John Creasey: Inspector West At Home

“I am sorry,” Abbott repeated, expressionlessly. “Will you explain to your wife ?”

Roger turned on his heel. He caught Janet’s eye as he returned to the room. She gave him the impression that she had heard Abbott and was half-prepared for what was coming.

“They want to search you,” Roger said. “They’ve a woman outside, so they’re not breaking any regulations.”

The woman officer stood on the threshold, smiling as if it were the best joke in the world. She was the only one of the police who seemed untroubled by the situation. Roger stared when she winked at him before going upstairs with Janet to the main bedroom. Abbott entered the lounge and stared at Roger.

“All right,” Roger said. “Get on with it,” and allowed himself to be searched, standing rigid, neither helping nor impeding Tiny Martin, whose every movement seemed to be reluctant. The contents of his pockets were set out in neat array on a corner of the tea-table, next to the muffins which were now cold and unappetising, with congealed butter smeared on them. The fire had nearly gone out. Mark, suddenly waking out of a reverie, began to stoke it, putting on a few knobs of coal and two logs and using a small pair of bellows.

Tiny Martin finished and Roger looked at Abbott.

“Well, are you satisfied?” He could have crashed his fist into Abbott’s face.

“There is nothing here,” Abbott admitted. He took some brown paper and oddments of string from his pocket. “What was in this ?”

Roger stared. “I don’t know.”

“It is addressed to you and it’s registered,” Abbott said. “What was in it?”

Roger stretched out a hand and took the paper. It was familiar but nothing clicked in his mind at first. It was of good quality, with a typewritten address on a plain label. The postmark was blurred but, after some seconds of close scrutiny, he saw that it was franked December, although he could not distinguish the date. His face cleared and he handed it back, knowing both what had been in it when it had reached him and why Abbott had found it upstairs.

“It contained a Christmas present from my father,” he said. “Two first editions of Scott.”

“ Christmas !” Abbott was stung to the ejaculation.

“It was tucked away in my drawer for some months,” continued Roger, icily. “I took it out today and wrapped a birthday present for my wife in it. So it has quite pleasant associations. I carried it all the way from here to the Yard. It was folded up in my raincoat pocket when you saw me this morning. I went to Estelle’s in Oxford Street and bought a twin set. For my wife,” he added with a savage note in his voice. “Are there any more intimate details you want to know?”

“Now, West —” began Abbott.

“ ‘Now West’ be damned!” growled Roger. “This is an outrageous visit. I may be a policeman, but I have some rights in law.”

Mark began to whistle a dirge. Roger swung round on him.

“Is that necessary? The piano’s still there.”

“I was only trying to while away the time. Ah! Sounds of progress.” Footsteps, this time of the women, sounded cm the stairs. Janet was first and she hurried in.

“Nothing at all on my person !” she declared. “I must say the officer made a job of it. Mr Abbott, perhaps you are satisfied now that my husband is not a renegade policeman?” She stared at the paper and snapped : “What are you doing with that?”

“He thinks the filthy lucre was wrapped up in it,” said Roger. “I’ve been giving him the history of it. Next time I bring you a present I ought to wrap it in newspaper or it will be used as evidence against me.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. Now that the search was over, except for this room, he felt much better. He insisted on staying while the room was searched methodically. Nothing was left out of place, perhaps because the work was done under Abbott’s cold eyes. When the man had finished, Roger eyed Abbott steadily and, after a prolonged silence, asked :

“Well, what’s the next shot in your locker?” For the first time he wondered whether they would take him away.

CHAPTER 3

The Remarkable Story of Pep Morgan

HAD THE police made any discovery there would have been a formal charge; although they had not, they could still ask him to go with them for questioning. Abbott seemed not to hear Roger’s question but turned and motioned to Tiny Martin and the policeman — the woman detective had already gone. The lesser policemen went out and Martin closed the door.

Abbott looked even more discomfited.

“I don’t propose to do anything else now, West, but —”

“Now wait a minute,” protested Roger. “Either you give me a clear bill or I call for legal aid. I hope you realise that I can create the mother and father of a row.”

“You would be ill-advised —” Abbott began.

“What you seem to have forgotten is that I’m a policeman too,” interrupted Roger. “If there were any suspicions of a man at the Yard and I had charge of the case, I’d have the ordinary decency to tell him what allegations had been made, and ask him for an explanation. I would not burst into his house, risk upsetting his wife, accuse him —”

“I accused you of nothing.”

“You charged me with nothing but you’ve accused me of a damned sight too much. I want a full explanation and an apology.”

Abbott rubbed his chin, slowly.

“I think you had better come with me,” he said.

“If you want me, get a warrant.”

“Do I understand that you refuse to come with me?” Abbott demanded.

“You understand that I refuse to come to the Yard for questioning until I have had a more formal explanation of the reason for all this, and I’ve had a chance to get legal aid. That’s the least you would do if I were an ordinary civilian.”

Abbott’s mouth closed like a trap.

He turned and, without nodding to Janet or Mark, sidled through the partly open door and then closed it. There were muffled footsteps in the hall before the front door closed. Footsteps followed on the gravel path. Roger stepped to the window and saw the party disappearing towards King’s Road.

Roger turned to face the room, his lips curved in a smile which held no amusement.

“Sweet, I’m terribly sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be an ass, you couldn’t help it,” said Janet. “If it had to happen I’m glad it was here.”

“I’m not and before I’m through I’ll let Chatworth know what I think. I might have expected it of Abbott, but not of Chatworth.” He lit a cigarette and stared at the teapot.

“I’ll make some tea,” Mark volunteered, now very subdued.

He took up the teatray and went out. He had lived at the Bell Street house for some months and was familiar with every room and, as he often said, he liked to amuse himself in the kitchen.

Janet came over and sat on the arm of Roger’s chair.

“Feeling pretty grim?”

Roger said : “Damnable! I — but Jan, what’s Mark been up to?” He gripped Janet’s arm. “I’m so woolly-headed I forgot all about that rumpus. He sent you a tea set as a present, didn’t he? I’m not dreaming, you did have the parcel this morning?”

“Ye-es,” admitted Janet. “I was afraid you were going to say something about that before.” She stood up, stepped to the mantelpiece and took down a small cup and saucer, a fragile, beautiful thing. Idly, she flicked it with her finger; the china rang sweet and clear. “This was just to hoodwink Abbott.”

Roger said : “Did he know that Abbott would be here?”

“Yes.”

“And that din —” Roger jumped to his feet and stared at her, his eyes blazing. “There was someone upstairs. I thought I heard a bump when he was playing the fool on the piano. Jan, what has Mark been up to?”