An Apostle of Gloom (24 page)

Morgan's men waited.

Roger turned and looked towards the door. The waiting seemed unending but at last there was a tap on the passage door; the maid opened it and a man stepped through.

“Is Mr. Cartier in?” he asked.

“No,” said the maid, repeating a lesson, “but Madam is in.”

“It doesn't matter,” the man said and Roger's mouth dropped. He did not want to believe the evidence of that voice. He knew it well,
but it was not Abbott's.
“As soon as your master returns, tell him to go north, as arranged. Do you understand? Tell him to go north. And tell him there is the possibility that someone will have to travel from Chelsea, also.”

The maid said: “I will tell him.”

“All right,” said the man; his voice was unmistakable – it was Cornish!

Seeing him through a gap in the door Roger hardly recognised him, for Cornish had dyed his hair, was wearing a mackintosh with the collar turned up and looked disreputable. Only the voice condemned him. “Tell him to hurry,” Cornish repeated.

There was a pause – then a gasp. Abbott's voice came: “Look out, Martin!”

A gasp from the maid was followed by hurried footsteps. Cornish pushed his way past her, slammed the door and then snapped: “The back way – tell me where the back door is!”

 

 

Roger stepped into the entrance hall.

Abbott was banging on the passage door. Another opened and Mark appeared on the threshold, with Tennant just behind him. Cornish saw them before he saw Roger. He put his hand to his pocket and snapped: “Stay where you are!”

“It's no good, Cornish,” said Roger.

The man swung round. His mouth gaped open, his hand seemed to sag in his pocket. There was a moment of tense, utter silence before Cornish stiffened. Roger moved swiftly to one side, but he had never been more glad to see Tennant launch himself forward with his bewildering speed. Cornish fired once from his pocket, but the bullet hit the floor. Then he crashed down, but Tennant kept his balance and stood over his victim. He put his heel on Cornish's wrist, forcing the gun away. Tennant kicked it aside.

Mark opened the front door, to admit Abbott and Martin.

“Well?” Abbott said, thinly. He looked at Tennant's victim. “Is it—” he did not finish the question, but looked at Roger.

“I'm afraid so,” Roger said, painfully. “Yes, it's Cornish.”

“I thought so from the time Malone tried to escape. Only Cornish could have given him that key.” It seemed an effort for Abbott to speak. “He went to Leech's public house but didn't come out as himself – Martin and I were watching and, deciding that he looked like Cornish, we followed him. So – we reach the end of the hunt, West?”

“Ye-es,” said Roger.

He knew, now, that there had been plenty of indications that it had been Cornish. Cornish had been transferred comparatively recently from AZ Division. When on the Division itself, he had worked only in the East End, where he had had ample opportunity of seeing Malone. The failure to keep constant guard at Welbeck Street had been his responsibility, the long time taken in tracing Dixon, were all explained. So was Malone's confidence. And Cornish, after putting on an act, had been the first to offer help to him! Now, his motives were transparently clear.

Yet even that day Roger had not given the man a thought, although the fact that Oliphant did not know the developments should have been conclusive. Everyone at the Yard knew that Oliphant was suspect, yet Oliphant had not been told, because Cornish had spent most of the day away from the Yard, going to the East End straight from Cannon Row; he had not heard.

It proved, afterwards, that Cornish had telephoned the Yard several times and had eventually been told of the rumour about Oliphant. After that, he had acted quickly, not knowing himself followed. None of the Yard men had been stationed at Bonnock House. Cornish had easily found out and had felt quite safe to come in person, as he could not reach Cartier on the telephone.

He tried, at the last minute, to save himself by making a complete confession. That, the dictaphone records and the other evidence made the case damning against him, Cartier and Oliphant. It was established that Lois Randall had been a victim of circumstances, precipitated by her own folly. Malone's part as the ‘strong man' of the organisation was fully disclosed – ordinary theft had gone on side by side with the distribution from the Society.

Pickerell had been the intermediary. He had been approached by Cartier to handle the distribution, had known Malone, and had linked the two organisations together.

In Chatworth's office, late that night, Roger told his part of the story. Abbott was there, thin-voiced and aloof as ever; he had made little comment when Roger had told him that he had been suspected, except: “That's rough justice, West!” For him, the remark had been jocular.

“So we have it all,” Chatworth said, with satisfaction, “and you didn't need to use Morgan's men very much, West. I must say you handled that part of it very well, even without Abbott you would have got him.” He smoothed his fringe of hair, flattening it against the sides of his head. “What of the man Pickerell?”

“His body was found in Leech's public house,” Abbott said.

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Malone did, before he left for Fulham. I think Pickerell was losing his nerve,” said Abbott.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” said Chatworth. “Well, West, you seem to have had the thick end of the stick most of the time. Not a nice story about Cartier. His wife—”

“She tried to divide her loyalties,” Roger said, “she wasn't a party to it—”

“Oh, no. No case against her,” Chatworth said, “and I shan't try to make one. Have you the full story of the Cox murder?”

“Cornish says that Cox murdered his wife and that there was no motive apart from that we already knew,” said Roger. “Oliphant defended Cox because he was afraid of what the man might say, but Cox only knew the Malone end of the organisation. I once thought that Cox was drugged but I think I was wrong – he knew he would hang and saw no point in ratting on Malone. He believed that Malone was paying Oliphant, thus doing his best for him. Cox didn't know about Cornish; only Malone, Pickerell and Cartier knew him.”

“Ye-es, they kept it close. Well,” went on Chatworth, “we'll have a long job sorting it out. We'll have to find which of these people holding jewels for the Society knew
why
they were holding them, and we won't get many convictions. Still, we'll get the goods, which is the main thing – the helpers were more fools than rogues, I think. Is there anything else, West?”

“I don't think so, sir,” said Roger.

“What about this girl, Randall?”

“We know how she came to get in with them,” said Roger, “but we've had no statement from Malone or any of the others, they're too badly rattled to try to involve her. In any case, even if they did—”

“One of your troubles is that you're an incurable romantic,” Chatworth growled, but his eyes were friendly. “Oh, you're right, West – one of these days you'll be right too often, it'll do you good to have a failure. Won't it, Abbott?”

Abbot considered. “It might,” he admitted, frostily.

Roger smiled. “Very good of you to say I've never had one, sir.”

“Eh?” barked Chatworth. “Who—” he broke off and laughed. “All right, West, you'll do! I hear that you've got some tidying up on hand at your house. Oh, that reminds me – the taxi-driver, Dixon?”

Roger grimaced. “He was used to try to make us concentrate on Mrs. Cartier and to head us off Cartier himself,” he said. “I think it was that which first started me thinking of the man – Malone's effort to make Dixon implicate the woman was too clumsy. Malone was always too clever; I've never seen a man with such conceit.”

“You won't see him much longer,” Chatworth said. “All right, off with you!”

When Roger had gone, the A.C. looked thoughtfully at Abbott.

“What's your opinion of West?” he demanded.

“Much brighter than it was a week ago, sir,” said Abbott, with thin humour, “but I always found it a trifle difficult to believe it of him. I ought to say this – the money
was
left at his house. Morgan did take it away.”

Chatworth whistled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Abbott. “The man who put it there has said so. Also, West asked a sergeant to trace two five-pound notes, which proved to be two of two hundred sent by Leech on Malone's orders. The balance reached us by post this evening – the wrapping paper is bare of prints. I suspect that one of Morgan's men posted it, on West's instructions.

“Hum.” Chatworth looked over his glasses. “Can we really prove it? And if we can, do we want to? Morgan has been very helpful. West—” he broke off.

Abbott smiled thinly. “I don't think we can and I don't think we should, sir.”

“Good!” declared the A.C. “Well you'll have to start clearing up, Abbott. Give West a couple of days to get over his home troubles and then get him busy, too.”

Roger telephoned Wray and Tamperly, delighting the pressmen, and made a comprehensive report before he left the Yard. He was in his office when Abbott telephoned to say that he need not come in for a day or two. Roger put on his hat and coat and left the Yard. He drove to Bell Street, where he found Mark and Tennant sharing one spare room, the small room being occupied by Lois Randall, who, said Janet, was asleep. Dixon had gone. Janet was waiting in the dining-room and she looked a little crestfallen. It occurred to Roger that the wrecking had affected her far more than she had let him think, but she brightened up as soon as he arrived and they found other things to talk about. Smaller things; they were laughing when they went to bed.

But for the restriction of newspaper space, the case would have been reported much more fully; as it was, the
Echo
and the
Cry
and their associated evening papers gave it as much publicity as they could. One of the Sunday papers tried to run a series of articles on Mrs. Cartier but it petered out because they could not get any information of great interest.

She gave her evidence, much later, against some of the men, but not against her husband. She was in court when the jury returned the verdicts, the black cap was donned and the sentences were passed. Then she left. Outside, she saw Janet and Lois.

She stopped and looked at them.

Janet smiled, uncertainly.

Mrs. Cartier approached her and shook hands and then hurried off, after telling Janet that she was giving up her Weybridge home. Just why she made a point of it Janet did not know then. A short time afterwards, Roger was able to tell her that the Society was working again, that Lois was reinstated as secretary – but as Lois Tennant, not Lois Randall – that Tennant was back in the north, training his rookies and, whenever he wrote, wishing wistfully that he could have a crack at the Huns.

Mark said that nothing would ever satisfy the repressed energy of that remarkably tough young man. Mark was busy compiling the record of the case, and he declared that but for his note-books the cases of Inspector West would never really be told to the world, so that he was not wholly useless.

The case was practically closed when, in midsummer, a furniture van drew up outside the Bell Street house. Roger was at the Yard and Janet opened the door. She thought that there must be some mistake, until she read the note that the foreman remover had brought with him.

“Roger!” breathed Janet into the telephone five minutes later. “Darling, it's incredible, but – Mrs. Cartier!”

“Well, what about her?” asked Roger, startled.

“She's sent us
all
the furniture from the lounge at her Weybridge house. She told me on the day of the trial that she was giving it up, but I didn't think anything of it then. Darling, it's
twice
as good as anything we ever had! I know the sentimental value isn't there but –
do
you think you could get home early and help me put the room straight? And shall I ask Mark to come?”

“Well, I'm—” began Roger, then drew a deep breath. “Yes, my sweet, ask him, and I'll be home by four, with luck.”

When he rang down he looked very hard at Eddie Day, but even Eddie had the wit to realise that his thoughts were far away.

 

Published or to be published by

House of Stratus

 

Dates given are those of first publication

(Writing as JJ Marric)

 

These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels