John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

“You’re off your nut,” Malone said, still very wary. “You can’t do a thing, West.”

“You poor fool!” said Roger, scathingly. “You really think you can get away with it? Every policeman in this country is after you. You haven’t even a hope of keeping away from them for the rest of the day. Whatever you do will only make it worse for yourself. If you give yourself up and make a statement, you might get a lighter sentence. It’s your only real hope.”

“Shut your trap!” snapped Malone, “I didn’t come here to listen to talk from you.”

“I’m not interested in why you came,” said Roger. “I’ve told you the truth and if you like to play the fool, that’s up to you. I don’t know how many men you’ve got with you —”

“I brought plenty,” Malone said, his eyes narrowed. “Quit the spieling, West. No one can touch me. How much do you know?”

“As much as everyone at the Yard knows,” Roger said. “We’ll be moving later in the day.”

Malone said thinly : “West, I reckon your wife will be coming here soon. Once before, I took her away to warn you what would happen if you stuck your head out too far. Now it’s coming. If you don’t talk, I’ll deal with her different.” He kept his hands in his pockets, where Roger sus-pected that he had a knife, perhaps a gun. Mention of Janet brought a revival of the cold fury; it made him tremble from head to foot and he had to fight against throwing himself at the gangster — the one fatal thing to do. “You saw me deal with that Cartier dame,” Malone continued, “that was nothing to what I’ll do to your wife. Tell me what you know.”

“Why Cox killed his wife,” said Roger.

Malone moved.

His trick of ending immobility in a sudden cyclonic movement succeeded in taking Roger by surprise. He backed away but caught his foot against a part of the broken chair and staggered against the mantelpiece. Malone struck him with the flat of his hand. It did not account for the sharp, stinging pain in Roger’s cheek nor the warm trickle of blood. He saw the man’s hand in front of him, a razor blade held between the middle and index fingers. He knew that Malone would gladly batter him as he had the room; yet he was less afraid than angry.

“That’s just a little idea of what’s coming to you,” Malone said thinly. “Did the Randall dame talk?”

“She didn’t need to.”

“That’s a lie. Did she talk?”

Roger said : “I’ve warned you, Malone.”

Malone sneered. “I’ve heard busies before. Talk, that’s about all they can do. If you caught me you couldn’t keep me.” He raised his hand threateningly. By a sleight of hand he moved the blade so that it was held between the tips of his fingers. He made a sweeping movement and the blade passed within an inch of Roger’s eyes. For the first time Roger felt only fear of what could have happened.

“I’ll give you two minutes,” Malone said.

From outside there came a shrill whistle, similar to the one that Roger had heard at Mrs Cartier’s flat and that Mark had heard in the ‘Saucy Sue’. Malone stiffened and half turned his head. Roger kicked at him, aiming for his groin. He caught the man’s thigh and Malone lost his balance, just as two of the gang came into the room.

They ignored him as Malone, recovering his balance, said : “Who is it?”

“Lessing,” a rat-faced man said. “And the yob with the curly hair.”

Malone’s eyes narrowed. “Tennant, Huh? I’ve been wanting to talk to him. How far away?”

“The end of the street.”

“Walking?”

“Yeah.”

Roger wondered : “Why have they come so soon?”

Malone did not look at Roger, but one of his companions stayed close. He had a knuckle-duster in his hand, an ugly, spiked weapon which would tear a man’s face to pieces.

“Don’t even squeak,” Malone flung at Roger, savagely.

Footsteps sounded on the pavement and then the gravel drive. There was a pause and a heavy knock at the front door. Malone did not move except to put out a hand towards the light switch as if he were going to plunge the room in darkness. If he did—

The man with the knuckle-duster moved swiftly, caught Roger’s right wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back. Whoever was outside knocked again; then Mark called :

“Anyone at home ?” There was a pause before a key scraped in the lock — Mark had a key to the house.

Malone flicked his finger; the light went out.

“What the—” began Mark, as if startled by the darkness. Actually it was broken by light streaming in from the open front door. “Roger !” Mark called. “Are you in?”

The pressure at Roger’s wrist increased and he felt the scraping of the knuckle-duster on his cheek. The veins swelled up in his neck and on his forehead, his breathing was heavy. He knew exactly what would happen if he called out. Damn it, he must call! He opened his lips.

Malone switched on the light. Mark gasped. Roger saw two men standing in the hall and guessed that one of them was showing a gun. Malone stepped into the hall with the sliding, swaggering gait which characterised him.

“Come right in, Lessing,” he said. “You’re very welcome.” He grinned. “Where’s Tennant?”

“ Here ’ s Tennant!” a man called. It was Tennant himself. There was a flurry of movement, a gasp and a shadow which loomed in the hall. It happened so suddenly that Roger felt his captor relax. He took the opportunity and wrenched his wrist away, back-heeled and caught the man’s shin. Two men crashed down in the hall, carried to the floor by Bill Tennant, who had leapt past Mark and sailed through the air. He landed on his feet, crouching, and looked at Malone and the other man. Malone held a knife now. There was a split second of silence, a hush while the two men weighed each other up. Malone was crouching now, and Tennant standing upright with his hands a little way in front of him. The men on the floor began to move.

Roger took a step forward.

Tennant jumped, feet foremost. His heels landed on Malone’s stomach, and Malone’s hand, holding the knife, swept round aimlessly. There was a squelching sound as Tennant’s feet sank into him and he fell backward, cracking his head against the floor. The man whom Roger had kicked drew back his fist with the knuckle-duster ready, but Tennant came on, keeping his balance by some miracle. He gripped the wrist which held the knuckle-duster, and Malone’s man gasped and was thrown against the wall with a thud which shook the house. Malone, scrambling to his feet and with no fight left in him, shouted for help, but no one came.

Tennant turned on him and laughed into his face.

“This is what you hand out, Malone,” he said. He struck the man with great power and Malone toppled backwards. “That,” Tennant said, “is for Lois. That is for Mrs Cartier.” He bent down and yanked Malone to his feet.

There were men’s voices, heavy footsteps and the sound of scuffling in the kitchen. Roger wondered who else had come. Mark was standing just in sight, with a gun in his hand; the two men whom Tennant had first attacked were backing towards the stairs. A familiar voice called :

“Is West all right, Lessing?” It was Cornish!

“Yes,” Mark called.

“ Mister Malone,” said Tennant, softly, “I never did like you.” The gangster was helpless, hardly able to stand on his feet, but Tennant lifted him by the waist and flung him against the wall.

Then Cornish and two or three plainclothes men came in with a rush. Tennant drew back. Roger could not look at Cornish, only at Tennant, to see the way he relaxed, the sudden fading of the glitter in his eyes, and the half-ashamed smile which curved his lips.