A Sharp Rise in Crime

by John Creasey

  Percy Briggs, the stolid, the phlegmatic, the never-emotional policeman, swung his victim under one arm, bent down and picked up the pistol. This he flourished in the faces of the two policemen.

  ‘This swine just tried to shoot Handsome West. Know who West is? The best bloody copper in London. He’s been shot at twice today, and wounded once, and now this little sod tried to shoot him again. Now does anyone feel sorry I nearly broke his neck?’

  There was a hush, broken only by passing traffic and the mournful wail of a tug or barge on the Thames. One of the policemen said drily: ‘All the same, you’d better let us have him.’

  Slowly, Briggs lowered his victim, and almost at the same moment the sound of an ambulance siren came clearly.

  Roger was vaguely aware of light and of consciousness. He was aware of an ache in his left arm and also in the side of his head. He was aware that he was somewhere unusual – not the office, not home. He did not feel particularly troubled, even when he began to realise what had happened. This was a hospital, of course, and he was drowsy from some drug. He had a curious feeling that he should be driven by a sense of urgency, but he wasn’t.

  Next time he opened his eyes he could see more clearly and his head was easier. This was a small, private ward in a hospital; there was a thermometer in a glass by his side, a chart at the foot of his bed, and his arm, much more heavily bandaged than it had been before, lay over the pale green bedspread. It did not ache anything like so much.

  It was half-past three.

  ‘That’s one conference I didn’t get to,’ he whispered. ‘I wonder if they found me guilty or not guilty.’ He actually laughed.

  Then he thought of his driver, but for whom he would be dead; he did not even know the man’s name. Well, he must find that out.

  And he must soon tell someone he was awake and ready to question and be questioned. Had the two Q cars traced the taxi, for instance? Was there any more news of Alice Brace? Why had a woman who looked just like her been murdered? He was beginning to fret and to fidget. He needed to know things, above all why was this happening, what was going on?

  He stretched out his hand for the telephone by his side, actually dialled the first two digits of the Yard’s new number before his hand dropped, and the receiver clattered back into place. His whole body stiff, his head taut, as if his brains were expanding and expanding and trying to find a way out, he lay there. He did not move for perhaps twenty minutes. Only then did he begin to relax, and only after another five minutes did he pick up and draw the telephone towards him and, this time, dial Coppell’s direct line. He waited for the ringing sound for so long that he was afraid the man was out, but at last the ringing broke and Coppell rasped: ‘Coppell.’

  ‘West here, sir,’ Roger said.

  ‘West. I thought you were at death’s door in hospital.’

  ‘Keep your voice low,’ urged Roger. ‘I’m on the private line so that I can’t be overheard.’

  Coppell simply grunted, and Roger went on: ‘It might be a good idea if officially I do die.’

  ‘What the—’ began Coppell, only to add gruffly: ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did you know the woman we took out of the river wasn’t Detective Officer Brace?’

  ‘You must have had a nasty blow on the head.’

  ‘Check with Appleby,’ Roger urged. ‘No one’s been knocking him about. Someone impersonated her – someone seems to be impersonating me.’

  ‘Give me a minute to think that out,’ asked Coppell, and was silent for what seemed a long time. Then: ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why should anyone try to impersonate me – except to take my place?’ Roger asked.

  ‘I’ve got that far,’ said Coppell.

  ‘If they think I’m dead, if we can catch the man who’s impersonating me, I might be able to impersonate him,’ Roger said, softly. ‘If I could spend even twenty-four hours as this other man, who knows what I might find out.’

  There was a pause; a much longer pause than before, with Coppell’s heavy breathing coming clearly over the wire. Then at last Coppell growled: ‘Won’t help to find anything out if you’re murdered before you can tell us what it is, will it?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Intensive Care

  Roger let the Commander’s words hang in the air for a few minutes. He was sure that Coppell was simply coping with his conscience, rather than experiencing aversion to the idea. He, Roger, was seeing more and more angles of it with almost every second; some good, some alarming. For instance if someone had planned to impersonate him, Roger, then what about Janet? For a short-term impersonation she probably didn’t matter, but if someone wanted to act as Roger West for any length of time, even over a period of a few weeks, Janet would either have to go away or—

  Be killed. Murder?

  Whenever these plans had been laid, Martin had been in Australia, the planners had no need to think there was any danger of discovery except from Janet.

  Why was he thinking in terms of a long period?

  He knew perfectly well, of course, even though he had not yet admitted it. Everyone knew crime was rising, fast. Everyone was thinking in simple terms: more criminals, a permissive, amoral society, more money, more rich people, more opportunity to steal. Even the crime of violence for its own sake was accepted by many as normal. Wars had bred into most races the acceptance of violence. And violence begat violence.

  No one looked for any other explanation than normal growth within a changing society, except: Marriott.

  And, be honest: except him, Roger West.

  There might be many others, too, who had nothing on which to focus their half-formed theories, but – he had something to focus on. He—

  ‘Handsome,’ Coppell said, his patience exhausted, ‘the Commissioner and I are both coming to see you. We shall come separately and should be there in about an hour. Don’t run away.’

  Roger laughed. ‘No, sir.’

  He rang off, and wiped a beading of sweat off his forehead. He should have realised Coppell was on another line to Trevillion; it wasn’t in the man’s nature to be patient, but he couldn’t be taking this more seriously nor be more aware of the value of secrecy. Roger lay back, thinking more about Janet and Martin than about the case, then suddenly made up his mind, and called his home number. Janet answered so quickly that she must have been close by the telephone.

  ‘This is Janet West.’ Her voice was over-brisk; a frightened voice, because she had heard of the attacks on him. So, she was afraid. He heard the extension receiver move – so Martin was at the other telephone.

  ‘Whatever you do,’ he said, ‘keep your voices down.’

  Janet cried: ‘Roger!’ as if her whole heart was in her voice; and on the instant Martin said ‘Hush, Mum.’

  ‘Roger, you’re safe,’ Janet breathed.

  ‘I’m safe and not badly hurt,’ Roger said, ‘but you may hear a lot of stories, even that I’m dead. Don’t believe them but try to look as if you do.’

  ‘You always did expect the impossible,’ Janet said in a more normal voice.

  ‘And get it,’ Martin said.

  ‘Just ignore anything in the newspapers, on television, or radio – even the evidence of your own ears and eyes,’ Roger urged, and before either of them could make any other comment, he asked: ‘Did you get those photographs, Martin?’

  ‘Yes – and they’re very good, though I say it as shouldn’t.’

  ‘Where’s our set?’

  ‘Mixed up among my paintings; I thought that was safest.’

  ‘Good! Now, put them in a packet, bring a big handbag for them, Jan, and both come and see me here at St. George’s Hospital. Look anxious coming in and unhappy when you leave. They’ll allow you ten minutes here at most – I’ll fix it beforehand. And if you can come right away you might just miss Coppell.’ He heard Janet exclaim, and then he added, ‘Look as if I’m at death’s door, darling!’

  ‘Oh, you fool,’ breathed Janet, but tears muffled her voice.
>
  Roger telephoned the Matron of his floor to be told that she had already had orders to say that he was in the intensive care unit; she told him that at least thirty newspapermen were in the street at Hyde Park Corner and that police had been drafted to all entrances, to make sure that no one could sneak into his ward.

  Newspapermen? Roger wondered. Or assassins?

  Why did they want to kill him?

  Then Janet and Martin arrived, Janet tearful from emotional strain, Martin justly proud of his photographs. They had ten minutes and so little chance to talk. Before she left, Janet said: ‘You will call me when you can, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he promised. ‘And if you ever get a message from a man who calls himself Brown Dog, that will be from me.’

  She held him tightly but did not utter another word before turning and hurrying out, while Martin gave a farewell wave and muttered: ‘Good luck, Dad,’ as he followed her.

  Roger lay back on his pillows, breathing hard; seeing them, trying to pretend there was nothing to worry about, had taken a lot out of him, and he needed no telling that he would not be fit this day, if for several days, for much exertion. He wiped his forehead and upper lip with a paper handkerchief, then pushed one pillow away and lay flat, closing his eyes. If he were asleep when Coppell and Trevillion came that wouldn’t matter; half-an-hour’s complete relaxation would give a needed edge to his mind.

  He dozed off.

  Janet and Martin walked along the hospital corridor, and they did not have to pretend to look pale or distressed. The apparent indifference of all the people they passed somehow hurt. Janet’s face was set, and Martin had the sense to realise that this was no time to utter soothing phrases or put his arm round her shoulders. In the hallway, a man in a lounge suit said: ‘There are fewer reporters this side, Mrs West.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He led them along several passages to the entrance where the ambulances came, and the casualty patients. A dozen or more reporters and cameramen drew near. Questions were hurled, flashlights flicked brightly.

  ‘How is he, Mrs West?’

  ‘Is it true he was shot three times?’

  ‘Are you sending for your other son, what’s his name?’

  Another man called: ‘Richard. Are you sending for Richard?’

  ‘Mr West, why did you come back from Australia when you did?’

  ‘Was there some special reason? Did you know your father was working on a particularly dangerous job?’

  ‘Is he dying, Mrs West?’

  All of the time of this bombardment they were being escorted by several policemen towards a waiting car – a police limousine used only for V.I.P.s. The last question with all its cold-bloodedness, was uttered by a biggish, middle-aged man.

  ‘For that, I ought to break your neck.’ Martin uttered the first words either of them had spoken since the questions had started and the cameras flashed.

  ‘I’d like to see you try,’ the man retorted, half-sneering.

  ‘Mr West—’ began the nearest policeman.

  Martin stopped in front of the man, looked him up and down, and said in a cold and angry voice: ‘You are an unpleasant swine and a disgrace to your profession.’

  ‘Why, you—’ The man’s fists came up, clenched, Janet cried: ‘Martin!’

  Martin side-stepped a swing to the jaw and drove his own fists one-two-three with terrific power into the man’s unprotected stomach. He staggered, then fell forward onto his knees, his face purple. Martin turned after his mother. No one else called out and no policeman spoke, but cameras clicked and flashed. First Janet, then Martin, got into the car, and the police driver got in, another officer beside him. This man was tall and fair-complexioned, with silvery hair.

  ‘Martin,’ Janet said, ‘you shouldn’t have done it.’

  Martin grinned. ‘I know I shouldn’t but I’m glad I did.’

  Silently they headed back for Chelsea, Martin’s big hand now closed over his mother’s. As they drew close to Bell Street, the man next to the driver turned his head, and said: ‘I hope you won’t take offence, Mrs. West, or you, sir, but I had orders to make one thing very clear to you.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Janet.

  ‘Absolute secrecy, about Mr West’s true condition,’ the man went on. ‘You have a young lady staying temporarily at the house, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Janet answered.

  ‘Don’t say a word to her, whatever you do,’ went on the policeman, and no one could have sounded more grave. ‘You know how clever these newspaper chaps are at doing their job – they can get information out of a stone, sometimes. You two have some knowledge of how to deal with them—’

  ‘I’ll say!’ exclaimed the driver, and then added quickly: ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘But this young lady, presumably, has had no experience,’ the man with the silvery hair said with great emphasis. ‘It’s absolutely vital no one breathes a word to her.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Janet said.

  ‘And you, Mr West?’ the older man insisted.

  ‘I won’t,’ Martin assured him, and then leaned forward in his seat and asked: ‘Do you mind showing me your card?’

  The driver stifled a snort of laughter.

  The silvery-haired man turned in his seat. ‘I’m Chief Superintendent Matthew Trannion,’ he declared with saintly reproach, and handed Martin his card, which was countersigned both by Coppell and by the Commissioner. ‘I hope you will take the most thorough precautions,’ he went on. ‘We don’t really know what is happening but we are extremely worried. You will be guarded at Bell Street and wherever you go.’

  They stopped, outside the Bell Street house. A plain-clothes man was at a window-cleaning cart a little way along, and nearby was a Television, Radio and Tape Recorder van.

  Inside, Janet said: ‘Martin, I don’t think I’ve ever been more frightened. Thank God you’re home.’

  ‘It almost convinces you there is a God – a guiding hand, anyway,’ Martin reflected. Then his voice brightened and he opened the front door. ‘The worst thing about this affair is not being able to tell Anne.’

  He thrust the door wide open – and Anne stood at the foot of the stairs. There was no way of telling whether she had heard what he said.

  Only a few miles away, in St. George’s Hospital, a woman was saying into an internal telephone: ‘I don’t know whether we ought to wake him, Matron. I really don’t want to do it on my own authority.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Dr. Lobb,’ the Matron promised.

  All of this was going on while Coppell kicked his heels in the waiting-room, knowing that it was no use talking to the staff here as he would have talked to the men at the Yard. He had received no word when Trevillion was ushered in. He gave a fierce grin.

  ‘Makes me feel I’m breaking into the girls’ dorm,’ he remarked, ‘just arrived?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  ‘I hope he’s not worse,’ said Trevillion, and the expression on Coppell’s face made it obvious that the idea had not occurred to him. Almost on that instant a man in a white coat came along the passage.

  ‘Admiral Trevillion?’ he smiled. ‘I was a junior lieutenant under you once, sir. Armed. Mr Coppell? The staff were reluctant to wake Mr West, who has been given a fairly strong sedative, but he is conscious now – awake, I mean – and quite able to talk. But it will be a day or two before he’s on his feet again. He had quite a day.’ Already, he was leading the way. ‘My name is Lobb, by the way – Dr Lobb. We’ve had him removed as you requested to a single ward in an intensive care unit, and all the staff who have anything to do with him can be trusted absolutely.’

  ‘You’re very good,’ said Trevillion. ‘Which ship, doctor?’

  ‘The Rodney, sir.’

  ‘Ah. We must have a talk. Now—’ They went into a lift, up two flights, along more passages which had the all-pervasive odour of strong antiseptics. Only one man, apparently an orderly, was with them.

&nb
sp; ‘Three doors along,’ Lobb said, turning to the right.

  They were halfway there when the ‘orderly’ quickened his pace to a run and reached the third door. Thrusting it open, he rushed inside.

  Before he disappeared, the others saw the gun in his hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Fourth Attack

  Roger, wakened only a few minutes before by a nurse who obviously disapproved, was sitting up, banked by pillows, feeling heavy-headed but on the whole much better. He was in a different room, with an oxygen cylinder and other apparatus he didn’t recognise, and was girding himself to deal with the two great men. Then he heard a sharp sound of footsteps, a bellow which could only come from Trevillion, a roar of ‘Stop him!’ from Coppell. He needed no more telling what had happened, and his reflexes had never been better. He flung a glass of orange juice towards the door as it began to open, and rolled off the bed. For a sickening moment he thought he would hit his left arm; worse, that the orange juice had landed on Trevillion’s face.

  Beneath the high bed he saw feet.

  The feet of a small man, and suddenly his hands and face as he crouched down to shoot beneath the bed. The feet of a big man, enormous feet – Coppell’s. Coppell drew back his right leg and kicked the crouching man with such force that the gun slithered from his grasp. Then small, well-shod feet – Trevillion’s? No, the doctor, bending down and picking up the gun, while Coppell and Trevillion lifted the assailant clear of the floor.

  Coppell called: ‘Are you all right, West?’

  ‘West!’ roared Trevillion.

  ‘Worse for wear but all right,’ Roger said. He hauled himself to his feet and then two nurses and three policemen came hurrying in, and Roger allowed himself to be half-lifted onto the bed, pillows placed behind his shoulders. Coppell’s voice came, subdued to the tone he considered suitable for a hospital.

  ‘Take this man out, handcuff him, take him to the Yard, get all the details you can about him. I’ll charge him with attempted murder when I get back.’