John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

His ears were strained to catch the sound of the telephone bell ringing; yet when he heard it, he jumped. He went back to the door and stood close, heard Raeburn’s sharp “Yes,” followed by a moment’s pause; next, Raeburn said clearly: “George, have you seen the evening papers ? “

Mark rubbed his hands.

“I won’t have it!” Raeburn almost shouted. “I tell you, I won’t have it!              Whoever is responsible must go at once. . . . Never mind what you’ve told me, fire him!”

There was another, longer pause. Mark stood, grinning almost fatuously, but before Raeburn spoke again, someone turned into the passage. Mark moved away. A man and woman walked past, and went into a room farther along.

Mark returned to Raeburn’s door just in time to hear the ting of the bell, as the receiver was replaced.

He went to the landing, and sank down on to a deep- spring sofa, lit a cigarette, and was smoking and leaning back with his eyes half closed when Raeburn came out, obviously still angry. He walked down the stairs. Mark took the lift, and reached the lounge in time to see Eve jump up from her chair to greet Raeburn.

She was startled. “Paul, what’s the matter?”

“Get your coat,” Raeburn said. “We’re going for a drive.”

“But, Paul—”

“Get your coat.”

His abruptness surprised the girl, but she began to hurry toward the door.

“That’s better,” thought Mark. “That’s much better.”

He went outside. Peel came up to him, and asked for a match. As Mark handed him his box, Peel asked: “What did you mean just now, Mr Lessing?”

“Raeburn was annoyed by the evening papers, and I went to see if I could pick anything up.”

“Could you?”

“Enough to know that he was upset,” grinned Mark. “If you haven’t seen the papers, get them—they’ll do you good. I’m going for a drive,” he added, carelessly, and took the matchbox back. “There’s no need to follow me this time.”

Peel looked blank. “I am watching Mr Raeburn and the hotel, sir.”

“Oh, yes? Then what’s Turnbull doing?”

“He’s at the station just now.” Peel was innocence itself.

Mark’s car was parked at the front, Raeburn’s in the hotel garage. He guessed that Raeburn would drive toward Hove, and then northward into the country, so he drove slowly in that direction. Raeburn’s Silver Wraith passed him, purring along the wide road; Mark’s Talbot, making little more noise, followed a hundred yards behind. Now and again, when the Rolls Royce was slowed down by the traffic, Mark could see the couple; they did not appear to be saying much.

The light was fading fast when they turned into the Pet- worth Road. In the west the afterglow bathed the countryside in soft blue and grey; against the skyline leafless trees stood out, dark and spectral. Hills rose up on both sides, bleak and forbidding. The winding road ahead was dark beyond the beams of the headlights; little white centre marks curved this way and that with the road. All that Mark could see of the man and woman in the Rolls Royce were silhouettes of heads and shoulders.

Eve’s head moved slightly toward Raeburn. Mark hardly saw that at first, but took more notice when he saw her nestle against Raeburn’s shoulder. Raeburn pulled in to the side of the road and stopped, without troubling to give a signal.

“This is where they make it up,” mused Mark. “But they’re vulnerable, all right.” He drove on, deciding that there was no point in watching them any longer. Raeburn had gone out to try to throw off the effect of the newspaper stories, that was all.

Mark grinned when Peel passed him in a two-seater, pretending not to notice him.

A mile or two farther on, Mark turned a wide corner as a car containing several men passed him, forcing him almost into the hedge. He glared into his mirror at it, then turned a corner—and his heart jumped.

In the glare of the headlights, he could see a man lying in the road.

CHAPTER XV

OLD TRICK

MARK SWUNG the Talbot’s wheel hard over. The right fender brushed against a hedge, and twigs scraped along the side of the car. He drew up, with the rear of the car level with the man, only a couple of feet away. He could not see behind him now, and did not get out immediately.

The man was still lying inert. No other cars were approaching, or he would have been able to see by the light of their headlamps.

He opened the door and got out. Was he hurt, or could this be an old trick?

The man was lying on his back, his right arm bent at an odd angle, his left covering his face. Mark went toward him, and bent down. He touched the man’s arm gently, and as he did so the “victim” butted his head into Mark’s face, and leaped to his feet. It was the old trick, all right, and he had fallen for it. Bitter self-reproach made the situation seem worse. He backed toward the hedge, but before he touched it, his feet were hooked from under him by someone he hadn’t seen. He fell heavily.

“Get him over the hedge,” a man said, urgently.

Mark felt hands gripping him; he was hauled to his feet. He glanced desperately to the right and left, hoping to see the glow of Peel’s headlights, but none appeared. Peel was watching Raeburn; what reason was there to hope he would turn up? Mark was dragged to the hedge; then the big man bent down, gripped his legs below the knees, and hoisted him up.

They were going to toss him over. . . .

Mark kicked out. He caught the man on the side of the face, which made him lose his grip, and Mark slipped to the ground. The man struck at him savagely, but Mark got to his feet, still on the right side of the hedge. A blow cut his lip, and he could taste the salty blood. He kicked out, making one man squeal and drop away; then, next moment, the whole party was bathed in the glow of headlights.

A powerful car came round the corner and slowed down, its horn howling, and the assailants swung round and scrambled over the hedge. The end had come so quickly that it seemed unreal. Was Peel the rescuer? Mark leaned against the hedge, gasping, blinking in the dazzling light. He was vaguely aware of two people coming toward him.

“Are you all right?” a man asked, sharply.

This was Raeburn: Raeburn and Eve were his rescuers.

“Yes, I’m okay,” Mark muttered, and moistened his lips. “Yes, quite all right, thanks.”

“You don’t look it,” declared Raeburn.

“Your face is bleeding!” Eve exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”

“I was held up—by a gang.” Put like that, it sounded ridiculous.

“Let’s go to the car,” said Raeburn, brusquely. He took Mark’s arm, and led him to the Rolls. “See what you can do, pet,” Raeburn added to Eve, and switched on the light. “I’ll move his car on to the right side of the road.”

Mark sat on the soft cushions of the Rolls, and had the wit to pull out a handkerchief when Eve took hers from her bag. She dabbed at his lips, which were already puffy and painful. The soft light suited her; her face was only a foot away from him, and her eyes seemed full of concern.

“Close your eyes,” she advised. “I can see that the light worries you.”

As he closed his eyes, Mark caught a glimpse of Peel’s two-seater going by, but Peel did not stop. Eve dabbed gently at Mark’s lips and cheeks. He could feel her breath on his cheeks, and was conscious of a curious kind of excitement.

She rested a hand on his knee. . . .

Raeburn spoke from the door: “How is he?”

“I’ll be all right,” Mark said, and opened his eyes. Eve was a little further away, and Raeburn was looking at him, thoughtfully. A car passed, lighting them up in its headlights. A second car drew up, and the driver called: “Can I help?”

“Only a minor accident,” Raeburn said. “You needn’t worry, thanks.” He waited until the car had gone, then asked Mark: “Do you think you’ll be able to drive?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I doubt it,” Raeburn said. “I’d better take you back to town; you can drive the Rolls Royce home, can’t you, Eve?”

Not “pet”.

“Of course, darling.”

Raeburn handled the smaller car’s controls easily. Mark caught an occasional glimpse of the Rolls Royce in a wing mirror, and kept remembering the way Eve had pressed his knee—and the way Raeburn had looked at her.

They seldom travelled at more than forty miles an hour. Raeburn asked questions. Mark made a mystery out of the attack, and Raeburn was appropriately sympathetic. He did not show any sign of recognition, and was affable enough when they reached the Grand-Royal.

Raeburn’s suite had three rooms, all furnished in the ultra-luxurious style of the Grand-Royal. The main bedroom was his; a smaller one was reserved in case War- render or Mrs Beesley needed to spend a night there.

Eve’s room was on the next floor up.

When Raeburn arrived, Eve rose from an easy chair in the hall. “How is he?”

“You ought to know,” Raeburn said, sharply, “you were close enough to him.” He stood in front of her, eyes hard, body rigid. “I didn’t tell you to seduce the man.”

“Paul!”

Raeburn said: “Eve, if you ever double-cross me, I’ll break you. Understand that?”

“I don’t understand you,” she protested, almost tearfully. “I can’t make out what’s happened to you. I only dabbed at his face; he was in a really bad way.”

“I was watching,” Raeburn said. “I didn’t like what I saw.”

“You’re crazy to be jealous of a man I’ve never seen before! I was only trying to help him because you asked me to.” Eve sounded really distressed, but a hardness in her eyes did not match the note in her voice. “Don’t be unreasonable, darling.”

“You have seen him before,” said Raeburn. “He was at the Silver Kettle with West that night. You know what I feel about West.”

Eve was shocked into silence.

Raeburn stepped past her, and lit a cigarette. He turned on his heel, and looked at her again, letting the smoke trickle from his nostrils.

She went near him. “Paul! I’d no idea.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you for who he is,” Raeburn said, with studied carelessness. “I just didn’t like the way you behaved with him. Whenever you get near a good- looking man, you revert to nature. I’ve seen it happen before. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give up those old habits.”

“I have to be civil,” Eve protested.

“That’s right; just be civil.”

“I simply can’t understand you,” Eve protested, in a sharper voice. “Ever since tea, you’ve been a different man. Has anything happened? Has anything gone wrong?”

Raeburn said: “Yes, but it needn’t worry you. You behave yourself, and leave the rest to me, and keep away from other men, or I’ll—”

A swift change in Eve’s expression stopped him; he had never seen her angry before, but she was angry now.

“You don’t own me, remember. Or do you think you do? Why not just lock me up in a room, and come and pet me whenever you feel in the mood?”

Raeburn said, slowly: “So that’s how you feel.”

“It’s how you’re making me feel.”

“That’s a different tale of affection from any I’ve heard before,” Raeburn said. “There are two sides to little Eve.” He sneered at her. “You aren’t making the mistake of thinking that because you saved me from prison you can be temperamental, are you? You’re a common little piece with the right shape, but I could—”

She slapped his face.

Raeburn staggered back, and for an instant looked as if he could kill her. But suddenly she flung herself forward, her arms about him, pressing her body against him, kissing him with a passion which was almost terrible to see.

The look in his eyes changed, too. He thrust her away from him, and held her at arm’s length; in her passion, her beauty was the beauty of fire.

“You’re mine, do you understand?” he said, chokingly. “I’ll kill any other man who touches you.”

Eve was lying back, with her head resting on a cushion. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, her slim legs were drawn up under her. Raeburn was sitting at the other end of the sofa, quite rational now.

“When I recognised this stranger on the road as the man who was with West, at the Silver Kettle, I could have run him over,” he said, and neither of them seemed to think Of Halliwell.”

“Warrender had told me that a friend of West’s was staying here, and had promised to deal with him.”

“How can he deal with anyone?” asked Eve, lazily.

Raeburn laughed.

“What’s funny about that?” She pouted.

“You’re much funnier than you realise, sometimes,” said Raeburn, “but it’s a good thing you’re not clever.”

Eve made a face, but something Tony Brown had said sprang to her mind. She wasn’t ‘clever’. Tony had said that, in the long run, Raeburn would spurn her for a clever woman. Perhaps she was more clever than men knew.

Raeburn went on: “Warrender had laid everything on all right; we interrupted the party he’d arranged. I hope Lessing sees the funny side of that, too.”

Eve swung her legs down, and got up.

“Somehow, I think he will,” she said. “Sweetie, I think I ought to go and dress for dinner.”

When she had gone, Raeburn poured himself out a whisky-and-soda, and drank it while standing before the fireplace and looking moodily at the flames. Eve already knew a great deal which could be very dangerous. She had probably guessed the truth about the road incident, and there had been no point in refusing to talk about it, but he would have to be very careful with her. Warrender had been right about that.

He finished his drink, helped himself to another, and had nearly finished it when there was a tap at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

Warrender entered.

CHAPTER XVI

WARRENDER PROPOSES

RAEBURN DID not try to hide his surprise. Warrender gave a thin-lipped smile, and walked to the cabinet. He poured himself a drink, before taking off his coat and flinging it over a chair. He dropped his hat, scarf, and gloves into the chair, each movement deliberate and calculated.

“Well, Paul,” he said, at last. “Here’s luck!”

“Do we need luck?” Raeburn asked.

“I’m beginning to think so,” said Warrender.

“So you’re still a prophet of gloom. Why didn’t you leave me alone for a week, George?”

“Things have altered somewhat,” Warrender said, flatly. “You thought so when you telephoned, didn’t you?

There are a lot of things one can’t say over the telephone. I thought you might like a cosy little talk.”

Raeburn said: “Provided it doesn’t take too long. I’m due for dinner at half past seven.”

“And it’s now half past six,” said Warrender. He tossed down his drink. “Paul, this time I know I’m right. Those newspaper stories haven’t done us any good, and they’re only the beginning. Chatworth told the Press plenty today. He’s managed to make them draw a line between you and Tony Brown’s death, with Bill Brown’s disappearance and last night’s attack on Katie Brown. It was very clever. There are no grounds for a libel action; Abel says there isn’t a thing you can do. He also says you’d be a fool if you tried.”