An Apostle of Gloom by John Creasey Page B

billiard table and he heard his name uttered sotto voce. Two other men turned to stare at him. Others, by the walls playing chess and draughts, two card parties and table-tennis players, all stopped just long enough for him to realise that they were staring at him before going on with their games.
    He felt the blood flooding his cheeks.
    No one spoke to him and he made no attempt to start a conversation. Among the two dozen men there were many older than he but in less exalted positions; their envy had always been apparent, for he had been resented as the youngest Chief Inspector at the Yard. But the grim silence was not wholly due to their resentment, although doubtless it contributed to the willingness with which many of them judged him. One, a fair-headed, youthful-looking man, Inspector Cornish, who had recently been promoted from one of the Divisions, was the nearest approach to a close friend that Roger had at the Yard. He was the only one then on duty who might risk helping him.
    Cornish, reading an evening paper in a corner, looked up, coloured and then averted his eyes. Roger stared at him for an appreciable time, but Cornish continued to study the paper. With an exclamation of disgust, Roger turned on his heel. He was by the door when he heard his name called and, looking over his shoulder, saw Cornish hurrying towards him, his fresh face alive with concern. The others looked at him in surprise and Cornish, stopping in front of Roger, spoke breathlessly.
    â€œDamn this, Roger! You know what’s being said?”
    â€œAnd believed, as far as I can judge,” said Roger.
    â€œIs there any truth in it?” Cornish demanded.
    â€œWould you expect me to admit it?” asked Roger and then repented the bitterness of his reply and forced a smile. “You ought to know better than to think there might be, Corny. No, it’s a canard and it will be killed one day. Then what will all my good friends say when they come begging Superintendent West for favours?” He looked contemptuously round the room and felt suddenly untroubled by the hostility and the strength of the feeling against him. He would have felt pretty strongly had someone else been in his position; it was absurd to rely on sentiment. These men believed that he had committed the cardinal crime in a policeman’s calendar; they had no time for a renegade and it was natural that they should feel strongly. He went on, sounding almost gay. “You’d better be careful, Corny, or you’ll be looked upon as an accessory. Good night!”
    He went out, hearing the murmur of conversation which followed, and he was not surprised when the door opened again and Cornish hurried after him.
    â€œRoger. Roger!” The other was distressed and Roger turned and waited for him, his hands in his coat pocket, a faint smile on his lips. “Look here, old man,” said Cornish, “just answer me this – did you do it?”
    â€œNo,” said Roger, looking into the other’s blue eyes.
    â€œThen is there anything I can do?” demanded Cornish.
    Roger warmed towards him as he considered, but he said, carefully, that in Cornish’s position it would probably be wise to show no friendliness but to go with the crowd. Cornish shook his head impatiently.
    â€œI’ve tried that and it didn’t work,” he said. “I’ve never felt such a swine as I did just now.”
    Roger chuckled. “That’s all right! Look here, if you really want to be helpful you can try to find out the name and address of the taxi-driver who picked me up at Sloane Square about three-quarters of an hour ago and dropped me here. I shared the cab with a man going to Piccadilly.” That was all he dared ask; the two fivers were too dangerous to disclose to anyone here.
    â€œHow will it help?” Cornish asked.
    â€œI’m not going to let you get involved with details,” Roger said, “but if you can find out just