An Apostle of Gloom by John Creasey Page A

his coat on a peg and gone to try to see Chatworth, which was his chief reason for coming. He stared down, studying the ‘K’ more closely; it was a carefully formed letter; the whole note had been written by someone who knew how to use a pen. It was in drawing ink, jet black and vivid against the white paper.
    He screwed it up, with the envelope, turned, and placed it carefully in the middle of the glowing embers of the fire. It began to scorch but took a long time to blaze up. He heard someone approaching and turned with his back to the fire. As he did so the paper caught alight, making a flame bright enough to cast his shadow on the nearest desk. If someone came in and saw it they might try to retrieve the evidence.
    The man outside passed, footsteps ringing on the cement floor. Roger went hot, then cold, and quickly stirred the blazing paper with his toe. In a few seconds it was just black ash, glowing red in places and giving off a few sparks which were drawn up the chimney. More at ease, he went to an easy chair, to recover from the shock and to face the obvious fact: the envelope had been put in his pocket either at the house or in the taxi.
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Chapter 5
NO WELCOME FOR ROGER
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    No one came to the office.
    Roger sat in an armchair, of faded green hide, his feet stretched out in front of him. Nothing seemed quite real and the appearance of the note in his pocket was fantastic. He could remember every word and every characteristic of the lettering, the quality of the white paper, and its thickness – pre-war paper beyond any doubt. Later, it might have been useful to have, but it had been too dangerous to hold on to it.
    Abbott must have searched the raincoat, so it had not been there at five o’clock. No one had been in Bell Street except his friends and the police. The thought that Morgan might have put it there did not occur to him. The more he considered it the more convinced he was that the soft-voiced stranger of the taxi had inserted it as he had climbed out of the cab. He went back over the sequence of events. He had not known for certain that he had been followed, but had not been surprised when the man had appeared – in fact, he had assumed it was the plain-clothes officer. The soft-voiced fellow must have followed him, intent on slipping that damning note into his pocket.
    He stood up abruptly and went to the door.
    Chatworth’s office was on the next floor. Roger walked briskly to the stairs and met two Detective-Inspectors coming down. At sight of him they looked surprised and, when he said ‘hallo,’ answered indifferently; glancing back from the landing he saw them still standing at the foot of the stairs, staring up at him, and as they went off he could hear their whispering voices. Along Chatworth’s corridor a door opened and Superintendent Bliss, vast and fat and with a voice like a dove, almost knocked into him.
    â€œWest!” he exclaimed.
    â€œYes?” said Roger, eyeing him steadily.
    â€œOh, nothing,” said Bliss and hurried off, while two men in the office stared at the door and Roger as if at something strange.
    Tight-lipped, Roger went on to Chatworth’s office. There was a light under the door and he could hear Eddie Day’s sing-song voice. At the best of times it was unwise to interrupt Chatworth and Roger decided to wait until the A.C. was alone, although he was determined to try to force an issue. By coming here, he had at least shown confidence.
    Two corridors away was a common-room, for higher officials when on fire-duty. It had a billiard table, table tennis, darts and all the paraphernalia of a club – it was Chatworth’s special concern, and he had overcome many obstacles in getting it established. Nearing the door Roger could hear the murmur of voices and then an exclamation and a burst of laughter. He went in and walked across the room without speaking or drawing attention to himself. Someone looked up from the