“What’s that?” Eddie exclaimed.
Roger said: “Oh, lor’!”
“Haven’t you seen it?” Mark took an early edition of the Evening Cry out of his pocket. On the middle page was a cartoon showing three inset pictures of masked men breaking into a house, holding up a car, and at the door of a bank which was broken open. The main picture was of Roger, made to look like an effeminate young man, saying to a motorist: “It is a serious offence to drive when you’ve had a drink.”
“That’s ‘ot, that is,” Eddie said. “The AC will—”
“Never mind what the AC will do,” Roger said, more testily than he realised. “Mark, I don’t think you ought to dabble in this job. I probably can’t stop you. If you go down, make sure Turnbull knows that a Don Juan is about. I don’t want to be investigating the murder of Mark Lessing.”
“I’m very hard to kill,” Mark said.
Brown and Halliwell had probably thought they were hard to kill, too.
Roger found it difficult to concentrate and telephoned Brighton, but Turnbull wasn’t there. He left a message, telling him to look out for Mark. He wished he had taken more trouble to stop him from going down to Brighton, although he knew there was little he could do with Mark when he was determined.
If anything should happen to Mark . . .
No reply came from Paris and no other news came in. Mrs Brown’s movements were not at all suspicious, and there was no sign of Brown. It was like a case of suspended animation.
Roger wasn’t home that night until after seven. The family had supper together, and he was unusually quiet. The boys went up to their room to do homework, and soon there were sounds of thumping on the ceiling, laughter, and then a crash, as if something had been knocked down.
Roger jumped up, strode to the door, and shouted: “Boys!”
There was a moment’s pause, before Richard called: “Yes, Dad?”
“You went up there to work. Get on with it. If I hear any more larking about, I’ll come up to you.”
“Yes, Dad,” Richard said, meekly.
“You deaf, Martin?” Roger roared.
“No, Dad, I heard.” Scoopy was subdued, too. “Sorry!”
Roger went back to the living-room. Janet did not speak in protest, but he knew exactly what she was thinking: that the case was beginning to get him down. Well, it was, especially now that Mark was involved. It was almost a relief when, at half past ten, the telephone bell rang.
“Oh, let it ring,” Janet said. “You can’t go out again tonight.”
Roger forced a grin as he lifted the receiver, and said: “West speaking.”
“Good evening, sir. This is Sergeant Mallen.”
“Yes, Mallen?”
“We’ve had a report from C Division that, after receiving a visit from a young woman, Mrs Brown left her Tooting flat in a taxi about 9.20 pm, sir. Our man lost the taxi at Hammersmith, but a report’s come in that she paid it off near Barnes Common. The driver was picked up on the way back.”
“Near the Common?” asked Roger, sharply.
“That’s all the driver’s told us yet, sir. He’s still being questioned.”
“I’ll come over at once. Send word to Barnes to have the Common watched; we don’t want her to slip through our fingers.”
“Right, sir!”
Roger put the receiver down, and spoke before Janet could get a word in. “Brown’s wife has probably gone to meet her missing William,” he said. “Sorry, sweet, I’ll have to go.”
Janet said, with great deliberation: “Roger, this case has gone all wrong. I hope you know that. It’s West versus Raeburn, not Raeburn versus the Yard. You’re taking it far too personally; you really ought to have a rest from it; perhaps you’d see it more clearly then.”
“You’re probably right,” Roger agreed, and squeezed her tightly. “I’ll try to ease off a bit, but—”
“You’ve got to go out just this once,” Janet said, and sounded really bitter. “I’ve heard it all before, remember.”
Roger said, quite sharply: “Do you really want me to fall down on the job?”
CHAPTER XIII
IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT
KATIE BROWN paid off the driver, and watched the taxi move off. She stood close to the wall of a house, looking about her nervously. A wide, tree-lined street with few lights led to the Common, and the far end was in darkness. She heard footsteps, and drew back into the shadows. A man and woman passed, talking in undertones, quarrelling. She waited until they had gone, then walked toward the Common. Her heart was beating so fast that it almost seemed to suffocate her.
Bill had sent word through an acquaintance, asking her to meet him near the bridge, over the railway on Barnes Common, at ten o’clock. It was now a quarter to ten. She was afraid that someone might have followed her, but no second car had drawn up. The police were not so hot, anyway.
She wished that she had driven in the taxi straight to the bridge; it would have saved her this walk across the dark Common, but she had not wanted to take any chances of leading the police to Bill.
She had put on a pair of rubber-soled shoes which made a soft padding sound. A heavy bag kept knocking against her leg. It was filled with sandwiches, two thermos flasks of coffee, a half bottle of whisky and some cigarettes, soap, and two towels. If Bill was going to be on the run for long he would need all these. She clutched the bag tightly.
She reached the end of the road and paused, peering into the darkness. The main road which ran across the Common was well lit, but it seemed to be a long way off. There was a rumbling sound, and a bus passed, its lights very bright in the darkness.
Should she take this short cut, or walk to the main road where there were the lights all the way? She decided on the short cut.
It might be a good thing for Bill to give himself up, and in any case she was determined to have things out with him and tell him all that West had said. She had spent a lot of time thinking if over, and West might be right. A few months in prison would do Bill little harm, and by the time he ‘was out again the danger might be past.
She was walking on grass now, past clumps of bushes which loomed out of the darkness. Now that she knew that no one had followed her she was happier, although still on edge.
Then she heard voices.
She stopped and peered into the bushes, her heart racing. A man and a girl were talking in undertones, that was all.
She crossed a path, plunged over the next stretch of Common, and over the main road. Further along, the road sloped upward, toward the bridge which carried it over the railway track. The bridge and road were brightly lit, which made the darkness beside the bridge seem even more intense. She reached the spot where Bill had said he would be waiting. Standing close to the wall to make sure that she was not seen, she put down the bag and eased her cramped fingers.
After a while, she whispered: “Bill!”
There was no response.
The silence began to get on her nerves; perhaps Bill had not been able to come, after all; perhaps the police had caught him. Or—Raeburn. She wanted desperately to talk to him before he was arrested; he might listen to her. As she tried to pierce the darkness, her body was taut. Cars passed over the bridge, and the beams of their headlights shone within a yard or two of her. It might be wiser to move farther away from the road.
She picked up the bag, and took a few steps into the darkness.
“Bill!” she called again.
There was no answer.
She held her watch close to her eyes, but could only just make out the faint whiteness of the dial. It had been a quarter to ten when she had left the taxi, and couldn’t be much past ten now. Bill might easily be delayed; she was worrying about nothing; how could he possibly be sure of arriving on time?