on Raeburn, but don’t let it get round that you think it might be anything but manslaughter. The Legal Department doesn’t think we can get him remanded in custody, but at least you’ve an opportunity to dig.”
“I’ll dig deep,” promised Roger. “Where’s the Rolls now, sir?”
“At the Clapham Police Station,” Turnbull answered.
“Wonder if it’s been run over for prints. I ought to have checked while I was there,” Roger said, aloud. “The constable who found Halliwell said that he thought the car stopped, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Turnbull said.
“So Halliwell might have been in the car, and if he had, his fingerprints might be on it.” Roger shook his head. “That would be too good to be true. Any special instructions, sir?”
“Yes,” said Chatworth. “Prove the manslaughter case, whatever you do. Don’t let Raeburn get away with this.”
“Not if I can help it,” Roger said, fervently.
He left the AG’s office with Turnbull, spent ten minutes checking what had been done, then went down to his car again, and drove to Clapham. And still only Raeburn was on his mind, for Raeburn was not just another suspect: Raeburn was an obsession, a man with a great capacity for evil.
Arkwright, the constable who had found Halliwell, stood in front of Roger at the Clapham Police Station, holding his helmet in his hands. He was young and intelligent-looking, although obviously nervous.
“What made you think the Rolls Royce stopped?” asked Roger.
Arkwright was safe with that question. “Well, sir, first time I saw the car the headlights were on. I’d just turned on to the Common. The road’s a bit twisty, and my lamp wasn’t working properly, some dynamo trouble. I couldn’t see much, because of the trees and bushes, but I noticed that the headlamps went out, although I could see the rear light. I said to myself the driver was in trouble, and I was going to see if I could lend a hand when my lamp went right out, so I had to get off and get it working again. If only I’d known—”
Roger grinned. “No one gave me second sight, either.”
Arkwright looked as if he could purr. “You know how it is when you’re doing a job like that, sir,” he went on. “It might have taken me a minute to fix the lamp, or it might have taken me five. I managed to get a little light, and started off again. The headlights came on just after that, so I said to myself he’s all right again. I wouldn’t like to
“Pity, but it’s a lucky thing you got what you did,” said Roger. “Meet anyone else on the Common?”
“A cyclist went by just as I was turning off the main road,” answered Arkwright. “I certainly didn’t see anyone else until the car had disappeared and I was across the Common.”
Roger let him talk for a couple of minutes, then sent him off. Immediately, a sergeant came in to report that Dr Anstruther Breem was waiting downstairs. Breem was the doctor who had been called in to examine Raeburn at die station. He was tall, well-dressed, suave, and determined not to be overimpressed by Chief Inspector West. Yes, in his opinion Raeburn had certainly been incapable of driving. He had not been able to walk along a straight line, his pronunciation of simple words had been distorted, his breath had smelt strongly of whisky.
“He was undoubtedly drunk, Chief Inspector.” Breem held a cigarette between his fingers, and his eyes were half closed.
“Could you swear that he wasn’t putting on an act?” asked Roger.
“I do assure you that I know when a man is drunk.”
“Yes, of course,” said Roger, politely. “Thank you, Dr Breem.”
Back at the Yard, he went down to the canteen with Turnbull, Who had only one piece of news. Halliwell had owned a wholesale grocery business in Southampton and had set fire to warehouses which he had claimed held ten thousand pounds worth of canned and packet goods. The police had proved both arson and fraud.
“He was lucky to get away with three years,” Turnbull declared.
“Yes. You’d better go to Southampton, be pleasant to the local police, and find out what you can about Halliwell’s general activities,” Roger said. “I’ll tackle The Daytime, and the people who were there last night.”
The telephone bell rang, and he picked up the receiver, listened, grunted thanks, and banged it down. “Raeburn’s been remanded on bail for eight days, on two sureties of five hundred pounds,” he said grimly. “Get going, Warren.”
The Daytime Club in Clapham had twice been raided by the police, without results, although undoubtedly gaming and drinking after licensed hours went on. Ostensibly it was owned by a syndicate, but actually Paul Raeburn owned it. Roger knew that Raeburn owned many similar clubs, but his name did not appear.
Members of The Daytime staff, who had been on duty the previous night and during the early hours of the twenty-third of October, gave Roger no help. Some said they thought Raeburn had been mixing his drinks, others were sure that he had drunk very little. Statements from members who had been present were equally contradictory.
Raeburn left London on the afternoon of the twenty- fourth and stayed at a hotel in Guildford; the local police watched his movements. Roger made several calls at the millionaire’s Park Lane flat, where Warrender, Raeburn’s secretary, and Ma Beesley, his housekeeper, were outwardly anxious to help, but actually evasive. Neither of them had been at The Daytime on the night of the ‘accident’. They said they had never heard of Halliwell, and asserted that as far as they knew Raeburn had never done business in Southampton.
Turnbull telephoned a negative report from Southampton next morning.
Roger went over Raeburn’s known record with a patience which was wearing thin, looking for the odd factor of importance that he might have missed.
Raeburn had first become prominent four years ago, as the owner of several greyhound racing tracks. The first time Roger had suspected him of criminal activity was after a series of dopings and an outcry among backers and bookmakers. No case had been proved, but the Yard had become very interested in Raeburn. He was wealthy, and had been wealthy before he had opened his greyhound tracks. He had bought small house property in country
