An Apostle of Gloom by John Creasey

but—”
    He broke off when the telephone on his desk rang. He answered it and Roger judged, from his manner, that it was Chatworth. Eddie was more impressed – even awed – by the Assistant Commissioner than most of the others, although Chatworth had a reputation for being a martinet. Bitterly, Roger reflected that he had always thought the A.C. well-disposed towards him. For the first time a vague suspicion crossed his mind that this was all being done deliberately, to make it appear that he was in bad odour with the Yard and so that he could work more freely outside it. His heart leapt, but on reflection the idea was patiently absurd.
    Eddie replaced the receiver and stood up, gathering some papers from his untidy desk.
    â€œGot to go and see the Old Man,” he said, in a confidential undertone; “he wants my report on those dud notes – you know the ones I mean.”
    â€œYes,” said Roger, with a flicker of interest. “Are they slush?” He thought of the£1,000 now at the Strand P.O. waiting for ‘Mr. North’ but it was too early to ask Eddie’s opinion of the two specimens; Eddie was not a man to be trusted in these circumstances. There were two Yard men who might take the risk of helping him, and one, Sloan, was on holiday.
    â€œStake my reputation on it,” said Eddie, half-way to the door, “but they’re good – no one else at the Yard would have told them from the real thing. Er—good luck, Handsome, if I can do anything let me know.” He went out, perspiring partly because of his coming interview but partly because he felt that the situation was beyond him.
    Alone in the office, Roger looked about him, putting his hands in his raincoat pockets. He felt an envelope in there but thought nothing of it. The green-distempered walls with a few photographs, including one, old and faded, of a Suffragette procession down Whitehall in 1913, two cricket XIs, one of them including himself, two or three maps of London districts and several calendars. On one of the desks was a small vase of fading daffodils. The fireplace was littered with cigarette ends and the carpet, with several threadbare patches, had a few trodden into it. The desks were bright yellow but, in places, the polish had worn off and the bare wood showed. There were little partitions for different papers – ‘For Attention’ – ‘For Review’ – ‘Mail In.’ Suddenly he stopped reading the black stencilled letters, for his own desk was absolutely empty; everything had been removed since he had been there that morning.
    He turned abruptly, taking his hand out of his pocket and drawing the envelope with it. He looked down at the crumpled paper, and frowned. It was stout and newish-looking; had it been in his pocket for some time it would have looked grubby. He remembered thinking that morning that it was a fortnight since he had last worn his raincoat. He had not noticed the envelope then.
    It was sealed and there was no writing on it.
    He inserted a finger at one end and ripped it open. Inside was a single slip of paper on which were two or three lines of block letter writing, upside down. He turned it swiftly and read:
    Â 
    Dear West.
    I’ve another proposition I think will interest you – it will pay even better than the last. Meet me at the usual place, to-morrow, Wednesday, at 7.30, will you?
    Â 
    K.
    Â 
    Tight-lipped, Roger re-read it. All that it meant and all it might have led to passed through his mind, together, with a fact which he had to face and which almost stupefied him ‘. . . another proposition,’ inferring that there had been plenty of others; ‘...it will pay even better.’ ‘. . . meet me at the usual place . . .”
    A film of perspiration broke out on his forehead.
    To Abbott it would be just the evidence he wanted – and he had brought it into the Yard himself! He might well have left