John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

Throughout all this, Kennedy gradually sat up in his chair and drew in his legs. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away from Roger. The cigarette tasted unpleasant. He stood his ground, and Kennedy said softly:

“It was unavoidable.” Kennedy stood up. He had submitted to the first squall of revolt, which was a minor triumph. “I also had a visit from the police at my office.”

“So they’re after us both.”

“They’ve asked a few questions. You’ve got to find a way to stall them. That’s your job—understand, Rayner? That’s what you’re here for—countering the work of the police. You’d better do it well.”

“You bungled this. I should have been briefed before I got here. Your funny-funny business will get you to the gallows if you’re not careful.”

“You’ll come with me.”

“That’s why I’m worried about it.”

Kennedy smiled slowly.

“That’s a good frame of mind to be in,” he said. “I think I chose the right man. But watch your step. I’m the boss.”

“What I do, I’ll do my own way.” Roger went to a chair and sat down heavily—and flung out the next question: “What’s happened to Marion?”

“Why should you worry ?”

“She called me, asked me to——”

“Sure, I know. But you don’t answer appeals for help from pretty women, you go where I tell you to go, and forget all the rest.”

“Where is she?”

Kennedy leaned back and thrust his legs out again.

“She isn’t,” he said softly.

The significance of it was a long time dawning on Roger. It might not have dawned when it did but for that slow, cruel smile. “She isn’t.” Marion wasn’t alive, they’d killed her.

“She met with an accident,” Kennedy said.

“Accident?” On the tip of his tongue were the words: “Like Kyle’s wife,” but he bit on them. “So you——”

“That’s right. Haven’t you realized who you’re working for? Marion made it easier to handle you. But she wasn’t reliable. She fell in love with you. She listened at keyholes and learned this address and enough of the truth to be dangerous. She was silly enough to threaten to tell the police all she knew.”

Roger said: “Every detective in Scotland Yard could tell you what I’m going to tell you now. You’ve had it. You can get away with one murder, maybe two—but in your frame of mind, you go on until you get caught. You’re as good as hanged.”

“Very nice. I’ve been telling you, your job is to keep me free from the police.” Kennedy stood up and went to the window. This one overlooked the narrow street. “I don’t want to turn you into a yes man, you won’t be any good to me that way, but don’t forget who’s the boss, and don’t forget that if I get caught, you’ll be caught with me. I asked you what you said to Kyle.”

“How did you know about Sloan?”

“I’ll talk about a lot of things that mystify you, and you won’t say much I don’t get to hear. The question is—Kyle.”

“He was waiting when I got here. He expected to see someone else, although he didn’t say so. He pitched a hard-luck story, and I flung him out on his ear.”

“What kind of hard luck?”

“He wanted money. If I’d had time, I’d have listened to his story, but there wasn’t any time, because I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want anyone to find me with an old lag.”

“Who told you that Kyle was an old lag?”

Roger stared and laughed. He managed to sound amused. He lit another cigarette and waved his hand, as if at something which was ridiculous.

“I’ve been dealing with old lags most of my life. I’ve only to set eyes on them to know where they’ve been living. Kyle’s been inside for at least four years, you don’t get that way until you’ve had a stretch or longer.”

Kennedy said: “Okay, West. Keep on the level. Now, listen to me. This business is going to expand! You can leave all the details of staff and the daily running of the business to the secretary—Rose Morgan. You’ll get your instructions for the rest from me. You’ll travel a lot— didn’t I promise you an easy life?” He sneered. “This is your home address in England. There are two rooms and a kitchen besides this. You’ll have a man to look after you named Harry. He’ll be along later in the day. Just settle into your new life, Rayner.”

“When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”

“You’ll learn. I’ve told you enough for a start. Just remember what happens to people who won’t play the game my way. The girl at Copse Cottage was one. Marion was another.”

Kennedy got up and went out.

Roger sat quite still, looking at the ceiling. Images on his mind were far too many and too vivid; Marion was added to them, now—good, wholesome, attractive Marion, who had wanted to help him; had begged to help him. If he’d trusted her, he might have avoided all this, or much of it. The ruthless devilry of it swept over him like a stinking cloak of corruption.

Rose Morgan was forty-ish; plump, shapeless, dressed in a kind of black sack. She had a little beak of a nose, small pale lips which opened very little, a high-pitched, decisive voice. She was efficiency to the last syllable. Her hair was mousy colour and fastened in a bun at the back. She had good hands and perfectly kept nails. She seemed willing to teach Roger everything there was to know about the business.

He saw her for the first time the day after Sloan’s visit— a Friday. The staff was coming here on Monday, she said.

He asked for a list of the staff of nine; she assured him that all of them were thoroughly reliable and had worked for Wiseman, the previous owner, for several years. He examined the salary list; it was high—he paid his staff well! Rose Morgan received a thousand pounds a year, and the annual wages bill came to a little over five thousand. Rent, rates, other general expenses, were as much again. Before the business paid a penny profit, it had to show income over expenditure of ten thousand pounds. According to the figures it did that without much trouble; the profit for the past two years had been nearly five thousand. The profit was to be his share.

His.

As Charles Rayner, he had a private bank account with a credit of over two thousand pounds, and Government securities which made him worth ten times as much as Roger West.

This opened a completely new vista; he could call himself rich. He felt the lure of wealth; began, as the days passed, to expect the little luxuries he had never had before. He could stand outside himself, in an odd fashion, and watch the effect of this on him. He took to luxury and plenty of money as a duck took to water.

Harry, who “did” for him, was a quiet, vague individual, with a doleful face and big, brown eyes, a perfect servant who never intruded; that was part of the luxury attack on him. There was tea first thing in the morning, a drink ready before luncheon and dinner, perfectly cooked food, pressed clothes—everything.

He had accounts at three exclusive restaurants and two big stores. He bought clothes of good quality and cut. He could have whatever he wanted, and had only to sign the bill and, later, the cheque.

Kennedy didn’t come again during the next ten days. He heard nothing from Kyle or from Sloan. He was withdrawn more completely from his old life than he had ever dreamed possible. The past had begun as a nightmare and become a distant dream; frighteningly distant. He had to remind himself of it and also to remind himself of his chief objective—to find out the truth about Kennedy and all Kennedy stood for.

He found the business, as such, absorbing; there were many callers. He bought from this man and sold to that; he found that the business had many old and valuable contacts. It could get foods which were in short supply with little difficulty, and therefore could command its own price. There was nothing in short supply in which the firm didn’t deal, but he checked carefully and found that everything was above board and legal.