John Creasey: Inspector West Alone

The door opened.

This time, he’d heard no footsteps.

A man came in, a little fellow wearing a white jacket, with a grey, bullet-shaped head and mournful brown eyes. His brown shoes were polished brightly enough to attract attention. He carried a large tray with the experienced poise of an accomplished waiter, and placed it on the bedside table. Roger ran his gaze over the tray. The oddest thing was the ivory knife; more like a very blunt paper-knife than a table-knife. There was tea, toast, marmalade, butter—plenty of them all—and two plates under silver covers.

“I should sit in bed and have it,” said Marion.

“I never like breakfast in bed.”

“You don’t want to overdo anything,” she said, but humoured him by placing an upright chair in front of the table. He poured himself out a cup of tea; ah! He finished it before he lifted the covers. By then, the waiter had gone.

Porridge; and eggs and bacon.

The bacon was cut into small pieces; he could manage the egg with the ivory knife. All these things added up to one unavoidable conclusion. He didn’t speak of it. The girl sat on the arm of the chair, her legs still crossed, watching him or looking out of the window. He finished every scrap.

“Wonderful!” the girl said.

“What’s wonderful?”

“Your appetite.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” said Roger. “Now, I’d like to shave.”

“I’ll arrange it.” She leaned forward and pressed a bell by the side of the bed, and the little waiter came in. Without a word, he took the tray out. The girl followed him, saying at the door: “I won’t be long.”

When she had gone, he went to the little cupboard above the hand-basin. There were no scissors; no razor; nothing made of steel. He waited for ten minutes, as far as he could judge—he had neither watch nor clock. Then the door opened again, and the girl and the waiter came in; the waiter carried a little black bag.

The waiter spoke for the first time in a voice that was unmistakably Cockney, from the very heart of the East End.

“Goin’ to git in bed, or sit in front’ve the mirror?”

“I’ll sit in front of the mirror,” Roger said.

“S’right.” The man went over to an upright chair, then opened his little black bag. Out of it he took a large pink sheet. Roger sat down, the sheet was tucked round his neck in a professional manner. Then he was lathered and shaved with a safety razor. They weren’t even going to take a chance that he could snatch a cut-throat from the “barber’s” hand!

He was regarded as dangerous; the girl, presumably, considered him a dangerous lunatic.

* * * *

No knife, no razor, no weapon of any kind, no clothes, no watch or clock, no newspapers, neither pen nor pencil; at least, there were some books. These were on a little shelf in the bedside table. He glanced at the titles. They were mostly classics—the popular classics, Scott, Dickens, Macaulay, Trollope—with a book of verse and two modern novels. He didn’t open any of them, but went to the window again and looked out on to the trim lawn and the nodding daffodils and the trees which crowded upon the garden—an impenetrable mass of them, many more than there had been at Copse Cottage. How far was he from Copse Cottage? How many miles had they travelled after he had lost consciousness? Why was he here? When would he see his silvery-eyed companion of the night before ?

The waiter brought his lunch, and stood by while he used the ivory knife again. Five minutes after he had finished, Marion came in with coffee on a tray, and two cups and saucers. He was sitting in an easy-chair by the window.

“Do you mind if I have coffee with you?”

“I was hoping you would.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Mystified, but quite content.”

“I’m “so glad.” She passed over the “mystified” and poured out the coffee.

“Thanks. When are you going to tell me all about it?” Roger asked.

“There’s nothing I can say.” She was earnest.

“Do you think I’m mad?”

“No, of course not!” Coffee spilled out of the jug into the saucer. “That’s ridiculous. You haven’t been well, but you’re getting better, and soon you’ll be perfectly fit again. I want to help you. I wish you’d talk freely to me.”

“What about?”

“Anything that comes into your mind.”

“Applied psychology? Or psychiatry? Or what?”

“Just talk. It always does one good to talk.”

“Supposing I talk about my wife? And the boys.” She had the wary look again, and he decided that Mr. Arthur King had neither wife nor children. She poured the spilt coffee from his saucer into her cup. “Janet isn’t like you, except her hands. Hands reveal a lot—did you know?”

“Yes,” she said.

He made himself sound dreamy. “The only known infallible ways of telling one person from another are by comparing the tips of the fingers and the lines on the soles of their feet; it’s easier to take finger-prints than footprints. But I was going to talk about my family. Janet we’ll take for granted. The boys—there are two of them. The elder is Martin, but we call him Scoopy. Odd name, isn’t it?”

“I rather like it.” She was pretending to believe him.

“It’s grown up with him. Scoopy’s a big chap. Rising six. Tough as they come and a plodder—he takes life pretty seriously. Richard is a year younger and a very different kettle of fish—he takes life as it comes, a gay young man who will go places if he can only develop half of his brothers power of concentration. You don’t believe a word of it, do you?”

“Please go on.”

“Why don’t you believe it?”

“Please go on.”

“Why do you work for a killer?”

“I just have my job to do.”

“Being handmaiden to a murderer shouldn’t appeal to you.”

She smiled.

“Do I strike you as being insane?” he demanded.

“I can’t talk to you about that,” she said. “I know you have dreams—nightmares. The dreams are good, the nightmares—I’ll help you to forget them, help you to sleep without them. It’s only temporary, as a result of the strain. Don’t worry about them. Just tell me about them. That’s all I want you to do. You won’t shock me. I’ve heard so many strange stories and helped so many people. Just tell me about the worst of them. Please.”

What did they want to do? Make him think that he was crazy?

CHAPTER VI

NIGHTMARE

HE could hear the moaning. . . .

And he could see the girl with the battered face and the white blouse and her hand lying over the side of the bed.

The nightmare gripped him with a feverish intensity, and went on and on, but was always exactly the same— the girl, the moaning, clearer, louder, clearer, louder. He wanted to shout, and opened his lips and screamed; but no sound came.

Then, he was awake.

The nightmare was no longer real, just vivid memory. He lay in the darkness. He felt the hot sweat bathing him, and his arms, legs and face twitching. He peered up at the darkness of the ceiling, and felt afraid. He didn’t try to move. He had only to stretch out his hand and switch on the light, but he didn’t want to. He had to overcome this new terror—a terror of the dark.

This was the third night of these nightmares.

It was always dark when he woke; and he knew that if he submitted to the terror and gave himself light, then he would have lost a battle.

He heard no movement, but suddenly it was no longer pitch dark. He opened his eyes. A small light burned by the door, which Marion was closing gently behind her. She wore a dressing-gown, her hair was in a net, and she was smiling reassurance. She came straight to him, and her hand was cool and gentle when she pressed it against his forehead. She went to the basin and damped a sponge, came back and sponged his face and hands; he wanted her to go on doing it.