John Creasey: Inspector West Alone

Roger wanted a cracksman. He said: “Have you got any burglar’s tools here?”

Harry’s eyes opened wide.

“Well——”

“Good, up-to-date stuff, not just a jemmy and a screwdriver.”

“I haven’t got any here, but I know where I could lay me hands on some.” Harry was puzzled yet eager.

“Will you take a big risk?”

“Nothing much to lose, now,” said Harry, and his face became more animated, a little colour glowed in his cheeks. “So I was right, you’ve been putting one across Percy and his boss.”

“That’s right, Harry.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and gave a little, satisfied smile. There was no gloating in it, but much relief.

* * * *

Roger stood in the doorway and looked across Lyme Street. The guard was still there. He himself was in the shadows, and the man couldn’t see him. He saw the other put his hands to his pocket and take out a packet of cigarettes; a moment later, a match flared. The man moved out of his doorway and strolled along the street—and Roger moved forward, but drew back suddenly. A policeman had turned the corner and was walking along, that was why the guard had moved. The guard crossed the road and stood outside a small cafe which was still open; a man, looking into a cafe and studying the menu card in the window, wasn’t going to attract much attention. He peered along the street. The policeman passed him. The guard waited until the policeman had turned the next corner, and then went back to his usual stand. Roger moved again, quickly. He saw the man stiffen. He crossed the road, but didn’t look at the man—whose job it was to report, and perhaps to follow. He walked towards the dark dingi-ness of the market lanes and alleys, and the man followed him. He slipped round a corner; it was very dark here. He heard the man hurrying after him, and knew when he was at the corner.

The man turned.

Roger grabbed him by the neck, stilling a cry, drove a fierce punch into his stomach, let him go, then struck at his chin. Two blows knocked the man out. No one was here, the policeman was out of sight. Roger dragged the unconscious man across the bumpy, cobbled road, into a narrow alley leading towards the main, covered market. He took out a length of cord, bound the man’s ankles and wrists, dragged him farther—into a little alcove—and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he dragged him, by his coat collar, and saw a dark pile of empty wooden crates. He shifted some of the crates, dumped the man behind them, and put them back into position. He wouldn’t be found until those crates were moved, and that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least.

He went back to Lyme Street.

Harry came out of the doorway. “All okay, sir?”

“Yes. Get a move on.”

“I had to see this through,” said Harry. “See you at the Burlington Gardens end of Burlington Arcade in about an hour, then. It’s just on eleven—I ought to be there by midnight.”

“Fine.”

Harry turned and hurried towards the Strand and a taxi.

Roger had an hour to kill.

* * * *

There had never been a longer sixty minutes. He walked to Burlington Arcade, and his mind wouldn’t stop working, weighing up his chances; especially those against him. Kennedy would have his home well protected. Kennedy, as Hemmingway, wouldn’t be likely to keep the records at the home where he was so safe. Harry might fail him. Harry might get cold feet. Harry might have fooled him. Death didn’t take long. A man might come towards him, walking, or in a car—and shoot just once.

Roger walked along to Bond Street and towards Oxford Street. There were few people about, and most of those who were came from the AEolian Hall, where they took the overflow from Broadcasting House. Taxis passed. A sleek car came from Oxford Street and slowed down as it drew near him. It was ten minutes to twelve. He turned his face towards the car, prepared to spring to one side if the driver or the passenger moved. The car passed.

Roger walked back towards the end of the Arcade. It was a warm night, but he didn’t feel warm. A clock struck sonorously—midnight. Each boom seemed louder and more threatening than the last. No one approached the Arcade. Harry might have taken fright; Harry might have fooled him. Harry might——

He walked away again; it was a dangerous spot to stand. Another car passed, slowed down at the corner, and then turned without the driver taking the slightest notice of him. Another—this wasn’t a car, but a taxi I It slowed down.

Harry, carrying a big suitcase, climbed out of the cab and paid the driver off. It wasn’t imagination that the driver looked at him curiously; but cab drivers were often curious about mysterious night passengers, it would have been better to have met outside a hotel; there were dozens nearby. Forget it. The taxi moved off, and Harry came forward briskly.

“I’ve got everything I could lay my hands on, sir. Had a bit of luck.” He was chirpy.

“Yes?”

“One of the new kind of burners, better than the old oxy-acetylene jobs, not so heavy. Heavy enough, but I can manage to carry it, need two and a car for the other kind. Are we within walking distance, sir?”

“Yes. Let me have the case for a bit.”

“I can manage, sir, thank you.”

Roger felt like laughing. Or screaming. “I can manage, sir.” He let the man have his way, and they walked briskly up Bond Street as far as Brook Street, then turned left. He took the case; it was heavier than Harry had made out. They changed it over three times before they reached the corner of Mountjoy Square.

They turned a corner, and a few yards along came upon a service alley which led to the backs of the houses in the Square. Mountjoy wasn’t typical of London squares. On small iron gates, to the tiny courtyards, there were house numbers. Roger didn’t light his torch. He peered closely at the numbers, found 23—it was white paint on a black gate, and there was some light from a house opposite.

Next door—25.

And here was 27.

“All right,” Roger said.

“I’ll see to the gate,” said Harry.

He didn’t add “sir”; he had dropped the handle. It wasn’t the only change in him—the other was so great that it was almost metamorphosis. Harry seemed to grow in stature and sureness and confidence. This was his real job, and he was a craftsman. The gate was simple, but it was locked. He opened it with a picklock, making no sound at all on the metal. The gate didn’t squeak when it swung back.

The courtyard was flagged. Their rubber-shod feet made hardly a sound. As they drew nearer the dark shape of the house, Roger saw a light; it hadn’t been noticeable from the gate. It was at the top of a window, where light crept past the curtains; and it was at the top floor—the servants’ floor. Harry glanced up, and then looked at the door. He didn’t use a torch, and there seemed to be hardly any light. He ran his fingers over the door gently, not worrying about leaving finger-prints.

“No can do,” he said. “Good job, that, it’s got a burglar-proof fastening on the inside. Think they’re wired up for an alarm?”

“Probably.”

Harry sniffed. Pushed past Roger and went to the long, narrow window near the door. Here, for the first time, he used a torch—one with a hood which could be opened or closed at a touch, and which regulated the beam of light and prevented too much from showing. He stood with his back to the alley and the other houses, and peered into the window. Blinds were drawn, but he was looking at the sides, for the alarm wire. He switched off the light suddenly.

Harry backed away.

“Lot o’ trouble there,” he said. “Might be a first-floor window open. Maybe a ladder. Stay here.”

He vanished, leaving the tool-kit by Roger’s side. He was gone for what seemed a long time, and came back silently as a wraith. ; “Found one?”