John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

There was silence.

Marino rubbed his black stubble; he already needed a shave.

The tame psychiatrist,” he said musingly. “What do you think, Lissa?”

“I wouldn’t like to be the one to tell David he’s got a rival.”

“How would you start going about it?” Marino asked Roger.

“Give him another shock. Next time he starts throwing his weight about, fall on him like a ton of bricks. Stop making him think that he can get away with murder.”

Marino said slowly: “It’s certainly worth thinking about. Anymore ideas?”

“Shawn’s wife,” Roger said. “Is anyone getting at her? She’s a neurotic —”

“Who said so?”

“I implied it,” Lissa put in. “I didn’t mean that a psychiatrist would say so.”

“We’ve tried that angle,” Marino said. “She isn’t neurotic in the true sense. Losing her own money hurt her pride, and maybe held her to Shawn, that’s all. She doesn’t take drugs. She’s just a woman who’s so full up with self-pity she’s made herself a nervous wreck.”

“Does she know how important Shawn’s work is?”

“She doesn’t know what it is,” said Marino, “but she knows only the big time would have kept him in Europe when she wanted him home.”

The telephone bell rang, and Marino picked up the receiver. “Yes, Herb? . . . Put him through.” He held the receiver out to Roger. “Mr Hardy, for you.”

Roger took the telephone; suddenly realizing that it was the Assistant Commissioner, and that it was in his power to move him from this job, which might be handled better by a MI5 agent, or a Special Branch man. He had not until now, known how important it was to him that he should see this job through.

Marino and Lissa were watching him intently.

Hallo, Handsome.” Hardy was in an affable mood. “You are assigned to the American Embassy for the time being to do whatever they ask. If you come up against anything you think you shouldn’t do, get through to me, but don’t lose any time about it.”

“Not a moment, sir I—”

“If you need help, use Sloan.”

“I will,” said Roger.

“Any hope of an early result?” Hardy asked. “It’s not just important, it’s vital Work day and night, but get results.”

“There’s a half-chance,” Roger said. “Thanks, Mr Hardy.”

“And listen,” said Hardy. “Don’t tell Janet or anyone where you’re working, keep it under your hat and keep your hat on all the time.”

“Right.”

“Luck,” said Hardy, laconically.

Roger put down the receiver, pursed his lips, and then looked into Marino’s eyes. He was acutely aware of the way Lissa looked at him.

He said: “I’m under your orders.”

“You aren’t under anyone’s orders,” Marino retorted at once. “Where it’s a case of getting Ricky back, or finding out where he is, we’ll take yours. But you can’t work if you’re hungry. Lissa, why don’t you go and get Roger some lunch?”

• • •

Sitting opposite Lissa Meredith, eating a huge T-bone steak, the urgency of the Shawn kidnapping seemed to fade. It wasn’t anything she said or did; it wasn’t even the radiance in her face, a glow from some inner fire which certainly hadn’t been lighted by him. It was simply that, being with Lissa Meredith, there wasn’t room for anything else; not unless she wanted it. It was like being cut off from the world. Roger knew that it wouldn’t last, wasn’t sure that he wanted it to. He wasn’t sure of anything, except that it was as much for her as for any official reason that he wanted to break this case open; to find a child who was with a man known as McMahon somewhere in Canada or the United States.

It didn’t even occur to him that there wasn’t a chance.

A waiter was pouring out coffee, when another waiter came up with a telephone, which he plugged into the wall.

“For Superintendent West.”

“Thanks,” said Roger.

“Roger,” said Bill Sloan, a moment later. He wasn’t breathless, but a note of urgency was in his voice; the world came back, the problem appeared in sharp outline again. “I think we’re on to something.”

“The car?” asked Roger sharply.

“It might be. Peel got on to it at a garage near Hammersmith Broadway — just off the Fulham Palace Road. An Austin A70, and an American took it in a week ago, with big-end trouble. The same man collected it.” He paused. “Peel found out that the car came from the Barnes direction and went back the same way. Two or three garages on the Barnes Road have supplied petrol to an A70 with an American driver. Is it all right to ask the Barnes police to see what they can do?”

“Yes, and don’t lose any time. Send Peel to Barnes.”

“He’s there already.”

“Fine. Then meet me at Hammersmith Underground, by the main bookstall, in half an hour,” Roger said.

“This time I’m glad to let you go,” Lissa told him.

• • •

Sloan, looking even bigger than usual in a brown suit that was a shade too small, stood by the magazines and books displayed on the stall at the underground station. He didn’t look round until Roger was within a yard of him. They moved off together, mixing with the crowd which had come off a train, turned left at the side entrance to the station, walking quickly, but without seeming to hurry, to Roger’s parked car.

“Follow me at a good distance,” Roger said. “Not towards the garage, we can tackle that afterwards. Come on to the Divisional HQ and I’ll meet you there.”

Sloan said: “What’s on?”

“It looks as if we’re being watched by a man behind the taxi outside the station.” Neither of the policemen looked round. “He’s been watching me, I think.”

Sloan grinned, as if at some joke.

“Be seeing you!” He went towards his own car.

Roger took a newspaper from the seat of his, then slammed the door and walked in the other direction. He passed the man near the taxi without glancing at him, waited at a pedestrian crossing until the lights changed, then walked briskly to the other side of the road. He nearly blundered into a man coming towards him, apologized, side-stepped, and faced the opposite pavement for the second he needed. The man was showing obvious interest. Roger hurried, turned into Glenthorne Road and glanced round.

The man stepped on to a pedestrian crossing, tall, thin, wearing a raincoat; and it was much too hot for any kind of coat. He hurried. Roger slowed down, giving the other man plenty of time to catch up with him. The man walked by without a glance, then went into a shop doorway.

He came out when Roger had passed it.

7

DEAD MAN

ROGER turned into the entrance of the Hammersmith police station, was recognized, nodded and hurried to the Superintendent’s office. Wirral, in command at Hammersmith, was a lanky, melancholy Yorkshireman, slow of movement and speech but quick enough on the uptake.

“I’m really in a hurry,” Roger said. There’s a man outside.” He described the man in the raincoat. “Have him tailed, will you?”

Wirral said: “Right away,” lifted a telephone and gave instructions to someone named “George”. Then he said: “What?” and listened, grunted and rang off.

“The man has been hanging about for an hour or more, the sergeant downstairs noticed him. Seemed interested in this station and the Underground. What’s it all about, Handsome?”

Roger grinned. “Secret list, this time. Had anything on the go around here? Big enough to bring Bill Sloan and me to have a look round, and the raincoat to want to find out if there’s a big show on?”

“We’ve got a body,” Wirral said, looking more melancholy than ever; but his eyes held a smile. “Is that big enough? Cut throat.”

“Suicide?”

“Four inch gash, carotid severed, much more and it would have been decapitation. He was taken out of the river a couple of hours ago. When I saw your pretty face I thought you’d come about it.”

“Where’s the body?”

“It ought to be in the morgue by now.” Wirral used the telephone again and spoke to an echo that came from the receiver. “Where’s the stiff we took out of the Thames? . . . It is, good man.” He rang off. “Just arrived at the morgue. Like to have a look?”

“Yes, thanks. Get someone to talk about a body in the river — in the hearing of my man in the raincoat, will you?”

Wirral eyed him thoughtfully; warily.

“You look as if you want to cut someone’s throat yourself.” The telephone bell rang. “Superintendent Wirral . . . It’s Sloan,” he said to Roger. “Downstairs.”

“Ask him to wait.”

“He’s probably a better tailer than the man I’ve put on to your raincoat.”

“But he’s known to the raincoat.”

Wirral shrugged. “We’ll be down, Bill,” he said into the mouthpiece, and rang off.

On the way to the front hall he asked about Janet and the boys; the West family were known to most London police. Roger answered mechanically, letting his thoughts run now that he had digested the facts. He had not been followed to Hammersmith; the man in the raincoat had been here, and knew him. Wirral’s George had better be good. If the man in the raincoat discovered that he was being followed, he would slip his man, and he would also know that he was suspect.

“How good is George?” Roger asked.

“As good as I’ve got.”

“I hope you train ‘em well.”

Drawing up with Sloan, Roger told him what had happened, and where they were going, and they walked together to the morgue, all big, tall men, all talking earnestly. The man in the raincoat was on the other side of the road, at a bus-stop; he had an evening newspaper folded in front of him, and seemed to be reading it Two men walked from the police station to the bus-stop, and stood waiting and talking; laughing. One of them pointed to Roger.

“He’s letting the raincoat hear that we asked for you,” Wirral said.

“Thanks,” said Roger briefly. “Sorry I’m making so much mystery. Is there a back way out of the morgue?”

“Yes.”

“That’s for us,” Roger said to Sloan. “I’ll go first, and — no I won’t. Wirral, call me anything you like, but do something else for me, will you? Have one of your boys go to — what’s the name of the garage, Bill?”

“Stebber’s.”

“I know Stebber’s,” Wirral said. “And what?”

“Find out if anyone has been watching the garage today.”

They had reached the doorway of the morgue.

“I’ll go and lay things on,” said Wirral. “Hang on until I get there, and I’ll give you the latest on the raincoat.”

He doubled back, and Roger and Sloan went into the small outer room at the morgue, then into the chill, bleak room itself. The stone slabs were empty, except for one in a corner on which lay a body partly covered by a sheet. Three men were working close by. One of the men, a police photographer, was taking his last picture before packing up his equipment. The second man was going through the dead man’s pockets, handing everything he found to the third, who made a pencilled note of it before laying it down. The searcher had a sodden wallet in his hand.

“One billfold,” he said. Looking up, he recognized Roger, and at once stopped being casual and looking careless. “Afternoon, sir!”

Roger smiled. “Hallo. Why billfold?”

“It’s American.” The man handed the wallet over. “Some dollars in it, too.” He watched Roger take it, pull some wet dollar bills out and look at the corners.

“Twenties,” Roger said, and counted. “Seven twenties, two or three tens — count it all, will you?”