John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

“Glasses,” he said, and then growled: “Only one pair. Look away.” He put on a pair of goggles and then turned his attention earnestly to the safe. Roger turned his back on him. Bluish white light filled the room with a garish brightness. He smelt something; molten metal? He was tempted to turn and watch, but knew that it would be crazy, he wouldn’t be able to see for an hour or more if he if looked at the flame with his eyes unprotected, so he stared at the door.

He saw the handle turn.

CHAPTER XX III

KENNEDY ’ S WIFE

THE flame hissed and glowed as Harry knelt by the safe, intent, unaware of the movement at the door.

The handle turned slowly.

Roger moved towards it. The door was locked, was light-proof and sound-proof. Why had anyone come ? Why was the handle being turned so cautiously? Had Kennedy returned, with suspicions at fever-pitch? Roger waited, watching the handle in that garish light. It didn’t fall back, and instead the door began to open.

It opened slowly and slightly, not wide enough for anyone to look into the room, but wide enough for them to see the light and know that burglars were here. It stayed open; the handle didn’t move again. He wanted to warn Harry, but a call, even a whisper, would warn whoever was outside. He stepped a pace nearer and glanced over his shoulder. Harry bent low over the safe. The flame dazzled Roger, and he averted his gaze quickly; that glance had been folly.

He closed his eyes to shut out the image of that fierce flame, opened them again cautiously. Door and handle were blurred, but he could see that the door was still open, and the handle hadn’t dropped back into position.

It began to move——

The door began to close.

He waited for ten pulsating seconds, then stepped towards it swiftly. Harry said something he didn’t catch. The hissing stopped, and only the subdued light of the lamps was on.

“What——” Began Harry.

Roger waved a hand to silence him, reached the door and turned the handle as stealthily as it had just been turned. He heard Harry grunt as he straightened up, glanced over his shoulder and saw the man approaching. He waved him back again. He opened the door an inch. A light was on in the passage, but no one stood outside the door.

“What is it?” hissed Harry.

“Someone outside. Quiet.” The whisper was agonizing, because it might be heard. He opened the door a little wider and looked round. He saw a bright light coming from a door which was closing—Kennedy’s wife’s door. He saw her shadow on the landing; then it was shut out. Harry was close behind him. “Who——”

“Hold it. Watch.” Roger went across the landing, heart thumping, touched the handle of the other door and pushed —she hadn’t locked it yet. He heard a ting !; a telephone being lifted. He thrust the door open. Kennedy’s wife, so small and exquisite, stood by the side of a bed in a luxury S room. The telephone was at her ear, her great eyes were staring towards the door. At sight of Roger, she drew herself up and terror flared in those eyes. But she didn’t take !; the telephone from her ear. Instead, she grabbed at something on the silken pillow—an automatic pistol. She didn’t speak.

She hadn’t had time to finish dialling. Harry said: “ Strewth ! ” His heart was in the word. He stood behind Roger, who moved slowly towards the woman. This was a room of silver and gold, the right setting for beauty. She wore a flimsy, filmy dressing-gown which trailed on the floor, a pale-gold creation. She looked like something out of another, lovelier world—and the automatic was steady in her right hand. She put the ? receiver down slowly, and it clattered on the table; a faint burring sound came from it, she was connected with the exchange. She stretched out her hand and put a finger in one of the dialling holes, but she couldn’t judge which to turn while watching him, and she had to watch Roger.

He took a step nearer. Harry followed and closed the door. “Open it,” she said.

It was the first time he had heard her speak. Her voice was taut with fear, but she was full of courage. Harry didn’t respond. Roger took another step towards her. This was a long room, she seemed a vast distance away from him—ten or twelve yards.

“Don’t come nearer. Open the door.” Her voice was icy cold, now.

Roger said: “Put the gun down if you don’t want to get hurt, and come away from the telephone.” He whispered, although there was no danger of being heard outside the room. He went another step forward, and the gun was trained on his stomach, held so steadily that he knew she wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t watch both her eyes and her hand, and he had to watch her hand. He would see the sudden spasmodic movement if she were going to squeeze the trigger. So he watched her hand, not her eyes, and took another step forward. He felt prickly sweat over his face and neck, and he shivered.

He said: “I don’t want to hurt you. I——”

He jumped to one side as she fired. The bullet spat out with a bright flash. He felt it tear through his coat—and he heard Marry cry out. The bark of the report seemed like a thunderclap.

Roger leapt at her.

She was staring at Harry with horror in her eyes. That was for a split second. She jerked the gun up again as Roger sprang, but she had lost her composure; she fired again, but the bullet smacked into the floor. He reached her, hand thrust out, swung it and pushed her to one side. She struck the side of the bed and toppled on to it, still holding the gun. He grabbed her wrist, and twisted; the gun fell. He snatched it from the bed and backed away.

Harry gasped: “She—she got me.” His voice had a strained, wondering note in it.

Roger glanced at him. He was kneeling, with his right hand pressed into his side, and blood already seeped slowly through his fingers. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He had his mouth open, and gulped as if he were in pain.

Kennedy’s wife stood tiny and erect by the side of the bed, as if trying to defy Roger by her strength of will. The humming sound still came from the telephone, but he wasn’t worried about that, only about the door. Had the servants heard those shots? Only seconds had passed, but it seemed an age before he moved. She shrank back. He grabbed her shoulder and span her round, then reversed the gun in his hand. Her hair was short, a cluster of curls. He struck her at the back of the neck, and it was like striking a Dresden figure. She groaned and pitched forward.

She lay still, against the bed.

Roger put the telephone back on its cradle.

Harry said: “I’m—done for.”

There was no sound outside on the landing, but whoever came would come stealthily.

“Nonsense.” Roger stepped past him. Gun in hand, he I, opened the door cautiously, then drew back and switched off the lights. The landing light glowed faintly. He peered towards the stairs, saw no one and heard nothing except . . . the thunderous beating of his heart. He waited; there was no creaking of approach, no visible shadowy shape. Nothing.

The study door was ajar. He turned, passed Harry again and said: “You’ll be all right, Harry.” Harry still pressed his hand to his side, and the blood smeared the back of his hand, his face was ghastly. He reached the woman, lifted her and carried her across the landing to the study. She was as light as a child. He dropped her into an easy-chair, and turned and went back for Harry, who knelt in the same awkward position, and licked his lips.

“I’m going to take you into the other room. Take it easy. Just hold your side.”

Harry didn’t speak.

How did a lean man come to weigh so heavy?

Roger grunted with the strain as he lifted him and took him across the landing. He laid him on the floor, stretched out. He went back into the bedroom, dragged a sheet and two pillows off the bed, and hurried out, closing the door. He closed the study door firmly.