Send Superintendent West

by John Creasey

  ‘Where Gissing’s concerned, it’s photographic,’ Roger said softly. ‘What does Marino want?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Hardy bluffly.

  But he knew, and it wasn’t simply that Marino wanted a detailed description of Gissing.

  ‘Is Gissing still in the country?’ Roger made himself ask.

  ‘If he were he’d be behind bars. Or I’d sack half the staff.’

  They turned into Grosvenor Square, and in spite of heavy clouds blowing up, the usual photographers were shooting at the Roosevelt statue. The huge American cars, dwarfing all but a few Rolls-Royces and Hardy’s black Daimler, seemed to gather for shelter beneath the waving flag of the Stars and Stripes.

  Hardy had obviously been here before, he was recognised and taken in hand, and they were whisked up to Marino’s office, where Herb, forewarned by telephone, was opening the door for them. He looked absurdly young.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen, Mr Marino’s free right now.’ He opened Marino’s door.

  Marino didn’t get up, even for the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He stretched out his right hand, gripped Roger’s firmly, searched his face and seemed relieved by what he saw. They sat down beneath the portraits of the august dead.

  ‘I would offer you a drink,’ Marino said, ‘but I guess you’ll say it’s too early.’

  ‘Think it’s too early, West?’ Hardy asked. ‘Not if I’m off duty!’

  Hardy grinned, Marino pressed a bell, Herb came in and produced an assortment of bottles. Marino poured out, making a formality of asking Hardy what it would be before he poured a whisky and soda. Herb went away.

  ‘Well, now,’ said Marino, ‘you’re very good to come over at such short notice, Mr Hardy. I surely appreciate that. You’ve been a great help from the beginning. I’m hoping you will be able to help even more.’ Roger was glad of the drink, to help him cover his rising excitement ‘The way it’s turned out, you’re almost the only man we know who could recognise Gissing, Roger. And we want Gissing very badly.’ He sipped his drink. ‘And we think he’s in the United States.’

  ‘So that lets us out,’ Roger said.

  Marino’s smile showed amiable disagreement. He leaned forward, with one of his rare body movements. ‘And we think we can put a finger on him.’

  Roger sat up, abruptly. ‘Think?’

  ‘We can’t be sure, because we haven’t a photograph, fingerprints or anything else to go by,’ Marino said. ‘And we want him identified so that there can’t be any doubt. We can’t pick the suspect up until we’ve identification – unless he tries to take another powder, we would hold him then. I’m told you’re often assigned to cases overseas, and in this case we certainly need your help, and you want Gissing as much as we do. Can you spare the Superintendent for a week or so, Assistant Commissioner?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Suspect

  Except for the perpetual drone of the four jet engines and an occasional lurch when the aircraft dropped through space and then went on as if nothing had happened, Roger would not have known that he was flying. By day, they had looked down fifty thousand feet or so to the Atlantic Ocean, which seemed flat and hardly ruffled. Occasionally they had sighted a ship. England was already three thousand miles away, and New York lay half an hour’s flying time ahead. It was dark in the clouded heavens.

  Roger had an empty seat beside him; there were several others in the cabin. Most of the passengers were dozing. Two, who had been air-sick after the first few minutes, were looking wretchedly in front of them. One of the two stewardesses walked from the little kitchen aft, smiled at Roger and disappeared into the crew’s domain. A man snored faintly, a newspaper rustled.

  In Roger’s mind was a mixture of looking forward and looking back, and looking back was easier.

  Looking back to Janet’s startled exclamation when he had told her, her quick flash of ‘Not again!’ and then her quick ‘I mustn’t be silly, I’m sorry, darling’, and her bright cheerfulness from then on until he had been ready to go. It was only the previous morning that Marino had said what he wanted.

  The stewardess came out, and stopped by Roger.

  ‘Won’t be long now, Mr West, you’ll see better if you move back, the wing is in your way here. There’s an empty seat.’

  ‘Oh, fine. Thanks.’ He moved at once.

  ‘It’s wonderful by night,’ the girl said.

  ‘Wonderful’ was just a word. The lights became brighter, a cloak of diamonds catching the eye and holding it. Flaming rubies and winking emeralds from the neon lighting as they drew nearer, the glitter from the windows of the skyscrapers which lit the sky, dark patches of the East and the Hudson Rivers, the floodlit funnels of the big ships and little ships lying alongside the miles of docks, a fantasy of light and dark, colour and shadow. They seemed unending, as if a moment in time had been caught and held, but the aircraft was losing height, belts were fastened – and then suddenly they were down, taxiing along the runway, and the tension which most passengers felt melted in relief. Everyone began to move and talk at once, the stewardesses called out: ‘Keep your belts fastened for a minute, please.’

  He had travelled as Mr Roger West, and hoped that no one knew him as an official from Scotland Yard. He was to be met privately at the airport and taken to the Milton Hotel. Marino had arranged everything.

  The stewardess who had fussed him while on board shook hands, there was no trouble at Customs, just the unfamiliar accent and a different manner. A porter carried his two suitcases, he carried his briefcase, which had faked business papers – he had become a salesman for British-made cars. He could talk intelligently about cars. He scanned the little crowd waiting in the big, low-ceilinged airport terminal, and a young-looking man in a well-cut suit with broad shoulders, wearing a narrow-brimmed trilby, came up to him.

  ‘Mr West?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Mr West I’m Ed Pullinger of the FBI. I’m told I have to apologise for being Ed.’ He had an open smile and an easy manner, his accent seemed strong to Roger, and he spoke more slowly than most men at home. ‘I hope you had a good flight’

  ‘First-class,’ said Roger.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  Ed led the way, and the porter followed. Outside, lights glistened on a vast mass of cars across the tarmac road; one car was drawn up by the exit.

  ‘This is my car,’ said Ed Pullinger, waving his hand towards a low-slung, gleaming giant of a Chrysler. ‘Put those grips in the back,’ he said to the porter, and tipped the man. ‘Why don’t you get in, Mr West’

  Roger started to get in, banged against the wheel.

  ‘We drive on the wrong side,’ Pullinger said. ‘I should have warned you.’

  Roger laughed and sat in pillowed comfort as Pullinger drove off. The car moved smoothly on its automatic gears. They swept along a nearly deserted road.

  ‘The parkway,’ Pullinger said. Traffic was all one way, and travelled fast – fast compared with London city traffic. ‘We go over the Queensborough Bridge,’ he continued. ‘If it’s your first visit, that’s as good a way as any. Have you been here before?’

  ‘Once – five years ago.’

  ‘You’ve plenty new to see,’ said Pullinger. He turned off, and they followed a twisting road for a mile or so, then turned again into a road which was divided into three – two carriageways with a wide gap between. Soon, they were going through a brightly lit section; advertisement signs which dwarfed London’s had a novelty which fascinated. They blinked, flashed, changed colour; they never stopped moving. ‘This is Queens,’ Pullinger said. ‘Wait until you get to the bridge. Does Tony Marino still use his wheelchair?’

  Roger’s head jerked round.

  ‘What?

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Pullinger looked surprised, almost guilty. ‘He’s sensitive about it, I guess, although you wouldn’t know it. He lost both legs during the war. Had a special wheelchair made. When he was here he used
to sit at his desk and never move, looking at him you wouldn’t guess.’

  ‘I didn’t realise why he never got up,’ Roger said heavily.

  Pullinger laughed.

  ‘That would give Tony a big kick. A great guy, Tony Marino. Remind me to show you the letter I’ve got from him.’ They were moving quickly past what seemed to be an endless stream of green lights at every intersection; the lights stretched out a long way ahead. ‘Now we won’t be long,’ Pullinger said.

  They reached the long approach to the Queensborough Bridge, with its cobbled surface; turned corners; and were suddenly on the bridge itself, tyres humming oddly on the metalled surface. Ahead, the lights of the skyline stood out against the pitch-black sky. From above, they had seemed brilliant; here they scintillated. They didn’t seem real.

  Pullinger kept up a running commentary.

  ‘The one with the red vertical line at the top is the Empire State Building, that top part’s used for television transmitting. There’s the Chrysler Building.’ They were jewelled swords, blades pointing skywards; thousands of windows and thousands of bright fights. ‘It’s some city,’ Pullinger said. ‘It’s the finest city in the world.’ He glanced sideways, expecting a challenge.

  ‘I’ll argue when I get to know it better,’ said Roger. ‘Just now, I’m trying to remember everything.’

  He found himself thinking of the reason for Marino sitting in the same place and seldom moving his body. Nothing else about the man had suggested he had been so crippled.

  ‘Fifty-seventh Street,’ said Pullinger. ‘One for shops.’ He named the avenues they passed. The lights seemed brighter than in Queens, traffic was thick, huge yellow, red and blue taxis crowded the streets. ‘Broadway,’ said Pullinger. ‘I’ll drive you to Times Square, and then you can go and recover at your hotel. You don’t have to work tonight’ He turned left, there was no change in the street scene until they turned a bend in the road, and ahead of them light seemed to blaze from the ground and from the sky. ‘More lights in that square mile than any other place in the world,’ said Pullinger.

  ‘It looks it,’ Roger said faintly. He laughed. ‘And it’s real.’

  ‘You’ll learn how real. The Milton’s on 44th Street, only a step from Times Square, Tony said to put you in the heart of things. Say, Mr West, would you like to have dinner with me? The hotel food is pretty good, I guess, but if you’re not too tired, we could go down to the Village, or any place you like.

  ‘The Village sounds fine! I’ll wash and freshen up.’

  ‘I’ll see you to your room and then leave you for an hour,’ said Pullinger. ‘Give you time to get an appetite. You’ll need one.’ He had all the brightness and frankness of Herb, Dr Fischer, and the others at the Embassy. ‘It’s not a big hotel, but it’s good.’

  The Milton Hotel had an unexpectedly old-fashioned look, and the foyer was half empty. Roger signed a slip of paper, not a book; a bell-hop, looking too small for the two big suitcases, took them up to the ninth floor; Room 901. Pullinger ordered drinks, right away. The room was on a corner, with windows in two walls. Lights flashed on and off from nearby signs; a police siren shrilled out down below, a car blared and went on blaring.

  ‘Don’t let me forget that letter,’ Pullinger said, and took out a billfold not unlike Ed Scammel’s but made of alligator skin. He handed Roger a letter. It was on the Embassy note-paper, signed by Marino, and ran:

  ‘Dear Roger,

  Ed Pullinger, the bearer of this letter, will do right by you. Tell me if he doesn’t. Don’t exhaust yourself looking at Gissing, there will be plenty to see.’

  The drinks arrived, Roger’s a straight whisky and soda, Pullinger’s a small glass of Bourbon and a tall glass with three ice cubes in it. He poured the Bourbon, and Roger watched it cascade down the ice cubes.

  ‘How much do you know about the Shawns?’ Roger asked.

  Pullinger shrugged.

  ‘I’m David’s cloak and dagger when he’s on this side. I was around when he was shot at in his Connecticut house. If you believe him, I pushed him away from an auto that was going to run him down. You might say that Shawn built up my reputation for me!’ Pullinger offered cigarettes from a golden coloured packet.

  ‘Thanks.’ Roger took one.

  Pullinger went to the door. ‘I’ll call you when I’m back, but it won’t be for an hour. See you.’

  He went out, and Roger drew on the cigarette and then went to the window and looked down on to the sea of dancing light, heard the din of traffic, even the footsteps of the crowds on the pavement. He laughed at himself, opened one case, took out a clean shirt, his shaving-gear, everything he would need. When he was in the middle of shaving in a bathroom which had everything, including a tap marked ‘Iced Water’ – and it was ice cold – he yawned.

  He hadn’t slept much on the journey or the night before. He might have been wiser to have a walk round the streets by himself and come back to his room early. He couldn’t disappoint Pullinger now – ‘Ed’ wanted to show off a New York he obviously loved. And why not? Roger yawned again. He finished shaving. He had half an hour to spare, and ten minutes in a comfortable-looking armchair wouldn’t do any harm. It would be pleasant to close his eyes.

  He went to sleep.

  He was still asleep, nearly an hour later, when the door opened and two men came in. One was stocky, with broad shoulders and a swinging walk. He had a wide-brimmed hat, and was smoking a cigar. He didn’t smile. The other did smile; stepping across to Roger, he looked down, and said lightly: ‘He’ll have a shock when he comes round.’

  ‘Who said he was coming round?’

  ‘I did. We have to get him away, we don’t have to leave a body. You’re going to help me dress him. Then we’ll take him down between us. Just another drunk. Gene will have the car outside, all ready for him.’

  ‘Where are you going to take him?’

  ‘Someone forgot to tell you not to ask questions.’

  “Who is the guy?’ the stocky man said, but didn’t expect an answer. He looked at a BOAC label on a suitcase. ‘British, eh? You can tell he’s a foreigner.’ He went round to the back of Roger’s chair, and Roger didn’t stir. ‘Jesse! Take a look at the back of his head.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ said the other. ‘Take a look at his coat and get him into it.’

  That didn’t take long.

  They poured whisky into a glass, splashed a little into Roger’s face, over his coat and shirt, then rumpled his hair, pulled his tie to one side, unfastened his collar. Then the man with the big shoulders pulled Roger to his feet, put one of Roger’s arms round his neck, and dragged him towards the door. They got him to the elevator, his feet scuffing the carpet. The elevator man didn’t blink an eye.

  No one in the hall took much notice. A woman stared disgustedly, and turned her back. A car drew up at the kerb as they appeared outside the hotel, which was poorly fit compared with most of the shops and buildings. It was a big Dodge, black, several years old. They bundled Roger into it. His head lolled back, he sat slumped into the corner, with one man by his side. The broad-shouldered man didn’t get in. The driver, who didn’t speak, slid into the stream of traffic. They turned right and right again, then drove straight out to the Hudson River Parkway, got on to the parkway at 57th Street, then drove fast towards the toll stations and on towards the Merritt Parkway and Connecticut.

  Roger still slept.

  The lights of New York lit up the sky behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Light

  Roger had a sense of having slept for several hours; a sense of vanished time; a void he couldn’t fill but which he knew had been peopled with men and swift movement. It was dark, but this time he had no pain, only a numbness in his head and limbs and heaviness at the back of his eyes. He felt no sense of alarm, and he was quite comfortable. He began to try to remember, and at first it seemed that there was something in the past which was all-important, but he couldn’t recall what it was. The
n pictures flashed on to the retina of his mind – Marino and all that had followed, a thin-faced child, Lissa, the airport, Janet, the boys, the flight, New York and a smiling, loose-limbed youngster who seemed to be one of a pattern stamped out and freely used at Grosvenor Square. With all this, a feeling persisted that some vital factor had been presented to him, but he couldn’t place it.

  Ed Pullinger, a promise of dinner in Greenwich Village, a wash and shave and the easy chair.

  He wasn’t sitting, now, he was lying at full length, and he knew that he hadn’t just come round after forty winks.

  The numbness discouraged him from trying to move, but he threw that off and sat up. It was no effort and brought no pain. His feet touched the floor, and the couch or bed gave beneath him. He stood up. The darkness remained, thick and impenetrable, but it didn’t blanket sound. He heard a man’s footsteps, sat down again, dropped back and lay in the position he had been in when he had come round. The footsteps drew nearer, heavy and deliberate; he heard another sound, which might have been the jingling of keys. Tension gripped him. The man stopped, there was a moment’s pause – and then a shaft of light streamed into the room.

  It missed his eyes, yet still dazzled him. It came from a square hole on the other side of the room, not far away. Then a shadow darkened the light, and he made out the shape of a man’s head; another light came on, inside the room, bright enough but not dazzling. The shadow faded and the other light went out, as if it had been cut off, then the room light was doused. The footsteps receded, until only the brooding silence kept him company.

  He had been hypnotised by the light from the square hole, had stared that way, without looking about him, but now the picture of the room formed slowly in his mind. He was in a corner, with his head near a wall. There were two armchairs, an upright chair and a small table – he could place them within inches. In the far corner was a hand-basin; he even remembered a glass standing on the shield above the basin.