John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

There was one thick barrier to all investigations; everywhere he went, he was watched. Waking and sleeping, he knew that he was watched.

Day by day, he grew into life as Charles Rayner.

Day by day, Roger West receded.

By the end of three weeks, he knew that the greatest danger to success would be himself; the new conditions, the constant surveillance and the desire to be free from it —and real freedom would come only when Kennedy was sure of him—worked together to soften his mind. Soften— or harden it?

Exactly a month after Kyle’s visit, he sent a registered letter to Mr. John Pearson at the Strand G.P.O. Kyle didn’t telephone; Roger was at once pleased and sorry about that.

It was on the morning after he had posted the money to Kyle that he received a letter marked “Personal”. It was the first he had received since coming to the flat, and Harry brought it to him with his morning tea. He waited until the man had gone, and then opened it with unsteady fingers. Inside was a single slip of paper on which were two words: Kyle’s dead.

The morning papers confirmed it; Kyle had “fallen” in front of a train at Edgware Road Tube Station.

Kennedy came on the telephone later in the day. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes.”

“Take it to heart. I’ve a job for you.”

“Where?”

“You’ll be brought to me—remember the male nurse? You can call him Percy. He’ll meet you at the corner of Putney Bridge, near the old theatre. Just make sure you’re not followed. Leave at once—Percy will expect you in an hour’s time.”

Kennedy rang off. Roger leaned back in his chair and faced up to the new situation. For the first time he was to be used for a job. He rang for Rose Morgan.

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“I’m going out, and I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“Tell Harry he needn’t get luncheon, but I expect to be in for dinner.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“See Renfrew when he comes, and apologize—say I’m ill. Handle everything else yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

Rose was like a machine.

Roger put on his hat and went downstairs. He reached the Strand and beckoned a taxi from a rank. “Harrods,” he said, and sat back, looking out of the tiny rear window. No one followed him except the usual stream of traffic. Three quarters of an hour after getting the message, he was at Putney Bridge.

Percy sat at the wheel of a big, roomy black Daimler— an old model, but it had an air. Percy was in chauffeur’s uniform and wore a peak cap. He nodded, but didn’t smile when he got out and opened the door for Roger, behaving in the same way as Rose Morgan—like a machine. Roger sat back on the luxurious seat, and a feeling of well-being came upon him like a cloud or a shroud. He watched the traffic coming over the bridge and along Putney High Street, with its steep hill. At the top, the driver turned right towards Richmond. Not far along he heard a whirring sound which reminded him vividly of the cine-camera at the nursing home.

The blinds were dropping at the windows; they were worked from a control button at the front.

The Daimler gathered speed, took corners easily, hummed along a main road where, judging from the sounds, there was little traffic. They went on for more than half an hour, and were well out of London when the car turned a corner sharply and went along a bumpy road. Soon it turned again, at the foot of a hill so steep that Percy had to change gear. They crawled to the top of the hill, and stopped.

The blinds shot up; sunlight streamed into the Daimler, dazzling Roger. When he was accustomed to the glare, he saw they were outside a small country house. Trees were packed densely behind the house. In front there was a long drive; lawns and flower-gardens, with tulips and wallflowers in brightly coloured beds, misty forget-me-nots adding a background of blue. It was delightful; and it overlooked sweeping countryside. The road along which they had come was hidden by a fringe of oak and beech.

“Out,” said Percy, opening the door.

Roger said: “One day you’re going to change your tone, Percy.” The little man glared, but made no comment. Roger went up three stone steps and stood beneath a brick porch, warm, browny-red. The door was of natural oak, oiled, not painted, and was studded with iron nail-heads. As he reached it, a man opened the door—a stranger and obsequious.

“Mr. Rayner?”

“Yes.”

“This way, sir, please.” The door closed behind them, and Roger was led up a wide staircase: wider than the outside of the house had led him to expect. He went across the square landing. A passage led to a window through which the bright sunlight glowed. Several doors led off it, and he was taken to the first door on the right. The man tapped, and opened it.

“Mr. Rayner, madame,” he said, and stood aside for Roger to pass.

Madame?

CHAPTER XIV

“ MADAME ”

SHE wasn’t like Marion, Lucille, or even Janet, simply an attractive woman; she was beautiful—and young. She sat in a chair at a small bow-shaped mahogany desk, with the sun streaming through the window behind her, so that her features were in shadow. She smiled faintly, and indicated a chair; she didn’t get up and didn’t offer her hand.

The chair was placed opposite the window, so that she could sec every feature and every line on his face. She pushed a silver cigarette-box across the desk, and waited for him to light up; she didn’t take a cigarette herself.

She wore a white blouse, simple, plain, and fastened high at the neck. Her voice was pitched low; it was somehow less attractive than he had expected, with a faint accent he couldn’t place.

“Mr. Kennedy tells me that you will be able to help me,” she said. “I understand that you have a considerable experience of police matters, criminal law, and all the relative factors.”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Kennedy assures me that your services are at my disposal. Is that true?”

“Yes,” he said.

She went on quickly:

“My husband is under remand at Brixton Jail. I think it probable that the prosecution would be able to prove their case against him. If it should be proved, he is likely to serve a long prison sentence. I have copies of all the statements he has made to his legal advisers, and I want you to study them. There are, also, details of the charge and a summary of the evidence against him, so far as we are aware of it. I want you to study all those papers and form an opinion as to the likely result of the trial. If there is a weakness in the case for the prosecution, I want you to elaborate it, so that my husband’s counsel can be properly primed. He is charged with smuggling currency from a number of foreign countries into this country; with smuggling sterling out of Great Britain to the Continent.”

“I’m no expert on currency,” Roger told her.

“You can assess the case in the light of the evidence that will be given you. You will work here—is that convenient ?”

It might take hours; a day; or several days. But Kennedy had pledged his services, and the obvious thing was to say: “Yes.”

“Thank you. What is your fee, Mr. Rayner?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had a look at the job.”

“Very well.”

“Unless you would rather deal with Mr. Kennedy,” he said.

She shook her head.

“I have paid him a fee for the introduction, and this aspect of the matter is now between you and me. If your work is satisfactory in every way, I shall not be ungenerous. It is essential that my husband should not serve a prison sentence.”

There was something else in her mind, but he didn’t judge this the moment to probe.