John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

“Listen,” said Roger, “I’m not a stooge any longer, I’m a partner. We take the same risks, by relying on each other. I’m not going on with hole-in-corner business. Where are you?”

Kennedy said: “Percy will pick you up in half an hour’s time, outside the Burlington Arcade. He’ll bring you to me.”

* * * *

Roger went into the kitchen, tore some paper into squares, and, with steady hands, shook a little flour out of a tin into each square. Then he screwed the pieces of paper up; he had a dozen little screws when he’d finished. He wiped all trace of the flour away, and put the bags, wrapped in a large handkerchief, into his pocket.

* * * *

Percy was at the wheel of the Daimler, and didn’t get out. Roger climbed in. The car moved off swiftly, and the blinds fell, with the familiar whirring. Roger opened the side ventilation window, and waited until the car had turned two corners, then tossed one of the small screws of flour out. He waited for three more turns, and tossed another.

The journey took fifteen minutes, and he didn’t think they had gone farther than five minutes away from the Arcade; Percy had been driving over the same ground. As they slowed down, he dropped out another paper-bag.

Percy opened the door without letting up the blinds, Roger glanced up and down the dark street. Except that it was one of London’s squares, he couldn’t identify it. He glanced down at the pavement; the little white bag had burst ten yards or so away, the flour showed pale blue beneath a lamp.

He followed Percy to the house and saw that the number painted on a round pillar was twenty-seven. A manservant opened the door; so Kennedy lived in style. Percy came in and, without a word, took him upstairs. It was luxurious: carpets, tapestries on the walls, good furniture and soft lighting—the home you would expect of a millionaire. Percy led the way to a room on the right, tapped and opened it at a call.

It was a study; book-lined, with a magnificent carved-oak desk; a film set of a room falling just short of opulence. Kennedy stood by a white Adam mantelpiece, with a brandy glass in his hand and his eyes only slightly open. He tipped his head back to look at Roger.

“All right, Percy,” he said.

He was in a dinner-jacket. A cigar, half-smoked, lay on an ash-tray on the mantelpiece. On another, at the side of a chair, was a half-smoked cigarette; it was red-tipped, so a woman had been here to dinner.

The door closed with a click.

“What’s the cause for alarm, West?”

The slip. West instead of Rayner, betrayed Kennedy’s state of nerves. If Kennedy realized what he had done, he had the wit not to correct himself.

Roger said: “Why didn’t you tell me you were wanted by the police?”

Kennedy said softly: “But I’m not, and you know I’m not. You had a previous visit from Sloan, and he slung the name Kennedy into the conversation.”

“He’s after you,” Roger said abruptly. “What’s more he’s connected you with Kyle, Marion, and—with me. Don’t ask me how.”

Kennedy turned, took the cigar and drew at it, took it from his mouth and looked at the faint red glow beneath the pale-grey ash. He was quite steady.

“I should like to hear more about it.”

“You can listen to your dictaphone recording in the morning,” Roger said. “I thought I was the big risk in this outfit. Now I know that you are. Have the police got anything on you?”

“They’ve a name, that’s all. You know me as Kennedy. A few other people do. I’m not known here as Kennedy. That isn’t my name. I’m careful, Rayner.” He slipped back into the use of Rayner easily. “They don’t know anything against Kennedy. They might suspect him of a few minor crimes, that’s all. There’s no need to fly into a panic.”

“Call it what you like. This is dangerous. Sloan came to warn me that I was playing with bad men when I played with Kennedy.”

Kennedy said: “Perhaps he thinks you’re honest!” He didn’t seem to be amused. “I’ve always been worried by the man Sloan, he got on to Kyle too quickly. He was after the men behind Kyle, of course, that’s——”

“How the police get half of their results. They pick up a man on one thing, and find he’s connected with another. They’re much better than you’ve ever given them credit for.”

Kennedy said: “Maybe. Would Sloan have a dossier on you, this Kennedy, and anything else to do with the case?”

“He’d keep a record, probably in his desk—more likely there than at his home. Few policemen keep everything in their heads. They never know what they’ll forget—and they never know when they might run into trouble, so they leave their testimony behind them. Sloan usually kept his note-book in his desk.”

“Would he talk to anyone about this?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t any close friends at the Yard. He’s young— young for his rank, too. He and I were usually together on a job. He’d confide in me. And on this job, he’s more likely than usual to keep it to himself, because I’m at the bottom of it. He’d feel that the others were laughing at him for thinking I’d been framed—most of them have probably assumed that I killed the girl at Copse Cottage.”

Kennedy drew at the cigar again.

“I see. Have a drink, Rayner? I can recommend the brandy, or——”

“I wouldn’t mind a whisky.”

“Please yourself.” Kennedy poured out. “Do you know of anyone at the Yard you could bribe?”

The question wasn’t a surprise, was no more than Roger had to expect. He took the glass and didn’t answer.

“Do you?” The other’s voice was thin and harsh.

He had to win Kennedy’s confidence; there was no drawing back.

“I wouldn’t like to say. There are one or two I didn’t trust, but I doubt if they’d sell anything that mattered.

We had our black sheep, though. There’s one——” he broke off and gulped down his whisky. “No, you’re crazy! The Brixton job was bad enough. Corrupting a Yard man——”

“You wouldn’t have to do it. The man who’d tackle the job would be prepared for trouble. He’d be safe enough from our side. But it might take him six months to find the right prospect. This is just another way you can help me, Rayner—and help yourself.”

Roger shrugged. “I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Who is the man you’ve got in mind?”

“Well—Detective Sergeant——”

“Small fry,” sneered Kennedy. “Do better.”

“He’s your best bet. You can’t get at the high rankers —I’ll stake my life on any one of them. This man, Sergeant Banister, is an old chap. He has a damning habit of antagonizing his seniors, especially Assistant Commissioners, and he’s failed at most of his exams. He’s good, but he can’t get promotion and the accompanying pay increase, and he has a rough time at home. His wife’s on the sick list—a chronic invalid. I don’t know how far he would go, but he’s your most likely prospect. What do you want?”

“Sloan’s desk note-book.”

“What else?”

“Anything about the Copse Cottage murder, you, Kyle, Kennedy, and Marion—dossiers on them all. They’re easy enough to get for a man inside, aren’t they?”

Roger said: “They should be. They might be out— that means with the Assistant Commissioner, the Home Office, or one of the Superintendents. That wouldn’t be for long, but if Banister played ball, he might not be able to get everything for a few days. But there’s a snag.”

“What is it?”

“Once the dossiers were missed, the Yard would make a grand slam against the people covered by them. You’d be surprised what happens when those experts really put their heads together. They know all the tricks, all the answers.”