itself, he had worked only in the East End, where he had ample opportunity to work with Malone. The failure to keep constant guard at Welbeck Street had been his responsibility. The time taken tracing Dixon, were all explained. So was Malone’s confidence.
Yet even the day when Cornish had been the first Yard man to offer him friendly help, Roger had not given him a thought.
It proved that Cornish had telephoned the Yard several times, and had eventually heard about Oliphant. He had acted quickly, not knowing that he himself was followed. No Yard men had been stationed at Bonnock House. Cornish had felt quite safe to come in person, when he discovered that Carder’s telephone was out of order.
Cornish tried to save himself by making a complete confession. That, the tapes and the other evidence made the case damning .against all three men. Lois Randall had been a victim of circumstances, precipitated by her own lapse. Malone’s part as the ‘strong man’ of the organisation was fully disclosed; ordinary theft had gone on side by side with the distribution from the Society.
Pickerell had been the intermediary, approached by Car- tier to handle the distribution. He had known Malone, and had linked the two organisations.
In Chatworth’s office late that night, Roger told his part of the story. Abbott was there, thin-voiced and aloof as ever.
“So we have it all,” Chatworth said with deep satisfaction. “You didn’t need to use Morgan’s men very much, either. I must say you handled that part of it well; even without Abbott you would have got Cornish.” He smoothed his hair, flattening it against the sides of his head. “What of Pickerell?”
“His body was found in Leech’s public house,” Abbott said.
“Do you know who killed him ?”
“Malone did just before he left for Fulham. I think Pickerell was losing his nerve,” said Abbott.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Chatworth. “Well, West, you seem to have had the thick end of the stick most of the time. Not a nice story about Cartier. There’s no case against his wife, though,” Chatworth said. “Have you got the full story of the Cox murder?”
“Cornish says that Cox murdered his wife and that there was no motive apart from that we already knew,” said Roger. “Oliphant defended Cox because he was afraid of what the man might say, but Cox only knew the Malone end of the organisation. I once believed that Cox was drugged but I was wrong. He knew he would hang, anyhow, and saw no point in ratting on Malone. He believed that Malone was paying Oliphant, and so doing his best for him. Cox didn’t know about Cornish. Only Malone, Pickerell and Cartier knew him.”
“What about the Randall girl?”
“We know how she came to get mixed with them,” said Roger. “I shouldn’t think we could get a conviction even if we charged her.”
“One of your troubles is that you’re an incurable romantic,” Chatworth growled. “Oh, you’re right, West. One of these days you’ll be right too often. It’ll do you good to have a failure. Eh, Abbott?”
Abbott considered. “It might,” he admitted, frostily.
Roger smiled. “Very good of you to say I’ve never had one, sir!”
“Eh?” barked Chatworth. He laughed. “All right, West, you’ll do! I hear that you’ve got some tidying up on hand at your house. Oh, that reminds me — the taxi-driver, Dixon ?”
Roger grimaced.
“He was used to try to make us concentrate on Mrs Car- tier and to head us off Cartier himself,” he said. “I think it was that which first started me thinking of the man — Malone’s effort to make Dixon implicate the woman was too clumsy. Malone was always too clever; I’ve never seen a man with such conceit.”
“You won’t see him much longer,” Chatworth said. “All right, off with you !”
When Roger had gone, the AC looked thoughtfully at Abbott.
“What’s your opinion of West?” he demanded.
“Much brighter than it was a week ago, sir,” said Abbott, with wry humour. “I always found it a trifle difficult to believe his guilt. I ought to say this, however. The money
“Are you sure ?”
“Yes,” said Abbott. “The man who put it there has said so. Also, West asked a sergeant to trace two five- pound notes which proved to be two of two hundred sent by Leech on Malone’s orders. Leech’s prints were on some of the notes. The balance reached us by post this evening — the wrapping paper is bare of prints. I suspect that one of Morgan’s men posted it, on West’s instructions.”
“Hum.” Chatworth looked over his glasses. “Can we really prove it? And if we can, do we want to? Morgan has been very helpful.”
Abbott smiled thinly. “I don’t think we can and I don’t think we should, sir.”
“Then we agree,” said the AC. “Well, you’ll have to start clearing up, Abbott. Give West a couple of days to get over his home troubles, and then get him busy, too.”
Roger meanwhile telephoned Wray and Tamperly, delighting the pressmen, and made a comprehensive report. He was still in his office when Abbott telephoned to say that he need not come in for a day or two. Roger put on his hat and coat and left the Yard. He drove to Fulham, where he found Mark and Tennant sharing one spare room, the small room being occupied by Lois Randall who, said Janet, was asleep. Dixon had gone.
Janet was waiting in the dining-room. She looked a little tired and troubled. The wrecking had affected her far more than she had let Roger think, but she brightened up soon.
The
