John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

“Is he in?” asked Roger.

“I’ve told you: no, he isn’t! I wouldn’t have let you in, either, if that damned busybody downstairs hadn’t been gawking; she never could keep her nose out of our business!” Mrs Brown turned to face them, her lips trembling, her voice hoarse with emotion. Fear? “I can’t tell you anything, it’s no use asking me!”

“So you know who we are?” asked Roger.

“You aren’t the first policemen I’ve seen.”

“I don’t suppose we are,” Roger said, dryly. “We want to ask your husband a few questions about what he was doing last night.”

“I don’t know where he was.”

“You know what time he got in.”

“—was asleep. I’m a heavy sleeper, and I didn’t notice. It’s no use asking me.”

“Three of you share this flat, and the two men were out last night. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Mrs Brown moistened her lips, and said nothing.

Roger said: “Sit down, Mrs Brown.”

She was so nervous that she collapsed into a chair.

Roger glanced about the living-room, pausing to give her a chance to collect herself. Some band instruments, drums, two trombones, and a trumpet in a corner instantly reminded him of the saxophone at Tony Brown’s flat. Beyond them were several photographs on the top of a cabinet.

“Docs your husband run a dance band, Mrs Brown?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Why the hell don’t you say what you’ve come about?”

“You don’t want to get your husband into trouble, I know, but it isn’t your fault if he has broken the law,” Roger said. “If he has, the sooner he admits it and starts afresh, the better for both of you. Where—”

He broke off. He had caught a glimpse of one of the photographs again, and it had put him off balance. Turn- bull looked puzzled. Mrs Brown turned to see what had attracted him, as Roger moved past her chair towards the cabinet. There were five photographs, three of men and two of women. Mrs Brown was one of the women; the dead Brown was one of the men.

“What the hell are you staring at?” screeched Mrs Brown.

Roger picked up the photograph of the dead man; across one corner was written: “To Katie and Bill from Tony.”

“Who is this?” He was very harsh now.

Turnbull had a look that was almost smug.

The woman put out a hand to touch the picture, then drew it back. Her eyes were brimming over with tears. She brushed them away, sniffed, blew her nose vigorously, and then sat back with her lips set.

“You know damn well who he is,” she retorted.

Roger pulled up an easy chair, and sat on the arm. “Mrs Brown,” he said quietly, “this, is a serious affair, but as far as I know your husband is only on the fringe of it, and hasn’t committed any serious crime. He is suspected of having been in enclosed premises last night. A sympathetic magistrate might let him off with three months—and three months isn’t very long. Magistrates are usually sympathetic, if we tell them there’s reason to be. Don’t you think your husband might be better off inside prison than out and about, now that this has happened?”

She was terribly pale. ‘What—what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Roger took out cigarettes and offered them. She took one, and her fingers were trembling when she leaned forward for a light. “Who is the man in that photograph, Katie?”

“Bill—Bill’s brother, Tony,” she muttered.

“The man who died in a gas-filled room.”

“Died be damned, he was murdered You and the coroner can call it an accident, but he was murdered, do you hear me?” She was fast losing her self-control. “The swine murdered him because he knew too much, that’s what happened, and you bloody cops call it an accident! It’s always the same: just because a man’s a millionaire, you don’t care a damn what he gets away with, but my Bill—”she broke off.

“Your Bill thinks his brother was murdered,” said Roger. “Does he think he knows who murdered him?”

“Raeburn did, of course.”

Roger said: “Katie, the police go for their man, whether he’s a millionaire or a pauper, but Raeburn couldn’t have killed Tony. He was somewhere else during the whole of that evening. Every minute of his time has been accounted for by independent witnesses.”

“Anyone with money can buy witnesses.”

“This wasn’t bought evidence.”

“If he didn’t do it himself, he paid someone to do it for him,” Katie Brown asserted, gruffly.

“If I could get any evidence to prove that, I’d arrest Raeburn at once,” Roger said, “but I don’t think there is any evidence. Do you?” When she did not answer, he insisted: “Let’s have it. Do you seriously think you or anyone else can prove that Raeburn hired a man to kill Tony?”

After a pause, she muttered: “He’s too clever for that, but he was behind it all right.”

“If Tony Brown was murdered, we’re going to find out, and we’ll get the man who was behind it,” Roger assured her, “but we need all the help we can get. Why should Raeburn or anyone want to murder Tony?”

“Don’t you know that?”

“I want to know what you know.”

“It’s all because of that whore he was in love with, that Eve Franklin.” Mrs Brown stubbed out her cigarette, stung her fingers on the glowing end, and winced. “Tony made a proper fool of himself over her; he even gave up the band, because she was tired of it. He couldn’t see anything wrong in her, the little bitch! If I had my way, I’d tear the skin off her face! All she ever cared about was money. Tony never had a penny for himself when he was with her. Always buying her expensive presents, taking her places, spending money like water on her—and what did he get for it? She dropped him the minute she got her claws into a man who could spend more money on her. If I could lay my hands on her I’d poke her eyes out! Don’t talk to me!”

She stopped, gasping for breath. Roger kept quiet, and Turnbull, standing near, picked up the photograph.

“Oh, what’s the use?” Mrs Brown went on, in a quieter voice. “I didn’t want Bill to do anything about it, but he was always a fool over Tony. He wanted to bash Raeburn’s face in, that was all he was going to do; he wasn’t going to kill him, he was just going to mark him. There, now you know.”

“A lot of people would like to see Raeburn have a thrashing,” said Roger. “But why is your husband so sure that Raeburn’s behind Tony’s death?”

“Listen, copper,” said Mrs Brown. “Eve saved Raeburn from going down for a stretch, didn’t she? She said she saw the accident, and that Raeburn couldn’t help it. That night she was out with Tony, so she couldn’t have seen it.”

Turnbull raised his clasped hands, and shook them vigorously.

“You don’t believe me, I know,” Mrs Brown said. “You don’t really want anything on Raeburn, that’s the truth. You just want to put Bill inside, you just want to close his mouth. You damned coppers are all the same.”

Roger said: “Why didn’t you tell us about this after Raeburn’s trial, Katie?”

She bit her lips.

“You knew the case broke down because of false evidence, but you held your tongue,” said Roger. “That certainly didn’t help us to get Raeburn. Now you talk about him being behind Tony’s murder, and say you know Eve Franklin committed perjury, but can you prove either?”

“It’s all true! Tony told Bill it was.”

“When did he tell him?”

“What’s the use of asking all these questions?” she demanded, almost sobbing. “I don’t know when he told him, I only know he did.”

“Did he tell anyone else?”

“I don’t know, but we all know it’s true.”

“Whom do you mean by ‘all’?” Roger persisted.

Katie Brown began to talk more calmly. All three people who shared this flat knew what Tony had said, and it was clear that they believed that Tony had been killed to stop him from talking. Katie Brown did not say so, but obviously her husband had some good reason for avoiding the police, and had decided to punish Raeburn himself. One thing shone out clearly in her story: a deep attachment between the two brothers.

Roger let her talk while Turnbull made notes. When she had finished, she sat up, with her plump, shapely legs crossed, and looked at Roger nervously, as if afraid that she had said too much.

“You won’t regret any of this,” Roger assured her, “but I’ve got to find your husband, Katie. If Tony was killed because he knew where Eve Franklin was that evening, it’s possible that anyone else who knows is also in danger.”

She realised that all right, and said stubbornly: “If you think you can get anything from me about where Bill is, you’re making a big mistake, because I just don’t know. He and Frankie Deaken have gone off for a few days, but I don’t know where.”

“I don’t believe you,” Roger said flatly.

“I don’t care whether you believe me or not, it’s the truth,” she snapped. “You’re only trying to scare me, that’s all. There isn’t any danger for Bill.”

Roger said slowly: “There was danger for Tony.”

“Raeburn doesn’t know that Bill knows anything!”

“If Raeburn doesn’t know already, he’ll soon find out that Bill tried to attack him last night. Bill was seen by two people, and the resemblance between the two brothers is so great that they’ll soon guess who Bill is.” Roger’s voice was softly insistent. “I can’t force you to tell me where to find him, but you’re making a big mistake by keeping silent.”

“I tell you I don’t know!” she cried.

CHAPTER XII

THE BRIGHTON ROAD

THEY COULD get nothing more from Katie Brown, and Roger gave up trying after a quarter of an hour. She was still scared, but not really resentful when they left.

“What now?” demanded Turnbull. “Going to have another go at her, at the Yard, or keep digging?”

“Watch her, and keep digging,” said Roger.

One early result of the spadework was the discovery that Raeburn was going to Brighton for a week, staying at the Grand-Royal, and that Eve Franklin would be in the same hotel. Roger promptly telephoned the Brighton police.’

“Are you coming down yourself?” asked the Brighton Superintendent.

“Not yet,” said Roger. “I’m sending Turnbull and a younger brother of Peel. You know Turnbull, so don’t let him get too cocky. I’ll leave it to him to get in touch with you.”

“Right-ho,” said the Brighton man. “We’ll help as much as we can.”

Roger rang off, not sure whether to be pleased or sorry that Raeburn would be out of London for a few days. At least it would give an opportunity to concentrate on Katie, Bill Brown, and Tenby, but he had a feeling that he ought to find a new angle of approach. Brown was a possible angle, but might be in hiding for weeks, and Eve was the big chink in Raeburn’s armour. How could he widen it?

Months ago he had sent out a general request for information about Warrender, Ma Beesley, and Tenby, and now he took out the files which he checked every day. A report that must have come in that morning was on top of Ma Beesley’s file. It was from the Surety Nationale, typed indifferently, and with several misspellings.

The door opened, and Eddie Day came in.

“Watcher, Handsomer’

“Good afternoon, Mr Day,” Roger said with exaggerated politeness. “Since when have you been my office boy?”

“ ‘Oo, me? Not on your Nelly! If you mean that Paris report, it blew off the desk, so I put it in Ma Beesley’s file for safety. It’s about her, ain’t it? Says they think she was with a gang of confidence tricksters working the French coast ten years ago, and was married to a Frenchie who died after taking on British nationality. How does that help?”

“It might, later.”

“It might!” Eddie was magnificently sarcastic. “And one day you might tell your pal Lessing that he didn’t ought to come straight into the building; he ought to send his name up, like everyone else. I’ve just seen him talking to Simister.”

“Mark is? I wonder what he’s after.”

“As if you didn’t know,” Eddie sniffed.

Roger didn’t, but word would soon come. He turned back to the Paris report.

Ma Beesley had been suspected of working with two men on confidence rackets in the less fashionable resorts on the Brittany coast. The Surete had prepared a lengthy dossier on her. After marrying a Frenchman, she had lived in France until 1946, when the whole family had come to England. The husband had become a naturalized Englishman, taking the name of Beesley. There were three children of the marriage, two boys and a girl.

Roger rang through to the shorthand-writers’ room, and dictated a telegram to the Surete Nationale:

PLEASE SUPPLY ALL AVAILABLE INFORMATION AND DESCRIPTION TWO MEN BELIEVED TO WORK WITH MRS BEESLEY, THE SUBJECT OF YOUR REPORT SIGNED BY PIERRE MANNET, INSPECTEUR, MATTER URGENT. CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, NEW SCOTLAND YARD.

He was replacing the receiver when the door opened and Mark Lessing looked in.

“Spare a minute?” he asked, meekly.

“Just been hired to work here?” Roger inquired. It was wise not to be too affable, with Eddie Day ready to bristle.

“Don’t be difficult,” said Mark, dropping into an easy chair. “I’ve had a bright idea, Roger. I’ve just had a word with Pep Morgan who—”

“If you’re going to tell me what a private eye thinks about Paul Raeburn, I don’t want to hear it. Pep’s already told me. He once tagged a woman who was going about with Raeburn and whose husband was talking about divorce, but Pep was taken off all of a sudden, which meant that Raeburn probably gave the woman a mink coat and that the husband was paid for keeping quiet. Pep’s a good divorce chaser, that’s all.”

“He says that Raeburn was difficult.”

“Raeburn’s a vain type.”

“That’s not the point,” Mark insisted stubbornly. “Raeburn gave Pep the impression that he couldn’t stand interference with his love life, and that gave me the bright idea. He’s probably as jealous as can be, and if some handsome, distinguished chap named Lessing, say, made eyes at Eve Franklin, and Eve has a roving eye, Raeburn might get jealous. It might even make him do something foolish. I’m told he’s gone to Brighton with Eve,” Mark added, airily, “I could do with some sea breeze.”

“Well, well,” Roger said, slowly. “It could be an idea, too.” He paused before going on: “I can’t stop you going to Brighton if you want to, but don’t forget that Raeburn’s seen you.”

“Only for a few minutes at the Silver Kettle, when he was much more interested in Janet,” Mark argued. “He might fly oft” the handle if I had any luck with Eve. You want to make him lose his patience, don’t you? Or do you like being the victim of cartoons in the Evening Cry?”