The Case Against Paul Raeburn by John Creasey Page B

by day, was slapping a trilby on to his thick auburn hair.
    At half past five, it seemed certain that the Hillman had been stolen from a private car park at a hotel in Tooting. By six o’clock, this was proved. Late in the morning, a man who had seen the Hillman driven off was found. He was a nervous little man who claimed to be a waiter in a Soho restaurant; he had missed the last bus and walked home.
    “I was just turning the corner when the car came out of the park,” he said. “Nearly knocked me down, it did. I shouted at the driver to be careful.”
    “Did you see him?” asked Roger.
    “Clear as I can see you,” the waiter declared. “There’s a street lamp on that corner. I’d recognise him again if I saw him. I’m sure of that, but –”
    “But what?”
    “I don’t want to get no one into any trouble,” the waiter said, uneasily. “It was only chance that I saw him.”
    “You won’t get anyone into trouble unless they’ve asked for it,” Roger said. “How many people were in the car?”
    “Two men.”
    “Did you see them both clearly?”
    “I only got a good dekko at the driver, a little dark bloke, he was. He didn’t half give me a nasty look, too,”
    “Which way did the car turn?”
    “Clapham Road, toward Brixton,” asserted the waiter. “It wasn’t ‘arf moving, too; the road was quite clear. You – er, you won’t put me in the box, will you?”
    “Not if I can help it,” Roger promised.
    C Division, which controlled the Tooting area, worked at high pressure, and fragments of information brought in were quickly piece together. The movements of two men seen walking near the car park were checked. Turnbull discovered a policeman on his beat who had seen two men leaving a house in Hill Lane, Tooting, at about one in the morning; they had returned there at about four o’clock.”
    “Anything definite known about them?” Roger asked.
    “We haven’t found anything yet,” said Turnbull, “but there’s one queer thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “One of them is named Brown.”
    Roger sat back in his chair. Eddie Day, who was making a pretence of working but was actually listening, exclaimed: “Crikey!”
    “Another Brown, is he?” murmured Roger. “Tony Brown’s brother lived out there, remember.”
    “I remember. Where shall I meet you?” Turnbull asked.
    “C Division Headquarters,” Roger said.
    He was there in half an hour, and Turnbull drove him to the home of Mr Brown. He had already picked up some information about the man. Brown was married, and had just moved into a flat which he and his wife shared with a man called Deaken. Little else was known about him, and it was not even certain that Brown was still at the fiat, which had not been under observation until nearly five o’clock that afternoon. Brown might have left at any time during the day.
    A plain-clothes officer from the Division was strolling along the street. He recognised West and saluted, but walked on.
    The house was a modern villa, turned into two flats. Roger and Turnbull walked up a short path to the front door which was unlatched; there were two doors inside a tiny hall, and one of them stood open.
    A girl of three or four came solemnly towards them, stared, and asked shyly: “Do you want to see my mummy?”
    “It’s the upstairs flat, sir,” said Turnbull.
    “Not just now, thanks,” said Roger, smiling down, and pressed the bell of the upper flat as the little girl stood watching. A woman called out to her, but she ignored the summons. Roger wished the woman would keep quiet; it was impossible to hear any movement on the stairs.
    He rang again.
    “Mary, come along in!” A flustered, sharp-faced woman appeared at the door of the ground-floor flat. “I’m sorry she’s so disobedient. I simply can’t do anything with her.”
    “I’ve two boys of my own, so I’m used to children.” Roger made himself smile. “Do you know if anyone’s in upstairs?”
    “Well, I think Mrs Brown