“This might be interesting.” Turnbull tapped the report.
Tenby had been at The Lion until half past eight, when he had left and boarded a Number 11 bus at Sloane Square. The detective watching him had not been able to board the bus, so had reported and gone back to The Lion; Tenby had not returned. His boarding house was being watched, but there was no news from the man who was stationed at Fulham Road.
“The Number 11 passes Raeburn Investments office,” Turnbull remembered, “and Warrender may have been there, as he arrived home late.”
“Let’s check the report on Warrender again,” said Roger. “H’m—it’s not Peel’s; it’s from the man on duty at Park Lane. Peel was watching Warrender tonight, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And no report.”
“He hasn’t had much time,” Turnbull said. “He may have gone home; there wouldn’t be any need to hurry about a routine report. Shall I ring him?”
Roger nodded.
Turnbull put in the call, then replaced the receiver. They went over the reports again, very carefully, and Roger answered when the telephone bell rang.
A woman with a frail voice spoke from the other end. “Hallo?”
“Is Detective Officer Peel there, please?”
“No, sir, he isn’t,” answered the woman. “I’m getting just a little worried; he said he would be in by half past ten tonight, or else let me know. He hasn’t rung up.”
“I’m afraid he’s been kept working late,” Roger said, reassuringly. “Who is this speaking?”
“Why, his mother, Mrs Peel.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs Peel. If he does come in during the next quarter of an hour, ask him to ring the Yard and ask for Chief Inspector West, will you? . . . Thanks, very much.” He put the receiver down, frowning, and remarked: “I don’t like that.”
“He might have dodged off on some line of his own,” said Turnbull.
“Wouldn’t be like Peel,” declared Roger. “I think I’ll go to see Eve. You take a man with you, and have a look round the outside of Raeburn’s offices. You’d better have a word with the City Police first.”
“Mustn’t tread on their corns, eh ? Okay,” Turnbull said.
* * * * *
The City of London was quiet as Turnbull drove through it with a detective officer by his side. They passed three policemen at different points, but the streets were practically deserted. The tall buildings were in darkness, and the narrow alleys leading off the main streets were invisible.
Turnbull saw two men standing at a corner, and pulled up. One was in uniform, and the other in plain clothes; they were two City policemen who had arranged to meet him on this corner. Raeburn Estates offices were in a modern building which had been damaged during the last war; one part was still uninhabitable, with gaping windows and crumbling walls.
“Hallo, Mr Turnbull.”
“Hallo, Wray.” Turnbull was hearty. “Anything for me?”
“I’ve had no report of any trouble about here, although we’ve been keeping a close watch,” Wray answered. “Your man, Peel, was here until half past nine.”
“Sure?”
If Tenby had come here, he would have arrived about nine-fifteen.
“He was last seen when the rounds were made at nine,” said Wray. “That means he was here between nine- ten and nine-twenty.”
“Where did “he stand?”
“In the bombed-out front,” said Wray, leading the way along the street. “He had a word with my man, and said he was going to finish some tea he had in a flask; it was pretty nippy.” They reached the gaping window of the damaged office; beyond it, piles of rubble were just visible in the light of a street lamp. “He wasn’t here when my man went round next time,” continued Wray, “but he was due off duty at ten o’clock, wasn’t he?”
“Not tonight,” said Turnbull. “A chap he wanted was here, and Peel is the type to stay all night.” Wray gave him a hand, and he climbed on to a window sill. “Lend me a torch, will you?”
Wray climbed through and shone a torch about the scorched walls and the untidy rubble. They scrambled over the debris toward the far corner, where two walls formed a narrow passage.
“This is as far as it goes,” Wray said, as he reached the passage. “If he’s not—”
The light of the torch shone upon the inert figure of a man. It was Peel.
At first Turnbull thought that the young DO was dead. He had been knocked over the head savagely, and did not seem to be breathing. A policeman went for an ambulance, as Turnbull and Wray examined the victim in the torchlight. He was breathing after all, and raising his eyelids, Turnbull saw that the pupils were pinpoints.
“Looks like a drug,” he growled. “Knocked out first, and then given the needle.”
“Drugs are new in this case, aren’t they?” Wray asked.
“They’ve been used once before,” Turnbull remembered. “And on Peel.”
