“Did you give the other officer the number?” asked Roger.
“Certainly,” Stebber said. “Help the police in every way I can, that’s my motto.”
“Keep to it By the way,” Roger said, taking the fold of blotting paper from under his arm, and unfolding it, “have either of you ever seen this chap?”
They stared at the photograph.
“Why, that’s the Yank!” Stebber exclaimed. “That’s him! Ain’t it, Bert?”
“You couldn’t mistake a face like that, could you?” Bert asked.
• • •
Armed with a dozen prints of the American’s photograph, Roger drove to Barnes police station, where Peel was collecting more garage reports. They had the names of three garages where an American with an A70 had called for petrol.
The photograph was recognized at all of them.
“So the car’s home is about here somewhere,” Detective Inspector Peel said. He was another, younger, Sloan; fresh complexion, blue eyes, short fair hair.
“We want it, and we want it in a hurry,” Roger said. “And we don’t want the owner to know we’ve traced it I’m going to the Yard, to get everything laid oh. You’ll be in charge down here.”
“We’ll find it,” Peel said.
Sloan was at the Yard, with fresh news; the registration number given by Stebber’s garage for the A70 was a false one, there was no such number registered anywhere in England. He had sent six Yard men down to Barnes straight away, but they had found nothing. Even the man in the raincoat had shaken off Wirral’s George.
• • •
At half past ten the next morning, Roger finished a telephone talk with Marino, and Lissa. There was no news of importance about the Shawns; no real change in the condition of either.
At ten forty-five, Peel called through from Barnes.
“I think we’ve got something, sir. Can you come down?”
“As fast as I can get there,” promised Roger. “Found either of the cars?”
“I haven’t
“Have it checked, fast, but leave the garage to me,” said Roger. “Wait a minute! The Norwood woman — what can you tell me about her?”
Peel said: “She’s a gay widow. Used to have a lot of men friends, but recently she’s been faithful to one.”
“Name?”
“I’ve only heard about this in the last hour,” Peel protested.
“Put the other men on to tracing Mrs Norwood and trying to get something about the regular boyfriend,” Roger ordered. “This could be very important indeed.”
8
GISSING
THE brick house was small, pleasant, secluded, and the garden ran down to the sluggish Thames. Across the river were the dark-red walls of factories; above and below the house were jetties, warehouses and hustle. Here was an oasis, protected by beech trees in full green dress on three sides, by the river on the fourth. There was a small lawn, with a few rose bushes standing in freshly turned beds, surrounded by closely growing shrubs. A wooden jetty stood out from the river bank, a white-painted dinghy tied alongside, swaying gently. Most of the windows faced the river; those looking on to the beech trees were small.
It was after twelve o’clock noon. The house had been visited by a Yard man, posing as an Electricity Board official, but no one had answered his knock.
Across the river, at the window of a warehouse, Sloan was standing with a pair of powerful binoculars. Two other detectives also watched, too far away to be of help if help were needed, but near enough to observe all comings and goings to the house, which had no number, just the name: “Rest”. The porch was covered with pale-green tiles, the front door and all the woodwork was of light brown, green tiles covered the gabled roof.
The garage was at the back of the house.
Roger drove along the narrow road leading to “Rest”, passed the beech trees and felt cut off from everyone as he drew up to the white garage doors.
There was ample room for the Austin, which was bigger than most made in England. The electric light and back daylight shone on the glossy black bodywork, the sleek lines. Roger opened the driving-door, sat at the wheel, looked in all the pockets and the glove compartment. Then he got busy, searching for prints. It took him five minutes to make sure that the car had been cleaned up thoroughly. Later, there could be an inch-by-inch examination; now, he had more urgent work to do.
He went out of the garage, turned his own car and approached the house. The only sound was the lapping of water nearby, the chirping of birds. From the house, silence. He studied the back door, and tried the handle. It was locked.
He walked round the house on crazy paving, neatly laid, no trap for careless feet The lapping of the water grew louder. The sun shone bright on the rippling river. He reached the front door, and knocked sharply; after a pause he knocked again, then rang the bell.
