John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

He went across the room and turned the key.

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry. He didn’t look any less frightened. “I was afraid that you might get hurt.”

“What else are you afraid of?”

“I—I don’t think I’m afraid of anything, sir. I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry your supper was spoiled. Shall I prepare something else ? I will gladly——”

“Do you know where the dictaphone is in the flat?”

Harry gulped. “I’ve disconnected it, sir. I did that before I spoke in the first place.”

Roger said abruptly: “Get me a whisky. Help yourself to what you want. Then come and sit down.” He wasn’t sure that these were good tactics; one man would be more at ease with drink and in a chair; another would feel acute embarrassment. Harry had poured himself out a beer, in a glass tankard. Roger gave him a cigarette.

“Thank you, sir.”

They lit up.

“If it’s not blackmail, what is it?”

The fear was there, hovering in Harry’s eyes, but the new situation had given him confidence, and his voice was steady as he answered :

“I’ve noticed a lot while I’ve been here, Mr. West. One day before you arrived a lady came asking for you. I was here, fixing the place up. A Miss Day, she was. Miss Marion Day. I noticed in the papers what happened to her afterwards. It was from her I got an idea who you really were, sir. And I—I was a friend of Ginger Kyle’s. Very good friends we were in our young days. We got mixed up with the same bunch. I’m not pleading innocence, sir. We went into it with our eyes open, and we knew the risk we was taking. I was lucky—I’ve never bin inside. Made a little packet, and if it wasn’t for—for pressure, Mr. West, I would be retired now. Ginger ought to have had a nice little pile waiting for him when he came out. Instead o’ that, they didn’t look after him. They killed his wife, or he thought they did. And when they killed him—I  can’t help it, Mr. West. If I’ve judged you wrong, I’m for it. I’ll take my chance, same as Ginger did. And others. But it seemed to me you slipped out the other night so’s they shouldn’t know, and you wasn’t working with them wholehearted. Are you, sir? If you are, then okay, I’m for it. If you’re not, if you’re against them—I’ll help if I can. My word on it, Mr. West.”

He sat back. His forehead and long upper lip were beaded with sweat, and that cloudy fear hovered in his eyes.

But—was that put on?

Was this another of Kennedy’s trick tests?

CHAPTER XXII

27 MOUNTJOY SQUARE

ROGER could tell Harry the truth; and Harry might send word to Percy, and so bring about the end of it all.

He could be non-committal; but if Harry were still spying on him, that would be as damning.

He could reject the offer, report to Percy—and if it were genuine, damn Harry, send Harry to his death. You slid into accepting that as a fact. You didn’t tell yourself that no one would kill as freely and as ruthlessly as Kennedy; you knew that it was true. The man was completely amoral, he didn’t regard killing as most men did. It was necessary, it was done—an obstacle removed, like a chalk mark wiped off a blackboard and leaving only a smear as trace.

Harry stirred in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette.

Roger said: “Where do you report, Harry?”

“To Percy, sir.”

“Yes. Where?”

“I have a telephone number. There is another way of communicating, also—through the men who sometimes are on duty outside. No doubt you’ve noticed them—I saw you looking out of the window to-night. There was one there. I always assume that when there is a special job on, they take extra care because they aren’t sure of you yet. I hope they never will be, sir. It’s a dirty business—it stinks. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but murder—I’m scared. I don’t mind admitting I’m scared. But I’ve taken a chance, and I hope it’s justified.”

“Don’t you know where Percy lives?”

“No, sir.”

“Kennedy?”

“I’ve heard the name, that’s all, and I think he’s called here once or twice, but when he’s been coming, I’ve had orders to keep out of the way.”

“How do you get your instructions?”

“From Percy, sir.”

“And he blackmails you into obeying?”

“That’s right.”

“What jobs have you done?” Roger asked.

Harry put down the empty tankard and half-closed his eyes.

“Safes, mostly, sir. And breaking and entering, more lately. One of the places I went to, an old man was killed. I didn’t do it, but Percy says he can pin it on me. I don’t doubt he can. I get well paid for this, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t do what I was told. You were just another dope. But after Miss Day and Ginger was bumped off—I  couldn’t settle. There’s some things you can take, and there’s others that you just can’t swallow, and coldblooded murder’s a thing I can’t swallow.”

Roger wanted a cracksman. He said: “Have you got any burglar’s tools here?”

Harry’s eyes opened wide.

“Well——”

“Good, up-to-date stuff, not just a jemmy and a screwdriver.”

“I haven’t got any here, but I know where I could lay me hands on some.” Harry was puzzled yet eager.

“Will you take a big risk?”

“Nothing much to lose, now,” said Harry, and his face became more animated, a little colour glowed in his cheeks. “So I was right, you’ve been putting one across Percy and his boss.”

“That’s right, Harry.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and gave a little, satisfied smile. There was no gloating in it, but much relief.

*     *     *     *

Roger stood in the doorway and looked across Lyme Street. The guard was still there. He himself was in the shadows, and the man couldn’t see him. He saw the other put his hands to his pocket and take out a packet of cigarettes; a moment later, a match flared. The man moved out of his doorway and strolled along the street—and Roger moved forward, but drew back suddenly. A policeman had turned the corner and was walking along, that was why the guard had moved. The guard crossed the road and stood outside a small cafe which was still open; a man, looking into a cafe and studying the menu card in the window, wasn’t going to attract much attention. He peered along the street. The policeman passed him. The guard waited until the policeman had turned the next corner, and then went back to his usual stand. Roger moved again, quickly. He saw the man stiffen. He crossed the road, but didn’t look at the man—whose job it was to report, and perhaps to follow. He walked towards the dark dingi-ness of the market lanes and alleys, and the man followed him. He slipped round a corner; it was very dark here. He heard the man hurrying after him, and knew when he was at the corner.

The man turned.

Roger grabbed him by the neck, stilling a cry, drove a fierce punch into his stomach, let him go, then struck at his chin. Two blows knocked the man out. No one was here, the policeman was out of sight. Roger dragged the unconscious man across the bumpy, cobbled road, into a narrow alley leading towards the main, covered market. He took out a length of cord, bound the man’s ankles and wrists, dragged him farther—into a little alcove—and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he dragged him, by his coat collar, and saw a dark pile of empty wooden crates. He shifted some of the crates, dumped the man behind them, and put them back into position. He wouldn’t be found until those crates were moved, and that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least.

He went back to Lyme Street.

Harry came out of the doorway. “All okay, sir?”

“Yes. Get a move on.”

“I had to see this through,” said Harry. “See you at the Burlington Gardens end of Burlington Arcade in about an hour, then. It’s just on eleven—I  ought to be there by midnight.”

“Fine.”

Harry turned and hurried towards the Strand and a taxi.

Roger had an hour to kill.

*     *     *     *

There had never been a longer sixty minutes. He walked to Burlington Arcade, and his mind wouldn’t stop working, weighing up his chances; especially those against him. Kennedy would have his home well protected. Kennedy, as Hemmingway, wouldn’t be likely to keep the records at the home where he was so safe. Harry might fail him. Harry might get cold feet. Harry might have fooled him. Death didn’t take long. A man might come towards him, walking, or in a car—and shoot just once.

Roger walked along to Bond Street and towards Oxford Street. There were few people about, and most of those who were came from the AEolian Hall, where they took the overflow from Broadcasting House. Taxis passed. A sleek car came from Oxford Street and slowed down as it drew near him. It was ten minutes to twelve. He turned his face towards the car, prepared to spring to one side if the driver or the passenger moved. The car passed.

Roger walked back towards the end of the Arcade. It was a warm night, but he didn’t feel warm. A clock struck sonorously—midnight. Each boom seemed louder and more threatening than the last. No one approached the Arcade. Harry might have taken fright; Harry might have fooled him. Harry might——

He walked away again; it was a dangerous spot to stand. Another car passed, slowed down at the corner, and then turned without the driver taking the slightest notice of him. Another—this wasn’t a car, but a taxi I It slowed down.

Harry, carrying a big suitcase, climbed out of the cab and paid the driver off. It wasn’t imagination that the driver looked at him curiously; but cab drivers were often curious about mysterious night passengers, it would have been better to have met outside a hotel; there were dozens nearby. Forget it. The taxi moved off, and Harry came forward briskly.

“I’ve got everything I could lay my hands on, sir. Had a bit of luck.” He was chirpy.

“Yes?”

“One of the new kind of burners, better than the old oxy-acetylene jobs, not so heavy. Heavy enough, but I can manage to carry it, need two and a car for the other kind. Are we within walking distance, sir?”

“Yes. Let me have the case for a bit.”

“I can manage, sir, thank you.”

Roger felt like laughing. Or screaming. “I can manage, sir.” He let the man have his way, and they walked briskly up Bond Street as far as Brook Street, then turned left. He took the case; it was heavier than Harry had made out. They changed it over three times before they reached the corner of Mountjoy Square.

They turned a corner, and a few yards along came upon a service alley which led to the backs of the houses in the Square. Mountjoy wasn’t typical of London squares. On small iron gates, to the tiny courtyards, there were house numbers. Roger didn’t light his torch. He peered closely at the numbers, found 23—it was white paint on a black gate, and there was some light from a house opposite.

Next door—25.

And here was 27.

“All right,” Roger said.

“I’ll see to the gate,” said Harry.

He didn’t add “sir”; he had dropped the handle. It wasn’t the only change in him—the other was so great that it was almost metamorphosis. Harry seemed to grow in stature and sureness and confidence. This was his real job, and he was a craftsman. The gate was simple, but it was locked. He opened it with a picklock, making no sound at all on the metal. The gate didn’t squeak when it swung back.

The courtyard was flagged. Their rubber-shod feet made hardly a sound. As they drew nearer the dark shape of the house, Roger saw a light; it hadn’t been noticeable from the gate. It was at the top of a window, where light crept past the curtains; and it was at the top floor—the servants’ floor. Harry glanced up, and then looked at the door. He didn’t use a torch, and there seemed to be hardly any light. He ran his fingers over the door gently, not worrying about leaving finger-prints.

“No can do,” he said. “Good job, that, it’s got a burglar-proof fastening on the inside. Think they’re wired up for an alarm?”

“Probably.”

Harry sniffed. Pushed past Roger and went to the long, narrow window near the door. Here, for the first time, he used a torch—one with a hood which could be opened or closed at a touch, and which regulated the beam of light and prevented too much from showing. He stood with his back to the alley and the other houses, and peered into the window. Blinds were drawn, but he was looking at the sides, for the alarm wire. He switched off the light suddenly.

Harry backed away.

“Lot o’ trouble there,” he said. “Might be a first-floor window open. Maybe a ladder. Stay here.”

He vanished, leaving the tool-kit by Roger’s side. He was gone for what seemed a long time, and came back silently as a wraith. ; “Found one?”

“No. Careful, aren’t they?” Harry’s words came in a faint whisper. “Quiet.”

Roger stood aside.

Harry took what looked like a folded rag from the toolkit, then a small can. He poured water over the rag, and then spread it over the window: gummed rag, or paper, deadened sound; but Harry might have forgotten one possibility, that the glass here was toughened. Harry took out a hammer and gave the covered glass a sharp tap.

It gave a curiously dull sound.

He sniffed. “Triplex.” He pulled the rag away, wrapped it up in newspaper and dropped it into the box. Then he I took out a drill and, working swiftly and with very little, sound, drilled four holes, close to each other in the wooden frame. Next, he used a narrow saw, which was just thin enough to go through one of the holes. The saw made hardly a sound, as it was loaded with grease. The line of the cut seemed to leap into the green-painted wood. In less than five minutes, he took a piece of wood out, making a hole big enough for him to reach inside. He did so, using the torch with one hand, groped for the catch and found it.

That made the first real sound—a sharp clang. He stood absolutely still. There was no other sound, no alarm. Harry poked his arm inside again; he was pushing the alarm wire up, away from its wall-fastening. It took a long time, and another car passed in Mountjoy Square, headlights glowing against the houses opposite. Harry didn’t stop working. A faint sound came from the window, and he withdrew his hand.

He pushed the window up. It made little noise, and there was no clangour of an alarm.

“Kit,” he ordered as he climbed through, pushing the curtains to one side. Roger handed him the suit-case, open; it was as much as he could do to lift it. Then he climbed through.

“Going to switch off the current at the main?” he asked.

“Not me! Light on upstairs, ain’t there? If it goes out, they’ll come and investigate.”

How many cracksmen were as good as he?

He adjusted the curtains and then switched on the light. They were in a long narrow kitchen. White tiles glistened, a chromium sink fitting showed. The door faced them.

“Know where we want to go?” asked Harry.

“For a start, the first floor—I know the room.”

“Any vaults here?”

“We’ll have to look and may have to get inside.”