“Did you?” Roger asked, expressionlessly.
“I wondered how best I could warn you,” went on Mrs Cartier. “I decided not to telephone you or call to see you. I made inquiries among my friends and discovered that your wife is very active in voluntary work. That gave me an excuse to call. I was so glad that you were there yourself, but I had planned to arouse the suspicions of one or the other of you — suspicions which would take you to Welbeck Street. I hope you believe me.”
“Why shouldn’t I ?” Roger asked.
“Is it my imagination or are you being just a little difficult?”
“It’s quite a shock,” Roger reminded her.
“Of course, how foolish I am !” She leaned forward and rested a hand on his arm; her fingers were cool, soft and long. “I must tell you everything quickly. I realised from what I had overheard that Pickerell was not interested in the Society. I contemplated dismissing him but doubted whether that would be wholly effective. I wondered how I could help the girl and saw no way, but believed that if you discovered what was happening, you would be able to solve the problem.”
“Did you indeed ?” Roger said heavily.
She drew her hand away.
“Why do you disbelieve me?” Her voice was sharp and her expression angry.
Very flatly, Roger said : “All this happened a week ago, Mrs Cartier. Had it been two days ago I could have understood the delay, but you appear to have given Pickerell good time to make his arrangements. Why did you wait for so long? And how did you learn that I was already in trouble at Scotland Yard? You’ve implied that you did know.”
“But yes, of course,” said Mrs Cartier, her voice softer again. “I am not used to dealing with those whose life is spent in seeing the flaws in the statements of others! I will answer your second question first. I have friends, one of them on the Echo. I get a great deal of publicity for my Society through her and I asked her if she could get some information for me. She brought it to me yesterday, and told me that you were under suspicion and had actually been suspended. That was at dinner last night. She told me her informant was a reporter named Wray.”
Roger began to think she might be telling the truth.
“I know Wray, and he certainly knew about it.”
“As for the other point, Inspector—” Mrs Cartier shrugged. “It was clear that this had been going on for several months. It did not occur to me that there was any great urgency. I wanted to make sure that I did nothing which might jeopardise the activities of the Society. I gave the matter a great deal of thought and took a long time in reaching a decision. That is the whole truth.”
“I see,” said Roger. “I do believe you, Mrs Cartier.”
She eyed him without speaking for some seconds and then smiled with deep satisfaction.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “Now you know why I came to see you and you must realise my own problem. I need someone’s assistance to make sure that the Society does not suffer because it employed a rogue. Will you help?”
“Yes,” Roger said.
“I was sure you would.” She pressed his hand again but quite impersonally. He wondered what nationality she had been born. “Now I will help you,” Inspector. I’ve told you what you have probably known already, through Pickerell. I understand that you interviewed him this afternoon.”
“Who told you that?” Roger asked sharply.
“A German doctor, a refugee who called there and saw you. He was referred to me and I have since seen him.” She spoke confidently. “He is very observant. I knew he was there just before the shooting, so I asked him whether he had seen anyone else. He described a man whom I identified as you. The doctor’s name is Hoysen, Dr Karl Hoysen, once of Frankfurt-on-Oder. I will gladly arrange for you to interview him if you wish. In fact, you may have his address now.”
She jumped up and went into another room, to return quickly with a small black book. She opened it and pointed at an entry; her nail was varnished pale pink.
“There, Inspector. That will satisfy you.”
Roger took out a notebook and wrote the name and address of the Dutch doctor — Karl Hoysen, the Kronprins Hostel, St John’s Wood, N.W.8. He knew of the place, which had a good reputation.
Mrs Cartier looked positively gay. “I promised to help you in return for your kindness. That conversation I overheard was extremely interesting. I will not ask you to trust my memory. Come!” She took his hand as he rose, then rested her hand lightly on his arm and led the way to a small library, book-lined and warm, as impressive as the lounge. There was a small period desk and, unexpectedly, a tape-recorder. She opened a cupboard beneath the bookcases and took out several tapes.
Roger watched with great hope.
“You must understand that I am aware that some of the people who come for help are not displaced persons but Russian sympathisers., For some time I have suspected that Pickerell was not all that he seemed, so I arranged for this to be installed. It was not always used, of course. I went to the office whenever suspected individuals had gone to see Pickerell. By pressing a switch outside the door, I set the machine in motion. Clever, is it not?”
“Very.”
“Thank you! I must say that before hearing this recording I hadn’t heard a conversation which I thought was really suspicious. Until my call a week ago I began to think I was wrong, and had misjudged Pickerell.” As she spoke she was fitting the tape into the machine, then she pressed a switch.
There was a faint whirring sound as the tape began to revolve. Then softly came Pickerell’s voice, alternating with
Lois Randall’s. Roger heard Lois protest, with a note of hysteria in her voice, saying that she would not ‘do it’ again. Pickerell sounded suave and threatening, the girl seemed to get nearer and nearer to hysterics. Pickerell’s threats — always about something he did not name — increasing. Then with a quickening tempo :
“Why, why, why?” demanded Lois, “why must you try to ruin this man? What has he done to you?”
Roger stiffened. Mrs Cartier’s eyes showed a repressed excitement.
“My dear, that is no business of yours,” came Pickerell’s voice, “but I will tell you that a few months ago West happened upon a discovery which could do me and my friends a great deal of harm.” The man seemed to be speaking to himself and Roger could imagine Lois standing and staring at him, could picture his faded eyes and the thick lenses of his glasses. One day he will stumble upon the truth, my dear, and that would not do. It is one or the other of us and I do not intend that it shall be me.”
“What — what beastly work are you doing?” Lois demanded.
“That needn’t interest you,” Pickerell said. “What matters is that unless you do what you are told I shall deal with you severely.” His voice hardened. “Take the money, and do exactly as you have before. Don’t be foolish enough to try to betray me.”
The talking ceased. There was a rustling sound, sharp noises which might have been footsteps, and then the unmistakable banging of a door. A laugh, soft and gentle and somehow blood-curdling; Pickerell, of course.
“I must try to make sure that the bank cashier will be amenable,” Pickerell said. “I wonder whether it is all necessary? I wonder if West will ever remember what happened on that day?” His voice was barely audible and Roger bent down, his ear close to the tape-recorder. “The unlucky 13th,” Pickerell went on, and then there was a sound as if he snapped his fingers as he added in a louder, more angry voice : “This absurd superstition!”