together by adhesive paper. He counted one pack—a hundred. There were five packs. There was something else, too—a piece of cotton wool, which dropped from the paper and fell at his feet. He picked it up. Something hard was inside it. He unwrapped it, and a single diamond scintillated dazzlingly, the size of a small peanut, worth— he couldn’t guess what it was worth.
There was a fortune in crime.
He washed, then started on the sandwiches—he was ravenous. Half-way through, the telephone bell rang. He had to get up to answer it. He seldom had calls, and they were always from Kennedy or Percy. He lifted the telephone, and was surprised that his own voice was harsh.
“Hallo?”
“Mr. Rayner?”
“Yes, speaking.”
The man at the other end hung up without another word —and left his voice ringing in Roger’s ears. The voice had been unmistakable: Bill Sloan had called.
Why to-night?
Why now?
* * * *
Roger picked up the Sunday newspapers. His own
His photograph—the real West’s—looked up at him.
He scanned the article, saw a mention of Copse Cottage, and sat very still.
CHAPTER XVI
THE front-door bell rang.
Sloan couldn’t have reached here as quickly as that, even if he’d called from a kiosk nearby. Roger got up, and the bell rang again. He went to it slowly, not worrying about the caller’s impatience, searching for any weakness in his own alibi.
The bell started to ring again as he opened the door.
Kennedy said: “Getting lazy ? Like someone to replace Harry on his night off?” He came forward.
Roger barred his way.
“You choose the damnedest times for coming. When you’re wanted you’re not here, when you’re not wanted you find your way. Is Percy downstairs with the car?”
“No.” Kennedy stood on the threshold, too startled to protest, and worried for the second time since Roger had known him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve just had a call from Detective Inspector Sloan, and I fancy he’s on his way here. I don’t know why he chose to-night, and I hope the reason isn’t what I think it might be. If I were you, I’d go into the office, wait until he’s come into this room, and then leave.”
“I don’t think I like your friend Sloan,” said Kennedy in a soft voice. He glanced over his shoulder towards the stairs. There was no sound.
Roger said: “Forget it, Kennedy. I’ll tell you here and now there’s one thing I won’t lake. That’s violence against the police.”
“Won’t you?”
“No. Get into the office.”
“Did he say he was coming here?”
“No, that’s why I think he is. He telephoned. The D’s have taken off, I can’t think of anything that’s gone wrong, except you calling.” The whispered voices couldn’t travel far, but he wondered if Sloan were here and near enough to see the shadows on the top landing. “Have you an office key?”
“You like giving orders, don’t you? Watch yourself.”
Roger said: “Hurry.”
Kennedy crossed the landing and let himself into the office, making hardly a sound. Roger went back to the living-room, put the money and diamond into a drawer, locked it and pocketed the key, then went slowly downstairs. He peered into the dark corners of each landing and the passage; there was no trace of Sloan, and nowhere the Yard man could hide. He opened the door and went into the street and strolled up and down; two people turned into the street, but neither took any notice of him or turned into Number 15. Sloan hadn’t arrived yet. He withdrew into the doorway and heard a car turn the corner. Headlights blazed and shone on to Number 15, but he dodged back in time to avoid them, left the door unlocked, and went upstairs.
He put on all the lights and was eating another sandwich when the flat door-bell rang. He let it ring, as with Kennedy, but Sloan wasn’t so impatient and didn’t ring again. When Roger opened the door, Sloan stood back from it, head on one side, smiling with taut lips.
“Who——” began Roger.
“Remember me?” asked Sloan.
Roger relaxed. “Well, well, it’s the policeman who came to my house-warming! Don’t you rest on
