John Creasey: Send Superintendent West

She almost fell down the next few stairs, and when she was a step above Lissa, Roger could see the distortion of her face; the wild expression, the lips stretched so tautly across the large white teeth that it was like looking at a hideous mask.

Shawn was in a sleeveless vest and trousers. His face was a mask, too, but it wasn’t hideous; except for the burning eyes and the barely noticeable working of the jaw it would have been expressionless. Blood welled up from two parallel scratches across his right cheek.

“Fetch the police!” screamed Belle. “If you won’t —” She caught her breath, but it was only a fleeting pause, there was no chance for Lissa to speak before she cried: “You’re as bad as he is! You’re worse, get out of my way!”

Roger saw her hand rise, saw Lissa stagger to one side.

Shawn called: “Belle!”

Belle pushed past Lissa, stumbled again, saved herself by grabbing the banister rail, then raced down the remaining stairs dressing-gown flying behind her, bare legs long and shapely, pyjama coat rucking up. She didn’t see Roger until she was past Lissa. She didn’t stop, but veered to the right. Guessing he would try to stop her, she put out both hands to fend him off. She was sobbing, her lips were drawn back over those large teeth, which now seemed ugly. Her eyes held the glare of madness.

Roger ducked, dived, caught her round the knees and brought her down. She struck her head heavily on the carpet, didn’t cry out, but lay still. He straightened up, pulled the dressing-gown over her legs, and then knelt beside her.

The quiet was unreal, a false calm in a storm; everything about this episode seemed unreal, even the quiet note in Shawn’s voice as he said:

“I’ll take her.”

Roger drew back, and Shawn gathered his dazed wife in his arms and carried her upstairs. Lissa followed him without a word, and they disappeared into a room on the right. Now there was the feeling of a lull before an even greater storm. Roger had a vivid mental picture of the man, very big and powerful and with startling good looks; and of his burning eyes.

Another man appeared from the kitchen, a third to “Herb” and his guide at the Embassy, sleek, youthful, fair, fresh-faced; his smile probably hid embarrassment.

“You take risks, Superintendent, don’t you?”

“Sometimes. Who are you?”

“Mr Antonio Marino sent me, to stay around until Lissa arrived with Superintendent West from Scotland Yard. How would you like to prove you’re West?”

Roger took out his wallet and flashed his CID card, gave the man time to look at it, put it away, and asked;

“How long has this screaming been going on?”

“It just blew up. Anything you would like me to do?”

“Make sure you haven’t touched anything in the kitchen.”

“Only a chair.”

Roger said: “I’ll see you in a minute,” and went to the dining-room, where a telephone stood on a table near the window. He covered the receiver with his handkerchief, then dialled the Embassy. All the time footsteps thudded on the ceiling, but there was no other sound; no crying. Marino was soon on the line.

“Roger West,” announced Roger. “That doctor isn’t here, and he’s needed in a hurry.”

“He’ll be there very soon,” Marino promised in his lazy voice. “I’m glad you called, Superintendent The Ambassador and the Commissioner are to have lunch together, and the Commissioner has been good enough to agree that you come and talk to me afterwards, instead of going straight to Scotland Yard.” Roger didn’t comment “What can you tell me?” Marino went on.

“That you will have to have some publicity, even if you say there’s been a burglary,” Roger said. “One of the neighbours probably knows what’s happened — Mrs Shawn’s voice can be heard a long way off. Make sure that doctor hurries, won’t you?”

“He’s already hurrying.” Marino sounded worried. “Is Pete Kennedy there?”

“If he’s the fair-haired man, yes. Just a moment.”

The man was Peter Kennedy. He spoke to Marino, then put the instrument down and said: “I have to be on my way, Mr West, unless there’s anything you need that no one else can give you.”

“Just evidence that you are Peter Kennedy.”

The other grinned, showed a badge, and gave a mock salute.

After he had gone, Roger looked about the room, inspected the cups and saucers and everything on the table, reading the story they told; that the Shawns had been overwhelmed with tiredness at the end of the meal, had dragged themselves up to bed and had “slept” for twelve hours and more. At eight-ten when Lissa Meredith had arrived, they had been unconscious; probably they had come round half an hour or so ago.

He walked about the room, which wasn’t large — perhaps fifteen feet by twenty or so. It had a fitted carpet in pearl grey, the furniture was contemporary, spindly and expensive, as far removed from utility as a mink fur coat from a coney. Everything was pleasing to the eye. There were no pictures, not even the half-expected abstracts, only three framed photographs on the mantelpiece. Roger looked at the middle picture, which was of the boy.

He had a small, sensitive, frightened face. Frightened, Roger wondered. Why did he get that impression? It was the face of a child who lacked confidence; yet it was impossible to say why Roger was so sure of this, unless he had been influenced by Lissa’s strictures on the mother. The expression was one he had never seen on Martin-called-Scoopy’s face, or Richard’s. He had seen it on the faces of boys who had been in trouble; urchins from the street, puffed up with a braggadocio which usually collapsed when they reached the threshold of the Juvenile Court. He had seen it on the face of a neighbour’s son, and learned afterwards that the couple had quarrelled day in, day out; divorce had brought the child a kind of peace.

Sensitive, then, and frightened — or lost? Yet the son of wealthy parents, with everything life could offer.

The boy was certainly like his mother in looks, and although Roger had only seen her face ravaged with grief, he realized she was a beauty; according to Lissa, a petulant beauty.

Roger examined the back door more closely, found one or two scratches, gave it more attention, and felt sure that the man or men had entered this way. In half an hour he found nothing else. He poured the dregs from each coffee-cup into small medicine bottles he found in a cupboard, after rinsing them out; he poured the milk from the Jug into another bottle, placed samples of the sugar, coffee and all the food he could find into a small basket he discovered in the kitchen. All this, without destroying prints that might be there. He felt curiously on his own, and badly wanted a team; he would have settled for Bill Sloan.

He heard a movement outside the kitchen, but didn’t look round. He could see the door in a small mirror hanging between the two windows. It was Lissa. She came in quietly; he didn’t think stealthily. She wasn’t smiling or frowning, but looked intent He waited until she was halfway across the room, and then turned.

“Hallo.”

“Hi,” she said. “Mr West, you’ve got to make David believe you’ll find Ricky.”

“Have I?” Roger said heavily.

“It matters more than almost anything else you can think of. You must make him believe that you will find the boy. Even if it means faked evidence.” Her eyes demanded that of him, and he knew that she felt this need desperately. “Because if you don’t —”

“He will listen to ransom talk,” Roger suggested.

“Ransom,” she said. “Yes, he will.”

She drew nearer, a hand touched his, the honey-coloured eyes had a faraway look. In a tauter voice, she said: “You’re very hard. I can tell that But you must convince David that he will do harm, not good, by talking terms with anyone. It could be for money. It’s more likely to be someone who wants to high pressure David for his secret knowledge.”