The Case Against Paul Raeburn Read Free Page B

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    Roger grinned. “No one gave me second sight, either.”
    Arkwright looked as if he could purr. “You know how it is when you’re doing a job like that, sir,” he went on. “It might have taken me a minute to fix the lamp, or it might have taken me five. I managed to get a little light, and started off again. The headlights came on just after that, so I said to myself he’s all right again. I wouldn’t like to swear that he stopped and got out, but I’m pretty sure.”
    “Pity, but it’s a lucky thing you got what you did,” said Roger. “Meet anyone else on the Common?”
    “A cyclist went by just as I was turning off the main road,” answered Arkwright. “I certainly didn’t see anyone else until the car had disappeared and I was across the Common.”
    Roger let him talk for a couple of minutes, and then sent him off. Immediately, a sergeant came in to report that Dr Anstruther Breem was waiting downstairs. Breem was the doctor who had been called in to examine Raeburn at the station. He was tall, well-dressed, suave, and determined not to be over impressed by Chief Inspector West. Yes, in his opinion Raeburn had certainly been incapable of driving. He had not been able to walk along a straight line, his pronunciation of simple words had been distorted, and his breath had smelt strongly of whisky.
    “He was undoubtedly drunk, Chief Inspector.” Breem held a cigarette between his fingers, and his eyes were half closed.
    “Could you swear that he wasn’t putting on an act?” asked Roger.
    “I do assure you that I know when a man is drunk.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Roger, politely. “Thank you, Dr Breem.”
    Back at the Yard, he went down to the canteen with Turnbull, who had only one piece of news. Halliwell had owned a wholesale grocery business in Southampton and had set fire to warehouses which he had claimed held ten thousand pounds worth of canned and packet goods. The police had proved both arson and fraud.
    “He was lucky to get away with three years,” Turnbull declared.
    “Yes. You’d better go to Southampton, be pleasant to the local police, and find out what you can about Halliwell’s general activities,” Roger said.” I’ll tackle The Daytime, and the people who were there last night.”
    The telephone bell rang, and he picked up the receiver, listened, grunted thanks, and banged it down. “Raeburn’s been remanded on bail for eight days, on two sureties of five hundred pounds,” he said grimly. “Get going, Warren.”
     
    The Daytime Club in Clapham had twice been raided by the police, without results, although undoubtedly gaming and drinking after licensed hours went on. Ostensibly it was owned by a syndicate, but actually Paul Raeburn owned it. Roger knew that Raeburn owned many similar clubs, but his name did not appear.
    Members of The Daytime staff, who had been on duty the previous night and during the early hours of the twenty-third of October, gave Roger no help. Some said they thought Raeburn had been mixing his drinks, others were sure that he had drunk very little. Statements from members who had been present were equally contradictory.
    Raeburn left London on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth and stayed at a hotel in Guildford; the local police watched his movements. Roger made several calls at the millionaire’s Park Lane flat, where Warrender, Raeburn’s secretary, and Ma Beesley, his housekeeper, were outwardly anxious to help, but actually evasive. Neither, of them had been at The Daytime on the night of the ‘accident’. They said they had never heard of Halliwell, and asserted that as far as they knew Raeburn had never done business in Southampton.
    Turnbull telephoned a negative report from Southampton next morning.
    Roger went over Raeburn’s known record with a patience which was wearing thin, looking for the odd factor of importance that he might have missed.
    Raeburn had first become prominent four years ago, as the owner of several