“I hope you’re not right,” she said.
“What’s up?”
“Paul’s at the Silver Kettle with Eve, and Melville has just told me that West is there. That would happen, wouldn’t it? They both chance on the same place on the same night.”
“Chance,” echoed Warrender, and he looked very anxious. “That wasn’t chance. West wouldn’t go to the Silver Kettle, except on business.” He stood up. “I’d better go over there. I’ve got to the point where I daren’t trust Paul on his own.”
CHAPTER V
ENCOUNTER
THE SILVER KETTLE was large for a night club, and brightly lit. The West Indian band was playing softly, and a dozen couples were jogging rhythmically on the tiny polished floor. Over the head of each member of the band hung a gleaming, glittering silver kettle, five in all. Other kettles hung on brackets on the walls. Here were good taste and luxury without ostentation. The waiters wore tails, the patrons were well-dressed and, at this hour, decorous. In one corner, a party gave promise of things to come, with gusts of shrill laughter.
Roger West in a dinner jacket, and Janet in a wine-red gown with lace over satin, were in another corner. With them was a tall, good-looking man, a year or so younger than Roger, with smooth brown hair, brown eyes which smiled easily, but could also give his whole face a supercilious expression. Now he was smiling, and beating time with a fork.
“Believe it or not, I think you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he said to Janet. “No policeman’s wife should let it be said.”
“No policeman should have a friend who’s a member,” Janet retorted.
“Who called him a friend?” asked Roger, lazily. “I’ve only known him for twenty years, and half the time he’s written books pointing out how the police ought to do their job. So naturally I consulted him about the illustrious Paul Raeburn.”
Mark kept a straight face. “Lucky I came back from my lecture in the Americas in time. You’re making a pretty fine mess of things. You even suspect dark doings at a respectable club like the Silver Kettle, which is strictly lawful.”
“Nothing Raeburn owns is strictly lawful,” Roger said.
“I doubt that,” responded Mark. “This place is hedged about by rules and regulations, all based on instructions from the police. Five hundred pounds wouldn’t buy you a membership if you weren’t properly introduced. You two certainly couldn’t have got in without my member’s ticket. Entering here is lily white.”
“As mud,” retorted Roger.
“That’s the trouble when you get a bee in your bonnet,” Mark complained. “A man must be all black or all white. Raeburn can’t afford to be openly associated with anything that isn’t properly run, and you know it.”
Roger picked up his glass. “Here’s to the day when we close the Silver Kettle down.” He drank.
“That’s sheer vindictiveness.”
“I am vindictive,” admitted Roger, lazily, but his eyes were hard.”
“I have a nasty feeling that if he gets too powerful, he’ll hurt a lot of people when he falls.” He was looking towards the corner where Raeburn and Eve Franklin were sitting. “Given a nice long piece of rope, he’ll hang himself.”
“When he does, I hope you’ll acknowledge your debt to amateur criminologists,” said Mark. “What have you discovered about this Eve?”
Roger lit a cigarette and continued to stare at Raeburn’s table; Raeburn pretended not to notice.
“She’s always looked for the big chance, and seems to have thrown over a faithful boy friend, one Tony Brown.
Turnbull’s been checking on him. He’s a gambler, racing tipster, Smart Alec and lady-killer, the type you’d rather expect Eve to fancy, always with a few pounds to fling about. But he hasn’t a chance against Raeburn, and might turn sour on her.”
“I’ll turn sour on you two, unless someone asks me to dance,” Janet interpolated.
“My turn!” Mark jumped up.
He was tall and good-looking, and Janet stood out as really something to look at in twenty-three of Roger’s hard-earned guineas. Mark was probably now pleading earnestly with Janet to persuade him, Roger, to tell him more about the Raeburn case. It would be worth doing, too. Mark might see an angle which the Yard had missed; it had happened before. He was a serious student of criminology, had written three books which were on the desk or the shelves of any really progressive police office, and he had just returned from twelve months’ lecturing in the States, his most popular lecture being: ‘Police in the USA and Great Britain: A Comparison.’ His hobbies were music and old china, and he had money enough to live as he liked.
Janet looked as if she wanted this dance to go on for a long time.
Roger inspected the people about him. The City and the Mayfair Set were about equally represented in this mixed gathering of the upper crust of commerce and society, an upper crust which remained thick and unyielding in parts. The people present could put up more millions than he could hundreds of pounds; some were fabulously wealthy. One plump old harridan, with a tall, miserable-looking man, was loaded with diamonds; a dozen others carried fortunes on their fingers, at their ears or on their breasts.
Eve Franklin, on the other hand, was wearing little jewellery. She wore a long-sleeved gown of bottle green, and a green chiffon stole. When Raeburn led her to the floor, her body moved with easy grace, but she seemed to have difficulty in turning her head.
He was a head taller than Eve, very broad-shouldered, particularly distinguished in evening dress. His hair was dark, with a touch of iron grey at the temples; he wore it rather long. He had an unusually striking profile, with a good chin and a high forehead; it was easy to imagine him to be an intellectual. Full face, he was handsome enough; add his money to his looks, and he had everything.
Roger saw a small, dapper man wearing a dark lounge suit come in, nod to the headwaiter, and walk to Raeburn’s table. He was noticeable because he was the only man not in evening dress. He walked with his shoulders squared and his back very straight, and was looking towards the crowded dance floor.
It was George Warrender, Raeburn’s chief aide in all his activities.
Raeburn spoke to Eve, and they left the floor at once. The band played on, the dancers were circling in a slow waltz; no one else seemed to notice Raeburn.
Warrender glanced towards Roger, and Raeburn did the same. Roger did not look away.
Eve was speaking, and when she finished, Raeburn shook his head. Then Warrender put what seemed to be a restraining hand on Raeburn’s shoulder.
Raeburn laughed, shrugged it off, and came towards Roger. He stood by the table as Roger started to get to his feet.
“Don’t get up, please,” said Raeburn. “I’m very glad to see you here, and sorry I hadn’t recognised you before. Are you with friends?”
“With my wife and a friend.”
“I’d very much like to meet your wife,” said Raeburn. “May I?”
The band had stopped, and couples sauntered back to their tables. Mark and Janet, still on the dance floor, looked across undecidedly, until Roger beckoned.
Whatever she felt, Janet’s smile was bright as she came up.
“Darling, Mr Paul Raeburn would like to meet you,” Roger said. “My wife . .. and Mr Mark Lessing.”
“I have heard so much about Chief Inspector West’s professional activities,” murmured Raeburn. “One forgets that policemen have time to be ordinary family men.” The admiration in his eyes was certainly not forced, and his gaze was bold but friendly; he hardly glanced at Mark.
“Is Roger so ordinary?” inquired Janet.
Raeburn chuckled. “I don’t know him well enough to answer that, Mrs West.” He glanced towards the band, which began to play at once, stubbed out his cigarette, and asked: “May I ask your wife to dance, Mr West?”