John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

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.”

He said gruffly: “But I’m not a child. Give me ten minutes.”

“I’ll have some coffee ready,” Lissa promised.

“Fine.” He smiled, rasped a hand over his stubble, waited until she had closed the door, and then pressed his fingers against his lips.

“You bloody fool,” he said savagely. “You damned fool.” He made himself picture Janet, at the house, as she had been when Lissa’s cable arrived. “You bloody fool!” he muttered, and began to fling on his clothes. He pushed borrowed shaving-gear and oddments into a borrowed bag, and was ready when Lissa tapped at the door. “Come in.”

She carried a tray. She hadn’t dressed, looked as bright and fresh as he had always known her, but was crisp and businesslike. There were rolls and butter, jelly and marmalade, as well as coffee.

“No one else is awake,” she said. “I’ll be back in five minutes, and I’ll drive you to the airfield. The plane’s waiting.” She went out without looking at him.

In six or seven minutes she was back, wearing the same beige shirt and wine red skirt as yesterday, with a short-waisted lumber-jacket type coat slung over her shoulders. She drank the cup of coffee he poured for her, and they hurried downstairs. They were at the front door, when a man called out sharply:

“Who’s that?”

Lissa cried: “Be quiet!”

It was Fischer, still in his dressing-gown, hair tousled, eyes bleary in the landing light. He was already halfway down the stairs.

“What the hell’s all this?”

“Roger’s been recalled,” Lissa said.

“ Recalled. ”

“It’s the very devil,” Roger said. His cue was ready made, because Lissa was determined Fischer shouldn’t be sure of the truth. And couldn’t Fischer have doped that milk, as easily as Lissa? “See you one day.” He waved, and opened the door.

Fischer was muttering something, and still coming down. He was at the open door when they drove out from the garage. He waved.

“Can our man be Carl?” Lissa asked.

“It can be anyone, male or female.”

She laughed, but did not sound carefree. She drove much faster than she had the previous day, and the waking country-side slipped by. They passed through a township with the needle at sixty. The airfield was on the far side, and he heard the engines of a “plane warming up. It was a twin-engined machine with sleek lines. The pilot and one other member of the crew were waiting.

Roger turned to Lissa. “Be careful,” he said. “You —”

“I’m coming with you,” she interrupted. “I’ve a grip with some clothes in the boot I had to fool Carl.”

• • •

Greeting the pilot and his second-in-command, climbing into the aircraft behind Lissa, looking out of the window at the green fields, the stretch of tarmac and the small aerodrome buildings all seemed to crowd in on Roger. He had hardly sat down before they started to move. There were twenty-two seats, but they were the only passengers.

He sensed the smoothness of the “plane as it was airborne. It circled once, and he saw the building again. Lissa was by his side, leaning back relaxed.

But as the machine climbed, and Roger also relaxed back in his seat, a darting thought drove relaxation away.