19. “Bismuth”

Paterson dropped back into his chair, trembling violently. The glitter faded from Helen’s eyes, but she glowered at Roger, then went to Paterson and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Pat, you needn’t worry. I’ll get some more for you.”

“More what? Heroin? Snow? Marijuana?”

“Mr Paterson has been ill, those tablets were specially prescribed for him by his doctor.”

“As his daughter’s sleeping tablets were. To put him out of the way when it would be inconvenient if he were around.” Roger rubbed his painful jaw slowly, and didn’t look away from the woman. “Supplying drugs is a criminal offence.”

“They were medically prescribed, I tell you.”

“Is that why you put them in a bismuth bottle? Why do you keep the supply, and not he?”

Helen said: “Dr Sorenson is a fully qualified medical practitioner, Mr West, and you will not alarm me by your bluster. By taking away Mr Paterson’s tablets and putting ordinary bismuth in their place, you may have caused a serious relapse. He is ill, and—”

“Your memory’s not so good. You were telling the good doctor how delighted you were that this wasn’t a serious illness. And remarking on a satisfactory blood pressure when Sorenson hadn’t his equipment with him. You’re not so good as you think you are, Helen.”

She said: “You’re going to laugh on the other side of your silly face before this is over. Why, you—” she drew in her breath, as if she were going to hurl a stream of invective, but broke off abruptly. “You’re not wanted here. Get out.”

“When I’m ready to go. Helen, my dear, we three are alone, this is informal, and I’ve one or two things to tell you. Lobo is on the way out. You and your precious friends are very near the dock, and that’s halfway to the gallows. Throwing the blame for this and that on Alec Magee has failed. Alec was in a bad way, too. What drug did you use on him?”

Her eyes burned at him.

“We picked him up last night,” Roger said. “He was in a state of collapse. He told us a lot of interesting things before he was murdered.”

Paterson jerked forward in his chair.

“Murdered? Alec?” He turned and looked at Helen, and there was something like horror in his eyes. “Helen, Alec hasn’t been killed. Not Alec. No one would want to kill that boy.”

Roger said thinly: “He was murdered.”

“No! No, it can’t be.” Paterson clutched the arms of his chair and pulled himself to his feet. He stared at Helen with shocked, glittering eyes. His mouth opened and closed, his slender hands quivered. He seemed to forget that Roger was there as he took a faltering step towards the woman. “Helen! Tell me the truth, was Alec—killed? Is he—dead?”

Roger said: “He was murdered. Just another.”

“Helen!” There was shrill appeal in the cracked voice. Paterson put his hand on Helen’s shoulders, and Roger could see the pressure he was exerting and knew that he would never get Paterson nearer to cracking up than now. “Helen, it can’t be true. I always told you—”

“Now, Pat.” The lilting voice was back again, the sunny smile returned, but it cost a great effort. “Mr West is trying to make you say silly things, that’s all. Alec’s all right. He was—”

“His throat was cut. Ever seen a man with a gash in his throat?” Roger went closer, they all stood near each other, and Paterson’s tortured eyes turned this way and that, while the woman fought to retain her composure and to keep the fury from her eyes. “A cut throat bleeds. All over the place. It’s not a nice way to die. It’s even worse than having your head cracked like an eggshell - the way death came to Lake. The way it might happen to anyone involved in this foul business. Good-looking boy, Alec Magee. But he didn’t look so good with his throat slashed. Ever wondered what your daughter would look like if her throat was slit from ear to ear, Paterson? Or if a man bashed her head in? Or stabbed her with a knife, like Lobo’s man stabbed the woman in Hampstead?”

“Don’t!” cried Paterson.

“Pat, it’s all right, he’s only trying to scare you. Alec is—” she suddenly stretched out her arm and slapped Roger across the face. The force of the blow surprised him, and he staggered back. She came at him, and kicked him on the shins, savagely. Then she snatched a book from the desk and hit him over the head, while he was still off his balance. The book rose again, and she tried to bring it down on his head.

Roger pulled it from her and tossed it across the room. It fell to the floor with a thump. But she sprang at him, clawing at his face. Her fingers scratched his cheek, just beneath the eye; he felt the nails tear the skin. He fended her off with one hand, but she wasn’t easy to keep at bay, and started kicking again.

Paterson watched as if paralysed.

Roger grappled with the woman, fought to hold her wrists, caught one, then the other, and held her away at arm’s length.

She still tried to kick him. Blood oozed up from the scratches, and his head had started to ache again, but through the mists of pain, he grinned at her.

“Sheep’s clothing all gone, Helen?”

“Why, you—”

“Why did you murder Alec Magee?”

“It’s a lie!”

“Oh, no, it’s not a lie. He was murdered, you killed him! You slit his throat - why?”

Paterson grabbed her shoulder, tried to turn her round, but Roger held her. Paterson pulled at her powerfully, thrust his face into hers. His eyes blazed, his mouth was working, he looked a sick man.

“Helen, if you killed that boy—”

“I didn’t!” she screeched.

“He’s dead,” Roger said harshly. “I’ve just seen his body. He was—”

“He killed himself!”

Paterson dropped back a pace. Roger released the woman’s wrist and smiled at her; and she realised what she had been driven to admit, and caught her breath, thrust her hand against her breast.

“Oh, did he, Helen? Who told you so?”

She didn’t move or speak.

“Come on, you know all about it. Why did Alec kill himself, and how did you know what he’d done?”

Paterson croaked: “Was it suicide?”

“No, murder. It was murder, wasn’t it, Helen? You made a mistake. Just a silly little mistake that anyone might make. Isn’t that true?”

She licked her lips.

“Helen!” Paterson cried. “Tell me the truth, I must know the truth. If you killed him—”

“He killed himself,” she said.

“Then we’re back at the first question,” said Roger. “How do you know?”

She said: “A friend telephoned me.”

“What friend? What’s his name? Where can I get hold of him? Quick, Helen! You’re on the spot, you’ll have to look slippy if you’re going to get away with it. Who’s your knowing friend?”

“A—a reporter.”

“Name him. Name his newspaper.”

She said: “I don’t have to name him. It was confidential information. He—”

“Were you here when he telephoned?”

“I—yes, yes, of course.”

“When was it?”

“Just before you arrived—after you’d been here once, before you came back.” She licked her lips, backed away from him, and looked less harassed. “It’s no use, West, you can’t frame me with that kind of talk.”

“Frame? Crooks’ slang, my precious, where did you learn it? And who telephoned?” He laughed at her, and went swiftly to the door leading to the empty room, pulled it open, and called: “Here! You at the switchboard.”

The sleek girl appeared, pale and scared.

“Remember hearing me go away?”

“Yes,” she said, in a timid voice.

“Gloria, don’t say a word to this man. Don’t say a word to him!”

“Gloria knows better. Did you have a telephone call after I’d left?”

“I—”

“Of course you did!” screeched Helen.

The girl’s hand groped for the handle of the door, she clutched it as if she were in need of support.

“Why, yes, yes—”

Roger said: “That’s got you into the mess, now. Get Scotland Yard on the telephone for me. Whitehall 1212. Put the call through into this room.” He swung round, pushed Helen back into the office, and laughed into her face. Paterson stood like an image, his hands raised in front of his breast. News of the death of Magee had both shocked and frightened him. His breath was agitated; that was partly because of the news, partly because he was desperately in need of his dope. Some addicts needed it at regular intervals, if they went long without a dose, they lost their self-control at the slightest pressure of events.

Roger held the woman’s arm, led her to the telephone. The bell rang.

Roger lifted the instrument off its cradle. “Superintendent Cortland, please.” He waited; and Cortland’s voice came harshly to his ear. “It’s West. I’m at Paterson’s office. According to what they say here, a telephone call was received between two-fifteen and two-thirty. Will you get the exchange to check?”

Cortland said: “What the hell are you talking about? We can’t trace dialled calls as long ago as that.”

“Thanks very much,” Roger said. “It might make all the difference between holding the Wolf woman and having to let her go. Make it quick, will you?” He replaced the receiver, and rubbed his hands together, joyfully. “Now we won’t be long!”

Helen said: “You can’t trace local calls. This was a local call.”

“You think we can’t trace ‘em,” said Roger. “One of your big mistakes is that you forget how science helps Scotland Yard. It’s quite an organisation. You had a fool notion that if you could kill me, you could end your troubles. I’m only a cypher along there, kill me and the others get you. You’ve had it, Helen. We’ll have that news through in half an hour. I’ll wait. Do you mind?”

She said: “Get out!”

“Oh, no. There’s a lot to do. Paterson—” he turned to the man, and his voice lost its mocking note. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re the stooge in this business. Helen has made a complete fool out of you. She knew what Carney and his boys were up to, although you didn’t. Why are you so interested in Alec Magee?”

Helen cried: “Don’t answer him!”

“Another squeak out of you, and I’ll send for a man to hold you until the call’s come through,” said Roger. “Paterson - what is Alec Magee to you?”

Paterson’s voice was weak and husky.

“He—he was a nice lad. I liked him. I hoped that one day he would marry—”

“Don’t talk to him!” screeched Helen.

“Why did you dope your daughter with sleeping tablets?” asked Roger. “What was all the fuss about? Why didn’t you want her to go into the grounds on certain nights?”

Paterson said: “She—she is a wayward girl. Very—headstrong.” He paused between each word, as if he were having difficulty with the articulation. “It is the only way to treat her. The—only—way. She—means—well. There—is—no—harm—in—her. She—means—well. But—” he gulped, then began to talk more quickly, too quickly, and his words ran into one another, they took some sorting out. “She mixed with the wrong people. All these night clubs, drinking, gambling, going with different men each night. When she was a child, she was beautiful and innocent, I had great dreams for her. Then—then she grew up so fast, terribly fast, and grew away from me. She became spoiled, self-willed—wanton. Yes, wanton! I couldn’t stand it. I had to try to take care of her.”

“Who told you all about this?”

Helen said: “Pat, he’s making a monkey out of you. You’re not well. You’ll feel better when you’ve had another tablet, and then—”

“No more tablets,” Roger said. “No more, until he’s told us everything he knows.”

Paterson moaned: “I must have one, I must!”

“I’ve some in my pocket. You can have a couple the moment you’ve finished answering my questions. Who told you what a bad-time girl Margaret was?”

“Well—”

“Who?”

“Helen—Helen did! She watched her for me. I was so busy, I couldn’t do it myself.”

“Who suggested drugging your daughter so that she couldn’t leave the house?”

“Hel—Helen did.”

“Who introduced you to Dr Sorenson?”

“Helen—did.” Paterson looked at Helen, torment in his eyes. His mind was filled with doubts, and his nerves shrieked for the drug which would make a new man of him, would work a miracle. “Yes, Helen—did. Wasn’t it—true?”

“Of course it was true!” Helen cried.

“You’ll find that much of it wasn’t. Who first put you up to the idea of getting ex-convicts at Morden Lodge?”

Paterson licked his lips.

“Helen.”

“And you fell for that! Did you know what they were doing? Did you suspect that they were using the house for training criminals?”

“No—no. That is—”

“You knew all right,” said Helen.

The words carried warning, but Roger missed it. He was on the crest of a wave, convinced that Paterson would talk, that the case was unfolding fast. With the sergeant on duty outside, there was no danger. They hadn’t dreamed he would come and blast their defences down. He’d won damaging admissions by sheer weight of attack; Paterson would talk freely now, of everything he knew. Blinded by that thought, Roger missed both the implication and the tone of Helen’s: “You knew all right.” For it was her first admission of complicity.

“I didn’t,” Paterson muttered. “I—I wasn’t happy, I didn’t like some of Carney’s friends, but—”

“You knew,” said Helen.

Roger said: “You keep quiet. Paterson, who ransacked your study?”

“I—”

“You knew it was being done, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Helen—Helen wanted it to look as if the others had done it. I agreed, I wanted—I wanted you to think that I knew nothing about anything. And I don’t!” Paterson’s face worked, but all his resistance had gone. “It was—Helen’s idea. She really did it. Then we hurried away.”

“Who shot at your daughter?”

Paterson looked astonished. “Why, I don’t know. I thought it was Alec. I was terribly upset. I didn’t think he meant any harm. I knew he wasn’t himself, and—didn’t he shoot at her?”

“In a minute, he’ll convince you that you did it yourself,” sneered Helen.

Roger ignored her, but sensed the change in her manner. He moved between her and the door, so that she couldn’t get out without passing him. There was no gun in her bag. If she concealed one in her clothes, he would have good time to get his out first. But he watched her warily as he spoke to Paterson.

“What about those jewels? Where did they come from?”

“I’m handling them for a Dutch firm.”

“What was all the fuss about?”

“You—you wouldn’t like to lose a bag of jewels like that, would you? I thought they’d gone, and—”

“Let’s have the truth!”

Paterson said slowly, wearily: “Oh, all right, all right. I thought Margaret had taken them. I didn’t know that she knew the hiding place. There was no reason why she should know. Then when she said they were in the wardrobe, I got scared in case she had taken them away. I didn’t show it, didn’t want you to guess what I was thinking. When I couldn’t find them in the wardrobe, I was in a panic. But—it doesn’t matter, now. It just doesn’t matter.”

“Has Margaret taken jewels from you before?”

Paterson licked his lips.

“She—”

“She’s a thieving little bitch,” said Helen thinly.

“Helen! I won’t have you talking about Margaret like that! She—yes, she’s taken jewels before and sold them, West. But I don’t really blame her. I keep her very short of money. Very short. I haven’t known what to do with her. I—I haven’t been myself, ever since I started taking the—the tablets. That’s the truth, West! Margaret has money in a Trust Fund, but I wouldn’t let her touch it, and—and once or twice she’s taken things out of the study. Or my pockets. Defiance. She sold them at those—those sewers in London. Those night clubs. But I suppose it was really my fault, if I hadn’t kept her so short of money she wouldn’t have wanted to take them.”

“And Helen persuaded you to keep her short of money, I suppose?”

“Why yes,” said Paterson. “Yes. I always listened to Helen. I like Helen. I do like her!” His vehemence was almost childish, he thrust his face forward, as if defying Roger to deny his liking for Helen. “And—and she had the tablets, she could make me feel wonderful or—terrible. She was the only one who could get them for me. Without those tablets, it—it’s like living in hell. You can’t understand. It’s absolute hell.”

Roger said: “Yes, I believe it is.” He turned and looked fully into Helen’s eyes. “Nice girl, aren’t you? This will sound well in court.”

All the pretence was gone, now, she showed herself for the vixen she was.

“You won’t get me in court.”

“I—” began Paterson - and then his eyes widened with terror, he thrust out his hands, as if to fend off a physical threat, backed away, and missed a step.

Helen laughed.

Roger glanced over his shoulder - and saw the man with the gun. A small man dressed in grey, with his face covered by his handkerchief.

“No!” screeched Paterson.

Roger sprang to one side, snatching out his gun. The little grey man fired. Paterson coughed, and clutched his breast. Roger sprang behind a chair as a bullet tore past him. Helen ran toward the door to the outer offices, pushed the gunman outside, and slammed the door. Roger’s bullet shattered the frosted glass, but he heard no cry. As he went forward, a bullet hummed into the room through the hole in the glass.

Paterson lay in a crumpled heap.

The girl in the inquiry office screamed.

Roger swung round, toward the door on to the passage, marked “Private,” and as he did so the glass of the door was shattered. A bullet went close by his head, and he dodged to one side. He saw Helen rushing toward the lift, the doors of which stood open. The gunman followed her, walking backward, keeping all exits covered. Roger fired again. The bullet struck the crisscross iron of the lift gates, while they were closing. Then the wooden doors slid into place, and the lift started to drop.

On the floor of the landing, unconscious, lay the CID sergeant.