9

Call From Australia

 

Martin-called-Scoopy’s eyes were as huge as Richard’s had been the previous night, with a kind of earnest appeal, as if he divined the significance of the question. There were quiet footsteps on the stairs, and Janet appeared, hair wavy but tidy, without make-up except for a little lipstick, eyes bright with anxiety which she sensed rather than understood.

“You’re going to have a good breakfast!” she whispered. “You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

Roger found himself grinning. “Have it put through here, Keb, will you?”

“Right you are.” If Kebble felt disappointed, he kept any trace of it out of his voice. “I’ll fix it with the overseas operator. They didn’t say who would call – the operator just said Sydney Criminal Investigation Bureau.”

“With a bit of luck it will be Luke Shaw,” Roger said. “What are you doing up so bright and early?”

“I got in at half past seven, seeing that it was bound to be a busy day.”

“Had breakfast?”

“No, just a cuppa—”

“Go and have a good one,” Roger said. He was smiling at Janet, who had come farther into the room. “You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

“Er—right, sir.” Kebble sounded bewildered.

“Thanks for calling,” Roger said, and rang off.

Janet said, “Beast,” but came across, sat on the side of the bed and looked down at Roger, as if looking for some tell-tale sign. “You don’t look as if you were up all night, I must say. Scoop, go and make some tea, and—”

“Char coming up!” That was Richard, from the stairs.

“I don’t know what you two think you’re going to worm out of me this morning,” Roger said. “It’s a hundred to one you won’t succeed. There’s a call from Sydney, Australia, coming through in half an hour. Run a bath for me, Scoop. Go down and check the car levels, Fish.”

“Any orders for me?” demanded Janet.

Roger squeezed her hand.

“There’s no time,” he said, wickedly. “I’ll be ready for that hearty meal at about a quarter to nine, though.”

 

It was eight thirty-one; no call had come.

It was eight forty-one; no call had come.

“I’m beginning to think you might wait for an hour. I’ll cook your eggs,” Janet said. “You boys ought to be on your way.” They were rising twenty and rising nineteen, but still ‘you boys’ to Janet, particularly when she was preoccupied.

Martin was studying at an art school, not far away from Bell Street. Richard, longing for the day when he would be able to join a television company, the dream of his life, worked at a West End bookshop.

“If you don’t go now you’ll be late,” Janet said. “No, Scoop, don’t make me cross. I—”

The telephone bell rang. Roger strolled towards the main instrument, which was in the hall just outside the kitchen door. Roger lifted it, feeling that he was dramatising a long-distance call simply because it impressed the boys. There was something else; a sense of foreboding, or at least of disquiet. Sydney could not have received the cable more than three or four hours ago. What made it so urgent for them to telephone halfway across the world so soon?

“This is Superintendent West of New Scotland Yard.”

“Are you expecting a call from Sydney, Australia, caller?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on, please.”

Roger waited for what seemed a long time, and the others fussed and fidgeted about him, Janet pretending to be very busy in the kitchen.

Suddenly a man said clearly, “Mr West?”

“Speaking,” Roger said carefully.

“Good on you, Handsome!” The voice was loud, vigorous, unmistakably Australian. “How are things going with you?”

Roger smiled broadly.

“I’m fine, Luke. And you?”

“Never better, Handsome, never better!” Luke Shaw, who had been on a tour of Scotland Yard only two years before, was now Senior Superintendent in the Sydney CIB. He spoke as if he had never heard of a cable, and had all the time in the world. “How’s that lovely wife of yours?”

“Wonderful!”

“You’ve said it, she always was.” It was easy to imagine Shaw’s big, broad face and beaming smile. “It’s a good thing she is, because in every other way you like trouble, don’t you?”

“Kookaburra trouble?” asked Roger.

“My word, yes. I can tell you all about it if you’ll fly here and see me.”

Roger was astonished enough to exclaim, “Stop fooling!”

“I’m not fooling,” Luke Shaw declared. A hint of laughter vanished from his voice. “Do you remember a ship called the SS Koala?”

“Should I?”

“Yes,” said Shaw. “You certainly should. What happened to that could also happen to the Kooka.” He halved the name abruptly. “Take it from me, Handsome, the only way for you to finish this job properly is to come out here.”

“I don’t think there’s a ghost of a chance,” Roger hedged. “At the moment I can’t even see any reason. We’ve arrested one man who—”

“This Jessup – what’s he like?” interrupted Shaw, and then began to answer his own question. “Five feet six, thin dark hair, pale face, very dark eyes, small mouth—”

“How the devil do you know?”

“Hold it, Handsome. Or is he six feet one, very big with a swarthy, pitted face? Which one?”

“The five foot six one,” Roger answered in a subdued voice.

“He’s no more Jessup than you’re Luke Shaw. He’s Paul Barring. The big man is his brother, Marcus. There’s a third brother – Solomon. It’s a hell of a long story, that’s why I say that the best chance you’ve got of learning it is to come to Sydney.” Shaw’s voice boomed over the telephone.

“Why don’t you come here?” countered Roger.

“Not a hope. Wouldn’t do much good if I did. You need to know the background, get all the details, see all the records. Have a go, Handsome. You could do with some sunshine, couldn’t you? If you need something to twist the arm of your boss, remind him that the Kookaburra’s nearer Australia than it is England, and when she docks you can start asking all the right questions.” After a pause, he went on, “That is, if she docks. Her sister ship didn’t make it.”

That was the moment when Roger remembered what had happened to the SS Koala.

He did not speak at once; shock ran through his body, making him cold and still. He was not aware of Janet and the boys staring at him, touched by the tension which this recollection brought to him. He did not hear Richard say, whispering, “What do you think’s happened?”

In Roger’s mind’s eye there was a picture so vivid, so hideous in its wastage of human life, that he felt as if the breath had been drawn out of his body and he could not move or speak.

“So you get the angle,” Luke Shaw said finally.

Roger gulped.

“Yes, I’ve remembered what happened to the SS Koala. She went down off the coast of Queensland a year or two ago with a loss of eighty-one passengers and twenty-odd crew. There were only a few survivors. Am I right?”

“My word you’re right!” Shaw’s voice seemed to vibrate in Roger’s ear. “Know what worries me, Handsome? The same thing could happen to Kookaburra. She’s got twelve cabin passengers, eighty-seven steerage, mostly Chinese from Hong Kong, and a crew of twenty-eight. And let me tell you something. The two Barring brothers were among the survivors of the Koala. They’d had their own line but were bought up by Blue Flag, after being driven almost out of business. There was a lot of bad blood between the Barrings and Blue Flag, and we’ve had an eye on the Barrings for some time but couldn’t get anything on them. You’ve got plenty on one. What about the other?”

“If he’s the man I think he is, he’s loose in London,” Roger stated.

“After killing two passengers, eh? Let me tell you something else. Solomon Barring was in Hong Kong when the Kookaburra was berthed there. Funny thing about Neil Sanderson’s death, wasn’t it? Handsome, if you can put the darbies on Marcus Barring, every policeman in New South Wales will drink your health. I’ll put a detailed report on the first jet from the Kingsford Smith Airport this morning. Cable or call me with any news, won’t y“I will. Luke, have you any positive evidence that the Kookaburra might be in danger?”

“No,” answered Shaw. “Just a nasty feeling. See you, Handsome.”

He rang off, as if he was anxious to leave Roger to think on the situation.

Roger put the receiver down slowly, then ran his fingers through his hair. He was oblivious of the others until Richard broke the silence.

“How bad is it, Dad?”

Roger frowned, looked at them all, forced a smile, and answered, “I should know before the night’s out.”

It was really no answer at all, and it would not have surprised him had Richard tried to force the issue. A noise at the front door broke the tension; a newspaper appeared in the letter-box.

Janet moved back to the kitchen, saying, “Get the paper for your father, Richard. Breakfast in ten minutes, Roger. Scoop, you won’t learn to be an artist by standing and gaping like that.”

She bustled about and set them all bustling, but the relief from tension did not last for long – hardly long enough for Roger to begin to digest the fact that Luke Shaw and the Sydney Police had no doubt of the enormity of the danger in this situation. He needed time to think, to absorb facts, to acquire more facts.

Could he do that, here in England? The first vague hope of a trip to Australia formed in his mind.

“Hey, look!” Richard broke the pipe dream. “Pop’s hit the front page again.”

Frying eggs, art school, and a bookshop were all forgotten as Richard came rushing along the passage, eyes blazing, Daily Globe spread out in his hands. Janet and Martin closed on him. All three read the headlines and then the story of what had happened last night, and saw the photographs of Roger and Doreen Morrison, with an inset picture of her dead sister.

“You saved her life,” Richard said, humbly.

“He could easily have lost his own,” said Janet, acidly. She turned on her heel and stamped back to the stove.

Roger saw the over-solemn look in the eyes of both boys, felt a moment’s unease because there was no doubt of the hero-worship in them. He waved them away with a shooing motion of his hands, then tiptoed towards Janet. The boys went out the front way. Roger slid his arms round Janet’s waist as she cracked an egg on the side of the frying-pan.

“No, I’m serious,” she said, still sharp-voiced. “Why does it always have to be you risking your life?”

“Lots of others do it. You just happen to notice me,” Roger replied. He squeezed more tightly, and put his cheek against hers. “Would you have liked me to let her die?”

“Don’t be a fool, of course I wouldn’t.” Janet tipped the pan to let the boiling fat spread over the eggs, then turned round swiftly, taking his arms, gripping them. “Roger, every time something like this happens I feel scared in case – in case it’s the last time your luck will hold.”

She meant every word she said.

He leaned forward and kissed her.

“You’re all the luck I need,” he said gently.

Tears filled her eyes for a moment, she sniffed and pulled herself free. Before he left, half an hour later, she was brisker and brighter, but he knew she hadn’t really recovered from her mood of fear.

 

Kebble was in the office. The morning post and reports had been sorted out and were in neat piles on Roger’s desk. A third pile, of small pieces of paper, was of notes of telephone calls. Roger put his hat on a peg, and loosened his collar and tie. It was a bright, pleasant but chilly morning.

“Tired of life as a detective sergeant, are you?” Roger asked. “Prefer a desk of your own?”

Kebble grinned.

“As soon as you think I’m ready for it.”

“You’ll do.” Roger dropped into his chair. “Did you get a tape of the talk I had with Sydney?”

“Yes, and I’ve listened to it. It’s being transcribed now.” Kebble, suddenly serious, reminded Roger of his own two sons. “How well do you know Superintendent Shaw, sir?”

“He’s no scaremonger. You can take him at his word.” Roger picked up the first telephone messages. The Commander CID wanted to see him. The laboratory had diagnosed the contents of the broken hypodermic needle as a concentrated solution of digitalis. Lancelot Smith of the Blue Flag Line had telephoned twice, but would leave no message. There were several other messages, none to do with the Kookaburra case. The news editor of The Globe had called twice.

“Anything in about the man who escaped from me last night?” Roger asked.

“He’s not been caught,” Kebble said. “He shared a room downstairs in the same house with the dead man. He gave his name as Jessup, too. Looks as if he really is the Marcus Barring Sydney talked about. The knife is of Australian make, probably used for wood carving. Some odd pieces of wood and some shavings were found in the room. They’d been at the house for four weeks. The two Morrison girls had that room you saw, and Denise went away about two weeks ago. According to the landlady, Doreen stayed on because she believed her sister would come back. Doreen hardly ever went out. The landlady is one of the ‘ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies’ kind. The Division will have another go at her, but they think she’s the type who doesn’t care what happens provided she gets her rent.”

The type wasn’t uncommon.

“If necessary we’ll talk to the lady herself,” Roger said. “Any news of Doreen Morrison?”

“She should be able to talk this afternoon,” Kebble answered. “There’s a report on Limm, too. He’s still in London.”

Roger’s telephone rang before he could ponder that information, and he lifted the receiver at once.

“There’s a Mr Lancelot Smith on the line,” the operator said.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

It was only a moment, and when Smith spoke it was as if he had been stemming a flood of words but now they were released nothing could hold them back.

“Superintendent, I tried to call you earlier, I have some news which was not in my possession last night. About the passengers who were on the Kookaburra, I mean. Mr and Mrs Parrish rejoined the ship at Marseilles. They are still on board and due to disembark at Sydney in ten days’ time. I have Mr and Mrs Donelli’s address. They have just written to enquire about sailings back to Sydney. They are in Naples, living with a married daughter. I have no trace, no trace at all of Mr Samuel Hackett, but I understood he would move about the continent with no set plan. I do know that he intended to visit Scandinavia and Germany as well as Switzerland because he asked us for information about those places. We referred him to Thomas Cook’s nearest office. Can you—can you trace him, sir? After what I see in the newspapers this morning about the attempt to kill Miss Doreen Morrison, I feel that there is no end to the danger, no end at all.”

The spate of words dried up.

“Mr Smith,” said Roger, “why didn’t you tell me that the Third Officer was really Paul Barring, not Jessup? And do you know where I can find his brother Marcus?”