Triumph For Inspector West

“A man’s asking for you, sir,” said the operator. “He won’t speak to anyone else.”

“Put him through.”

“Is this Inspector West?” a different man asked, gruffly.

“Yes, who is this, please?”

“This is Brown—Bill Brown.”

This was it!

Roger said: “Yes, Brown?” and kept his voice level.

“How’s my wife?” Brown demanded. “And don’t hold out on me.”

“I’ve just come from her,” Roger answered. “She’s had a bad time, and is seriously ill. She’s the worse because she’s worried about you, too.”

“She always was a worrier,” Brown said, gruffly, and then burst out: “I want to see you; how about it?”

“I’m nearly always here,” said Roger, “and if I’m not, they know where to find me. Listen to me, Brown. Your wife was nearly killed. When she came round, she was in no state to cover up; she told me everything. Now she’s scared out of her wits in case they try to kill you. It—”

“They’ve already tried,” said Bill Brown, flatly.

“All the more reason why—”

“Listen to me for a change,” Brown said, roughly. “I’m being watched, see? They’ve found out where I’m hiding; that’s one of the reasons I can’t come to see you. If I’m not careful, I’ll wind up in the morgue.”

He broke off, and there was another sound at the other end of the telephone, followed by a different voice, further away. “Beat it, Bill. They’re comin’ !”

“Brown!” Roger barked.

“Fifty-four Berry Street, Mile End,” Brown whispered, urgently. “Come quick, West. If they get me, they’ll carve me up.”

Roger had the telephone in his hand when the door opened, and a messenger came in.

“Information?” Roger said, quickly. “I want D Division told to surround Berry Street, but to keep out of sight. Have three Flying Squad and two Q cars in the area. Right?”

“Right. Who for?”

“Brown.”

“Here’s luck!”

“Thanks,” Roger said, and stood up. The messenger handed him a sealed envelope marked: URGENT. Roger slit it open, and found a sheet of newsprint with a note from Chatworth, saying, ‘Come and see me.’ The paper was the Evening Cry, half of the front page devoted to news instead of racing.

OUR READERS DEMAND INQUIRY

In response to countless requests from our readers, the Evening Cry is to make representations to the Home Office for a full inquiry into the methods employed by the police following the dismissal of the charges against Mr Paul Raeburn. Our report of the harsh methods used in interrogating Miss Eve Franklin has brought a storm of protest. We publish a selection of letters. Many readers demand the dismissal of Chief Inspector West or at least strong disciplinary action to prevent . . .

Chatworth was alone in his office; big, glowering, with another copy of the front page.

“Well?” he demanded.

Roger said: “I think Brown’s cornered in a house in Mile End. I’ve ordered a concentration, and would like to go there, and take a gun. Have I your permission, sir?”

There was a tense moment of hesitation.

“Come and sec me the minute you’re back,” Chatworth growled.

CHAPTER XVII

54 BERRY STREET

BILL BROWN squeezed out of the telephone kiosk after hanging up on the Yard. The fog was eddying about the crossroads, and he could just see the figure of his friend, Deaken, disappearing along Berry Street. He thought he saw other figures looking out of the darkness, but when he caught up with Deaken, no one else seemed about.

“What did you put the wind up me for?” he demanded.

“I saw a coupla blokes,” said Deaken. “Matter o’ fact, I think I saw four, all near the phone. I’m fed up with this show, that’s the truth, Bill. I wish I’d never come with you. Let myself be talked into it, that’s what. And—look out!”

Two men loomed out of the darkness, and smashed blows at him. He jumped to one side, and ran. Brown swung his left fist at the nearer assailant, and buried it in his stomach. The man backed away, but struck at Brown’s head. Brown staggered, kept his balance, fended the man off, and darted in Deaken’s wake.

The fog swallowed him up.

He heard thudding footsteps, but could not see more than ten yards in front of him. He struck a lamp-post with his wounded right arm, and winced at the pain, but did not let it slow him down. Number 54 Berry Street was halfway between the kiosk and the main road. His pursuers would not be able to see which house he had entered;