John Creasey: Inspector West Alone

“I always heard it said that if there was such a thing as a good policeman, it was Roger West,” he said.

“Thanks. But I’m just a beginner.”

“If you behave yourself, you’ll have a lot more time and promotion ahead of you. Care for a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“You’ll have one, just to please me,” said the man by his side. “It’ll taste all right—Scotch. You won’t notice anything wrong with it, and you’ll have a nice rest for a few hours. After that, we’ll talk business.”

“And what if I spit it out?”

“Then you’ll get the same treatment that the ox had back on the road.”

As he spoke, the man took a flask from his hip pocket. He unscrewed the cap and then switched on the roof light. He had a narrow, pale face, and those flashing eyes had long, dark lashes. His hand was as steady as the car would allow. Roger took the flask; it certainly smelt like whisky. The whisky warmed and encouraged him.

“That’ll do.” The man took the flask away and screwed the cap on. “If you stay as sensible as this, we’ll get along.”

Roger leaned back, comfortably, not yet drowsy. He didn’t know what road they were on now. Both cars sped through the night, and the rain came down in silvery streaks.

Gradually drowsiness came upon him.

* * * *

Roger knew that he had slept a long time, because it was daylight when he woke. He lay in a comfortable bed, drowsy, unaware of any aches or pains, but his face felt stiff, and so did the back of his left hand. He felt no sense of alarm, even when he remembered what had happened in the car; he felt as if he were awake in a dream. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, opened them again and looked round the room. It was small but nicely furnished; more a woman’s than a man’s. On the dressing-table was a bowl of daffodils, heads drooping. Chintz curtains at the narrow window matched the flowered chintz on the bedspread, the eiderdown, and the two easy-chairs. The furniture, of light oak, was reproduction. There was a corner wash-hand basin.

All he could see out of the window from the bed, was the grey sky.

He knew that he ought to get up, but didn’t feel inclined to move. His mouth was dry—parched; the thing he would like most was tea. Weak, hot, sugarless tea, pints of it. Then he had a mental picture, of a battered head. That was his first bad moment since waking, he was really beginning to feel again. He pushed back the bed-clothes and sat up. His legs were stiff; he swung them over the side of the bed. His head began to ache. When he was steadier, he walked slowly to the window. He looked out on to a trim lawn, daffodil beds and, beyond a beech-hedge with massed brown leaves, trees. There were some dark firs and pines; but mostly they were leafless trees, spiky-looking beech and birch; silver birch. He heard nothing —absolutely nothing—but the tops of the trees were bent by the wind. So sound didn’t come into this room through the window. The window was a single pane of glass, and when he examined the frame, he saw that it was really a false one—this window wasn’t made to open. He pressed nearer and looked upwards, studying the glass. It had a yellow tint, a characteristic of toughened glass.

Roger went to the door.

It had a handle, but no lock—no keyhole. He tapped on it gently, and it didn’t sound like wood, it was more like steel. If he tapped louder, to make sure, he might attract attention. Well, why not? He turned from the door, and searched the room. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas with a broad blue-and-white stripe, and at the foot of the bed was a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, but no day clothes were in sight. He looked inside the wardrobe; there was nothing but clothes hangers.

He caught a glimpse of his face, and it surprised him because it was so normal. He went closer to the mirror, his face reflected above the daffodils. He could see the pink scratches and the shiny, greasy salve which had been rubbed into them after the blood had been cleaned off. His hand had been treated with the salve, too—that was why he felt little discomfort. He studied his face. By habit, he laughed when they called him “Handsome” at the Yard, but it wasn’t really a surprising soubriquet. His curly fair hair was ruffled, but undoubtedly it had been combed the night before.

He went to the wash-basin, washed his hands and face carefully in tepid water, and dabbed them dry. As a result the pink streaks turned red. They tingled, too. He went to the door and banged on it with his clenched fist, and then stood back and waited for someone to come.

Before long, he heard footsteps.

CHAPTER V

MARION

HE knew, before the door opened, that a woman was outside. The footsteps were quick and light, and he heard them distinctly, which argued against the door being steel. He heard a key scrape in the lock, so it had a lock on the outside. He sat down on the bed, looking towards the door.

The girl came in, started back when she saw him, then smiled, and closed the door. He caught a glimpse of a man who remained in the passage outside.

“Good morning,” the girl said brightly. “Is there anything you want?”

“Tea,” Roger said. “In urns, if possible, or pint mugs.”

“Some will be sent up in a few minutes.”

“Cigarettes and a lighter.”

“I can give you a cigarette,” she said, “but I am not allowed to leave matches with you, or to let you smoke when you’re alone.”

She took a small plastex case from a pocket in her pale-grey frock, and a lighter. She had to come near, to light his cigarette^ Few men would complain at being near her. She wasn’t beautiful, she just looked—good. It was in the clear grey of her fine eyes, the soft colour of her cheeks, the curve of her lips. She had a heart-shaped face, and light-brown hair—he supposed she would call it auburn. It was cut short, and if the waves and curls were machine-made, he would be surprised. Her hands were not small, but were well-shaped, and her nails were varnished a pale pink— pale enough to look natural.

He drew at the cigarette.

“All right?”

“Yes, thanks. Who are you?”

“You may call me Marion.”

He leaned back, nursed his knees with his hands, and looked at her without frowning.

“That’s thoughtful of you. What are you going to call me?”

“Mr. King.”

“Oh, I’m a king again, am I?”

She backed away until she reached one of the arm-chairs, and sat on an arm. She crossed her legs. She wore a long dress, but it didn’t hide the shapeliness of her ankles or the lower part of her legs. She was slim, but not too thin, tall for a woman.

“Did you patch up my face last night?” Roger asked.

“Yes, how does it feel?”

“As if it needs patching up again.”

“Now?”

“Yes, please.”

She went to the wash-basin and opened the cupboard above it, took out a small pot of white salve, and came towards him. “Sit up straight,” she said, and when he obeyed, she took some of the salve on her fingers and began gently to rub it along the scratches. When she had finished, she stood back and said:

“What about your hand?”

He held it out obediently.

“Thanks very much,” he said when she had finished. “You’re as good as a trained nurse.”

“You have to learn a little of everything.” She seemed anxious to make sure that he didn’t think she was a trained nurse. She was somehow wary, watching him as if he might attack her. She glanced out of the window, and for the first time he caught a glimpse of her profile. She had a short nose, slightly tip-tilted, and tiny pale-pink ears. In every way, she was a wholesome creature, and the word “goodness” came to his mind. Then he imagined her as she would be with her face smashed in.