Inspector West Takes Charge Read Free Page B

kettle was boiling. He made the tea, and then found Janet doing her hair in front of the mirror. He liked to watch her fingers twisting and turning in the curls at the nape of her neck. He liked what the movement of her arms above her head did to her figure, too.
    He poured out the tea, and Janet asked: ‘Do you know anything about the Prendergast business that I don’t?’
    ‘Nothing I can tell you,’ answered Roger. ‘Nothing I’ve told Mark, either. If you’re wondering why I went over to Chelsea, I just felt uneasy.’
    ‘Do you think Mark’s in any danger?’
    ‘Good Lord, no! If he had been we wouldn’t have found him tied up last night, he would have been ready for a post mortem. It’s puzzling though. I don’t think he’s working on anything but the Prendergast affair, the odds are that it’s connected with that. If it is –’
    ‘Then it’s a murder investigation.’
    ‘Multiple murders,’ Roger agreed. ‘Well, I must be off.’
    He planted a kiss on her forehead, promised to be home by half-past seven, turned away and tripped over the kitten. He saved himself from falling completely, while the kitten darted off, squawking.
    ‘Poor little thing!’ cried Janet.
    ‘You might try to find its owner,’ said Roger bitterly. ‘If it’s still around tonight, don’t let it out of the kitchen until I get in. I don’t feel safe opening a door.’
    Half-a-dozen uniformed men at the gates, in the hall and along the passages of New Scotland Yard wished Inspector West good morning. In the office which he shared with four other Detective Inspectors a sergeant was talking to a big, fat man at the next desk to Roger’s. The fat man was Eddie Day, whose special subject was forgery.
    ‘Hallo, hallo,’ said Day, in an unexpected falsetto and with a slight over-emphasis on the aitches. ‘How’s Handsome Harry?’
    The sergeant smiled dutifully.
    ‘I took over from Sergeant Sloane, sir. He said you’d want to see these as soon as you were in. They’re the fingerprints found at Mr Lessing’s flat.’ ‘These’ were a sheaf of buff coloured forms which he handed over; two white ones were on the top.
    The white sheets were decorated with grey fingerprints. Roger eyed them without enthusiasm.
    The sergeant went on: ‘One of them might be Charlie Clay’s. There’s just enough to line it up, but not strong enough to do anything. We know Clay’s free.’
    ‘Are you looking for him?’
    ‘He’ll be brought in for questioning if you give the say-so.’
    ‘I say so,’ said Roger. ‘Nothing else?’
    ‘Nothing of any use, sir.’
    Roger nodded, the sergeant went out, and Eddie Day breathed wheezily over a file of papers.
    There was no trace of the car which had driven off from Mark’s place the night before. Only one set of prints had been found. The opening of the drawers had certainly been the work of experts. Charlie Clay, Abie Fenton, and three or four other cracksmen known to be in London were named as possibles. Clay would probably prove the right man, if they could break the alibi he would doubtless have ready. Clay had a peculiarity common to no other cracksman. He always took off his gloves some time during a job, and three times had been ‘sent up’ on the evidence of fingerprints he need not have made.
    Roger considered what he knew of Clay. A big man who spoke in a thick, gruff voice, whom it was always difficult to identify. There was a vagueness about Charlie’s personality which helped him considerably. The head and shoulders description give by P C Diver might or might not fit Clay.
    Roger put the papers aside and went to a green filing cabinet, opening a drawer containing the ‘C’s and pulling out a stiff folder. A brief summary of Charlie Clay’s dossier was there; one note said: ‘Solicitors at last trial: Gabriel Potter & . Son’.
    Roger said: ‘I thought so.’
    ‘Why don’t you keep quiet?’ implored Eddie Day, looking up from two bank-notes which he was examining