Inspector West At Home

“Joe Leech,” said Chatworth. “There were other things which we won’t worry about now. If I were you I would go home and get some sleep. You’ll feel much fresher tomorrow. But if you insist on looking through those files —”

“I would like to.”

Ten minutes later, puzzled and frustrated, he pushed them away. There was nothing which gave him any idea as to why he had been victimised because of a discovery made on December 13th. Certainly nothing he had put in his reports was important enough to have worried Pickerell so much. The only thing of importance on the day had been a visit to a house in Battersea, where a man had murdered his wife. It had been a miserable affair, brightened only by the solicitor who had taken on the murderer’s defence. He sat back after he had told Chatworth so and the glimmering of an idea entered his mind, only to fade again. It reminded him of his flash of doubt concerning Antoinette Cartier. It faded as swiftly but made him feel uncertain and a little irritable. His eyes felt as if they were filled with grit and his tongue was like a plum against his lips.

“I spent most of the day clearing up the Battersea murder,” he said. “The man Cox had murdered his wife and buried her beneath the kitchen floor of a hovel in Battersea. Oli- phant looked in while I was at the house. The other things were trivial, sir, just detail.”

“Get off home,” Chatworth said. “You’re too tired to think clearly.” He rounded the desk and held out his hand. “Your suspension is lifted, West.” His handclasp was very firm.

“Thank you, sir,” said Roger, stiffly.

“And I’m also sorry,” said Abbott, when they were walking along the passage outside. “I had my work to do, you know that. I thought there was no doubt at all.”

Roger smiled, painfully. “If there was even more evidence than I’ve yet heard, I can’t blame you.”

“I should have kept an open mind,” Abbott said. “I tried to trap you, West — I told you as nearly as I could that I was coming to see you that afternoon, then I sent Martin to shadow you. I expected you to make a call on the way.” The Superintendent broke off. Roger could understand how difficult he found it to make this admission.

“Forget it,” said Roger. “There is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you detain me?”

Abbott shrugged. “We wanted to give you plenty of rope.”

Roger said : “And you’ve no idea what I was supposed to be hiding?”

“None at all. I hoped we would get information from Leech.” They were walking down the steps of the Yard, then, towards the Embankment; the moon was shimmering on the sluggish Thames and the dark silhouettes of barges were moving down river. One hooted, mournfully. A car-horn sounded not far away and a lorry clattered along the Embankment, a ghostly thing with its faint lights. “You have no idea where to find Malone, I suppose?”

“No,” said Roger. “I wish I had !”

“I’ll drive you home,” said Abbott.

“Not home — Buckingham Palace Gate,” Roger said, and then stopped abruptly, remembering Lois; he had quite forgotten her while he had been with Chatworth. His mind was too clouded, he should not have tried to think, it only gave him a headache and depressed him. He went on : “There’s one other thing you should know. I’ve got the girl who helped Pickerell.” Hastily, he went on : “Oh, I haven’t kidnapped her! She is willing enough to take help, but she won’t make any statement. Pickerell was blackmailing her. I think it would be a mistake to interview her officially.”

Abbott did not answer immediately.

“She might be able to give us a line if she’s treated well,” Roger went on. “But I believe she’s so frightened of the police that she would stay dumb.”

Abbott gave a thin laugh; with a shock, Roger realised that he had never heard the Superintendent laugh before.

“We owe you some licence,” Abbott said.

He did not even ask where Lois Randall was staying. Nor did he get out of the car outside the hotel, but wished Roger good night and then drove off, after promising to send men to help guard the hotel. Roger watched the rear- light fade into the grey pallor cast by the moon, then stepped towards the front door. One of Morgan’s men said : “Good night, Mr West.” There was no night porter and he had no key, but

Legge, a rotund, jolly individual, came to the door promptly. After he drew back bolts there was a noise of chains being moved — Legge was taking no chances.

Roger felt a twinge of alarm.

“Is everything all right ?”

“Why, yes, Mr West,” said Legge. “Why shouldn’t it be? I believe your wife is in the upstairs lounge.” The light in the hall revealed his wide smile.

“Roger!” called Janet. She came to the head of the stairs and into his arms. “Darling, I get the most horrible ideas these days, I’m as touchy as —” she broke off, for he winced when she kissed him. “Roger, what is it ?”

“I — er — I banged into a door,” mumbled Roger.

“I don’t believe it!”

When she saw his face she refused to allow him to talk, although Mark and young Tennant, also in the lounge, were obviously disappointed. Roger said enough to make them realise that he had had another encounter with Malone.

Nothing was clear to him. He did not even realise that Janet sent a lugubrious Mark to an all-night chemist near