Читать книгу Paul Temple and the Front Page Men - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 5

Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed would certainly have delighted the heart of that famous Hollywood producer who, in a moment of sheer inspiration, insisted that all Scotland Yard detectives should have genuine Scottish accents.

Though Mac tried hard to conceal his dialect, he was never entirely successful. Unlike many of his fellow countrymen, he wanted to forget that he was once P.C. Reed from a tiny Scottish border town, who had won his way further and further South by sheer pertinacity, climbing a rung in the promotion ladder with every move.

It was his relentless perseverance which had brought him into the public eye as the man who had run down The Blade Kid, perpetrator of a long series of razor-slashing crimes in the Derby area. Reed worked on his pet principle that every criminal makes a slip at some time or other, and that it was merely a matter of waiting for it. In this particular case, he took the very obvious procedure of making a methodical daily round of all the shops that stocked cut-throat razors.

His colleagues had thought it a great joke at the time, but Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed merely set his stubborn jaw and went on with his business.

And then suddenly, on a peaceful morning towards the end of May, The Blade Kid did buy a new set of razors and this dour, sandy-haired Scot came to town. He was not altogether happy at Scotland Yard, for there were far too many public school and university men at the Yard for his liking. Their assured manners and open vowels made him more conscious than ever of his homely Scottish accent, but he would never have dreamed of betraying this suggestion of an inferiority complex.

Nevertheless the Chief Commissioner had come to rely upon Mac, particularly in cases which called for unfailing patience and ceaseless attention to detail.

At this particular moment, however, Mac was none too pleased at the way the Chief was treating him. Sir Graham Forbes had carelessly informed him that another of these ex-public schoolboys was to join him on his latest case. Mac chose to construe this as a reflection on his capabilities, but he had not dared to say so.

Inspector Hunter stood before him now in his little private office, which was kept in scrupulous order. Hunter was a personable young man in the middle twenties, who had a wide and peculiar knowledge of the London underworld. He always gave the impression that he did not take life very seriously, and rarely wore uniform if he could avoid it.

‘The Chief says ye’re to come in with us on this Blakeley case,’ began Mac in dubious tones. He had heard that Hunter was brilliant, but erratic.

‘Why, I’ll be glad to, Mac. I’ve always wanted to study your methods,’ Hunter assured him fervently. Fortunately, Mac had very little sense of humour, and did not detect the merest twinkle that flitted over Hunter’s smooth features.

‘It’s a most peculiar case,’ continued Mac, disregarding the flattery, ‘and ye’ll have to be patient, I warn ye. I’ve got Marshall, Rigby and Nelson checking up every clue, but so far—’

‘Perhaps you’d give me the history of the case, Mac,’ put in Hunter. Reed’s face hardened a trifle. He resented young Hunter addressing him with this familiarity. These college cubs were no sooner inside the Yard than they were running the show, he reflected. However, Mac selected a small batch of cards from a file on his desk and motioned Hunter to a chair.

‘Early in January, Mitchell and Bell published a novel called The Front Page Men—’

‘Jolly good yarn, too,’ broke in Hunter. ‘You’ve read it, of course?’

‘I have no time for reading detective novels. Nelson and Rigby went through it and made a report.’

‘Oh …’ Hunter subsided. ‘I see.’

‘As you’re a literary sort of feller, maybe you already know that the book sold very well indeed, both here and in America,’ continued Reed, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Eighty thousand copies to date. It was in the paper this morning,’ Hunter informed him, cheerfully.

‘That’s beside the point at the moment,’ said Mac, who did not relish these constant interruptions. ‘The thing that interests us is a raid at the Margate Central bank, and the murder of the head cashier – a young fellow called Sydney Debenham.’

‘Yes, nasty business that,’ agreed Hunter. ‘Seems to have been hushed up lately. Weren’t you looking after the case?’

‘I am still looking after it,’ retorted Mac in no uncertain manner. ‘But I don’t propose to broadcast it in the B.B.C. news bulletins!’

‘Sorry,’ murmured Hunter.

‘By the side of Debenham’s body,’ continued Mac, ‘we found this card.’

He handed over a piece of white cardboard, a little smaller than an ordinary playing-card, and Hunter regarded it with a puzzled frown.

‘The Front Page Men. So this was the card, eh? I read about it, of course. You’ve investigated the writing?’

Reed nodded indifferently. What did this youngster take him for? But the youngster seemed to be ignoring him and thinking of other things.

‘Of course this business would boost the sales of the novel,’ concluded Hunter, at length.

‘Are ye interested in the novel, or the case?’ demanded Mac, acidly.

‘Surely they have a bearing on each other?’

‘If ye’ll let me finish,’ went on Mac impatiently. ‘Well, about a fortnight after the Margate affair, there was a smash-and-grab in Bond Street. Lareines, the big jewellers. Inside the window of the jewellers, we found another card.’

He passed it over, and Hunter put the two cards together. ‘Exactly the same,’ was his verdict.

‘Humph!’ grunted Mac, who had examined the card under a microscope, and submitted it to the handwriting and fingerprint experts with no better success.

‘What about the author of this novel?’ asked Hunter, passing the cards back. ‘Wasn’t it written by a woman?’

‘It was published under the name of Andrea Fortune.’

‘Can’t say I’ve heard of her before. Was it a first novel?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Then who is this Andrea Fortune?’

‘That,’ replied Mac, ‘is one of the many things the dear Chief Commissioner expects you to find out!’

‘What about the publishers?’

Reed shook his head. ‘They say the manuscript came from a back-alley agency in Fleet Street. We’ve been on to the agency, but they tell more or less the same story as the publishers. The novel was sent to them with instructions that all royalties should be handed over to the General Hospital in Gerard Street.’

‘Any use my seeing the publishers again?’

‘I don’t want to discourage ye,’ answered Mac, ‘but I saw young Gerald Mitchell – he’s the boss – only this morning. He swore he’d never set eyes on Andrea Fortune. I think he’s telling the truth. In fact, he seems pretty scared about the whole business.’

Hunter took a cigarette from his case, caught Mac’s quizzical glare, thought better of the matter, and replaced it. He shut the case with a snap. ‘You seem to have covered the ground pretty thoroughly,’ he commented.

‘Ay, that’s what I’m here for,’ said Mac in even tones, taking up a new card from his desk. ‘Now,’ he announced solemnly, ‘we come to the Blakeley affair.’

Hunter smiled. ‘The papers have certainly been full of the Blakeley affair,’ he said.

Mac frowned. ‘I canna understand how it leaked,’ he murmured irritably. ‘The Chief has even had the Home Office on the phone five times.’

‘Well, the Front Page Men have certainly “made” the front page this time. Is the Chief doing anything about it?’

‘Now, hasn’t he put you on the case?’ demanded Reed, unable to conceal the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Apart from that, he seems to be labouring under the impression that this business might have some connection with the Granville kidnapping.’

‘But surely that was ages before we’d heard of the Front Page Men?’

‘We may not have heard of them, but they could have been there just the same,’ said Mac, who believed in covering all contingencies.

‘It was a sad affair about Lester Granville. Apparently the child was the only thing he had left in the world after his wife died.’

‘Granville completely went to pieces over that business,’ said Mac. ‘Gave up the stage and everything. The Chief was upset, too. But that’s no reason for jumping to conclusions that it’s anything to do with the Blakeley affair.’

‘I wonder,’ murmured Hunter, thoughtfully wrinkling his forehead.

‘Now, look here …’ began Mac, peevishly.

Hunter laughed. ‘All right, Mac, let’s have the rest of the Blakeley story.’

‘I expect you’ve read all there is to tell. Last Friday, Sir Norman Blakeley’s only son disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances and—’

‘By the way,’ put in Hunter, ‘who exactly is Sir Norman Blakeley?’

Before Reed could reply, there was a sharp knock at the door, and a burly sergeant entered.

‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but there’s a man outside causing a lot of bother. Says he wants to see the Chief, but he refuses to fill up the form.’

Chief Inspector Reed’s sandy eyebrows went up in disapproval. There were too many people walking in and out of Scotland Yard these days, and it was time they put a stop to it. But before he could give instructions, the unruly visitor was standing behind the sergeant.

He was a man of about fifty, obviously in a highly nervous condition; correctly dressed in the customary City uniform of a morning coat, striped trousers and cream gloves. His tie was a shade crooked, his hair somewhat ruffled, and one button of his waistcoat was unfastened.

‘When am I to be allowed to see the Chief Commissioner?’ he began in high-pitched, petulant tones, and Chief Inspector Reed, who had risen to administer a stern reproof as only he knew how, straightened up smartly.

‘At once, Sir Norman,’ he answered politely.