John Creasey: Inspector West Alone

Janet wasn’t here.

And what about Cousin Phyllis?

What was behind all this?

As a frame-up, it was nearly perfect.

Once accept the possibility that someone had wanted to lure him here and have him accused of murder, and the rest followed easily enough. But swallowing that wasn’t easy.

The sobering process continued.

Everything had been laid-on, even the call to the police with the convincing warning that it was a case of murder. Nothing else would have brought Hansell and his squad along so fast.

He must get one thing clear. Hansell had been summoned so that he, Roger West, youngest C.I. at the Yard, could be caught in the house with the dead girl. Was he right in thinking he had only to convince Hansell that he was West, and the situation would switch in his favour?

He’d been found on enclosed premises, with a girl battered brutally, and with an axe by his hand.

Roger murmured to himself: “I’m in a spot.”

“About time you realized it,” Harris growled.

Roger shrugged and stood up. He could do that without pulling the standard lamp over. He hadn’t a chance to get away, but both policemen moved towards him. He turned away from them and looked into an oval mirror above the mantelpiece. This was the first time he had seen his reflection since he had come round, and it gave him another shock.

His face was a dark blotch, looking sinister and brutal.

* * * *

Hansell came in. Roger didn’t notice, because he was still staring at his reflection. The panic was subsiding into reason. His face was badly scratched, the scratches had bled a lot, and the blood had dried on it, in a brown mess which looked black in the mirror. He put his right hand to his cheek and felt a sharp pain in the back of the hand, looked down and saw the long cut in it—the cut which he had received from the window-glass.

Then he was aware of Hansell standing behind him and staring into the mirror. He turned. The two policemen had gone out, and the door was closed.

“Admiring yourself?” asked Hansell. “Who are you?”

“I’m——” Roger paused, as the vital question reared up in his mind again; would he be wise to allow this frame-up to succeed, for the time being?

“Aren’t you sure?” Hansell sneered. “Perhaps you’ve a split mind. Why were you so interested in that mole?”

“My wife has a mole just where I asked you to look.”

“So that makes you not a wife murderer.”

“That’s right.”

“Stop fencing. Who are you?”

Roger liked Hansell; he had a feeling that the man was a good officer, one in whom there was a full sense of responsibility. Once Hansell was convinced of the truth, he would hold his tongue.

“Roger West, Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard.”

“So you remember you’ve told Harris that. Mind if I see your wallet?”

Roger moved his left hand to get it, and the handcuff stopped him. “Help yourself.”

Hansell took out his wallet. In the poor light, this was an eerie experience, but he faced it out. He didn’t look at the wallet, but at Hansell’s lean, narrow face and the drooping lips—this man had the face of a cynic. Several letters were in the wallet, and Hansell took them and turned towards the light. Only then did Roger see that it wasn’t his wallet; it was brown, his was black; this was much thicker, too; and he saw a wad of one-pound notes, many more than he ever carried.

“That’s not——” he began.

“Three letters, addressed to Mr. Arthur King—at least you got the number of syllables right,” Hansell said sardonically. He probed into the wallet. “Driving licence— Arthur King. What gave you the idea of pretending to be a policeman?”

Roger sat down heavily.

“You’re Arthur King, of 18 Sedgley Road, Kingston-on-Thames,” Hansell said, “and I charge you with the murder of a woman, as yet unknown, and warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. Any legal quibbles about that?”

Roger said slowly: “It’ll do, for now.”

“I still want to know why you pretended to be West.”

“Work it out later, and don’t try any rough stuff, Hansell.” Roger spoke sharply, seeing the other’s hands clench. “What’s your evidence? Wholly circumstantial? I was in the room with her, you saw me and jumped to the conclusion and charged me. That story ought to please your superintendent and give the magistrate apoplexy.”

“You were near to the axe with which she was killed,” Hansell said. “Your prints are on the axe, on the torch you were using, and they’re all over the place—including the window, where you forced entry. That girl put up a fight and clawed your face, and skin and blood off your face are under her finger-nails.”

Roger said: “I didn’t kill her. I was outside, heard a scream, broke in, and then heard moaning. I broke the door down with an axe and when I went inside, a man attacked me and knocked me out. I hadn’t been conscious again for five minutes before you arrived.”

“How did you get here?”

“By car.”

“What car do you use?”

“A Morris 12, supercharged engine, registration number SY 31.”

Hansell laughed. “That’s why a Chrysler with registration number XBU 31291 is parked in the road outside, I suppose.”

That made the frame-up as near perfect as one could ever be, by breaking down the story of how he had approached the house. His assailant had scratched his face to make it look as if he had struggled with the girl. There was even a chance that he’d transferred blood and skin from Roger’s cheeks to the girl’s fingers; he would be as thorough as that, and yet it didn’t make sense. How could the man prove that a senior officer of the Yard was someone else ? How could he hope to make that stand up ?

He couldn’t.

He stood a chance of proving that Roger had been pretending to be someone else.

“Why not give up trying. King?” Hansell asked. “We’ve caught you with everything.”

“Then you ought to be happy.”

“I’ll be more satisfied when I know why you killed that kid upstairs.”

“I’ll be more cheerful when you start looking for the murderer. Give me a cigarette, will you?” He always kept his cigarettes in his hip pocket and couldn’t reach it with his free hand.

“No, I don’t smoke them. I wouldn’t give you a cigarette if I did. Harris!” Hansell raised his voice, and the door opened at once. “Go through his pockets and put everything from them on the table,” Hansell ordered. “You stay here with them. Lister.” So the other big constable was named Lister.

Hansell went out, and Harris began to go through Roger’s pockets. Out of the right-hand jacket pocket he took a slim gold cigarette-case; not Roger’s. From the waistcoat, a lighter, watch, and diary—none of them Roger’s. He was used to the idea now—that his assailant had taken everything out of his pockets and put someone else’s stuff in its place.

P.C. Lister made a note of everything, calling it out aloud as Harris placed it on the table.

Hansell came in.

“Finished?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harris.

“Anything marked with ‘R.W.’?”

“No, but several things have ‘A.K.’ on them, sir.”

“Good enough,” said Hansell. “Sergeant Drayton is outside, and he’ll take you and the prisoner down to the station. He can be tidied up, but before that I want you to scrape some of that dried blood off his face, and keep it. You can give him something to eat, and let him have a packet of cigarettes but no matches—when he wants a light, he will have to ask for it. Don’t let the Press get at him. Take him in the back way, and see that he doesn’t see anyone except our people.”