The Railway Viaduct

'A bogus one.'

'Chabal was not to know that.' He had a second sip of his drink. 'Look at that list again, Victor. Can you see another name that you recognise?'

Leeming let his eye run down the neat column of names. 'Yes,' he declared, 'I know this one – Alexander Marklew.' He tapped the piece of paper. 'That's it, Inspector,' he went on with a note of triumph in his voice. 'We've found the link we needed.'

'Have we?'

'Of course. The only way that Rogan would even have known that that lecture was taking place was if someone took him there. That someone must be Mr Marklew. We've come full circle, Inspector,' he said, pausing to pour down some more beer. 'We're back with the most obvious suspect of all.'

'Who's that?'

'A jealous husband.'

'Husbands are not jealous of things they know nothing about.'

'But he did know. He used a private detective to find out.'

'No, Victor. I don't accept that. Alexander Marklew is a person I'd expect to be at such a lecture, but not because he realised that his wife had been unfaithful to him. Had that been the case, he'd surely have challenged Mrs Marklew about it. No,' said Colbeck, taking the list back from him, 'we must look elsewhere on this list.'

'What for?'

'The name of the man who did employ Luke Rogan.'

'Then all we have to do is to work through them one by one.'

'There's a more direct way than that, Victor.'

'Is there, sir?'

'Yes,' said Colbeck, pocketing the list and reaching for his whisky. 'I can pay a call on a certain private detective. Luke Rogan is the killer. His arrest must be our first priority.'

Sir Marcus Hetherington's estates were in Essex and he spent a fair amount of time at his country seat. When he was in London, however, he stayed at his town house in Pimlico. It was there, helped by his valet, that he was dressing for dinner. He was too busy adjusting his white tie in a mirror to hear the doorbell ring down below. It was only when he began to descend the staircase that he became aware of the fact that he had a visitor. A manservant awaited him in the hall.

'A gentleman has called to see you, Sir Marcus,' he said.

'At this hour? Damnably inconvenient.'

'I showed him into the drawing room.'

'What was his name?'

'Mr Rogan.'

Sir Marcus reddened. 'Luke Rogan?' he asked, irritably.

'Yes, Sir Marcus.'

Without even thanking the man, Sir Marcus brushed rudely past him and went into the drawing room, closing the door with a bang behind him to show his displeasure. Luke Rogan was admiring a painting of the battle of Waterloo that hung over the fireplace. He spun round to face the old man.

'What the devil are you doing here?' demanded Sir Marcus.

'I needed to see you.'

'Not here, man. I've told you before. You should only make contact with me at the Reform Club. If I am not there, you simply leave a note for me.'

'I preferred to call on you at home, Sir Marcus.'

'But I refrained on purpose from giving you this address.'

'I soon found it out,' said Rogan. 'When someone employs me, I like to know a little more about them than they're prepared to tell me.'

'Impudent scoundrel!'

'We're in this together, after all.'

'What are you blathering about?'

'Inspector Colbeck.'

Sir Marcus became wary. 'Go on,' he said, slowly.

'He knows.'

Luke Rogan had a hunted look about him. He spoke with his usual bravado but there was a distant fear in his voice. Sir Marcus took note of it. Crossing to a table, he removed the stopper from a crystal decanter and poured himself a glass of brandy. He did not offer a drink to Rogan. After replacing the stopper, he threw down half of the brandy before rounding on his visitor. His face was expressionless.

'What do you mean?' he asked with rasping authority.

'Inspector Colbeck came to my office,' replied Rogan.

'When?'

'This afternoon. Luckily, I was out.'

'How did you learn of his visit?'

'The other offices are leased to a firm of solicitors, Sir Marcus. One of their clerks spoke to the inspector. He said that I would be out all afternoon and was not expected to return. As it happens,' said Rogan, 'I did call in earlier this evening.'

'What did Colbeck want?'

'To speak to me, that's all.'

'Was he on his own or did he bring men with him?'

'He came alone. I take that as a good sign.'

'A good sign!' repeated the old man with asperity. 'First of all, you assure me that he will never connect you in a hundred years with what happened in France. Then, when he comes knocking on your door only days later, you describe it as a good sign.'

'I was referring to the fact that he was on his own, Sir Marcus.'

'It only takes one man to make an arrest.'

'That may not be the reason he came.'

'Why else?'

'To make enquiries, maybe,' said Rogan, hopefully. 'My name may have floated in front of him and he came to satisfy his curiosity. I felt that I should warn you, Sir Marcus, but it may be unnecessary. I can't see how Colbeck could possibly link me with the murder.'

'I can,' said the other. 'You slipped up somewhere.'

'But I covered my tracks very carefully.'

'So you tell me.'

'I did, Sir Marcus. I know how policemen work. I left no clues as to my name or my whereabouts.'

'Then how do you explain Colbeck's visit to your office?'

Rogan shrugged. 'I can't,' he admitted.

'So you come running here, you imbecile!' shouted Sir Marcus before downing the rest of his brandy. 'Did it never occur to you that Colbeck might have left a man to watch your office in case you returned? When you did, and learned what had happened, you might have led him all the way to my door.'

'Impossible!'

'How do you know?'

'Because I left the building by the rear exit,' said Rogan, 'and I changed cabs twice on my way here to throw off anyone who might be following. There was no one, Sir Marcus. I walked around the whole square to be sure before I even rang your bell.'

Sir Marcus put his glass on a table. Flipping his coat tails out of the way, he sank into a leather chair and ruminated for several minutes. Rogan remained on his feet, still trying to work out how Colbeck had managed to identify him as one of the culprits. Having taken such pains to hide behind anonymity, he felt distinctly uneasy, as if layers of protective clothing had suddenly and unaccountably been whisked off him. It made him shiver.

'Where will he go next?' said the old man. 'To your home?'

'No, Sir Marcus. He may have got to my office, but he'll never find out where I live. Even my closest friends don't know that. I keep my address secret and change it regularly. When I go back home tonight,' said Rogan, confidently. 'I'll do so without a qualm.'

'That's more than I'll do.'

'You're perfectly safe here.'

'Not as long as Inspector Colbeck is on the case.' His gaze shifted to the painting above the fireplace and hovered there for while. 'How many men of his standing do they have at Scotland Yard?'

'None at all.'

'He must have an assistant.'

'Victor Leeming was the man beaten up in France,' said Rogan. 'He's not even involved in the case anymore. Colbeck will miss him and that's to our advantage. From what I've heard, Leeming is hard-working and resolute.'

'There must be other capable men in the Department.'

'Not one of them can hold a candle to the Railway Detective.'

'So he is irreplaceable?'

'Completely, Sir Marcus.'

The old man stood up and walked across to stand in front of the fireplace. He looked up at the swirling action in the oil painting on the wall. As rich memories were ignited, he drew himself up to his full height and stood to attention. He could hear the sound of armed conflict and it brought a nostalgic smile to his lips. When he spoke to Rogan, he kept staring up at the battle of Waterloo.