John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

Turnbull brought Warrender in, a lion with a black sheep. Warrender gave the impression that he was afraid of a trap, and looked relieved when, after a prolonged stare at the man on the bed, he said: “I don’t think this was one of the men who burgled the flat. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“Right, thanks,” said Roger, briskly. “Mrs Beesley, please,” he called.

Ma Beesley came in. She grinned inanely about her, but on the instant Joe’s expression changed and for a second there was recognition in his eyes. It quickly disappeared, and there was no change at all in Ma’s manner, but Roger was convinced that these two knew each other.

Outside the hospital, a newsboy stood selling papers. Raeburn bought an Evening Cry , and Roger followed suit, wondering whether news of the engagement had leaked out. The first headline to catch his eye ran: PAUL RAEBURN WED.

Roger looked up into Raeburn’s face.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” the millionaire asked, smoothly.

CHAPTER XXIII

REPORT FROM LALEHAM COTTAGE

MARK LESSING reached the Berkshire village at lunchtime, and drew his Talbot up in the gravelled courtyard of The King’s Arms. It was drizzling, and the sky was very dark in the east; a bleak wind was blowing, and there was little about the weather or the countryside to cheer him. The low-built inn needed painting, and might be drab. He had driven through the village, and found it equally depressing. It was off the main road, and the local inhabitants seemed to take little pride in their homes. Nearly opposite the inn was a garage, outside which stood several derelict cars and some rusty petrol pumps.

Mark had to bend low in order to get into the hall of the inn. He stood for some minutes, but no one appeared. He pushed open two doors marked SALOON and LOUNGE, but both rooms were deserted. He could hear voices from the back of the inn, and, going to another closed door, he pushed it open and called: “Anyone about?”

“Whassat?” a man asked, almost from underneath his nose.

He looked down to see a little wizened creature, with overlong hair, staring at him.

“Can I get some lunch?”

“Lunch?” the man echoed, as if the word were new to him. “Well, now, I don’t know if there’s anything left.”

“Bread and cheese, and a glass of beer would do.”

“I daresay we can fix something. Just go through the lounge,” said the little man.

The lounge had not been tidied up since the previous night’s occupation. The ash trays were full, and the dried marks of wet glasses showed on the tables. The grey ashes of a long-dead fire looked cheerless in a small grate. Mark had started out cheerfully and hopefully, but this was enough to damp anybody’s spirits.

He pushed open a door marked DINING ROOM, and light from a blazing fire in a large grate made him blink. The room was warm. Several people sat at the small tables, and everyone looked up at him. Most of them had reached the sweet course.

No one was there to take his order, so he went to a table near the fire and looked at a finger-soiled menu card. The pencilled offering was ‘Roast Beef’. He glanced toward the service door; at last it opened, and the little man came in, carrying a plate of soup.

He made a beeline for Mark. “You’re lucky, sir,” he announced, proudly.

“That’s good.”

“Beef to follow,” went on the wizened man. “Anything to drink?”

“A pint of beer, please.”

The pint came in a battered pewter tankard, but the brew was good. So were the roast beef, the rich Yorkshire pudding, and even the Brussels sprouts. Mark’s spirits rose as he set to. He was the last in the dining-room, except the little man who stood warming his back and looking at him as he ate.

“Passing through?” the man asked at last.

“Yes and no,” said Mark, and told his prepared lie. “I’m looking for a house.”

“Not the only one,” said the little man. “Shocking, the shortage is. Large or small?”

“Medium.”

“Don’t know of one.” The little man shook his head. “Might have more luck in Reading, but I doubt it.”

“I’m looking for a place in the country,” Mark explained, “and I thought I’d stay here for a night or two. You have a room, I suppose?”

“Could do it,” conceded the little man. “We’ve got several rooms, if it comes to that. Show you the best one after lunch.”

He became positively garrulous when they left the dining-room, and was soon chatting about Laleham Outage; Mark’s errand had reminded him of it. The cottage had changed hands some months before, but no one had come to live there. Oh, yes, it was furnished. It was a crying shame that people bought houses and left them empty, while others had nowhere to live. The cottage was just over there—he pointed out of a front bedroom window— as a matter of fact, it had five bedrooms and three rooms downstairs, as well as a couple of acres. Some cottage!

The house was built halfway up a bleak hill, and about half a mile away. Beyond the building, the hill was wooded, and at one side was a dark patch of shrubs.

“I know what it’s like, because I had a look round when it was up for sale,” explained the little innkeeper. “Six thousand five hundred—I’d rather keep my money in the bank! Well, how does this room suit you?”

“I think I’m going to like it,” said Mark.

The weather cleared in the middle of the afternoon, and he went to look at Raeburn’s new place. No one was about. The grounds were well kept and the ornamental garden trim and well stocked. The house was attractive from the outside, mainly Elizabethan, but one or two recent alterations had been made.

On a wide lawn, in the front garden, stood a summer- house, and Mark strolled toward it. From its window he could see the house and the long drive; he could not want a better place in which to conceal himself.

“It’ll do me for tonight,” he decided, and drove back to The King’s Arms. He was determined to succeed down here, whatever it cost; the Brighton fiasco rankled.

Just before dark, he took the car rugs to the summer- house, and made sure that the cottage was still unoccupied. He went back to the inn for dinner, which was as good as lunch had been, deciding to begin his vigil immediately afterward. He walked to the summer-house, and settled down.

By nine o’clock he was cold and cramped. To get warm, be strode about the lawn, looking down on the village and its few lights, and, farther away, toward the myriad yellow dots, the lights of Reading. The wind had strengthened, and cut right through him.

“I wonder how long I need stay?” he asked himself.

If anyone arrived at the house, lights would go on, and he would be able to see them from his room window. He decided to end the vigil at midnight, had another brisk walk to get warm, and returned to the summer-house.

At half past eleven, he heard a car approaching. He got up, and went to the window. The headlights were shining on the house, and, as the car turned into the drive, shone toward him. Mark ducked. The light passed him, bathing die house in its glare. He could not see clearly, but felt sure there were two people in the car.

“Raeburn and his Eve, perhaps.” He felt the sharp edge of excitement. “I—no, it isn’t!”

Two men appeared in die headlights, and Mark saw something pass between them; the car was a taxi, and there was only one passenger. It was a man, who stood on the porch as the taxi turned for the return journey, and Mark recognised him immediately from photographs.

It was Tenby.

Tenby opened the front door and went inside; a light blazed out from the hall. The front door closed, and other lights went on, first at the front, and then at the sides. Mark could see the man moving about.