him.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Tenby, “but I’ll see ‘im.”
Tenby seemed on edge on the way to the City Hospital, but had recovered some of his confidence. Once or twice he rustled some chocolate paper in his pocket.
They walked along the corridors, Tenby complaining that he didn’t like the smell of antiseptics: they always made him feel sick; he never went into a hospital unless he was forced to, he declared.
“Nor did this man,” said Roger, dryly.
He reached Joe’s room, and opened the door without knocking. Joe was sitting up in bed with a newspaper in front of him. He glanced up, and his expression hardened when he saw Roger who entered first.
Then he saw Tenby. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes; only a flash, but quite unmistakable. Roger looked sharply at Tenby, but Tenby’s face was blank.
So there was another indication; still not evidence, but another line which might develop. Given a trivial charge against Tenby, they could step up the pressure against him.
Where could he find a charge?
He left Tenby in the hall, eating chocolates, and went along to see Peel, who was conscious, but still drowsy. He was not badly hurt, and the chief effect was from morphia. Peel could only suggest that his flask of tea had been doped.
As Roger left, a little old lady hurried along the passage: Peel’s mother, intent on seeing her son.
In the office, Roger still worried about Tenby’s sudden change of mood, then put it in the back of his mind, and set to work on other possibilities. He rejected the idea of telling a newspaperman about Raeburn’s forthcoming marriage; a leakage would probably be blamed on Eve, and do no good. He was anxious to locate the cottage she had mentioned, and sent out a memorandum to the provincial police.
Eddie Day was inquisitive, and called across the office: “Why should Raeburn want to keep the engagement secret, Handsome?”
“Not feeling well?” asked Roger, sympathetically.
“Now come off it!”
“You shouldn’t need to ask,” said Roger. “He doesn’t want us to realise he’s going to marry a woman so that she can’t be subpoenaed to give evidence against him.”
“Why, of course, that’s it!” exclaimed Eddie.
Raeburn put down the telephone, and lit a cigarette. Warrender leaned over the desk in the big office at Raeburn Investments, and Raeburn held out his lighter. Probably no one else would have noticed it, but each was aware of the telltale signs of nervousness in the other. Warrender looked thin, older, and more careworn, but the strain of the past few days had not outwardly affected Raeburn.
“Well?” asked Raeburn, at last.
“I think we shall be able to act soon,” said Warrender. “The police called for Tenby late last night, and took him off to the Yard. They didn’t keep him long, but they suspect him of the attack on Peel, and will watch him pretty closely now—more closely than they had been doing. He swallowed the bait all right.”
“Yes,” said Raeburn. “Who
“I did, after I’d noticed him and telephoned for Tenby,” answered Warrender. “You needn’t worry, they can’t get us for that. I slipped out of a first-floor window at the back, went round to the waste patch, and put a morphia tablet in his tea. It didn’t work quick enough, so I caught him from behind. He didn’t see me, though, don’t worry. Tenby’s suspected, and he’ll be scared enough to do whatever we want.”
“I suppose it’s all right,” said Raeburn, uneasily. “But you’re taking a lot of chances.”
“I’ve got to,” Warrender said, very deliberately. “I can’t trust anyone else, Paul. There’s a new porter at the flat, and I think he works for the police. West is like an India rubber.”
“One day I’ll get him.”
“Forget it,” said Warrender, “you’ll only be asking for trouble. All we want is to fool him. We’ll send Tenby down to the cottage first, and let Eve go afterward. She’d better arrive just before dark. I’ll deal with her, and Tenby will come tearing away for help. I’ll intercept him, and give him his faked passport and visa, with enough money to satisfy him. Okay?”
“It ought to be all right,” Raeburn conceded. Warrender took a slip of paper from his pocket, and dropped it on to the desk. “Here’s something that will interest you,” he said, casually.
Raeburn looked down. It was a scrawled note, threatening to tell the police the truth about Eve Franklin’s evidence unless Raeburn paid the writer five thousand pounds. There was no signature, but there were instructions to meet a man wearing a red carnation outside the Palladium the following day.
“That will be identified as Tenby’s handwriting,” Warrender said, with a smile that did not touch his eyes. “It’s a perfect forgery, Paul. When the police come to see us, after Tenby’s gone, we’ll show it to them, and we’ll make out a list of imaginary threats by telephone. We’ll get away with it, all right.”
“Does Melville know?”
“He does not! No one knows but you and me,” said Warrender. “I haven’t even told Ma.” When Raeburn didn’t reply, he went on: “Paul, what’s on your mind? You’re not yourself this morning.”
“I’m myself, all right,” Raeburn said. “Someone else isn’t, that’s the trouble. Your India rubber went to see Eve last night.”
“It worries me, too,” admitted Raeburn. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at Warrender through his lashes. “Did you know about it?”
