John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

“Very.”

“Thank you! I must say that before hearing this recording I hadn’t heard a conversation which I thought was really suspicious. Until my call a week ago I began to think I was wrong, and had misjudged Pickerell.” As she spoke she was fitting the tape into the machine, then she pressed a switch.

There was a faint whirring sound as the tape began to revolve. Then softly came Pickerell’s voice, alternating with

Lois Randall’s. Roger heard Lois protest, with a note of hysteria in her voice, saying that she would not ‘do it’ again. Pickerell sounded suave and threatening, the girl seemed to get nearer and nearer to hysterics. Pickerell’s threats — always about something he did not name — increasing. Then with a quickening tempo :

“Why, why, why?” demanded Lois, “why must you try to ruin this man? What has he done to you?”

Roger stiffened. Mrs Cartier’s eyes showed a repressed excitement.

“My dear, that is no business of yours,” came Pickerell’s voice, “but I will tell you that a few months ago West happened upon a discovery which could do me and my friends a great deal of harm.” The man seemed to be speaking to himself and Roger could imagine Lois standing and staring at him, could picture his faded eyes and the thick lenses of his glasses. One day he will stumble upon the truth, my dear, and that would not do. It is one or the other of us and I do not intend that it shall be me.”

“What — what beastly work are you doing?” Lois demanded.

“That needn’t interest you,” Pickerell said. “What matters is that unless you do what you are told I shall deal with you severely.” His voice hardened. “Take the money, and do exactly as you have before. Don’t be foolish enough to try to betray me.”

The talking ceased. There was a rustling sound, sharp noises which might have been footsteps, and then the unmistakable banging of a door. A laugh, soft and gentle and somehow blood-curdling; Pickerell, of course.

“I must try to make sure that the bank cashier will be amenable,” Pickerell said. “I wonder whether it is all necessary? I wonder if West will ever remember what happened on that day?” His voice was barely audible and Roger bent down, his ear close to the tape-recorder. “The unlucky 13th,” Pickerell went on, and then there was a sound as if he snapped his fingers as he added in a louder, more angry voice : “This absurd superstition!”

The voice stopped. Mrs Cartier switched the machine off.

Roger straightened up and looked into her eyes. His were narrowed and yet glistening. December the 13th, the unlucky 13th. He did not remember what had happened that day but his files at the Yard would surely tell him and he would surely be allowed access to them. With this tape, he could end all doubts and all suspicions.

He could have kissed the lovely Mrs Cartier!

“You see how important it is?” she said.

“It couldn’t be more important,” Roger said. “May I have the tape ?”

“Of course,” said Mrs Cartier. “Be careful with it, it’s the only one.” She took the tape off the machine, replaced it in its cardboard container and handed it to him. “You will keep your part of the bargain, Inspector, won’t you? You will do all you can to make sure that the work of the Society is not interrupted ?”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Roger assured her. “Is there anything else?” He smiled. “No, I’m not greedy — I’m simply trying to make sure !”

“I should not like to be a criminal with you after me,” said Mrs Cartier.

The remark was fatuous, and Roger did not quite understand why it struck a wrong note. He only knew that it did, that with the tape in his hand and the evidence he needed to clear himself there in unmistakable form, he was suddenly doubtful of this woman’s sincerity. It was as if his mind had opened for a split-second, to allow him to catch a glimpse of something badly wrong, then closed up again and left him with an insistent, infuriating doubt. He did not think that he revealed it as she led him back into the other room.

The maid had been in; there was a tray with brandy and whisky, and a dish of fruit. Two large, bowl-shaped brandy glasses were warming in front of a single bar of an electric fire. The woman approached the tray.

“What will you have?”

Before Roger could answer, there was a sharp exclamation in the next room. The maid’s voice rose, then Masher Malone said harshly:

“Well? Where are they?”

CHAPTER 16

Situation Reversed

THE MAID did not answer.

There was no sound until a sharp report followed as if he had slapped her face, then the question again :

“Where are they ?”

“In — in there,” gasped the maid.

Roger could picture her pointing towards the door. He bent down and pushed the tape beneath a low table near the wall, then stepped to the door, getting behind it and motioning the woman towards the library. She took no notice but stood staring. It did not open immediately, but one opened elsewhere. There was an oath from Malone and a stifled scream from the maid. She had given her mistress a moment’s respite by misdirecting the man.

A thud — a cry — and silence.

Roger thought tensely : “Where the devil is Sam?”

He looked round the room. There were no fire-irons, nothing at all he could use as a weapon. He didn’t fancy his chances of facing Malone with the same confidence as Bill Tennant had done, even if Malone were not armed.

Doors opened and banged. Roger picked up a small upright chair and kept close to the wall. He saw the handle turn before the door was flung open.

Mrs Cartier cried : “No, no !”

Roger swung the chair on the head and shoulders of the man who stepped in, but before it landed he saw that it was not Malone but a smaller man. The chair crashed on the man’s shoulders and sent him sprawling, the force of the blow carried Roger forward, so that he almost ran into the overdressed figure of Malone. He saw the cosh in the man’s hand as it moved downwards and caught him a paralysing blow at the top of the arm, rose again and struck him on the side of the head. He staggered against the far wall, ears ringing, agonising pain shooting through him.

“This way,” Malone said.

Roger just heard the words but did not understand until two more men entered. The fellow whom he had hit with the chair was getting unsteadily to his feet; there was a trickle of blood on his cheek.

“We’ve got ‘em,” Malone said, with an economy of words which would have seemed remarkable at any time. He glanced at Roger and two of the men stepped to Roger’s side, one striking him with a clenched fist and sending him against the wall again.

Malone stood in front of Mrs Cartier.

His oily hair, dressed high so as to increase his stature, hardly came up to her mouth. She looked down at him, and even through the mists of pain and mortification Roger could see her draw herself up, disdainfully. Yet he believed that she was frightened — as any woman would have been frightened by such a man in similar circumstances.

Malone spoke in his husky voice.

“Listen to me, sister. You had a tape recorder at your office. Where is it?”

Mrs Cartier said : “I have no idea.”

Malone moved his right hand and snapped his fingers under her nose. She moved back involuntarily, and stumbled against the table. The tray of bottles shook and the whisky and brandy swayed up against the sides of the bottles.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Malone said. His vocabulary was grotesque in its limitations, its sprinkling of quasi-American slang. “Just say where it is, and you won’t get hurt.”

“I still don’t understand you,” she insisted.

Roger opened his mouth. “Don’t—” he began.

One of the others struck him a flat-handed blow across the mouth. He felt the warm trickle of blood from his lips. He had intended to tell the woman to let Malone know but could not speak.

Malone struck Mrs Cartier a savage blow on the right cheek, another on the left, a third and a fourth. Her head rocked from side to side, she would have fallen but for the rain of blows. Her hair spilled out from its elaborate coiffure, drooped over her eyes and face and then about her shoulders.

Malone gripped a handful and tugged at it savagely, making her gasp with pain.

Roger clenched his hands, but the men held him fast.

Malone stepped back, and Mrs Cartier brushed the hair out of her eyes. She looked older, her cheeks were red and already swollen and there was a scratch on the lid of one of her eyes.

“Tell him !” Roger cried.

He was struck again, but half-heartedly. Malone threw a careless glance over his shoulder, then looked back at Mrs Cartier.

“The guy’s got sense,” he said. “Where’s that machine?”

“In the other room,” answered Mrs Cartier in a voice that Roger could hardly hear. She pointed an unsteady hand towards the library and then swayed back against a chair and slumped into it, burying her face in her hands.

Malone turned to the larger of the men by the door.

“Tell him,” he said. “Keep your peepers open.”

“Oke,” said the man. He turned and crossed the flat. Roger heard the opening of the door and at the same time realised how little noise had really been made. It was doubtful whether anyone in the adjoining flats would dream of anything out of the ordinary. The tape which meant so much lay on the floor, behind a table, where he had kicked it when he had first heard Malone’s voice. Before long they would start to look for it.

Then Pickerell came in.

He walked furtively. He was not wearing glasses and his face had a hang-dog look. He averted his eyes from Mrs Cartier, who did not look up, and went with Malone into the room where the tape-recorder was.

“Bring in the slop,” Malone said.

Roger was hustled forward, unable to do or say anything to help the woman.

Malone stared at him, looking up with his narrowed, sultry eyes. Pickerell stood at one side of the tape-recorder, Malone at the other.

“Can you work this thing?” Malone demanded.

Roger said: “Yes.”

“Okay. Work it.”

Roger opened his mouth — and was struck across the face. He wiped a trickle of blood from his chin, then picked up a tape from the cupboard, which was open. He pressed the switch and voices came through — a conversation between Pickerell and a man who spoke in broken English.

“Is that it?” Malone asked Pickerell.

“No, that’s nothing.” Pickerell licked his lips.

“Try another,” Malone ordered.

He took the first tape from Roger’s hands and flung it against the outer wall, where it unrolled like a length of film. Roger fitted on the second with the same result — Malone flung that, too. There were perhaps two dozen tapes in the cupboard and he tried one after the other. Had Malone asked whether he knew where the tape they wanted was, Roger doubted whether he would have had the courage to keep silent. Malone’s thoroughness, the slow deliberation with which he worked, helped Roger to retain sufficient moral courage to say nothing.

Time was flying, but he did not give it serious thought. If Sam had been coming to help he would have raised an alarm by now. It seemed useless to hope for outside help.

The twelfth tape crashed against the wall before Malone said softly :

“You sure you’d know the one, Pickerell?”

“Of course I do,” Pickerell was as frightened of the man as anyone. “The only one that could do any harm was when I gave Lois Randall instructions. It would have our voices, Masher.”

“My name’s Malone,” the man said; “use it.” To Roger: “Go on, copper.”

Roger tried four more tapes.

“Why don’t you find out whether —” Pickerell began.

“Close your trap !” snapped Malone. He nodded to Roger, who put on four more tapes only to take them off and see them hurled away. The carpet was covered with the shiny, worm-like tapes, and the wall was marked where they had crashed against it. There were four more left in the cup-board and Malone seemed prepared to hear them all. Pick- erell opened his lips as if he were going to make another suggestion, but thought better of it. Two more tapes went the way of the others. Two more, and then there would be the inevitable questions.

Roger, his nerve steadier by then, was able to think more clearly. It was probable that they would start to question Mrs Cartier. It would be impossible to stand by and watch, he knew that he would have to speak. He knew, too, that having heard the record, he had the essential facts to work on; if he could not produce the record, Chatworth would have to take his word.

But when Malone found it he would guess what Roger had heard.

There was one tape left.

Suddenly from the outer room there came a shrill whistle, the sound which Mark had heard near the ‘Saucy Sue’. It was clear and distinct and Roger guessed at once what it was — the gang’s signal of impending danger. Malone jerked his head up and Pickerell gasped :

“What’s that?”

“Pipe down,” said Malone, “someone’s coming.” He moved past Roger and went towards the door. Roger could see Mrs Cartier still slumped forward in the chair.

Voices were raised, but not loudly enough for Roger to hear the words.

Malone came back and spoke softly and with that evil glitter in his eyes.

“The busies. So you’re clever, copper?” His teeth showed in an ugly sneer. “One day you won’t be, you’ll be kicking up the daisies. Where’s that tape?”

“I don’t know what —” Roger began.

“You know,” said Malone, “you know!” He moved his right hand with bewildering swiftness, and the cosh seemed to leap into it. He hit Roger over the temple, sending him lurching over the tape-recorder, which crashed down. He did not try to pick himself up. The room was going round and the blood was pounding in his ears. He thought he heard voices and a cry of pain but could not be sure. Doors opened and closed. There was silence, until slowly he became aware of a woman sobbing. He dragged himself to his feet.

It was not Mrs Cartier. She was on her knees beside the maid who was sitting in a chair and crying, just as Lois had cried, and her mistress was speaking to her in a soothing voice. The passage door was shut but footsteps were audible in the passage; then the bell rang. Only the three of them appeared to be left in the flat.

Mrs Cartier looked up at him.

“Please open it,” she said.

Roger went unsteadily to the door. The bell rang again as he reached it. He fumbled with the latch and pulled it open, stumbling as someone entered, as if to make sure that the door was not closed in his face. He thought he recognised the man but was not sure until a voice, for once lifted out of its habitual coldness, exclaimed :