John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

P.C. Lister made a note of everything, calling it out aloud as Harris placed it on the table.

Hansell came in.

“Finished?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harris.

“Anything marked with ‘R.W.’?”

“No, but several things have ‘A.K.’ on them, sir.”

“Good enough,” said Hansell. “Sergeant Drayton is outside, and he’ll take you and the prisoner down to the station. He can be tidied up, but before that I want you to scrape some of that dried blood off his face, and keep it. You can give him something to eat, and let him have a packet of cigarettes but no matches—when he wants a light, he will have to ask for it. Don’t let the Press get at him. Take him in the back way, and see that he doesn’t see anyone except our people.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harris unlocked the handcuffs. Roger rubbed his wrist gently. Both policemen kept close to him, and once they were in the hall, Lister held his arm tightly, just above the elbow. Outside, there was a blaze of light with silver streaks stabbing through it; rain was coming down heavily. The lights came from several cars parked in the lane, most of them facing towards the road and Helsham, but one, a glistening American model, was facing the other direction; this was “Arthur King’s” Chrysler.

He got into the back of a car. Harris sat next to him, Lister took the wheel, and a bulky plain-clothes man, presumably Sergeant Drayton, sat next to the driver. Roger watched the other cars as they passed slowly, and then saw the big white boulder and the newly painted signpost.

He sat back and closed his eyes, feeling Harris’s arm against him. If he made a move, Harris would use that ham of a fist again. There was no point in trying to escape, anyhow, Harris could rest easy. His thoughts flashed from one thing to another. But for that girl’s face and head, this would be laughable; farcical.

They were going cautiously down the steep hill, which Roger had come up, in third. There were several dangerous corners, and none of them was marked, because the road was little used. The headlights shone on the spears of rain and the leafless hedges bent beneath the fierce March wind. Road and banks glistened. Trees stood out like grey spectres, and dropped behind, only to be replaced by others. Roger saw lights, some distance ahead—the lights of Helsham Village, but they would go on to Guildford. Whom did he know at Guildford?

The driver turned a corner and then jammed on his brakes. All of them were jolted forward, Roger before he caught a glimpse of the road block or of the men who darted forward the moment the car stopped.

CHAPTER IV

HOLD-UP

THE glow of the headlights shimmered on the rain, on huge branches of trees which had been flung across the road, and on a man who stood huddled up in a raincoat, with a hat pulled low over his forehead and a gun pointing towards the car. Roger saw other men, one of whom wrenched open the driver’s door and poked a gun inside.

Harris grunted and grabbed Roger’s wrist. Cold steel brushed his hand, and then the handcuffs clicked—he was manacled to Harris.

“Take it easy.” The man who poked the gun into the car had a smooth voice. A scarf, tied round the lower half of his face, served as a mask. “Do as you’re told, and you won’t get hurt.”

“You’re crazy.” That was Sergeant Drayton, in a shrill voice.

“Not so crazy as you’ll be if you try to pull a fast one. We want West.”

“No one named West——” began the driver.

“Okay, forget who it is, we want your prisoner—he’s a pal of ours.” Bright eyes showed in the pale light inside the car. “Get out, pal.” He looked at Roger.

They were remarkable eyes; like silvery fire.

“We’re the police!” howled Drayton.

“We’d still want our boy friend, even if you were the Army, Navy, and Air Force rolled into one.” The gun swivelled towards Roger. “Get out.”

The door by Roger’s side opened; another man with a gun stood there. The rain hissed down until wind caught it and sent it in a wild flurry about the car.

“I can’t——” Roger began.

“You can, pal. And hurry, we haven’t got all night.”

“That’s enough of this,” said Harris heavily. Harris was good—ten times better than Drayton. “You clear off, the lot of you.” He might have been talking to a crowd of gapers gathered about a street accident. “This man’s our prisoner. Clear off.”

“I’m handcuffed to him,” Roger said. It wasn’t easy to make the words sound casual, or to try to sum this up; except to see that it was the next stage in the framing.

Why?

Harris sat back in his seat. It would be no fun trying to get him out of the car by force, he must weigh sixteen stone.

“He’s got a key, hasn’t he?” The man with the strange eyes said harshly.

“I  told you to clear out,” Harris growled. “Another car will be along in a minute, and then——”

“We’d make fools of more policemen,” said the spokesman. The rain hissed and spattered, and the wind howled; it was bitterly cold. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll unlock those handcuffs.”

“Oh, will I,” said Harris. He moved his left arm. Something bright glistened in the light, flew across the car and out of the door and into the hedge—the key; it would take hours to find it.

Then the door at Harris’s side opened.

As Harris turned, a man struck at him with the butt of a gun. The heavy blow caught him on the chin. Quickly, the man with the gun tipped Harris’s helmet over his eyes and struck again—not savagely but with cold calculation.

Harris slumped down, and didn’t move.

“Look here, you’re crazy!” gasped Drayton.

“That’s right. You just do what you’re told.”

By then, men were dragging Harris out of the car, shoulders first. Roger slid towards the door. The tug at his wrist was painful, but the man eased Harris out gently. In five minutes Roger crouched over Harris’s huddled figure, still fastened to him by the single handcuff.

The rain pelted down.

“Take it easy,” said the man who had knocked out Harris. Another came forward and held Roger’s arm, so that the steel connecting bar of the handcuffs was visible, and Harris’s hand hung limp from it. The new-comer started to work with a small file, and the rasping sound was added to the night’s wild bluster. Water trickled down Roger’s neck, was bitterly cold on his sore face. His clothes began to get soggy. The two policemen in the front of the car did nothing, for they were still covered by the gun. The man with the file seemed prepared to work all night; but he didn’t, the job took only five or six minutes.

Soon they were moving down the hill.

*     *     *     *

Roger simply let impressions rest on top of his mind.

Take one detective. Lure him to a lonely cottage with a faked message. Kill a helpless girl. Make it appear that he’d killed her. Give him a false name. Capture him from the police, and use his real name so clearly that the police couldn’t mistake it. Then take him away.

“Cigarette?” asked the man by his side. Those fantastic, silver-fire eyes showed.

“Thanks.”

The man lit cigarettes for them both, handed one to Roger and sat back. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but he had pulled down the scarf, and the cigarette glow showed the pointed tip of his nose. They turned off this narrow road to the main road which ran through Helsham and then towards London. The car was powerful, and well sprung.

“Enjoying yourself?” asked the man next to Roger. His voice and manner didn’t go with his eyes.

“So-so.”

“I must say you take it well, policeman. I think we’ll be able to work with you.”

“Sooner or later you’ll be asking yourself whether I’ll work with you,” said Roger, “and that’ll be the question that matters.”

The man laughed, as if he had no thought of failure.

“Another question, just to set my mind at rest,” said Roger, making himself sound casual.

“Let’s hear it.”

“My wife?”

“Expecting you home, probably. Unless she’s telephoned Scotland Yard, to report you missing.”

There was no reason why he should believe the man, but he did. He felt much easier in his mind. Janet had been used as a decoy, and it wasn’t much good blaming Eddie Day for his mistake. They sped on, carving an avenue of light through the blustery darkness. They soon reached the Guildford by-pass and drove along the wide road between rows and rows of small houses. There was little traffic. The car in front, as large and powerful as this, was never more than twenty yards ahead of them, and so made sure that no one cut in. A car with a blue “Police” sign coasted along in the opposite direction, and the man by Roger’s side laid a hand gently on his knee.

“I always heard it said that if there was such a thing as a good policeman, it was Roger West,” he said.

“Thanks. But I’m just a beginner.”

“If you behave yourself, you’ll have a lot more time and promotion ahead of you. Care for a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“You’ll have one, just to please me,” said the man by his side. “It’ll taste all right—Scotch. You won’t notice anything wrong with it, and you’ll have a nice rest for a few hours. After that, we’ll talk business.”

“And what if I spit it out?”

“Then you’ll get the same treatment that the ox had back on the road.”

As he spoke, the man took a flask from his hip pocket. He unscrewed the cap and then switched on the roof light. He had a narrow, pale face, and those flashing eyes had long, dark lashes. His hand was as steady as the car would allow. Roger took the flask; it certainly smelt like whisky. The whisky warmed and encouraged him.

“That’ll do.” The man took the flask away and screwed the cap on. “If you stay as sensible as this, we’ll get along.”

Roger leaned back, comfortably, not yet drowsy. He didn’t know what road they were on now. Both cars sped through the night, and the rain came down in silvery streaks.

Gradually drowsiness came upon him.

*     *     *     *

Roger knew that he had slept a long time, because it was daylight when he woke. He lay in a comfortable bed, drowsy, unaware of any aches or pains, but his face felt stiff, and so did the back of his left hand. He felt no sense of alarm, even when he remembered what had happened in the car; he felt as if he were awake in a dream. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, opened them again and looked round the room. It was small but nicely furnished; more a woman’s than a man’s. On the dressing-table was a bowl of daffodils, heads drooping. Chintz curtains at the narrow window matched the flowered chintz on the bedspread, the eiderdown, and the two easy-chairs. The furniture, of light oak, was reproduction. There was a corner wash-hand basin.

All he could see out of the window from the bed, was the grey sky.

He knew that he ought to get up, but didn’t feel inclined to move. His mouth was dry—parched; the thing he would like most was tea. Weak, hot, sugarless tea, pints of it. Then he had a mental picture, of a battered head. That was his first bad moment since waking, he was really beginning to feel again. He pushed back the bed-clothes and sat up. His legs were stiff; he swung them over the side of the bed. His head began to ache. When he was steadier, he walked slowly to the window. He looked out on to a trim lawn, daffodil beds and, beyond a beech-hedge with massed brown leaves, trees. There were some dark firs and pines; but mostly they were leafless trees, spiky-looking beech and birch; silver birch. He heard nothing —absolutely nothing—but the tops of the trees were bent by the wind. So sound didn’t come into this room through the window. The window was a single pane of glass, and when he examined the frame, he saw that it was really a false one—this window wasn’t made to open. He pressed nearer and looked upwards, studying the glass. It had a yellow tint, a characteristic of toughened glass.

Roger went to the door.

It had a handle, but no lock—no keyhole. He tapped on it gently, and it didn’t sound like wood, it was more like steel. If he tapped louder, to make sure, he might attract attention. Well, why not? He turned from the door, and searched the room. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas with a broad blue-and-white stripe, and at the foot of the bed was a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, but no day clothes were in sight. He looked inside the wardrobe; there was nothing but clothes hangers.

He caught a glimpse of his face, and it surprised him because it was so normal. He went closer to the mirror, his face reflected above the daffodils. He could see the pink scratches and the shiny, greasy salve which had been rubbed into them after the blood had been cleaned off. His hand had been treated with the salve, too—that was why he felt little discomfort. He studied his face. By habit, he laughed when they called him “Handsome” at the Yard, but it wasn’t really a surprising soubriquet. His curly fair hair was ruffled, but undoubtedly it had been combed the night before.

He went to the wash-basin, washed his hands and face carefully in tepid water, and dabbed them dry. As a result the pink streaks turned red. They tingled, too. He went to the door and banged on it with his clenched fist, and then stood back and waited for someone to come.

Before long, he heard footsteps.

CHAPTER V

MARION

HE knew, before the door opened, that a woman was outside. The footsteps were quick and light, and he heard them distinctly, which argued against the door being steel. He heard a key scrape in the lock, so it had a lock on the outside. He sat down on the bed, looking towards the door.

The girl came in, started back when she saw him, then smiled, and closed the door. He caught a glimpse of a man who remained in the passage outside.

“Good morning,” the girl said brightly. “Is there anything you want?”

“Tea,” Roger said. “In urns, if possible, or pint mugs.”

“Some will be sent up in a few minutes.”

“Cigarettes and a lighter.”

“I can give you a cigarette,” she said, “but I am not allowed to leave matches with you, or to let you smoke when you’re alone.”

She took a small plastex case from a pocket in her pale-grey frock, and a lighter. She had to come near, to light his cigarette^ Few men would complain at being near her. She wasn’t beautiful, she just looked—good. It was in the clear grey of her fine eyes, the soft colour of her cheeks, the curve of her lips. She had a heart-shaped face, and light-brown hair—he supposed she would call it auburn. It was cut short, and if the waves and curls were machine-made, he would be surprised. Her hands were not small, but were well-shaped, and her nails were varnished a pale pink— pale enough to look natural.

He drew at the cigarette.

“All right?”

“Yes, thanks. Who are you?”

“You may call me Marion.”

He leaned back, nursed his knees with his hands, and looked at her without frowning.

“That’s thoughtful of you. What are you going to call me?”