Kennedy and his wife and sister were held in separate rooms. Percy was on his way to Scotland Yard, Harry was already at the nearest hospital.
Roger knew a little more: that Peel and two other men had followed Sloan that night, and had seen him taken away from Lyme Street by Myers and his men. They’d followed, and rescued him; Myers and the men who had come to Lyme Street were already in custody, so was Grace Howell.
Roger talked on. . . .
He was dry, but forgot the whisky and soda by his side; tired, but talking vividly, with words welling out of him. He didn’t smile, didn’t alter the pitch of his voice, just talked—as he might have talked to a doctor, about nightmares—a two-month nightmare. Detail after detail built itself into the picture, giving it light and shadow.
He stopped, and sipped his drink.
Chatworth said after a long pause: “But why, Roger? Why?”
“You mean, why did I allow myself to be established as Rayner? Why didn’t I come to you?”
“No, no, you’ve made that obvious. You’d a chance to find who this Kennedy was, what he was doing. I think I see what drove you to that.” Chatworth was gruff. “Only way you could make sure of the proper finish was to trap him—Kennedy. Can’t imagine any other man standing up to the strain. Never mind that now. What I mean is, why did Kennedy do all this? Why?”
“We’ll know better when we have finished an examination of the papers upstairs,” Roger said.
“Inspector Chubb is going through them, he ought to have some ideas now.” Peel stood up. “Shall I go and see, sir?”
Chatworth grunted: it might have been “Yes.”
Peel went out. Chatworth drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Sloan sat back, with a fatuous grin on his bruised face. Peel was gone for a long time, but none of them moved. Chatworth couldn’t keep his eyes off Roger. He was looking at the new man, trying to see some semblance of the old. He shook his head, slowly, three or four times.
Peel came in, with glowing eyes and a sheaf of papers.
“Well?” barked Chatworth.
“Got it pretty well sewn up, sir! These lists and some other documents tell a tale! Kennedy has been at this for years, gradually building up a system of blackmail. He can put pressure on hundreds of people. Hundreds!” Peel was so excited that he rapped a table with a roll of paper. “It’s so big, it’s frightening. The key is blackmail, everywhere. He got something on these people and put the black on them—people who supplied those goods to Rayner & Go. did so because Kennedy squeezed—they had to. That was the smallest angle. He’s had his claws in Members of Parliament, peers of the realm, people of influence everywhere. He’s deep in the currency racket and other forms of smuggling. There’s a list here of his contact men—all crooks we’ve got on our records. He told them what to do, gave them a rake-off. Myers has admitted that —he got his orders from the chauffeur, Percy Briggs. There’s an elaborate organization, and we only know the beginning of it yet. Kennedy lived here as Hemmingway, and trusted only his wife, sister, and Briggs.
“He was planning wholesale blackmail and corruption. At the Board of Trade, the Treasury—any Government Departments that would be profitable. He wanted a good cover, and didn’t want to show himself much. A man named Rayner, who worked with him for some years, backed out and went to Africa, where he made a packet in diamonds. He——”
“Who’s told you this? It isn’t in those documents, is it?” Chatworth was abrupt.
Peel grinned. “No, sir, but Myers and Briggs have let a lot come out. I’ve just had a word with the Yard, sir. This man Rayner died some years ago. When Kennedy planned to corrupt West and turn him into a big cover for the whole job, he gave West Rayner’s name, passport, background—-everything. I’ve got some other details, too. Kennedy himself—that’s his real name—first thought of getting at men at the Yard, and incidentally he did get at one, sir, more of that later.” Chatworth opened his mouth, closed it again. Peel went on eagerly: “Then Kennedy had his big notion, of having a prominent Yard man to work for him. He plumped for West. He probed a bit, and discovered that Mrs. West had a cousin who lived in Surrey, and worked out the whole frame-up from there.”
“That French girl——” began Sloan.
Peel said: “Yes, Briggs has talked about her, too. She was in love with Kennedy. He went to see her, in Paris, calling himself Arthur King, to find out whether she knew anything about her father, Kyle. He fascinated her. and he was always after beautiful women. Ginger Kyle knew more about Kennedy than anyone else alive, and Kennedy was just checking up and fell for her. But he didn’t bargain on her following him to England. Kennedy thought that she was really probing into his plans, and she fell in nicely with the plot to frame Mr. West. Kennedy took over Copse Cottage, and arranged for her to meet him there It was he who actually killed her and attacked West.” Peel was hoarse from talking and from excitement now. “Of course, there are a lot more details to come, but the general scheme’s pretty obvious. Percy Briggs can’t talk fast enough, he knows it’s the only way to save his neck. When Kennedy wanted a job done—murder or any job—he knew exactly whom to use. He was born in the East End, according to Briggs. The real Hemmingway— the man he’s supposed to be here—lived and died abroad. Kennedy took his place. As Hemmingway had no close friends in England, Kennedy got away with it.
“We’ve enough to charge Kennedy and the women with now—shall I take them to the Yard?”
“Do that,” said Chatworth.
* * * *
Chatworth said slowly: “I can’t take it all in, Roger. It’s too much for me.” He pulled his lips. “Never heard me say that before, and you never will again. How any man kept the truth away from his wife for that time— and knowing you and your wife——”
“And knowing what Kennedy had fixed against me,” Roger said.
“Yes, yes. Well—it’s nearly five o’clock. Er—what about your wife? You can’t spring yourself on her. She— damn it, she won’t recognize you! The boys won’t——”
“I’ll ask Mark Lessing to go and see her,” said Roger. “I’ll see Lessing right away, if that’s all right with you.”
Chatworth said: “Do what you like.” He shook his head, wonderingly. “When this breaks—oh, never mind.
