John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

“I’ve never been so glad to see you,” he said.

“I daresay,” said Abbott, his thin lips twisting in a smile. “I shouldn’t try to talk too much yet.” He led the way into the entrance hall and the lounge, where Mrs Cartier was sitting in an easy chair, with coffee by her side. The maid was stretched out on the settee, her face red and swollen with crying.

Mrs Cartier had tidied her hair. One cheek was also red and puffy and the scratch on her eyelid was lined with blood, but she looked more presentable than Roger or the maid — and she was smiling, although with more than a touch of bitterness.

“How it must hurt,” she said to Roger. “Will you have some coffee ?”

Roger croaked. “I don’t think I could drink anything hot.”

“Then some cold milk?” She rose and hurried out of the room, returning in a few seconds with a glass of cold milk.

Roger said to Abbott: “Sam called for you, did he?”

“Yes. But I think Mrs Cartier is better able to tell me what happened.”

“I will, immediately,” said Mrs Cartier. “Oh, I am so sorry that they took the tape —”

Roger snapped, his voice suddenly clear.

“Did they?” He stood up too quickly, for his head began to swim, and stepped to the cabinet beneath which he had kicked the record. He saw the cardboard container and beckoned one of the Yard men, who went down on his knees and brought it out. The tape was inside.

Mrs Cartier said eagerly.

“That’s wonderful! Now —”

Then she broke off and the others looked towards the passage door. Sam stood there ill at ease with one of Abbott’s men. There was a murmur of conversation before the door opened. A plainclothes man stood aside and revealed the tall, elegant figure of Mr Sylvester Cartier.

CHAPTER 17

The Air is Much Clearer

AFTER THE first shock, Cartier took the situation remarkably well. He exclaimed at the sight of his wife’s puffy face and looked at Roger without understanding. Then he gripped her hands and looked into her eyes as she said :

“It is all right now, cheri, quite all right now.”

Cartier took a blue and white spotted handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed fastidiously at his forehead. Roger saw him closely for the first time. He was too narrow-jawed to be handsome, yet was good-looking with an excellent, almost feminine complexion. His fair hair was thin and curly, his eyes blue, his lips full and generous. There was a foppish air about him, but Roger wondered whether it was affectation.

“Now perhaps someone will be good enough to explain this remarkable visitation,” said Cartier.

“ Cheri, I should have told you something of it before,” said his wife. She looked contrite and Cartier stared at her in growing bewilderment. “Perhaps you will be patient?” She looked at Abbott and added : “I would like to tell my husband what has caused this.”

Cartier stepped to the tray. The fruit knives were crossed and he straightened them, then picked up an apple and toyed with it.

“I should like to know it myself,” Abbott said drily. The man was positively human and Roger looked at him, surprised by this revelation, puzzled also by something else in his manner.

“Then please listen,” said Mrs Cartier.

Roger liked her telling of the story, touching on all she had told him and elaborating only those details which needed fuller explanation. She mentioned her visit to Bell Street and explained that she had seen Roger waiting at the end of Welbeck Street and had hurried off to arrange for this visit. She admitted that she and her husband had quarrelled at Welbeck Street, and she made it clear that because of his antagonism to her interest in the Society she had hesitated to take him into her confidence. She gave Roger the impression that it would have to be settled between them and that she was prepared to make concessions. Her eyes seemed to caress the man.

Then she told them what had happened at the flat.

Tiny Martin, probably the most proficient shorthand- writer at the Yard, took everything down, occasionally forced to write so fast that his pencil seemed to slide across the page of his note-book.

“I would have refused to answer but the Inspector told me to,” Mrs Cartier finished.

“I should think he did!” exclaimed Cartier. “I’ve never heard anything so wicked.” He broke off, put the apple down, stared at Roger and then went on : “Had you any idea what Pickerell was doing before ? If you did, you should have advised me.”

“I hadn’t the faintest idea,” Roger told him.

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t think that the Inspector would lie about it, Sylvester,” said Mrs Cartier. “It is surely clear that as he was being victimised, he would hardly know.” She looked at Abbott. “The wrong can be righted, I hope.”

Abbott so far forgot himself as to smile.

“Yes,” he said. “And it will be.”

Roger no longer noticed his swollen lips or puffy eye. Malone had receded, even the ‘unlucky 13th’ did not matter. He was in the clear, and Chatworth would admit it as freely as Abbott.

Roger left Bonnock House with Abbott, half an hour later, when the flat had been scoured for finger-prints : there would be plenty of Malone’s on the fragments of the tapes, which were carefully collected and put in a big bag which the maid, now much more herself, brought from the kitchen. Cartier revealed himself to be acute and shrewd by his questions to Abbott, but he gave the impression that the main issue would have to be decided between him and his wife.

Although it was barely half past nine, Roger telephoned the Legge hotel to find that Janet and the others were there. He told an excited Janet what had happened, and rang off. He frowned, thinking of Lois and wondering whether the time had come to tell the Yard all that he knew about her. He thought it had, but as he left the flats with Abbott he felt undecided. Sam had gone ahead.

The moon was rising and casting a faint grey light about the heath and the large houses and mansion flats bordering it. It shone dully on the three police cars outside.

The thought of the taxi-driver who should have telephoned Bell Street by now entered Roger’s mind. He missed a step, and Abbott asked :

“What is it, West?”

“I ought to telephone my house,” Roger said.

“You can do that from the Yard,” said Abbott. “I called Sir Guy before I left and I expect he will be waiting for us. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

At the Yard, Abbott went to the AC’s office ahead, and Roger went into his own. It was dark and there was a smell of shag — Eddie Day’s tobacco.

Morgan’s man answered his telephone call to Bell Street.

“Have you had any calls?” Roger asked.

“No, it’s been all quiet,” the man replied. “Think there’s any need for me to stay, Mr West?”

“Yes,” said Roger. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go to bed in the room with a telephone.”

“If you say so,” the man said.

Roger replaced the receiver, then called the London Hospital. He was given a good report on Pep Morgan. He walked along to Chatworth’s office. One or two men passed, staring at him in surprise and one of them asked him what he had done to his face.

Roger grinned painfully. Tobacco smoke stung his lips and he knew that he was a fool to smoke but could not bring himself to throw the cigarette away. He tapped on Chatworth’s door and was bidden to enter.

Chatworth was sitting back in his big chair, Abbott standing like a statue beside him; the tape-recorder in Chat- worth’s office was near his hand, a tape — the tape — was in front of Chatworth.

“Hallo, West,” said the AC. “You’ve had a nasty time, I hear. Sit down.” Roger did so. “Anyway, the air is much clearer,” said Chatworth.