“He won’t go too far, George,” Ma Beesley seemed quite certain.
“I’m not so sure. He out with Eve again?”
“Yes.”
“I told him he was a fool to be seen out with her, but he laughed at me,” said Warrender. “The trouble is he’s got away with too much. It would have done him good to cool himself inside for a year.”
“I almost agree with you,” Ma Beesley showed her bad teeth.
“I was almost sorry that we got him off,” said War- render, “but perhaps it was as well. If he keeps going round with Eve, though, there’s bound to be talk. He doesn’t own every newspaper in the country, and he can’t stop all the columnists.”
“Aren’t you taking it all too seriously?” asked Ma Beesley, easily. “He has plenty of reason to be grateful to her, so why shouldn’t he take her around?”
“That’s his pet line, but West and Company are bound to think it’s fishy.”
“They haven’t been very bright yet, have they?” Ma murmured. “But be quiet, here’s Maud.”
Maud, a tall, angular woman in a severe, dark grey dress, came in with a loaded tray containing sandwiches, a Welsh rabbit, and coffee. She put the tray on the desk and went out briskly, closing the door softly behind her.
“No, West and Company haven’t exactly shone.” War- render took up the conversation as if there had been no interruption. “But Paul made a mistake when he let that attack go through in the
“Well, we can’t stop him, and I shouldn’t worry too much,” Ma Beesley said. “She’s an empty-headed little tart, and he’ll soon get tired of her.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” mused Warrender. “She’s his type, he’s always liked the 38—26—38 kind. She’s quick-witted in some ways, too, even if she is a fool. She might hold him for a long time. I’m not happy about her ex-boyfriend, cither. Tenby says that he haunts her rooms.”
“Well, Tenby’s watching him, isn’t he?”
Warrender said: “Yes. And if it comes to that, I’m a bit worried about Tenby. He was watching Halliwell for us, and may have seen exactly what happened. Paul seems sure of him, but Tenby’s always erratic, and a damned sight too fond of practical jokes.” Warrender smiled, almost reluctantly, and Ma Beesley chuckled. “Paul doesn’t make many mistakes,” Warrender admitted, “but he could ride for a fall like any other big-time man.”
She went to the desk and began to eat a sandwich, making three chins where there had been two, as she munched.
“If you keep eating so much, you’ll get fat,” said Warrender.
Sitting down by the fire with the tray between them, they ate the Welsh rabbit, cleared the sandwiches, and were drinking coffee when the telephone bell rang. Ma put down her cup, rose, and stumped towards the desk.
“Hallo,” she said, in a deceptively pleasant voice. “Yes
From the way she looked straight ahead of her, and from the hardening of her voice, Warrender could tell that she did not like whatever news this was. She rang off, but did not return to her chair immediately. The only sound came from the faint ticking of a clock. Then Ma sighed, walked across, and picked up her coffee.
“I hope you’re not right,” she said.
“What’s up?”
“Paul’s at the Silver Kettle with Eve, and Melville has just told me that West is there. That
“Chance,” echoed Warrender, and he looked very anxious. “That wasn’t chance. West wouldn’t go to the Silver Kettle, except on business.” He stood up. “I’d better go over there. I’ve got to the point where I daren’t trust Paul on his own.”
CHAPTER V
THE SILVER KETTLE was large for a night club, and brightly lit. The West Indian band was playing softly, and a dozen couples were jogging rhythmically on the tiny polished floor. Over the head of each member of the band hung a gleaming, glittering silver kettle, five in all. Other kettles hung on brackets on the walls. Here were good taste and luxury without ostentation. The waiters wore tails, the patrons were well-dressed and, at this hour, decorous. In one corner, a party gave promise of things to come, with gusts of shrill laughter.
Roger West in a dinner jacket, and Janet in a wine-red gown with lace over satin, were in another corner. With them was a tall, good-looking man, a year or so younger than Roger, with smooth brown hair, brown eyes which smiled easily, but could also give his whole face a supercilious expression. Now he was smiling, and beating time with a fork.
“Believe it or not, I think you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he said to Janet. “No policeman’s wife should let it be said.”
“No policeman should have a friend who’s a member,” Janet retorted.
“Who called him a friend?” asked Roger, lazily. “I’ve only known him for twenty years, and half the time he’s written books pointing out how the police ought to do their job. So naturally I consulted him about the illustrious Paul Raeburn.”
