The ringing of the telephone made Roger start; he let it ring again, picked it up and then announced, “West,” in a very quiet voice.
“Superintendent Cole of North Western is on the line, sir.”
“Ah. Thanks.” The call and the fact that it might bring some good news jolted Roger out of his depression, and he went on, “Blackie?”
“Just one moment, sir,” a man responded. Perhaps it was as well that he had a few moments in which to think. Blackie Cole had charge of a curiously mixed division. Some parts of Hampstead were exclusive and expensive, boasting many of the most opulent homes in London. Others were overcrowded; big, once proud homes had been divided into flats. There and all about the village were “clubs” which were little more than excuses for smoking pot, for sex-parties, for perversion of all kinds. It was most discreetly done, partly because Cole had the district under very tight control. He knew practically everything that went on, when to jump on a “club” which was moving from pot to heroin and other more injurious drugs, when sex-parties were being overdone. He was renowned for his skill in picking out clubs where a number of new “members” from the provinces were starting the pot habit. He raided these and had a remarkable number of successes in sending teenagers back to their homes and away from the temptations of London’s lower night life.
At last, Cole came on the line.
“Sorry to keep you, Handsome. I had a call which might have changed my report but instead it’s strengthened it. I feel very bad that I didn’t have this for you earlier. The Doon Club is quite genuine and wholly free from drugs. I’ve checked on twenty-one of its membership of thirty, and there isn’t a whisper of suspicion. There’s not even any reason to believe that they show obscene movies or slides. All the evidence is that they go to listen to and make music and discuss it afterwards.” Cole paused, only to go on before Roger could speak. “There doesn’t appear so far the slightest motive for Rapelli to attack Verdi, but there is one piece of odd information. The two witnesses of the attack—the men you saw—are new members. They joined at the same time, one day last week. I would have a go at them if I were you: they could be lying.”
Chapter Four
SHOCK
Roger put the telephone down slowly after Cole had rung off. It was pointless to jump to conclusions, but all the time Cole had been talking his depression, only briefly vanquished, came back and grew much heavier. Cole, a shrewd man who was cautious enough seldom to put a foot wrong, made it clear that he thought the police wit-nesses could have lied. And if only one of them could be discredited, then the police case would crash and the alibi witnesses could be triumphant.
Coppell had sensed much of this, of course; that was why he had been incensed by the piece in the Globe. There was nothing surprising in that. With hindsight, the question which had seemed so pertinent in court had been a piece of folly. West gave a funny little laugh. Even Blackie Cole had assumed that he had fallen down on the job; it had not even occurred to him to ask if Roger had seen the two witnesses and checked their story.
Well, he’d seen them both, and it was time he put a report about them on paper.
Wilfred Smithson was a cabinet maker in a small factory near the River Wandle at Wandsworth, a big railway arch, painted green. Roger could picture him, white- aproned, standing at a wooden bench, shavings piled on the bench and about his feet, tools in their racks fitted to the wall. At the far end was a circular saw. All about the arch was stacked timber, some already cut to size. Smithson’s job was very skilled: he made first-quality furniture to customer’s requirements. He earned about thirty pounds in a five-day week, was single, and loved music.
This last was indisputable, for radio music filled the archway, sometimes so loud that it drowned the noise of the band and circular saw, while Smithson had a small tape-recorder on the bench and tiny earphones; he listened to music of his own liking and contrived somehow to blot out the popular tunes from the radio.
Roger could also see him as a small, thin-faced, very lean youth of perhaps twenty-one.
“I’ve never been so surprised in my life. They flew into a temper, swearing at each other in Italian, I think, and Rapelli grabbed Verdi’s guitar and crowned him. Verdi went out like a light.”
Smithson had seemed so transparently honest.
So had Hamish Campbell.
Campbell was a pastry-cook at a large bakery at Bethnal Green, in the East End and right across London from Smithson. He had been in a kitchen leading off the main kitchen, with huge pans of dough, great electric ovens, and everywhere the rich, all-pervading smell of baking and new-baked bread. Campbell had been rolling pastry; another, older man had been operating a machine for cutting the pastry into shapes for tarts; these went on a conveyor and the tarts were carried away and filled by a feed nozzle. Roger could remember, fascinated, how the nozzles disposed different kinds of filling from strawberry jam to lemon curd.
Campbell, plumpish, fair-haired, fresh-faced and freckled, had honest-looking brown eyes.
“Rapelli just snatched the guitar away and biffed Verdi over the head with it—almost as if the music was driving him mad. Blimey I I can hear the bang now—broke the instrument and Verdi’s head.”
“Did Rapelli say anything?” Roger had asked.
“No,” Campbell had answered. “He turned and walked away. I could see Verdi’s head was bleeding something cruel, so I phoned the police and said they needed an ambulance. Wilf—that’s my mate—he gave Verdi some first aid. He’s a carpenter, see, used to people cutting themselves with chisels and saws. He’s got his first-aid certificate. If you ever cut yourself he’s your man.”
The divisional report corroborated the story; division had found Smithson giving capable first aid by padding the wound and stopping the bleeding. He and Campbell had both made statements to the police, and Leeminster, who had been the divisional officer in charge that night, had had no reason to doubt their story.
Roger finished the handwritten report, and felt less anxious and troubled. He rang for Danizon, who came in promptly, looking freshly washed and brushed.
“Have these typed—the usual report copies,” Roger ordered, and added, “no—make it two more than the usual number.”
“Will—er—will the morning do?” asked Danizon.
“Why not this afternoon?” asked Roger, and glanced at his watch. “Good Lord—it’s six-fifteen! Yes, the morning will do. I’ll keep these meanwhile. You get off.” He fore- bore to ask where the sergeant was so anxious to go, put the reports in his brief-case to read at home, and then sat back and reflected over the day. He still could not think of Coppell without a rising sense of indignation, and that in itself was enough to make him disgruntled. He pushed his chair back and was about to get up when his telephone bell rang.
“Superintendent West,” he almost barked.
There was a slight pause before a familiar voice sounded.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Scoop!” Roger exclaimed, and could picture the big face of his elder son, Martin-called-Scoop; and also could imagine the faint smile on it.
“Don’t sound so horrified,” Scoop said, in a rather troubled voice.
“Just surprised!” said Roger. “It must be a year since you called me at the office. I—is everything all right?” he diverged suddenly. For on the last occasion Martin had telephoned him at the Yard it was to tell him that Janet, his wife, had fallen down some stairs and was at the hospital awaiting a doctor’s report.