John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

“I’m Lissa Meredith,” said Lissa.

All three went into the smaller office, and the Sergeant motioned to chairs and sat down himself, but Lissa continued to stand.

“I can’t wait to hear everything. Roger, is it true that you’ve seen Ricky?”

He nodded.

“How — how was he?” She seemed almost afraid to ask.

“Frightened,” Roger told her, “but not hurt.”

“You’ll just have to see the Shawns. They’re — they’re worse even than you would expect. David thought that Ricky would be sent back once he came over here. Belle raves at him like a crazy woman. I don’t want to get any nearer hell than that household.” She paused. “Did you see him again?”

“Yes.”

What’s happening up there?” Lissa asked. “Washington called me and said Ed Pullinger had arrived, too. I don’t know the whole story yet.” She glanced at Al Ginney. “Have you had instructions from Washington, Al?”

“No, ma’am. I would get them through Albany, anyway,” the Sergeant told her. “But I guess I don’t need instructions to do what Mr Pullinger says, and he says to let Mr West do anything he pleases.”

“Where is Mr Pullinger?”

“In bed. I guess he had a pretty hard time.”

“Do you know what happened to him in New York — and to you?” Lissa asked Roger.

He told me about it.”

Then we needn’t disturb him,” Lissa decided. We’ll drive to the Shawns’ place at once. There isn’t a thing more you can do here. Are you ready?”

“There’s one little thing,” Roger said. “That paper-knife, Sergeant.”

When he told her of the significance of the knife, she opened her handbag and took out a folded card; Roger saw that this had her photograph on it.

We’ll take that knife, Al,” she said.

Ginney studied the card, then studied her.

“Sure can, ma’am. I’ve taken the prints off it, they’re on the record, and I’ve sent copies to New York by special messenger and to Washington by air. Mr West thinks they might be that important. There’s a funny thing, Mr West. We’ve men up at Webster’s old house, but haven’t found another set of those same prints. We don’t know for sure, but we think the man who left them on the knife arrived only an hour or so before Mr West got away.

“He wore gloves,” Roger said. “He always wore gloves or had his fingers taped. He forgot himself for ten minutes, and that was enough.” Having the prints, knowing there were no others, heightened his sense of buoyancy. “I’m ready when you are, Lissa.”

What’s holding us back?”

He shook hands with Al Ginney, who stepped with them to the street. A Cadillac convertible, wine-red cellulose and chromium glistening, stood in the shade of a spreading beech tree. By now more people were in the main street and in the shops. Most of the weather-board houses were freshly painted, looking bright and new. Only a duster of shops had two storeys or more, while all the houses were the English bungalow type, but looked much larger.

Lissa took the wheel, and Ginney waved them off. Soon they passed the open doors of the little hotel where Roger had feasted on ham and eggs. Looking between the houses on the left, Roger caught glimpses of the lake; of trees on the lake shore, a brighter green than those farther from the water; of small craft moving slowly, an outboard motor-boat flashed past them with a stuttering roar. The far bank of the lake, where Roger had stood and looked at the lights of Wycoma during the night, now seemed much nearer. Beyond, hills rose in wooded slopes, and beyond the hills, peaks which looked like mountains.

Now he and Lissa were passing the end of a dirt road, and as they did so, a big car which had been standing there slid after them.

“See that?” Roger asked quietly.

We’re well guarded,” Lissa said. “Someone thinks you’re worth taking care of.”

Roger didn’t speak.

“How do you feel?” asked Lissa.

“Stiff in places, otherwise I’m all right.”

“If you were half dead, you’d call yourself all right.”

She didn’t look at him. The hood was down, wind sang past the windscreen and whipped round it, playing with her hair where it escaped the peaked pull-on cap she was wearing. He hadn’t given much thought to her clothes before. The cap, wine red like the Cadillac, a beige shirt with large breast pockets, and a wine red skirt; simple, perfect for her. As she drove, she looked as if she held the secret of life.

“How far is it?” Roger asked.

“Say a hundred and sixty miles; we’ll arrive late this afternoon.”

“How did you get here so soon?”

“I flew,” she said simply. “The car was sent from Albany.”

They look after you well.”

They know how important this is, Roger,” Lissa said. “Anyway they don’t want anything else to happen to an English policeman over here! The fingerprints will help, but you’re still the man who matters. The man who matters,” she repeated softly, and glanced at him. Then she laughed. “It’s too bad. You don’t have two hours in New York before you get carried off, and even when you see the Adirondacks, you’re being hunted or hustled. We’re on the eastern slopes,” she went on. “In a month or six weeks, you ought to come back to see the autumn leaves. I don’t think there is anything like their colours in the world.” She laughed again, as if she were excited, and talked swiftly, as if anxious to stop herself from thinking too much. “You’ll have heard that too often already, Ed Pullinger couldn’t help himself talking about New York. Do we talk too much about America? I often wish I knew just what the English think about us. Is it too bad?”

Roger said easily: “I’d rather work with Marino than with most men I know.”

“Thank you.” She took her right hand off the wheel and rested it for a moment on Roger’s knee. “If there’s one thing I want, it’s that you should think well of us.”

He didn’t have to tell her that he knew she meant it.

She drove fast without being reckless, and the other car was always in sight behind them. The first hour was through winding tree-clad slopes, hiding large lakes, allowing only occasional glimpses of them through the folds in the hills and the valleys. There was little traffic. The surface of the road was good, the edges roughly finished to eyes used to the neatness of English roads. Roger didn’t consciously compare them, but sat back and let reflections drift in and out of his mind in a strange contentment. The aching in his limbs had eased, and now only the abrasions at his ankle and the back of his right heel stung, but not severely.

Soon they reached open land, pasture with long, wide vistas, and here it would have been easy to imagine that he was in an unfamiliar part of England. Only the big cars and the huge trucks were different; and the small towns, with their frame houses, each house surrounded by sweeping lawns and shaded from the hot sun by tall trees.

It was in one of those towns that they stopped for lunch, choosing a large, single-storey restaurant, where green blinds were down to keep out the sun, and a huge sign proclaimed:

Steaks

Chicken in the Basket

Boston Baked Beans

Roger hadn’t eaten a bigger steak for years.

The big room was cool, the service friendly, music came from juke boxes fed with nickels by a family with three children who were sprawling over the chairs and examining the colourful candy-stand with eager eyes.

Afterwards, Lissa drove on tirelessly. They said little. Roger thought less, his mind a vacuum which he knew would soon have to be filled; but there was no need to fill it yet. Just after four o’clock they turned off a wide main road on to a narrow one with a good tar surface, and Lissa said: