John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

Lois Randall’s. Roger heard Lois protest, with a note of hysteria in her voice, saying that she would not ‘do it’ again. Pickerell sounded suave and threatening, the girl seemed to get nearer and nearer to hysterics. Pickerell’s threats — always about something he did not name — increasing. Then with a quickening tempo :

“Why, why, why?” demanded Lois, “why must you try to ruin this man? What has he done to you?”

Roger stiffened. Mrs Cartier’s eyes showed a repressed excitement.

“My dear, that is no business of yours,” came Pickerell’s voice, “but I will tell you that a few months ago West happened upon a discovery which could do me and my friends a great deal of harm.” The man seemed to be speaking to himself and Roger could imagine Lois standing and staring at him, could picture his faded eyes and the thick lenses of his glasses. One day he will stumble upon the truth, my dear, and that would not do. It is one or the other of us and I do not intend that it shall be me.”

“What — what beastly work are you doing?” Lois demanded.

“That needn’t interest you,” Pickerell said. “What matters is that unless you do what you are told I shall deal with you severely.” His voice hardened. “Take the money, and do exactly as you have before. Don’t be foolish enough to try to betray me.”

The talking ceased. There was a rustling sound, sharp noises which might have been footsteps, and then the unmistakable banging of a door. A laugh, soft and gentle and somehow blood-curdling; Pickerell, of course.

“ I must try to make sure that the bank cashier will be amenable, ” Pickerell said. “ I wonder whether it is all necessary? I wonder if West will ever remember what happened on that day? ” His voice was barely audible and Roger bent down, his ear close to the tape-recorder. “ The unlucky 13th, ” Pickerell went on, and then there was a sound as if he snapped his fingers as he added in a louder, more angry voice : “ This absurd superstition! ”

The voice stopped. Mrs Cartier switched the machine off.

Roger straightened up and looked into her eyes. His were narrowed and yet glistening. December the 13th, the unlucky 13th. He did not remember what had happened that day but his files at the Yard would surely tell him and he would surely be allowed access to them. With this tape, he could end all doubts and all suspicions.

He could have kissed the lovely Mrs Cartier!

“You see how important it is?” she said.

“It couldn’t be more important,” Roger said. “May I have the tape ?”

“Of course,” said Mrs Cartier. “Be careful with it, it’s the only one.” She took the tape off the machine, replaced it in its cardboard container and handed it to him. “You will keep your part of the bargain, Inspector, won’t you? You will do all you can to make sure that the work of the Society is not interrupted ?”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Roger assured her. “Is there anything else?” He smiled. “No, I’m not greedy — I’m simply trying to make sure !”

“I should not like to be a criminal with you after me,” said Mrs Cartier.

The remark was fatuous, and Roger did not quite understand why it struck a wrong note. He only knew that it did, that with the tape in his hand and the evidence he needed to clear himself there in unmistakable form, he was suddenly doubtful of this woman’s sincerity. It was as if his mind had opened for a split-second, to allow him to catch a glimpse of something badly wrong, then closed up again and left him with an insistent, infuriating doubt. He did not think that he revealed it as she led him back into the other room.

The maid had been in; there was a tray with brandy and whisky, and a dish of fruit. Two large, bowl-shaped brandy glasses were warming in front of a single bar of an electric fire. The woman approached the tray.

“What will you have?”

Before Roger could answer, there was a sharp exclamation in the next room. The maid’s voice rose, then Masher Malone said harshly:

“Well? Where are they?”

CHAPTER 16

Situation Reversed

THE MAID did not answer.

There was no sound until a sharp report followed as if he had slapped her face, then the question again :

“Where are they ?”

“In — in there,” gasped the maid.

Roger could picture her pointing towards the door. He bent down and pushed the tape beneath a low table near the wall, then stepped to the door, getting behind it and motioning the woman towards the library. She took no notice but stood staring. It did not open immediately, but one opened elsewhere. There was an oath from Malone and a stifled scream from the maid. She had given her mistress a moment’s respite by misdirecting the man.

A thud — a cry — and silence.

Roger thought tensely : “Where the devil is Sam?”

He looked round the room. There were no fire-irons, nothing at all he could use as a weapon. He didn’t fancy his chances of facing Malone with the same confidence as Bill Tennant had done, even if Malone were not armed.

Doors opened and banged. Roger picked up a small upright chair and kept close to the wall. He saw the handle turn before the door was flung open.

Mrs Cartier cried : “No, no ! ”

Roger swung the chair on the head and shoulders of the man who stepped in, but before it landed he saw that it was not Malone but a smaller man. The chair crashed on the man’s shoulders and sent him sprawling, the force of the blow carried Roger forward, so that he almost ran into the overdressed figure of Malone. He saw the cosh in the man’s hand as it moved downwards and caught him a paralysing blow at the top of the arm, rose again and struck him on the side of the head. He staggered against the far wall, ears ringing, agonising pain shooting through him.

“This way,” Malone said.

Roger just heard the words but did not understand until two more men entered. The fellow whom he had hit with the chair was getting unsteadily to his feet; there was a trickle of blood on his cheek.

“We’ve got ‘em,” Malone said, with an economy of words which would have seemed remarkable at any time. He glanced at Roger and two of the men stepped to Roger’s side, one striking him with a clenched fist and sending him against the wall again.

Malone stood in front of Mrs Cartier.

His oily hair, dressed high so as to increase his stature, hardly came up to her mouth. She looked down at him, and even through the mists of pain and mortification Roger could see her draw herself up, disdainfully. Yet he believed that she was frightened — as any woman would have been frightened by such a man in similar circumstances.

Malone spoke in his husky voice.

“Listen to me, sister. You had a tape recorder at your office. Where is it?”

Mrs Cartier said : “I have no idea.”

Malone moved his right hand and snapped his fingers under her nose. She moved back involuntarily, and stumbled against the table. The tray of bottles shook and the whisky and brandy swayed up against the sides of the bottles.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Malone said. His vocabulary was grotesque in its limitations, its sprinkling of quasi-American slang. “Just say where it is, and you won’t get hurt.”

“I still don’t understand you,” she insisted.

Roger opened his mouth. “Don’t—” he began.

One of the others struck him a flat-handed blow across the mouth. He felt the warm trickle of blood from his lips. He had intended to tell the woman to let Malone know but could not speak.

Malone struck Mrs Cartier a savage blow on the right cheek, another on the left, a third and a fourth. Her head rocked from side to side, she would have fallen but for the rain of blows. Her hair spilled out from its elaborate coiffure, drooped over her eyes and face and then about her shoulders.