John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

* * * *

That was placed close to the murder story; so, slowly and reluctantly, the Yard was allowing him to be connected with that affair.

He put the paper down as the door opened. Kennedy came in with a little sparrow of a man. The newcomer had a beak of a nose and beady eyes, a fresh complexion and tiny, bloodless lips. He stood hardly higher than Kennedy’s shoulder, but was immaculately dressed in black coat and striped grey trousers, pale spats, a diamond tiepin in a silvery grey tie. His voice was high pitched, almost shrill.

“Good morning, good morning. So you’re the patient.”

“For what?” asked Roger.

“You’ll see,” said Kennedy.

“Yes, yes,” said the little man. “Yes, I see. Mr.—ah King, go over to the window, please, sit sideways to it, and look at the wall. Please.”

Roger obeyed.

The little man came closer, peered, breathed on him, and kept nodding. It went on for an age. Then the man pinched his cheeks, his forehead, and the flesh beneath his chin. Roger felt like a biological specimen.

“Yes, yes, that will do.”

“A good subject?” asked Kennedy.

“Quite satisfactory.”

“Mind it is, damn you!”

“There is no need to be abusive,” said the sparrow perkily. “When?”

“This morning.”

“Very well, I will get ready.” The sparrow went out, bustling and confident.

Roger felt the glittering eyes on him; he felt hot and frightened, but schooled his voice to calmness.

“What’s on?”

“The second stage in the transformation of Roger West. You don’t need to worry, you won’t feel anything.” Kennedy laughed, and then Marion came in with a tray on which were two cups of coffee; a departure from daily practice and therefore suspicious. She spoke, as if to lull his suspicions.

“As you were here, Mr. Kennedy, I thought I would bring two cups.”

“That’ll do.”

“Thank you.”

“Drink coffee. West?”

“I prefer tea.”

“You’ll like this for a change.”

He drank it.

* * * *

It was drugged. He knew that from Kennedy’s grin, and had proof in his own drowsiness, ten minutes after he’d had the drink. Kennedy left him and the male nurse came in, said: “Follow me” and went out again, expecting unquestioning obedience. Roger followed him along the narrow, plain-walled passages. The nurse opened a door. A powerful smell of antiseptics stung Roger’s nostrils; the bleak white austerity of an operation theatre met him. Panic rose inside him like a tempest, he stopped and gripped the door.

His mind was numbed with the drug, or he might have drawn back then, and fought to escape.

Beneath a single bright light was a chair; a barber’s chair. It stood beyond the operating-table. The nurse led him to it, and said: “Coat off.” He took off his coat and the nurse pushed him into the chair. As he sat down, the sparrow came hopping in. He went straight to a steaming metal pan, where surgical instruments gleamed through steam. Roger closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair; the neck rest was of hard rubber, quite comfortable. The mist rising from the pan seemed to become thicker, a billowing cloud, hiding the window, turning the light to an iridescent haze. The sparrow loomed out of it, or else was enveloped and almost invisible. He kept clicking his tongue; or was it his false teeth? He put on a long white coat. The mist looked like ectoplasm, and the sparrow a wraith. Roger’s head whirred as if the cine-projector were inside it. The speed increased, the harsh sound grated in his ears, eyes, the whole of his head. The mist became a billowing cloud stirred up by a strong wind. Men became shapes. On a tray in front of him instruments gleamed— glittered—it was as if Kennedy were staring at him from the tray.

He lost consciousness.

* * * *

He groaned. Someone spoke, softly, soothingly. He groaned again, but not from pain. There was no pain, only fear of something he could not comprehend.

A hand was at his shoulder, and the voice came again.

He tried to open his eyes.

He could not.

Panic, a hundred times worse than when he had been in the chair, took hold of him and shook him violently, his whole body seemed to be in physical turmoil. He felt pressure on his hands and—worse—on his eyes; that was why he couldn’t open them, something pressed firmly against the lids. That wasn’t all; there was pressure against his cheeks, chin, lips, and throat, a constricting pressure, as if his face were in a special “strait jacket”.

“Mr. West!”

He knew that voice.

“Please don’t struggle, please don’t.”

Was he struggling? He felt as if he were convulsed by forces stronger than himself. But he became calmer and more conscious of the gentle pressure of Marion’s hands.

“You’ll be all right,” she promised, “you’ll be all right.”

He was still; and he was hot; prickly heat affected his whole body, and there was a warm glow over his face. He tried to speak, and couldn’t move his lips.

“Don’t try to speak yet. You’ll be all right. You’ve had an operation on your face.”

He lay quite still, aware of the stiff warmth of his face, clearly understanding what had happened. The sparrow was a plastic surgeon; Kennedy had talked of the second stage in the transformation of Roger West—a transformation in his looks, of course.

He moved his right hand.

He felt the same warm stiffness at the tips of his fingers —so they’d taken the skin off them, and grafted new, to prevent identification through his finger-prints. But the prints would grow again; didn’t they know that?

“I’m going to help you to sit up,” said Marion. “Then I’ll feed you.”

Her arms were young and strong, and soon he reclined comfortably against the pillow. She put something to his lips and it seemed hard, cold, and round; like a cigarette. It was a rubber tube. Warm sweetness filled his mouth and he gurgled as it ran down his gullet.

“Are you fairly comfortable? Just nod.”

He nodded.

“Is there anything you want?”

He wanted freedom; Janet; the boys; all the things which were impossible to have. He shook his head.

“I’ll come and see you again, soon.”

He wanted to ask how long this would go on, but he couldn’t move his lips, and so had to let her go.

An hour or an age passed before she was back.

* * * *

“Mr. West, I want you to listen carefully to all I have to say.”

He nodded.

“You can talk now, if you try. Your lips are free of the bandages, but your chin and nose aren’t. If you try to talk without moving your lips much, you’ll manage.”

Old lags knew that trick; he’d often demonstrated for fun, and sent the boys off into peals of laughter. He tried now.

“Okay. I can hear.” The voice didn’t sound like his own.

Had they changed that?

“You’ll be here just for a day or two, and after that more of the bandages will be taken away and you’ll feel easier.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a cord above your head. Pull it if you want someone to come.”

“Thanks.”

“Would you like the radio?”

“No!”

“If you would, just pull the cord. And please remember this. I want to do everything I can to help. I know who you are now, I’ve seen the newspapers, and——”

She broke off in a choking voice, and he heard her rush out of the room.

* * * *

Routine.

Special feeding, liquids only; visits once a day from the sparrow. Radio music in half-hour doses. After the third day, some of the bandages were removed. The burning sensation went completely, but his face and fingers felt numb.

Routine: practise speaking; practise moving his fingers. Radio music; dull radio comedians, bright radio comediennes—no news. Never any news.