John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

The landings were darkened but windows were open and allowed some light in. On the third floor a typewriter was clattering and one door was ajar. It was marked ‘Inquiries’ and had the name of the society underneath. Roger stepped in. Behind a wooden partition he could hear a typewriter going at great speed. He pressed a bell in the counter and started at the loud, harsh ring. The typewriter stopped at the first sound, a chair was pushed back and a girl rounded the partition.

She was pretty; she wore a white blouse and a dark skirt; her hair was dark, like Janet’s, and she was about Janet’s height. She appeared very self-possessed, and smiled pleasantly. On her right hand was a solitaire diamond ring, a beautiful thing.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?” Roger liked her voice.

“I think you probably can,” he said.

“In what way, please ?”

Roger smiled disarmingly. “I wonder if you would take £250 in notes to the Mid-Union Bank and put it into my account ? My name is West.”

He knew at once that he had scored a hit. The girl backed away, her eyes narrowed, and he thought she groped behind her as if for help. As he gave his name, her lips — red but not heavily made-up — parted slightly and her breathing grew agitated.

“What — what are you talking about?” she demanded.

“Don’t tell me that I have to say it again,” said Roger. “After all, you’ve done it often enough to know how easy it is, haven’t you?”

“You’re talking nonsense!”

“I wonder how long you’ll continue to think so? But I’m not an ogre.”

“If you have any business to discuss, please state what it is,” said the girl stiffly. She stood a foot away from the counter with her hand clenched by her sides; the ring glittered like fire; she was badly frightened, but she tried hard not to show it and her voice was steady. “I haven’t time to waste.”

“You know,” said Roger, “the cashier will be able to identify you.”

“I have no idea what you mean. Please go away.”

“What, so soon ?” asked Roger. “I’ve only just —”

A door behind the partition began to open; he could see the top of it. Someone moved towards the reception office and a middle-aged man appeared, his kind face looking faintly puzzled. He had grey hair and a gentle voice.

“Lois, my dear,” he said, “I thought you were going to — oh!” he broke off at sight of Roger. “I beg your pardon, I did not know you were engaged. Can we help you, sir?”

Roger beamed. “Can I give you a lift? I’m going as far as Scotland Yard.”

“I beg your pardon !”

“Do you know, I think you are both being wilfully obtuse,” Roger said, as if wonderingly, “but you’ll have to change your attitude.”

“I dislike your threatening manner, sir !”

“No threats,” Roger said, “just a little jogging of your memory. Last night you begged a lift in my cab, and —”

“I was at home all last night,” interrupted the man, giving sufficient emphasis to the ‘all’ to make it clear that he was confident of his alibi. “Lois, has this person been threatening you ?”

The girl said, hesitantly : “He seems to think he knows me.”

“Do you know him ?”

“No.”

“You will both know me in future,” Roger said. He looked them up and down, then turned and left the office. The door, which was fitted with a vacuum-type doorstop, closed behind him with a gentle hiss.

He was no longer smiling. He had bungled a golden opportunity, and allowed himself to be carried away by a bright idea, in a way which would have disgraced a raw sergeant. He should have made a tentative inquiry and then engineered an opportunity for the bank cashier to see the girl; now, he had warned them of their danger, had virtually invited them to get away.

He had made another mistake, too; he should have brought Morgan up with him, the little man should now be waiting outside the door, ready to slip inside and listen-in to the conversation in the inner office. He reached the head of the stairs, then stopped — for Morgan was smiling at him from halfway up the stairs !

“You were away so long, that I thought —”

“Hush !” warned Roger, beckoning. Morgan drew level. “Try to get inside the office, the first on the right, and hear what’s being said next door, Pep. They won’t hear you go in if you’re careful.”

Morgan hurried past him.

Easier in his mind, Roger went to the first landing and stood by the bannisters, lighting a cigarette. He was really angry with himself; had it been Mark, he could have forgiven it. He had been wrong to come here, Mark should have handled this part of the inquiry. He admitted ruefully that from the moment when the idea of the Welbeck Street association had first entered his head he had been carried away by it and, on finding that he had scored a hit, had let himself be dazzled by the success of the visit.

He heard someone coming up the stairs.

He thought at once of Mrs Sylvester Cartier and looking round hastily, saw a door, marked ‘Inquiries’, of another suite; he slipped inside. Keeping the door open an inch or two he looked out, but as the newcomer drew nearer he felt sure that he had been wrong. Mrs Cartier would walk with a brisk step and her heels would tap sharply on the bare wooden boards. This walker came slowly.

It was a man, whose careworn face was lined with the marks of great suffering. His sad eyes and the dejected droop of his shoulders startled Roger. He watched the man walking wearily towards the next flight of stairs and then realised that the newcomer would almost certainly discover Pep.

An exclamation behind him told him that he had been seen and he stepped swiftly out of the office, closing the door. He hurried after the haggard man.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes ?” The man’s European accent was strong.

“I thought I would save you wasting a journey,” Roger said. “There is no one in upstairs — I have just been trying to get in myself.”

Sad, disappointed eyes regarded him, making him ashamed of the lie.

“T’ank you, sir, t’ank you so mooch.” The man ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “I vill vait, I t’ink. I ‘ave come for an app — appointment.” He looked along the bare passage and, at the far end, Roger saw some benches. “I weel sit down, please.”

“Oh, by all means!” said Roger. “I’ll wait with you.”

The benches were at the far end of the passage. Roger thought he heard a mutter of conversation but could not be sure. The old fellow shuffled along beside him, weary and broken. Roger offered him a cigarette but he refused it.

He received no encouragement when he tried to start a conversation. After a quarter of an hour he began to wonder whether anything had happened to Pep. He grew alarmed and excused himself and moved towards the doors. One opened, and Pep came out on tip-toe. He hurried along the passage but faltered when he saw Roger, who shook his head. Pep took his meaning and hurried down the stairs.

“Well, that’s surprising!” exclaimed Roger. “No one answered when I knocked.”

“It ees — your turn,” the old man said, in a tone of infinite patience.

“I’m in no hurry,” said Roger. “You go first.”

“You — you weel not mind?” The man was startled, but when Roger reassured him he walked more briskly towards the end of the passage and disappeared into the office. Once he had gone, Roger hurried in Morgan’s wake. The private detective was standing on the pavement, near the taxi, and the cabby was speaking bitterly to him of the lack of consideration displayed by some people. He stood to attention when Roger arrived and asked sarcastically :