Triumph For Inspector West

you.”

Roger looked at Turnbull. “We’d better take him along.”

“And break his neck on the way.”

“You can flicking well think again,” snapped Tenby. “I’m staying here.”

“You’re coming to the Yard to make a statement about your movements tonight,” said Roger. “Put some clothes on.”

“I tell you—”

“If you won’t put some clothes on, we’ll wrap you up in a blanket and carry you downstairs. Don’t argue. You’ll tell us where you’ve been tonight, or you’ll come along with us to the Yard.”

Tenby looked at him, insolently. “Okay, I’ll come,” he said, “but you ‘aven’t ‘eard the last o’ this, Mr Ruddy West.”

He got up and began to dress.

Obviously, he was worried, and his truculence sprang from the effort to hide his anxiety. He dressed slowly and deliberately. Now and again, his gaze wandered to a corner cabinet, but it did not linger for long; obviously, he had not expected tonight’s visit. A search of the room might yield a stock of drugs, as Tenby had once been a chemist, but without a search warrant it wasn’t worth the risk. A man could stay outside, and make sure that no one else entered the room.

“Well, I’m ready,” said Tenby, at last.

In his car Roger kept glancing at his passenger, but

Tenby stared haughtily ahead. This was the man who might be much cleverer than the police realised; he might have murdered Tony Brown, and been responsible for the attack on Bill Brown—if the police theory was right.

At the Yard, Turnbull went to Information, and Roger took Tenby along to his office, then sent for a shorthand writer. Tenby’s continued silence began to irritate him; he was suspicious of a trick, and watched his words carefully.

“Now, let’s have it. Where have you been tonight?”

“What’s the charge?” demanded Tenby.

“If I make a charge, you’ll soon find out.”

“I don’t want any more of your lip,” sneered Tenby. “I’m not going to make no statement, but I’m going to raise hell about being dragged out of bed at this time o’ night.”

Roger said: “So you formally refuse to tell us where you’ve been tonight?”

“And what are you going to do about it ? “sneered Tenby.

“Make a note of that,” Roger said to a sergeant. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at the man standing in front of him. “I want to know something else,” he went on. “Do you remember the night of October 31?”

“Why should I remember any particular night?” demanded Tenby. “You ruddy dicks are all the same, just because I had a bit of luck—”

“I’m not so sure that Odds-on Pools are as lucky for you as you think,” interrupted Roger. “October 31 was a Wednesday, the night that Tony Brown was gassed in his room at Battersea. Remember Brown?”

“Yes, and I knew a man named Smith once.”

“The day will come when you won’t feel so smart,” said Roger. “Let me remind you about the 31st of October again. You weren’t at The Lion all that evening. You weren’t at home. Your landlady has been questioned, and she knows you were out. None of your friends know where you were, but you were reported to be in Battersea Park.”

“That’s a lie!” Tenby’s voice rose.

“We’ll find out whether it’s true or not. If you weren’t in the park, where were you?”

“You don’t expect me to remember where I am every night, do you?”

“I think you remember that particular night,” said Roger. “You refuse to tell me that, too—that right?”

“I tell you I don’t remember!”

Roger glanced at the shorthand writer.

“Got that, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Tenby, I shan’t hold you—yet. But you’re in big trouble, unless you remember where you were on the night of the 31st of October.”

Tenby’s little eyes were looking everywhere but at Roger, and his hands were working. The sergeant stood stolidly by.

“Get going,” Roger said, roughly.

Tenby hesitated.

“Well?” asked Roger, abruptly.

“I can’t remember what happened nearly three weeks ago,” Tenby muttered. “Tonight—”

“Yes?”