Killer in the Shade Page 4

  ‘I can certainly do that, Mellie. It’s used by a number of law offices, so you can have no misgivings about their being a shady concern. Carol went to an agency with a sound reputation, not one of these keyhole and camera services whose methods are dubious and charges exorbitantly close to blackmail.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she sighed. ‘It makes things simpler all round, for now there seems to be one line of inquiry we can try without delay.’

  ‘We?’ he repeated, surprised.

  She looked at him. ‘I’m in this because I choose to be. After all, I didn’t have to come and wait for four hours,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Leave the agency report with me. I’ll see them as soon as I can fix an appointment. But there’s something else. Did you find any other letters sent to Carol?’

  ‘Only the two you sent her. I haven’t sent them on.’

  She seemed to be awaiting a suggestion from him. He said, ‘Leave them, Mellie. If she’s in trouble this won’t be the right time, and anyway things have moved beyond those letters.’

  She frowned. ‘Carol gave you no reason for breaking off the engagement?’

  ‘She merely said she had to go away, that something had happened which made it impossible for us to continue as we were.’

  He asked her to have dinner with him, but she declined on the pretext that she had some work to do. He accompanied her to where she had left her small car parked in a side-street and then made his way back to his flat and relit the candles. He poured himself a fresh drink and sat down to read the Temple-Moore report more thoroughly.

  He was halfway through the three pages of typed lines when he saw the few words that had registered in his mind but not in his consciousness the first time he had seen them.

  ‘ … married Margaret Wilson … ’

  Those were the words that brought him to a halt. He felt it was no coincidence that the forger who had died in the Cotswold Crescent fire had married someone named Wilson. Humphrey Peel had, by marriage, been related to Carol.

  He was still puzzling at the problem with no hope of success when he switched off the TV and decided to have an early night.

  Lying awake in the dark, he found sleep did not come readily. His mind was still actively pursuing the mystery of Margaret Wilson. He had a poor night.

  Dan Simpson gave him no argument, only a sardonic look, when the next morning he said he had a lead he wanted to follow.

  ‘If it comes to anything we can use, clear it with Murphy,’ the news editor cautioned. ‘I don’t want another murder, even if it’s justified.’

  Half an hour later Rollo was shown into an office not far from Holborn, where he was confronted by a man who had years before been featured in the newspapers as Chief Inspector Richard Temple. The years since then had put weight on Temple’s thickset frame, but when he rose and offered his hand he was still making the movements of an agile man.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Hackley?’ Dick Temple asked. ‘On the phone you said it was personal. So it isn’t Gazette business.’

  Rollo sat in the chair indicated and said, ‘I’ll come to the point, Mr Temple. It’s about a report you sent a short while back to Miss Carol Wilson.’

  The ex-Yard man frowned. ‘I recall it. She wanted information about someone.’

  ‘Humphrey Peel.’

  Temple’s face remained expressionless as he said, ‘I do not speak of our clients’ affairs to other clients nor discuss them.’

  Rollo said, ‘This is important, Mr Temple, or I wouldn’t be here. I was engaged to Miss Wilson. Suddenly she broke off the engagement without giving an acceptable or even reasonable reason, which isn’t like her. Now she’s disappeared. I feel the inquiry you made on her behalf could possibly explain why.’

  The man watching Rollo seemed to be considering what he had been told. He said, ‘Tell me what’s on your mind, Mr Hackley.’

  ‘Carol has written to a friend of hers to send on any letters for her to an address in Edgware. This friend found your report and brought it to me. So I’ve read it. I know you told Carol that Humphrey Peel had married a Margaret Wilson. Perhaps she was a relative of Carol’s.’

  This time Temple’s response was not delayed. He said, ‘She was the sister of Carol Wilson’s mother. Her aunt, in fact. I can tell you that I was paid in advance for that report. Miss Wilson insisted on that arrangement. Can I make a suggestion?’

  Rollo waited, sensing that he wouldn’t want to hear what the other man had to say.

  ‘Don’t take this amiss, but young women can be capricious.’ The ex-Yard man almost managed to look apologetic, but didn’t quite make it. Apologies of any kind did not come easily to him. ‘Take, for example, a young woman in love with a young man whom she is anxious to keep from knowing there was a crook in her family.’

  Rollo felt angry, but tried not to show his feelings. He said, ‘I can’t wear that, Mr Temple. Carol isn’t like that.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you,’ Dick Temple told him bluntly.

  Rollo took a chance, aware that later could be too late. He asked, ‘Did you find out anything about Peel that didn’t go into your report?’

  The man opposite smiled. He could have been amused at a younger man’s impudence excused by a natural anxiety.

  ‘That’s a very leading question, Mr Hackley. I know a great deal about Humphrey Peel that didn’t go into the report for Miss Wilson. So does my partner, Tom Moore, who was also at the Yard, if you remember.’

  It was Rollo’s turn to smile. ‘I’ve done my homework, Mr Temple.’

  ‘I bet you have. Well, understand that we gave Miss Wilson all the information she asked for.’

  ‘There’s nothing else you can tell me?’ Rollo pressed.

  ‘The man’s dead,’ he was reminded.

  ‘I’d still like to know if you can agree, Mr Temple.’

  The ex-Yard man rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘You’ll make good on a newspaper, young man,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You’re persistent. But then, on the Gazette you’ve got a good teacher.’

  ‘Joe Murphy?’

  ‘Joe,’ Dick Temple nodded. ‘Did he put you up to this?’

  ‘He doesn’t know about the report and I’ve told no one I intended calling on you.’

  The man behind the desk thought about this. He dropped the hand from his chin and said, ‘Very well, not for publication nor for Joe’s big wide ear, Mr Hackley. Agree?’

  Rollo nodded. ‘My word, Mr Temple.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said the ex-Yard man, leaning forward on his arms. ‘Peel was of medium height, dark, and had poor sight. He usually wore dark glasses to protect his eyes, not as a gimmick like today’s hippies. He was a poor mixer, almost what you might call a loner, but he was a clever forger. He was a pain in the neck to a lot of people who parted with money because of his penmanship. When he was sent up he was a model prisoner. No trouble inside. He didn’t smoke, so he had no bother with the snout barons. But he had one weakness. He was very fond of bananas. Yet he didn’t put on weight. He was even on the slim side and a bit stoop-shouldered. Now this is what I’m prepared to share with you, but not for publication, Mr Hackley.’ The ex-Yard man paused, his manner a little theatrical, but his purpose and meaning both undeniably clear to the younger man. ‘The description of the body found charred in the burned-out flat in Cotswold Crescent could have been that of Humphrey Peel. After all, burning breaks down size to charred remnants and ash. But I knew Peel, so did my partner. Neither of us was convinced, from what was released in the papers, that the body in Peel’s burned-out flat was that of the man we knew.’

  The speaker leaned back in his chair.

  ‘But that’s as far as I can go,’ he added quickly. ‘We weren’t convinced, that’s all. It could have been Peel. I have to admit that. But somehow it didn’t sound to us like him. Nothing we could do anything about, you understand. Just a feeling, and we could have both been wrong.’

 
That was the moment the door opened and another man of late middle age entered. Rollo hadn’t lied when he claimed to have done his homework. He recognized the one-time Detective Inspector Thomas Moore, who gave him a quick glance of inquiry, and was on the point of withdrawing when Dick Temple stopped him.

  ‘Don’t go, Tom. This is Mr Hackley, nephew of Dr John Cadman, who found that body in Croft Avenue. He’s on the Gazette, but isn’t here to get a story. He was engaged to Miss Carol Wilson, for whom we turned in a report on Humphrey Peel.’

  When Temple paused it seemed to Rollo that the two other men exchanged glances holding special meaning beyond that of the words spoken.

  ‘You’ve told him Peel was the girl’s uncle, Dick?’

  Temple nodded. ‘He knows. He also thinks something could have happened to Carol Wilson. You’d better listen to him, Tom.’

  Tom Moore leaned against a radiator under the single window in the office while Rollo, in response to a hand gesture from Temple, related his story again. It was taking less time with each telling, and he was even growing somewhat critical of the way he was presenting it, for to him his own words sounded too simple, too direct and factual, conveying nothing of his disturbed feelings and fears for the woman he loved.

  Tom Moore listened in a brooding silence, a man who was a natural listener and who would not speak until he felt he had something to say. His hair was grey and there was a greyish tinge to his face, emphasized by the wide grey eyes, like washed pebbles in a brook.

  ‘You’ve no idea what could have happened to her?’ he inquired when Rollo stopped.

  ‘No. But her friend who brought me the letter thought from its appearance that she was crying when she wrote it.’

  ‘At someone’s dictation, you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure what I mean. Anyway, it wasn’t my original idea.’

  ‘I’d like to see that letter, if you’ve no objection, Mr Hackley.’

  Rollo glanced at Temple and received another hand gesture to go ahead as he wished. Somewhat reluctantly, for this was not an action he had discussed with Mellie Smallwood, Rollo produced the letter with the blurred ballpoint lettering. Moore took it, read it, and handed it, after receiving a nod from Rollo, to his partner, who in turn read it and gave it back to the young man.

  ‘Cheap paper, smudgy well-used ballpoint. She could have been crying. Not easy to decide,’ Moore said. ‘But I’ve got something maybe he should know, Dick.’

  ‘What you went after, Tom?’ the other partner inquired.

  Moore nodded. ‘I saw Bill Hazard, put him in the picture. In return he told me the forensic boys found a fingerprint at Holly Lawn that checked as being one of Humphrey Peel’s.’

  Rollo was on his feet, aware that both partners in the agency were watching him. He felt curiously lost and groping for direction.

  ‘This is crazy,’ he decided. ‘Carol’s uncle to have been at that house. He’s dead!’

  The last two words were spoken in a fading voice, like a protest known to hold little conviction.

  ‘You’ve thought of something, Mr Hackley?’ Dick Temple asked quietly.

  Rollo had indeed. He had thought of his uncle’s having seen Carol in the front garden of Holly Lawn within a very short time of a murder having been committed in the house.

  However, this was information he was not prepared to share with anyone at this stage. Thinking fast, he said, ‘I’ve thought of this. If that fingerprint is to be explained, the explanation might be found in Edgware.’ He held up the letter that had been returned to him. ‘I’ll try my luck there.’

  He stood up preparatory to taking his departure, but was stopped when Temple said, ‘Sit down, Mr Hackley. I’ve something of my own to add.’ When Rollo was back in his chair the ex-Yard man went on, while his partner leaned against the radiator and studied his finger ends. ‘This agency still considers Miss Wilson a client. Because of this we shall continue to act in her interest. That’s one thing. There’s another. You take it, Tom.’

  Moore dropped his hands and with the right beat a soft tattoo against the radiator pipes.

  ‘Because of another case we’ve been liaising with Bill Hazard, who is Superintendent Frank Drury’s assistant.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ Rollo said shortly.

  Tom Moore smiled as though to himself. ‘I’m not surprised. Well, off the record we’ve been filling in some blank spaces of another of Drury’s cases — these burglaries that have been occurring since the power workers’ strike. Drury is convinced the stuff isn’t being fenced. Sold out through an underworld middle man.’

  ‘I know what a fence is,’ Rollo said, sounding somewhat impatient at this diversion.

  Moore continued as though no comment had been made.

  ‘Drury’s convinced the stuff is stolen to return to the insurance companies. That way a crook would get a ready market, no questions asked, and the insurance companies wouldn’t have to dig so deep into their pockets. It isn’t legal, but it works. Now this is where we come into the deal. We’ve had several requests to handle the return of stolen jewellery. Drury has been kept informed, but we can’t act against the interests of our clients, so long as what we’re asked to do is within the law. As we deal with unnamed intermediaries we are in no position to provide names to Drury. Clues are different matters. If we came across any Drury would get them so long as they lead towards the gang setting up the thefts and not back to our clients.’

  Moore stopped speaking, took out a packet of cigarettes and almost absently lit one with a gas-flame lighter. He shook the cigarette held between his fingers to emphasize his next words.

  ‘Drury is no slouch. I’ve got it from Bill Hazard, again off the record, that Drury considers there might have been a tie-up between the burglaries and jewel thefts and the Croft Avenue killing. We’ve got a loose exchange working with Drury and Hazard. They keep us in the picture so that we might know a useful clue when we see it and can pass on the information. We don’t move beyond an agreed line in acting for our clients. You follow?’

  ‘It sounds as though it could be complicated,’ Rollo replied.

  ‘It could be if we weren’t damned careful. That’s why we work to keep it simple. The simpler the better. Now you’ve brought a complication. You must see that.’

  Rollo looked at Temple, who said, ‘I can see a way of removing an obstacle Tom’s found. When you follow up your fiancée’s disappearance, if that’s what it is, let Tom work with you. Start, say, tomorrow. You want to refer Dan Simpson to me, I’ll be discreet about a story that might break. That okay with you, Mr Hackley?’

  ‘Why the delay?’ Rollo asked.

  Temple’s quiet smile returned. ‘We have things to do, like checking who certain landlords are, and maybe comparing a few details with Hazard, to make sure we’re not fouling anything Drury’s got working for him. In general, clear some ground.’

  Rollo saw Tom Moore watching him with a speculative look, which the young man did not find encouraging. He thought the ex-Yard inspector looked upon him as someone interfering with professionals.

  Well, maybe he was right. But he wasn’t stepping aside to please Tom Moore.

  ‘Very well. Tomorrow, then. Where shall I meet you, Mr Moore?’

  The answer came without hesitation. ‘Piccadilly Underground at half-past ten, foot of the steps leading to Piccadilly South Side.’

  Three minutes later Rollo was on his way back to Fleet Street, feeling that he had accomplished very little save giving the Temple-Moore Inquiry Agency a better reason than they already had for snooping into Carol’s background.

  Just after lunch Joe Murphy came in with a piece about a mystery fingerprint having been found at the house in Croft Avenue. There was no further development on the case that was official.

  There was another power cut in the afternoon. It continued intermittently until eleven-thirty in the evening, by which time Rollo was in bed asleep. But he did not awake feeling refreshed. For no reason he could define h
e felt apprehensive. He put it down to the latest warning he had received from Dan Simpson about treading on Joe Murphy’s broad Irish toes. That had been after the news editor had said he would phone Dick Temple.

  Rollo thought about this as he shaved.

  It was as though he was involved in a conspiracy and the number of conspirators was growing. It could be the reason for his apprehension, he decided, just before leaving to make rendezvous with one of them in Piccadilly Underground Station.

  Chapter 4

  Rollo wasn’t aware that Tom Moore had arrived until the one-time Yard detective inspector tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Nice to know someone who’s punctual, Mr Hackley. We’ll talk on the train.’

  They secured a couple of seats with no immediate neighbours in a non-smoking compartment, and under the cover of the wheels’ clacking sound the agency man opened up without delay.

  ‘Does the name Vince Pallard ring any bells?’ he asked.

  ‘None. Should it?’

  ‘Depends where you’ve been. If you’d spent the last five years in the East End it might. On the other hand, if you went to the East End today the chances are you’d never hear it mentioned. He used to have a pub in Stepney but made most of his money, according to the kind of rumour that doesn’t lie, from a betting shop he backed until the protection boys forced him out. And that meant out of the East End. Still no ringing bells?’

  ‘Still none.’

  Tom Moore felt for his cigarettes, remembered he was in a non-smoker, and put the packet back in his pocket.

  ‘I bet Joe Murphy’s skull would be ringing,’ he said, ‘which wouldn’t necessarily be a good thing.’ He looked at Rollo with his grey gaze, and the younger man saw that under the eyes the greyish tinge to the man’s face was faintly speckled under the surface, as though a suntan had faded brokenly. In close-up Tom Moore’s face reminded him of a thrush. ‘But now I’ll set a bell ringing in your head. At the moment Vince is in Edgware. He’s got another pub only it doesn’t sound like one. He can even put up anyone who wants bed and breakfast. So it’s more than an inn.’