20. Woman-hunt

The porter was in his small office on the ground floor of Univex House when the telephone-bell rang. He lifted it leisurely, and a man’s voice stabbed his ear.

“A man and a fat woman, Miss Wolf, are coming down in the lift. They’re armed and they’re murderers. Clear the ground floor, get outside, close the doors, yell for the police. Got all that?”

The porter slammed the instrument back, and jumped from his seat. The lift doors hadn’t been opened for several minutes. Two men and a girl stood by, waiting and a man was complaining. A man peering through the little window in the wooden door, said: “Here it comes.”

“About time!”

The porter shouted: “Get out. Get out, there’s an armed man in that lift!” He turned toward the doorway, seeing the sunlit street, the streams of people passing by, the red buses, taxis, cars; everyday things, unflurried, unalarmed. But the porter didn’t reach the steps. A little man in grey, standing by the wall, moved forward and hooked his legs from under him. The girl by the lift cried: “Look!” the lift doors burst open, and a man came out, holding a gun close to his side; his face was covered with handkerchief. A fat woman hurried out after him.

Neither spoke.

One of the men by the lift shouted: “Stop! Come here, or—”

The man and woman ignored him, so he darted forward. The man turned and fired point-blank at him; and the girl by the lift screamed as he fell. The little man by the door kicked the porter’s head.

The two grey-clad men and the fat woman ran outside.

Passers-by saw them come out and run toward a car which stood against the curb. A man at the wheel started the engine as the trio appeared, and the car moved off as a man rushed out of the Univex building, shouting: “Police! Murder! Police!” Two policemen farther along the street, came hurrying; before they arrived, the car had lost itself in the stream of traffic. A dozen people saw it. There were three different accounts of its movements; it had gone straight on; turned left; turned right.

Men were bending over the prostate figure of the second victim, when Roger appeared from the staircase.

 

The hunt for Helen Wolf started at once, and the pressure increased hour by hour.

A call also went out for Dr Sorenson, who was missing from his house at Feltham.

Paterson was dead.

 

Roger opened the door of Cortland’s office, and a tall, fresh-faced and fair-haired man turned round from the desk. This was Taggart, who had been watching Ma Dingle’s. Cortland was speaking into the telephone, and did not even look up.

Roger said: “Anything to report, Taggart?”

“No, sir, nothing at all. The two little chaps at Ma’s haven’t been out.”

“Who’s on duty at your place now?”

Sergeant O’Brien, sir.”

“Get back at once and tell him that we’re going to raid Ma’s an hour after dark. Stop anyone leaving her place. I’ve called the Division, and asked them to have plenty of men concentrated in the area. There shouldn’t be any trouble. On the way down, ask someone to send me up some food.”

“Right, sir.”

“Off with you!”

“The Superintendent—”

“I’ll square him.” Roger pushed the man toward the door, while Cortland continued to talk into the telephone as if nothing had happened. He talked for a long time. Roger went round the other side of his desk, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky, a syphon and a glass. He poured himself a drink, and gulped it down. Then another. The whisky drove off the clouds of tiredness and disappointment which were sweeping through his head. Cortland went on talking. Roger lit a cigarette, and the door opened. Chatsworth bustled in, cigarette jutting out from an amber holder.

“Cortland, I—oh, Roger!” He eyed the glass and the whisky, but made no comment. “What’s all this about Paterson being dead?”

“I was there when he was shot, sir.”

“Hm. Something to be proud of?”

“I didn’t expect an attack from the door. Sorry.” He knew that any reprimand would be justified, it would never be possible to explain why he had been so convinced that with Paterson cracking and Helen Wolf resigned to failure, he was near the end of the hunt. “I thought I’d covered the landing to stop the others getting away. But the gunman who killed Paterson caught the duty man napping. Clouted him over the head.”

“Had he been drinking, too?”

Roger felt a flare of anger; fought it down.

Chatsworth growled: “How the devil do you expect to keep your mind clear if you mop up whisky early in the afternoon?”

“It’s one way of keeping awake.” A policeman came in with sandwiches and a mug of tea. Roger said: “Mind if I eat, sir?”

Chatsworth glowered, and Cortland finished on the telephone. The three men were silent for some seconds, looking from one to the other. Then Chatsworth and Cortland started to speak at the same time; both stopped.

Chatsworth started again: “What are you doing?”

“Stepping up the pace for Helen Wolf,” said Cortland.

“Is that all?”

“We’ve surrounded Ma Dingle’s and are going to raid as soon as we’re sure that Helen Wolf doesn’t fetch up there. Alec Magee’s flat is being watched - no one has visited it since our men took over. We’re still looking for Margaret Paterson’s friends in London; haven’t found them yet.”

“Who’s questioned her?”

“I’ve been over there this morning,” Cortland growled. “She’s an impudent piece.”

“Why doesn’t she give her friends’ address?”

“She says she doesn’t see why her friends should be involved as she didn’t go there. Can’t find an answer to that one,” Cortland said. “On West’s suggestion, we’re checking up all the night clubs which she visits regularly. Might be a line there.”

“Think the girl’s in it, too?” Chatsworth asked Roger, still aggressively.

“She could be. But that’s not the only reason for checking the night clubs.”

“What’s the other?”

Roger schooled his voice. “One of the puzzles is why Helen Wolf persuaded Paterson to stop his daughter from going out, and why Carney used to patrol the grounds to make sure she didn’t go. The obvious explanation is that they didn’t want her to see what was going on in the gymnasium. I don’t like the obvious. They may have had a special reason for not wanting her to visit one of these clubs.”

Chatsworth said grudgingly: “Well, you haven’t altogether dulled your wits. How long are you going to wait for the raid on Ma Dingle’s?”

“Until after nightfall. If Helen’s waiting to go there, she’ll prefer to go after dark. No use in closing up the funk hole too soon. If it’s raided in daylight, a message might reach the woman.”

“What are you going to do next?”

“Visit Magee’s flat.”

“Doesn’t the same need for caution apply?”

“No. Helen knows that we’ll be watching Magee’s flat; she won’t go there.”

Chatsworth grunted, and turned. “Let me know how you get on, and don’t sit on the report until morning.” He went out, and Cortland gave a smile which made him look like an amiable ape. Roger didn’t trust his voice.

 

Magee’s flat was in a short, crescent-shaped street near Kensington High Street. The terraced houses were tall, red-faced, Victorian; and yet they had a touch of grace which so much of the period lacked. The street was wide, a quiet little backwater which had once been one of the better residential parts of London. Policemen were watching from either end of the crescent when Roger arrived with two sergeants named Owen and Rugg. Owen was the older; he had worked his way up from the beat, would never rise much higher, but was as tough and shrewd as they grew at the Yard; and looked it. Rugg was a sleek, well-dressed man, public school and Hendon Police College. His beat was London’s night life, and he knew Magee as a regular patron of clubs like the Can-Can.

There were four flats, all self-contained. The street door of the house was open, all the doors of the flats locked. Roger led the way, with keys from Magee’s pocket in his hand. He listened outside the flat for a few seconds, but heard nothing. Neither of the CID men outside had seen anyone enter the house or leave it since they had been watching.

Roger opened the door, pushed it back a few inches, and hesitated. He sensed that both Rugg and Owen thought that this was excessive caution; they hadn’t been at Paterson’s office.

The room seemed to be in darkness, as if the blinds were drawn.

Roger said: “Wait a minute.” He slipped inside the room, a small one furnished as a lounge, and crossed to a room at the front of the house. Yes, the curtains were drawn, daylight crept in only at the sides. He pulled back a curtain.

It was a long, narrow room, furnished in modern style; wildly untidy. Beer bottles lay in a corner, several empty glasses stood on a table. Rings of dried beer smeared the table, the ash from innumerable cigarettes littered the floor and was heaped up in all the ashtrays. An empty whisky bottle lay on its side.

“He’s had quite a party,” Rugg said.

“Have a look at the other rooms, will you?”

Both men went out. Roger stood by the window and looked round this one, eyes narrowed. He couldn’t imagine Alec Magee throwing this kind of party; or smoking the Wild Woodbines that were among the cigarette ends. The air smelt of beer and stale tobacco; he wrinkled up his nose and thrust open a window.

Rugg came back. “Two bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen. No one’s about. The bed in the bigger room isn’t made, the other is.”

“Yes.” Roger looked at the rumpled cushions, the litter, and said slowly: “Too bad we didn’t find this place twenty-four hours before, or we’d have caught Carney and his friends.”

“Carney?”

“Yes. He smoked Wild Woodbines, and—”

“So do a lot of people.”

Roger said: “All right, we won’t argue. Go over the place for prints, will you. You’ve a set of Carney’s with you, for comparison, I hope?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then get a move on.”

Rugg opened his case, and remarked: “You ought to have a look in the bedroom, skipper,” and began to take out the fingerprint equipment. Owen joined him. Roger went into the bedroom - and stopped abruptly. On the walls were pictures of Margaret Paterson; not one or two but dozens. Magee had surrounded himself with them. There were three on the dressing table, a beautifully coloured enlargement on the bedside table. Wherever there was room for a photograph, there was one of Margaret.

He felt the familiar quickening of his pulse.

She looked at him from every corner; sometimes head only, profile and full face; sometimes head and shoulders; or sitting down, or full-length. In most of the full-length ones, she was in a swim suit; the briefest of swim suits. Her beauty wasn’t only of the face. Here and there, she was in a group; Alec Magee was always in the group, and Roger remembered where he had seen Alec before: in the photographs at Morden Lodge.

He turned away from the rumpled bed, but couldn’t get away from Margaret’s face. She seemed to be laughing at him - except in one photograph, above the bed. There, she was asleep; and she looked exactly as she had done when he had put her into Bill Sloan’s bed.

Magee had been obsessed; no doubt of that.

Roger looked through the drawers and cupboards, found nothing of interest, and went into the spare room. There was nothing here, either. He glanced into the kitchen and bathroom, and went back to the living room. Owen stood by the window comparing the prints on a beer bottle with those on a sheet of paper. He looked round with a glint of excitement.

“Carney’s been here all right.”

“You’ll find they were all here - they came straight here from Morden Lodge.” Roger went to a pedestal desk in a corner. It was modern, square, made of yellowish wood. There were no pictures of Margaret here, only in the bedroom. He sat at the desk, and pulled out the top drawer. At the front was a slip of paper, with one word printed on it: “Hurlingham.” Beneath were dozens of slips of paper, on each a printed word or two; place names. Golders Green, Wimbledon. Tufnell Park, Wembley - he counted slowly. There were fifteen. He put the slips aside and picked up a small loose-leaf notebook. On the page he opened was a date; beneath the date, a list of place names in the Greater London area.

The last date but one was Thursday’s; the date of the murders, when young Peter had been orphaned. He glanced down the list and found Hampstead.

“Anything useful?” Owen asked brusquely.

“Plenty.” Roger pulled open a deep drawer in the desk, and caught his breath. The handles of dozens of knives were there. They were thrust into slots, specially made for the purpose, blades downward. Rugg and Owen came over as Roger took one of the knives out of its slot. The wide, thin blade had been freshly sharpened; and the maker’s name had been ground out on a buffing wheel.

“Now we’re moving,” breathed Rugg.

“We’re a bit late on this, but it helps. Magee was the man who took the instructions round to the creepers. Or prepared the packets before they were delivered.”

Owen said: “Yes, but there were some raids last night. He couldn’t have taken them round last night, could he?”

“They’ve a stand-in.” Roger rubbed his eyes, which felt as if they had sand in them. Even this couldn’t keep him awake. He glanced at the empty whisky bottle. “I don’t think I need stay any longer. I’ll take some of these and look in at the Yard, then get home for a bit.”

“Right, sir.”

He took the notebook, the slips of paper and one of the knives, and was at Scotland Yard within half an hour. He couldn’t clear his mind enough to make a detailed report, just talked to Cortland, and left. Much of the satisfaction he should have felt from the discovery was spoiled by what had happened to Magee; but one of Lobo’s chief operatives and two of their workshops had been closed down.

Lobo couldn’t be feeling too good.

Who was Lobo?

Not Magee; not Paterson. But judging from all reports, Carney had the kind of mind which could organise such a thing as this. So had Helen. Sorenson? He couldn’t rule Sorenson out, just because he didn’t know much about the man. Nor could he assume that he knew Lobo; the real criminal might still be in the background. Any one of these night clubs could be his headquarters. The job was not over yet, there was still danger.

A saloon car which he didn’t recognise stood outside his house. Mark’s Talbot wasn’t there. He pulled up in front of the car, and as he did so, heard Scoopy call: “Daddy!” Scoopy was at the garden gate of a house on the other side of the road, waving vigorously. Roger strolled across to him. Richard came running from the back garden, his nose smeared with dirt, his hands black.

“Hallo, you scoundrels! Having a good time?”

“Umm,” said Scoopy.

“Yes, thank you,” said Richard. “Can we have a ride?”

Roger laughed. “Not just now, old chap, but we’ll have a lot of rides, one day. I—”

“Scoop!” A girl, two years older than Scoopy, came running from the back garden. “I’ve got a good idea, will you—oh, hallo!” Her face was dirtier than Richard’s, and there was fresh dirt in her golden hair. “Oh, Mr West, you aren’t going to make Scoopy and Richard go home, are you?”

“No, unless your mother—”

“Mummy says they can stay all day.”

“Then that’s fine,” said Roger. “Off you go.” He stood and watched them tear round the corner - the boys knew this garden as well as they knew their own.

He walked back to the house, frowning, heavy-hearted. Janet would probably still be in bed, and they wouldn’t know what to say to each other. He saw her dark hair at the top of his chair, which had its back to the window. So she was up, and Mark was probably reasoning with her. But it wasn’t a thing which could be settled by reasoning; it was emotional, and—

Mark was in the kitchen; probably acting as a skivvy.

Better see Janet, alone.

He hesitated outside the door. If only there were some way in which the ice could be broken, so that they could at least talk freely. Why not creep upstairs? He just wasn’t in the mood to argue, but Janet probably would be. He touched the handle of the door, still hesitating.

Mark came out of the kitchen.

“Hallo! Roger, will you—”

“Leave this to me, will you?” Roger thrust open the door, anxious that Mark shouldn’t be with them at this meeting.

Margaret Paterson looked at him from the depths of the armchair.