“If we believe all we’re told, Raeburn was drunk, ran this fellow down, and didn’t trouble to report it.” Roger shrugged, and added dryly: “But I don’t believe all I’m told. I’ve checked up on Raeburn so often that I can almost tell what he does every minute of the day. I know his habits, I know what he likes for supper, and I know the kind of bed warmer he likes best.” Roger gave a short laugh. “I’ve never had a report which suggests that he ever drank too much, and I’ve never known him even slightly tipsy. He isn’t the sort. And if he wasn’t drunk, I don’t believe he’d drive on after running a man down by accident.”
“Deadeye Dick, the detective with a difference. Neat theory, Handsome, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”
“I can bank on one thing,” Roger declared. “The Yard’s going to work overtime for a month so as to pin another on him while he’s waiting for the charge of manslaughter: If the Legal Department’s awake, it’ll stop him from getting bail. See Haddon soon, won’t you? I’d like to know for certain if that ear injury was caused by the car, or whether there’s a ghost of a chance of proving that it was from a blow received before death.”
“I’ll do what I can,” promised Gubby. “Where are you off to?”
“The Yard,” said Roger. “I’ve one or two people to interview.”
“One or two!” jeered the pathologist. “There’s probably a ‘full house’ notice on the waiting-room door.” He offered cigarettes as he added: “You’d give your right hand to get Raeburn, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d give a lot,” affirmed Roger, quietly. “I think Raeburn’s the ugliest piece of work I’ve come across in years, and what he doesn’t know about making money dishonestly wouldn’t cover his thumbnail. If he’s not involved in a dozen rackets, I’m losing my grip. Thanks for the help,” he added briskly. “Can I give you a lift?”
“No, thanks,” said Gubby, “my car’s outside.”
As he drove across Clapham Common, Roger gave little thought to his driving, but a great deal to Raeburn. He turned into the gateway of Scotland Yard, acknowledging the salute of the two policemen on duty, and pulled up in the parking place near the steps. He did not get out at once, but sat looking towards the Embankment and watching the traffic whirling past. He was about to open the car door when Big Ben boomed the quarter.
“A quarter past eleven.” He checked his watch, and found it half a minute fast. He hurried out of the car and up the steps, and as he walked along the cold stone passages, he passed several CID men.
“Now you’re all right, Handsome,” one called.
Roger grinned.
He entered his own office, a large, square room with big windows overlooking the Embankment. There were five yellow desks here, and his was at the back, near the window. Although it was a warm, bright day for October, a coal fire burned sluggishly in the grate.
From a desk in front of his, Chief Inspector Eddie Day looked up.
“Morning, Handsome.”
“Hallo, Eddie!”
“Pretty pleased with yourself this morning, aren’t you?” asked Eddie, with a sniff. “Some people have all the luck. You’ve been trying to pin something on Raeburn for a couple of years, now the silly mug goes and gets himself caught on a manslaughter job. They ought to call you Lucky, not Handsome.”
Roger chuckled. “All right, Eddie. Have you seen Turnbull lately?”
“He’s with the AC, I think,” said Eddie. “That reminds me, the AC rang up twice for you. You ought to get in earlier. One of these days you’ll catch a packet for not being in when he wants you.”
“I dare say you’re right,” said Roger. He sat down and pulled the telephone towards him, and when the exchange answered, he said: “Put me on to the Assistant Commissioner.”
As he waited, he glanced at a pile of reports on the desk. Then he heard Sir Guy Chatworth’s voice.
“Hallo. West?”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Come along right away, will you?”
“Right away, sir.”
“Bit sharp, wasn’t he?” asked Eddie, hopefully, as Roger replaced the receiver.
“Proper bit my head off,” Roger said, solemnly.
Chatworth’s room, on the second floor, was unique in the history of the Yard. The furniture was made of black glass, chromium and tubular steel, and had a cold, unfriendly look. Yet no one could be friendlier than Chat- worth when he was in the mood. Just now, he was talking to Turnbull, who was sitting in one of those tubular steel chairs. Turnbull was a big, handsome man, with ruddy complexion and auburn hair; a bold, self-assured man, too.
Chatworth was also big and burly, with a fringe of grizzled curly hair at his temples and at the back of his head; the top of his head was completely bald and glistened in the light from the window. He had round, heavy features, deep grooves ran from lips to chin, and his jowl hid part of his stiff collar and tie. He was dressed that morning in a suit of shapeless brown tweed.
“Come in, and pull up a chair,” he invited. “As you weren’t here, I sent for Turnbull over this Halliwell business.”
Roger stopped, with a hand on cold steel.
“Who, sir?”
“The dead man, Halliwell. He served three years for fraud, and had been out about three months.”
Turnbull was grinning.
“I can guess what you’ll think about that,” Chatworth remarked, as Roger sat down. “If Raeburn is what you think, he’d have good reason for killing any man who could shop him. So I want you and Turnbull to concentrate
