is his bond, that’s why I like working for him. He’s not like an ordinary businessman, who says one thing and means another. Or makes a promise and then goes away and does exactly the opposite because he thinks it will get him another five per cent profit. I’m afraid you misunderstand Pat. He’s not well, that’s why we had the doctor. He loses his temper so easily. Pat, please sit down. Please.” She took Paterson’s arm and dragged him toward an easy chair. He seemed loath to go there; and Roger saw that his eyes were a muddy colour again, just as they had been when he had first met the man.

“It’s that indigestion,” Helen said quickly. “You must have a tablet, Pat.” She took out the bottle, unscrewed the cap and shook several tablets on to the palm of her hand. Paterson grabbed two. “One!” she cried, but he slipped the two into his mouth, and gulped them down as if his life depended on it. “Oh, you’re as wilful as Margaret!”

Roger said: “A couple of bismuth tablets won’t hurt him. I’ve warned the two of you. There’s something you know that you’re keeping back. You realise this is a murder job, don’t you? Murderers get hanged.”

Paterson opened his mouth—

“Not all murderers,” cooed Helen. “There are an awful lot of reprieves, I always think that the Home Secretary must be a very kind-hearted man. Pat, do relax. It won’t help you if you get worked up again, and the Inspector doesn’t mean to be unpleasant, I’m sure. It’s natural that he should be worried, with so many dreadful crimes committed and the perpetrators still unknown.”

“Not unknown,” Roger said. “Just foot-loose, for the time being.”

“So confident, aren’t you?” sighed Helen. “I do hope you’re right. We don’t know who ransacked the study and this office yesterday, I can’t imagine what they were after. And I’m a little nervous, now that Carney and O’Hara are free; one can never be quite sure what they’ll do, can one?”

Roger said: “Do you know who killed Lake?”

“Why, no!”

“I think you’ve a fair idea,” said Roger.

He turned on his heel and went out, using the private door, which hadn’t been locked again. It closed gently behind him. He pressed the bell for the lift, looking at the frosted glass all the time. No shadows appeared against it, and he heard no talking. The lift came up. Three minutes after he had been in the office, he entered the chemist’s shop again, went behind the counter into the dispensing department and was met by a small, long-nosed man in white smock, who blinked at him through thick-lensed glasses.

“You mustn’t come in here, sir, this is for staff use only.” He blinked apologetically. “The assistant will—”

Roger thrust the bottle labelled bismuth into his hand, and then showed his card. The man blinked more furiously than ever. A girl assistant came in, and he waved her away.

“What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?”

“How quickly can you make a rough test of the contents? A rough, analysis?”

“What do you think I might find?”

“A narcotic.”

“Well, if you could come back in half an hour, I might be able to give you an indication.”

“I’d like to wait,” said Roger, and smiled. “Sorry, I’m really in a hurry. You needn’t try to find the different constituents, but if you can give me some idea, I’d be grateful.”

“Well, you know - so much depends on the type, on the strength of narcotic content, even the resistance of the patient. Surely, as a policeman, you know a little about such things.”

“Yes, I want an opinion confirmed, that’s all.”

“Well, perhaps a very simple, practical method will help!” The chemist took out a tablet, broke it, scraped off some powder and placed it on the tip of his tongue. He licked his lips. “It is not bismuth. Plain, almost tasteless, white and—h’m, I couldn’t be sure. It could be cocaine. Could be.”

“Thanks. Will you telephone Scotland Yard for a man, give him some of the tablets and tell him I’ve asked for an analysis.”

“Gladly.”

“Thanks.”

Roger went back to Univex House, and said to the sergeant: “Give me time to get up, then come to the sixth floor and keep an eye on the landing. There might be trouble.”

Upstairs, he tried the handle of the door leading to Paterson’s room; it was locked again. He went into the Inquiries, and the smile on the girl’s face froze when she saw him.

Paterson shouted: “Of course he took them! Who else would, they—”

“Please!” cried the girl, as Roger lifted up the flap in the counter and hurried through. He didn’t look at her, but saw her hand move toward the switchboard and heard three short, sharp rings; the signal that he was here. He thrust open a door, and found himself in an empty room; the door leading to another room was open, and he hurried toward it. As he reached it, Helen Wolf appeared - and stood stock still.

She wasn’t smiling, gay, carefree, or whimsical; there was deadly enmity in her glance.

“Get out!” she spat. “Get out, you—”

“Unprintable,” murmured Roger. He swung her aside, his fingers embedding themselves in her fleshy arms, and entered the room. Paterson jumped up from an easy chair, his eyes blazing, his fists clenched.

“Don’t!” cried Helen.

Paterson flung himself forward. Roger caught his arm and twisted, and the man nearly fell. Roger pushed him away, and Helen jumped between them, lowered her fluffy head and butted Roger under the chin. He backed away in time to save himself from serious hurt, but it jarred his head.

“Does indigestion always take him like that?” he asked, and the malignant gleam in Helen Wolf’s eyes became a glare.