John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

“You’ll come with me.”

“That’s why I’m worried about it.”

Kennedy smiled slowly.

“That’s a good frame of mind to be in,” he said. “I think I chose the right man. But watch your step. I’m the boss.”

“What I do, I’ll do my own way.” Roger went to a chair and sat down heavily—and flung out the next question: “What’s happened to Marion?”

“Why should you worry ?”

“She called me, asked me to——”

“Sure, I know. But you don’t answer appeals for help from pretty women, you go where I tell you to go, and forget all the rest.”

“Where is she?”

Kennedy leaned back and thrust his legs out again.

“She isn’t,” he said softly.

The significance of it was a long time dawning on Roger. It might not have dawned when it did but for that slow, cruel smile. “She isn’t.” Marion wasn’t alive, they’d killed her.

“She met with an accident,” Kennedy said.

“Accident?” On the tip of his tongue were the words: “Like Kyle’s wife,” but he bit on them. “So you——”

“That’s right. Haven’t you realized who you’re working for? Marion made it easier to handle you. But she wasn’t reliable. She fell in love with you. She listened at keyholes and learned this address and enough of the truth to be dangerous. She was silly enough to threaten to tell the police all she knew.”

Roger said: “Every detective in Scotland Yard could tell you what I’m going to tell you now. You’ve had it. You can get away with one murder, maybe two—but in your frame of mind, you go on until you get caught. You’re as good as hanged.”

“Very nice. I’ve been telling you, your job is to keep me free from the police.” Kennedy stood up and went to the window. This one overlooked the narrow street. “I don’t want to turn you into a yes man, you won’t be any good to me that way, but don’t forget who’s the boss, and don’t forget that if I get caught, you’ll be caught with me. I asked you what you said to Kyle.”

“How did you know about Sloan?”

“I’ll talk about a lot of things that mystify you, and you won’t say much I don’t get to hear. The question is—Kyle.”

“He was waiting when I got here. He expected to see someone else, although he didn’t say so. He pitched a hard-luck story, and I flung him out on his ear.”

“What kind of hard luck?”

“He wanted money. If I’d had time, I’d have listened to his story, but there wasn’t any time, because I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want anyone to find me with an old lag.”

“Who told you that Kyle was an old lag?”

Roger stared and laughed. He managed to sound amused. He lit another cigarette and waved his hand, as if at something which was ridiculous.

“I’ve been dealing with old lags most of my life. I’ve only to set eyes on them to know where they’ve been living. Kyle’s been inside for at least four years, you don’t get that way until you’ve had a stretch or longer.”

Kennedy said: “Okay, West. Keep on the level. Now, listen to me. This business is going to expand! You can leave all the details of staff and the daily running of the business to the secretary—Rose Morgan. You’ll get your instructions for the rest from me. You’ll travel a lot— didn’t I promise you an easy life?” He sneered. “This is your home address in England. There are two rooms and a kitchen besides this. You’ll have a man to look after you named Harry. He’ll be along later in the day. Just settle into your new life, Rayner.”

“When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”

“You’ll learn. I’ve told you enough for a start. Just remember what happens to people who won’t play the game my way. The girl at Copse Cottage was one. Marion was another.”

Kennedy got up and went out.

Roger sat quite still, looking at the ceiling. Images on his mind were far too many and too vivid; Marion was added to them, now—good, wholesome, attractive Marion, who had wanted to help him; had begged to help him. If he’d trusted her, he might have avoided all this, or much of it. The ruthless devilry of it swept over him like a stinking cloak of corruption.

Rose Morgan was forty-ish; plump, shapeless, dressed in a kind of black sack. She had a little beak of a nose, small pale lips which opened very little, a high-pitched, decisive voice. She was efficiency to the last syllable. Her hair was mousy colour and fastened in a bun at the back. She had good hands and perfectly kept nails. She seemed willing to teach Roger everything there was to know about the business.

He saw her for the first time the day after Sloan’s visit— a Friday. The staff was coming here on Monday, she said.

He asked for a list of the staff of nine; she assured him that all of them were thoroughly reliable and had worked for Wiseman, the previous owner, for several years. He examined the salary list; it was high—he paid his staff well! Rose Morgan received a thousand pounds a year, and the annual wages bill came to a little over five thousand. Rent, rates, other general expenses, were as much again. Before the business paid a penny profit, it had to show income over expenditure of ten thousand pounds. According to the figures it did that without much trouble; the profit for the past two years had been nearly five thousand. The profit was to be his share.

His.

As Charles Rayner, he had a private bank account with a credit of over two thousand pounds, and Government securities which made him worth ten times as much as Roger West.

This opened a completely new vista; he could call himself rich. He felt the lure of wealth; began, as the days passed, to expect the little luxuries he had never had before. He could stand outside himself, in an odd fashion, and watch the effect of this on him. He took to luxury and plenty of money as a duck took to water.

Harry, who “did” for him, was a quiet, vague individual, with a doleful face and big, brown eyes, a perfect servant who never intruded; that was part of the luxury attack on him. There was tea first thing in the morning, a drink ready before luncheon and dinner, perfectly cooked food, pressed clothes—everything.

He had accounts at three exclusive restaurants and two big stores. He bought clothes of good quality and cut. He could have whatever he wanted, and had only to sign the bill and, later, the cheque.

Kennedy didn’t come again during the next ten days. He heard nothing from Kyle or from Sloan. He was withdrawn more completely from his old life than he had ever dreamed possible. The past had begun as a nightmare and become a distant dream; frighteningly distant. He had to remind himself of it and also to remind himself of his chief objective—to find out the truth about Kennedy and all Kennedy stood for.

He found the business, as such, absorbing; there were many callers. He bought from this man and sold to that; he found that the business had many old and valuable contacts. It could get foods which were in short supply with little difficulty, and therefore could command its own price. There was nothing in short supply in which the firm didn’t deal, but he checked carefully and found that everything was above board and legal.

There was one thick barrier to all investigations; everywhere he went, he was watched. Waking and sleeping, he knew that he was watched.

Day by day, he grew into life as Charles Rayner.

Day by day, Roger West receded.

By the end of three weeks, he knew that the greatest danger to success would be himself; the new conditions, the constant surveillance and the desire to be free from it —and real freedom would come only when Kennedy was sure of him—worked together to soften his mind. Soften— or harden it?

Exactly a month after Kyle’s visit, he sent a registered letter to Mr. John Pearson at the Strand G.P.O. Kyle didn’t telephone; Roger was at once pleased and sorry about that.

It was on the morning after he had posted the money to Kyle that he received a letter marked “Personal”. It was the first he had received since coming to the flat, and Harry brought it to him with his morning tea. He waited until the man had gone, and then opened it with unsteady fingers. Inside was a single slip of paper on which were two words: Kyle’s dead.

The morning papers confirmed it; Kyle had “fallen” in front of a train at Edgware Road Tube Station.

Kennedy came on the telephone later in the day. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes.”

“Take it to heart. I’ve a job for you.”

“Where?”

“You’ll be brought to me—remember the male nurse? You can call him Percy. He’ll meet you at the corner of Putney Bridge, near the old theatre. Just make sure you’re not followed. Leave at once—Percy will expect you in an hour’s time.”

Kennedy rang off. Roger leaned back in his chair and faced up to the new situation. For the first time he was to be used for a job. He rang for Rose Morgan.

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“I’m going out, and I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“Tell Harry he needn’t get luncheon, but I expect to be in for dinner.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“See Renfrew when he comes, and apologize—say I’m ill. Handle everything else yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

Rose was like a machine.

Roger put on his hat and went downstairs. He reached the Strand and beckoned a taxi from a rank. “Harrods,” he said, and sat back, looking out of the tiny rear window. No one followed him except the usual stream of traffic. Three quarters of an hour after getting the message, he was at Putney Bridge.

Percy sat at the wheel of a big, roomy black Daimler— an old model, but it had an air. Percy was in chauffeur’s uniform and wore a peak cap. He nodded, but didn’t smile when he got out and opened the door for Roger, behaving in the same way as Rose Morgan—like a machine. Roger sat back on the luxurious seat, and a feeling of well-being came upon him like a cloud or a shroud. He watched the traffic coming over the bridge and along Putney High Street, with its steep hill. At the top, the driver turned right towards Richmond. Not far along he heard a whirring sound which reminded him vividly of the cine-camera at the nursing home.

The blinds were dropping at the windows; they were worked from a control button at the front.

The Daimler gathered speed, took corners easily, hummed along a main road where, judging from the sounds, there was little traffic. They went on for more than half an hour, and were well out of London when the car turned a corner sharply and went along a bumpy road. Soon it turned again, at the foot of a hill so steep that Percy had to change gear. They crawled to the top of the hill, and stopped.

The blinds shot up; sunlight streamed into the Daimler, dazzling Roger. When he was accustomed to the glare, he saw they were outside a small country house. Trees were packed densely behind the house. In front there was a long drive; lawns and flower-gardens, with tulips and wallflowers in brightly coloured beds, misty forget-me-nots adding a background of blue. It was delightful; and it overlooked sweeping countryside. The road along which they had come was hidden by a fringe of oak and beech.

“Out,” said Percy, opening the door.

Roger said: “One day you’re going to change your tone, Percy.” The little man glared, but made no comment. Roger went up three stone steps and stood beneath a brick porch, warm, browny-red. The door was of natural oak, oiled, not painted, and was studded with iron nail-heads. As he reached it, a man opened the door—a stranger and obsequious.

“Mr. Rayner?”

“Yes.”

“This way, sir, please.” The door closed behind them, and Roger was led up a wide staircase: wider than the outside of the house had led him to expect. He went across the square landing. A passage led to a window through which the bright sunlight glowed. Several doors led off it, and he was taken to the first door on the right. The man tapped, and opened it.

“Mr. Rayner, madame,” he said, and stood aside for Roger to pass.

Madame?

CHAPTER XIV

“MADAME”

SHE wasn’t like Marion, Lucille, or even Janet, simply an attractive woman; she was beautiful—and young. She sat in a chair at a small bow-shaped mahogany desk, with the sun streaming through the window behind her, so that her features were in shadow. She smiled faintly, and indicated a chair; she didn’t get up and didn’t offer her hand.

The chair was placed opposite the window, so that she could sec every feature and every line on his face. She pushed a silver cigarette-box across the desk, and waited for him to light up; she didn’t take a cigarette herself.

She wore a white blouse, simple, plain, and fastened high at the neck. Her voice was pitched low; it was somehow less attractive than he had expected, with a faint accent he couldn’t place.

“Mr. Kennedy tells me that you will be able to help me,” she said. “I understand that you have a considerable experience of police matters, criminal law, and all the relative factors.”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Kennedy assures me that your services are at my disposal. Is that true?”

“Yes,” he said.

She went on quickly:

“My husband is under remand at Brixton Jail. I think it probable that the prosecution would be able to prove their case against him. If it should be proved, he is likely to serve a long prison sentence. I have copies of all the statements he has made to his legal advisers, and I want you to study them. There are, also, details of the charge and a summary of the evidence against him, so far as we are aware of it. I want you to study all those papers and form an opinion as to the likely result of the trial. If there is a weakness in the case for the prosecution, I want you to elaborate it, so that my husband’s counsel can be properly primed. He is charged with smuggling currency from a number of foreign countries into this country; with smuggling sterling out of Great Britain to the Continent.”

“I’m no expert on currency,” Roger told her.

“You can assess the case in the light of the evidence that will be given you. You will work here—is that convenient ?”

It might take hours; a day; or several days. But Kennedy had pledged his services, and the obvious thing was to say: “Yes.”

“Thank you. What is your fee, Mr. Rayner?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had a look at the job.”

“Very well.”

“Unless you would rather deal with Mr. Kennedy,” he said.

She shook her head.

“I have paid him a fee for the introduction, and this aspect of the matter is now between you and me. If your work is satisfactory in every way, I shall not be ungenerous. It is essential that my husband should not serve a prison sentence.”

There was something else in her mind, but he didn’t judge this the moment to probe.

“Where shall I work?”

“I will have you taken to your room, and the papers will be sent to you,” she said. “You may ring for anything you require. While you are here, I would prefer you not to leave the grounds—in fact, to go no farther than the garden fence.”