John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

“She chose the wrong afternoon.” He laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “When did she first show signs of strain?”

Lissa considered. “A year ago, I suppose. She was always very temperamental, you would never have called her even-tempered. Nor David, for that matter.”

“And David has been a year on this special work that has to be done in England,” Roger said.

“Yes. Belle didn’t want him to go. I remember the scene when he told her that he was leaving. She had tried hard to make him refuse the assignment. I think I was astonished when he decided he had to take it on. God knows he didn’t want to. But he knew he was the most likely man to do the work. He hasn’t had it easy, Roger, and he put first things first. You have to know David and what has happened before you blame him for anything.”

Roger waved away mosquitoes.

“Gissing could have started working on Belle a year ago, if it is an espionage job.”

Lissa said slowly: “We always assumed that the trouble was because Belle missed David so much. Or at least didn’t want him away from her. Nothing’s ever suggested that Gissing started as soon as that.”

“Have you ever tried to talk to her about it?”

“No. These emotional outbursts didn’t really begin until Ricky was taken away. That is, they didn’t come into the open. We watched David closely, and there were accidents which might have been attempts on his life. Immediately we knew about the kidnapping, we saw the possibility that they were really planning to break David up, to bring him back here. And they have.”

The seat swung gently to and fro, and a soft breeze blew from the hills. It was very quiet and deceptively peaceful

They,” echoed Roger flatly. “Gissing and who?”

Lissa didn’t answer.

Roger stood up slowly, moved to a tree and leaned against the trunk, watching the wind play with Lissa’s hair, watching the repose of her face, the grace of her body. He had no other picture in his mind.

“All right,” he said. “When we find Gissing we might find who else is working with him. Or for whom he’s working. It’s time I got to work. Tony Marino said there might be a line on Gissing over here. Is there?”

“We thought so, but it didn’t get us anywhere. We will find Gissing, and we will need you when we do, but not before. It might be hours, days or weeks. Take it easy for a spell, Roger. It’s possible that things will be quieter here now, it’s a pleasant place to stay. But if you prefer, you could go back to New York. It doesn’t matter where you are, provided we can reach you quickly. I shall stay here unless Belle returns to that attack; if she does, then I shall tell Tony that I think I ought to leave. It will only make things worse for David.” She stopped, watching him closely, telling him that she was thinking of him as a man, not as a cypher in the search for Gissing; telling him everything he already knew, although no words had passed between them. “Roger.”

“Yes?”

“What’s in your mind?”

He stood away from the tree, and smiled. He considered, and then said deliberately:

“I hope I’m not away from home too long. My wife will find the time drags.” He watched her, and she made it clear that she knew exactly what he was saying, and would never try to make him wish that the words and the implications had not been made.

“Of course,” she said. “I understand.”

She smiled.

Roger lit a cigarette and looked across the swimming-pool to the hills beyond, the ranks of trees and the undulating parkland. A long way off a car was moving along a dirt road, and a cloud of dust rose up behind it.

“And I am also a detective,” he said huskily. “That is how I earn my living. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Someone drugged David and Belle before the boy was kidnapped. Remember that, too? Who did it was never discovered. The drug might have been in cigarettes, in coffee, in anything they ate or drank. The last report I saw showed no traces of any drug in anything at the house in Wavertree Road, yet the cups and saucers were dirty, it looked as if everything had been left as the Shawns left it. It was a smart job. The dope was a barbiturate, almost certainly. It takes quick effect. They didn’t have it in the middle of the day, but quite late in the evening — say an hour or less, before they folded up. Ricky had been doped, earlier, probably with a smaller dose. Bill Sloan’s very good. His report said that as far as he could find out — he talked to you about it, I think — the only thing that the child and the parents all ate or drank was the milk. It might not have been in the milk, but that’s as likely as anything else.”

“Yes,” said Lissa. She was still relaxed; but her expression had changed, she looked at him intently, almost warily.

“Who could have doped the milk?” asked Roger. “We haven’t found that they had any visitors after you went. None of the neighbours noticed anyone. That’s not conclusive, but it is a reasonable indication. There was no talk of visitors coming after you’d left. Was there?”

She shook her head.

“Remember I’m a detective,” Roger said quietly.

“Yes,” she said, without smiling. “And the detective thinks I could have put the drug into the milk.”

“He knows you could,” said Roger, very slowly. “He doesn’t know whether you did. If he believed you did, he wouldn’t know your motive. His chief trouble is that he can’t be sure who else had the opportunity. Can you give him any help?”

21

URGENT CALL

LISSA put her foot against the grass and pushed gently; the seat swung to and fro. The quiet lingered about them, and there was no sound from the house. The hiss of water spraying from a jet merged with the sound of mosquitoes and flies. For a few moments Roger’s mind was at peace, too. This fear had tormented him for hours, it was a relief that it was in the open. He had told her that there could be nothing between them more than the swift, unchallenged oneness which could never become a bond. She had accepted that. He thought that she knew what else was in his mind: a desperate desire to warn, to protect her.

“No,” she said quietly. “I can’t help, Roger.”

“Finding out could become a must.”

“Do you think Marino also wonders?”

“I don’t see how he could fail to.” Roger moved, and sat beside her, and the swing moved suddenly and she was flung against him. He said fiercely:

Don’t make any mistake, Lissa. You’re a natural suspect. There’s overwhelming evidence that there is a leakage at the Embassy, too — the other side doped me within an hour or two of reaching New York, so there must have been a leak. Marino’s not blind. Did you know when I was coming, and where I was to stay?”

She nodded, mutely.

Roger said abruptly: “Were you here when Ricky was given his gold identity tag, to hang round his neck?”

She nodded, but looked puzzled.

He dropped it by the side of the swimming-pool,” she said. “It was dented at one corner — not much, but he was so upset he burst out crying. Belle cheered him up, I remember — she said there could never be another one just like it, no one would ever have a tag with a corner with that particular dent.”

“Who else was here?”

She was looking at him, head turned uncomfortably; their shoulders still touched.

“David had come home for a month’s vacation. We were leaving next day for London — David and I. Carl Fischer was here, too. We’d all been in the pool, Ricky was learning to swim. The servants were about, of course.” Her eyes smiled for the first time since he had started these questions. “Don’t forget the servants, Roger.”

“Was any servant near the pool?”

“Ricky could have told his Nanny that he’d dropped the tag.”

“But none was near.”

“No.”

“David and Belle, you and Carl Fischer. Lissa, it’s going to be important This case is too big to take any chances. Was anyone else present that day?”

She turned her head and looked towards the swimming-pool, where the sun, now low in the sky, turned the blue water to gold. The lift of her head made a picture that was going to live in Roger’s mind. She frowned a little, then looked round sharply.

“Yes. Ed Pullinger.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ed came late,” she asserted. “He brought some letters for Tony and others of the Embassy. He didn’t swim, but he was here when Ricky dropped the gold tag.”

“I certainly think our Ed wants watching,” Roger said, grimly. “Ed Pullinger, Fischer and you, the three main suspects. Lissa, don’t get any silly ideas into your head that you’ve got to protect anyone, or that you’re safe from suspicion. If there is anything you remember that might point a finger at Ed or Carl, point it Stab it. This thing can hurt you. It could ruin you.”

“You’re a poor detective,” Lissa said. “You should have kept all this to yourself.” She gripped his hand suddenly, and sprang up. “Let’s get to the house.” They walked slowly, side by side, and at the foot of the steps, she said: “Thank you, Roger. But I didn’t dope the milk.”

Her eyes were suddenly gay, and she ran up the steps ahead of him.

•     •     •

At dinner there was a brittle brightness. Belle and David Shawn both came down, Fischer was there, and Lissa and Roger. Now and again Belle would talk of Ricky as if she were now sure that it was only a matter of time before she had him back.

“It’s wonderful to know he’s not hurt,” she said a dozen times, always with the same forced brightness and with the flashing smile at Roger.

Shawn said little. The fire had dimmed in his eyes, and he looked as if he couldn’t keep awake right through the meal. Fischer, after a sleep, was much fresher. All felt the strain of a wait which might end suddenly and might drag on for days. Would Belle last out in this mood, if it did? Roger watched her more closely than any of the others, but gave Fischer more attention than he seemed to. In England, he would have had plenty to dig into — Ed Pullinger especially. Lissa told him she had reported the reasons for wondering about both Ed and Fischer, but hadn’t talked about it apart from that.

They were in the big lounge, after dinner, when Fischer said easily:

“I’m only the doctor around here, but I’d advise early bed for everyone, the doctor included. David, you ought to get some sleep right away.”

“Could do with it,” Shawn conceded.

“Honey, let’s have an early night,” Belle said, and squeezed his hand. “I’ve kept you awake so much lately, if you get sick I’ll just have to blame myself. You won’t mind, will you?” she asked the others vaguely, and stood up.

It was a little after nine o’clock.

At ten, Roger looked out of his bedroom window over a starlit countryside, with the murmurs of the night for company. He was restless and uneasy, and knew that he wouldn’t get to sleep if he went to bed. The peacefulness was unreal, even uncanny. Last night he had been on the way to Webster’s house, beginning the ordeal that ended at the lakeside, now it seemed as if danger were a million miles away; and yet it might be lurking at every corner, every window. He had another gun which Fischer had given to him. He slipped it into his pocket, already accustomed to carrying one, and not finding it strange. He went out of the room, and walked through the silent house to the front door. The servants had gone to bed early; they slept in another wing. He opened the door, which was locked but not chained or bolted, and stepped on to the verandah.

He walked down the steps, slowly. He couldn’t go far, if there were watchers the open door was an invitation; he must keep it in sight. It was cool; not cold, not even chilly, almost an English summer evening. The grass was firm underfoot. The hiss of the spraying water was silenced. He walked to and fro, seeing the shadowy darkness of the trees, much more clearly defined than on the previous night

He saw no one, and heard nothing.

He stayed out for half an hour, then returned to the house, redropped the catch of the front door, and went upstairs. A sliding door on the landing led into his bedroom, which was large, airy and modern; inside the room, another door led to a small bathroom. He had as hot a bath as possible, to ease the tightened muscles in his legs and back, then put on borrowed pyjamas and went to bed. He was pleasantly tired now; the disquiet had been steamed out of him. It had been at least as much due to uncertainty about Lissa as to the thought of lurking danger.

He went to sleep.

Sound pierced his sleep vaguely — sound which might have been part of a dream. It woke him. He lay between sleeping and waking, and then heard the sound again. He turned his head slowly, and looked at the window, which was outlined against a greying sky; dawn. No one was there. He turned his head again, cautiously, and looked towards the door.

It was opening.

He loosened the bedclothes, and shifted his legs; a twinge of pain shot through his calf. He eased himself to one side, so that he could spring out of bed quickly, and watched the door through his lashes. For a moment he thought that the half-light had deceived him, that the opening of the door had been in his imagination.

It creaked.

Roger waited. Lying still and tense beneath the bedclothes, he flexed his muscles in readiness for the bound which was to bring him face to face with this unknown visitor.

Gradually, the door opened; and in the greyness of the morning a woman appeared. He could see her hair, the silhouette of her robe against a light beyond.

It was Lissa.

She stood for a moment looking at him, and he breathed evenly; she was listening for that. Then she came forward, without closing the door. Her right hand was stretched out, and he tried to see whether she had anything in it, but could not. She drew nearer, and her robe rustled, but otherwise she made no sound. Now she was only a foot or two from the bed, and he could see that her hand was empty. The light was good enough to show the softness of her beauty; and the robe seemed like a silken Sheath. His heart was thumping with a fierce longing which he wouldn’t face. She leaned forward, as if to make sure that he was asleep, and then, quickly, she bent towards him. He moved convulsively. Her lips touched his, pressed hard against them, and he became still.

She drew back, breathing heavily, more agitated than he had ever known her. Then she said softly:

“Roger.”

He grunted, as if he had been asleep and the movement had been unconscious.

“Roger,” she said more loudly. Wake up.” Her hand moved to the bedside lamp, and she switched it on. The brightness lit against his eyes, and he screwed them up. “I’m sorry, Roger, but you must wake up.”

“Who’s that?” he muttered.

“It’s Lissa.”

“Lissa? What —” He didn’t try to finish, but struggled up on his pillows. “What is it?”

“There’s been a message,” she said quietly. “Marino thinks he knows where Gissing and Ricky are. You’re to fly down to Trenton, New Jersey. I hated waking you.” She had easily won the brief fight against her emotional agitation. “You sleep like a child.”