A Sharp Rise in Crime

by John Creasey

  Coppell’s face held the awe of thanksgiving as he put the telephone down.

  Lieutenant Maria Consuela, of the New York Police Department was due to arrive, with Coppell, at any time. Roger, sitting up in an easy chair, but still in a dressing-gown, wondered what she would really be like and whether Coppell’s hopefulness would be justified. One thing was certain: Ivan Frost, his New York friend, and the one he knew better than most, certainly would not send anyone unless she was good. But Ivan didn’t really know the situation. He, Roger, might have been wiser to talk to him himself. But one couldn’t have a private line to New York and those lines could be the eyes and ears of the world.

  He thought he had everything else he needed except the voice and some of those personal habits a man never lost; crooking a finger, playing with a lip, an ear, scratching one’s nose – there were dozens of little things. He had once recognised and arrested a badly-wanted criminal simply by recognising his mannerism of rubbing his right elbow with his left hand.

  Footsteps sounded – one set heavy, one set light.

  Coppell, and Maria Consuela.

  Coppell gave his customary heavy bang on the door and then opened it, but he didn’t come in first. He stood aside, letting his companion precede him. A hardened policeman he was, nevertheless, aghast at the havoc wreaked on Maria Consuela’s beauty; and concerned at the effect of this havoc on Roger. Because of the particular situation of the door, and the fact that his chair was behind the bed, Roger saw her profile first; an unblemished and quite superbly beautiful profile.

  She was Spanish, of course; or Mexican.

  Her hair was raven black and her complexion so much the colour of a peach it seemed unnatural.

  Roger stood up as she turned full face towards him.

  Had a tiger clawed her from just beneath the eye down to the side of the mouth the effect could not have been more disfiguring. It actually twisted one side of her lip a little so that it was almost set in a permanent sneer. With the terrible knowledge of how he would be affected, she stopped just inside the room, waiting.

  Maria Consuela thought: It is not possible, they are so alike.

  She waited and watched and she thought: He will get used to it, like all the others.

  She was aware that his gaze strayed from her scar to her eyes, then he smiled and moved towards the foot of the bed, while she gasped: ‘The smile is uncanny! I could swear you were Rake Hunter.’

  Roger had a confusion of thoughts as he looked at her, and the last comment did not, at first, have full effect. But for that scar she was quite remarkably beautiful, and she had – well, she had a figure most women would envy. But the most beautiful thing about her were her eyes.

  They drew close enough to shake hands, and he said: ‘Thank God they didn’t touch your eyes.’

  ‘Rake wouldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘If he blinded me I wouldn’t be able to see myself.’

  ‘Still so bitter?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Until my dying day.’

  He was still holding her hand.

  ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I hope very much that you’re wrong.’ They stared at each other for what seemed a long time, and he was not, then, aware of the door closing; not until afterwards did he realise that Coppell had sensed, in one of his rare moments of perception, that they would get on better without him. Roger realised he still held her hand; he released it and motioned to an armchair opposite his. ‘Do sit down.’

  She continued to stand.

  ‘Why should it matter so much to you whether I am bitter or not?’

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of human beings,’ Roger said. ‘Plain and homely, old and young, bright and lovely. The worst thing that can happen to any of them is to be filled with bitterness.’

  ‘Don’t you mean hatred?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Bitterness. They can be half-brothers but they’re not the same. Hatred can drive a man to extreme effort, to passion, to fury – but bitterness withers him. It’s like growing old inside while looking young outside.’

  At last she sat down.

  ‘Tell me, are you really going to impersonate Rake Hunter?’

  ‘Did they tell you that?’

  ‘They had to make me realise how important it was that you learned all you could about him. All the little intimacies. All the little mannerisms. Did they tell you he has a new wife?’

  He caught his breath.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s just learning.’

  Roger said again: ‘No. No, that was the one thing I hadn’t thought of.’

  ‘Sleeping with his wife or lovers,’ she said.

  When he didn’t speak she went on: ‘Unless you’re prepared to play the part absolutely, don’t go. You couldn’t possibly win, and it would be sheer waste if you went, knowing in advance that you were going to lose. Wouldn’t it?’ When he didn’t answer she pulled herself to her feet.

  ‘Roger West,’ she said, clearly, ‘listen! This man is a devil. What he’s done to me is nothing compared with what he’s done to others. He has a worldwide criminal organisation and when he can’t buy his way into the police forces, he works as he’s working here in London, against you. Catch him. Hang him or put him away for life, and you will have done more for society than in all the rest of your police work put together.’

  She gripped his hands so tightly that his fingers hurt.

  ‘What are you going to do? Let those conventions you live by, let faithfulness to your pretty little wife or some half-understood religious covenant stop you? Or are you going to take a chance of doing what no man has ever been able to do? Break Rake Hunter’s power.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tension of Waiting

  Roger West, hearing the passion in her voice, became increasingly aware of her – as a woman and a beautiful one, rather than as a colleague. He had been, to a lesser extent, from the moment she entered the room.

  ‘Such hate and bitterness,’ he said again. ‘Tell me.’

  She did not answer and he did not speak again, waiting, sure that eventually she would answer. And indeed, she said:

  ‘I was in love. With—a good man. He wanted me to leave the Police Force and stay at home. Sometimes, I—I thought I wanted to. And finally I decided to. He was a stockbroker, a Presbyterian, a—’ She broke off, and then went on again: ‘Not smug. Good. Then I was assigned to Hunter and there was only one way for a woman cop to deal with him. I told myself I was doing as much good as Jeremy, in a different way. Even a lot more. It was going to be my last job with the police.’

  She paused, but it was not time for him to speak. Was it time for him to kiss her, very lightly, on the cheek and on the eyes, tasting the salt of her tears? She showed no sign that she knew what he was thinking, but suddenly she went on: ‘Then, this happened. One of the newspapers got a picture of me just afterwards, called me one of Hunter’s molls. The Police Department couldn’t protect me – I’d known that from the beginning. They took me to hospital in a police ambulance, and all New York knew where I was.’ She paused. ‘But—Jeremy didn’t come.

  ‘He didn’t come then and he didn’t come afterwards. I’ve never seen him again. I had a stiff note saying he was sure I would understand why he couldn’t go on. A year – less than a year later, he married.’

  There was a tap at the door which began to open and Roger called out: ‘Can we have some tea in half-an-hour?’ and the caller closed the door on a quiet: ‘Yes, Mr. West.’

  Maria Consuela forced a smile.

  ‘I could fall in love with you at the crook of your little finger,’ she said, lightly daring.

  ‘I shall keep that little finger absolutely rigid until we have Hunter where we want him,’ he answered, just as lightly. ‘After that I make no promises. Maria.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did Coppell tell you what I need?’

  ‘Yes – but not in detail.’

  ‘First, the tape, and try to imitate Hunter’s voice,’ he said. ‘I w
ant to listen to it half-a-dozen times and then talk with you as if I were he. Your job’s to tell me where and when I miss. You don’t have to be a speech therapist – I don’t have to be absolutely right all the time but I must get the basic vowels and any speech mannerisms. Did he lisp? Does he lisp?’

  ‘No. But he sometimes squeaks.’

  ‘Squeaks?’

  ‘When he gets excited. Shouldn’t we use the tape? It’s in my purse.’

  ‘Don’t move! I’ll get it.’ He stretched for her bag, which had fallen from her chair, then watched with pleasure the neatness and competence of her hands as she searched for, and found, the tape.

  Soon, a man began to speak. Roger did not need to ask if the voice was Hunter’s, for it was unmistakably English, although some words and particularly some phrases were American. Such as: ‘C’mon’, instead of ‘come on’ and ‘waal’ for ‘well’ and ‘you’re telling me, friend’, or ‘you can’t fool this baby’. He was giving instructions to a group of men and there seemed to be one or two women in the party, but no one spoke much, then usually in monosyllables. Finally, he said: ‘Okay, what are you waiting for?’ and there was a scraping of chairs followed, almost unbelievably, by the first movement of ‘Swan Lake’.

  ‘That did surprise you, didn’t it?’ Maria laughed.

  ‘Does he go in for the classics?’

  ‘He had about twelve records,’ she answered, ‘but nobody makes the mistake of asking for any one of them by name. He doesn’t know the names. He’ll say: ‘Let’s have the one about the swans, baby’. Or else: ‘That V for Victory, how does it go now?’ And he is always off key.’

  ‘Up or down?’

  ‘There’s no set rule.’

  ‘I am thankful for small mercies! Shall we hear the tape again and then you ask me what I know about his music loves and his phrases. Tea will soon be here.’

  ‘The British panacea,’ she said, without moving. ‘And as I am a Latin, and reputed to be passionate, suppose I enliven this so dry discussion by creating a scene, one worthy in every sense of a Latin? Then when tea comes the nurses would be shocked. Being English, they would probably run screaming. And that would bring the newspapermen and the photographers. And what a scandal you would have on your hands. You’d never live it down.’

  Roger said drily: ‘Even for an American you have a peculiar idea of the English.’

  ‘Let me dream,’ she pleaded. A little alarmed, not knowing whether she was serious, or being amused at his expense, he heard, with a surge of relief, the clink of crockery. A perfunctory tap, and a trolley laden with a silver plated tea-set and some minute cakes, all very V.I.P., was pushed in.

  ‘Would you believe this,’ Maria said in the brightest of voices, ‘this is the first time I’ve ever had tea English style.’

  ‘Then how on earth have you had it?’ asked the smaller of the two trim-looking nurses.

  ‘Iced,’ she answered.

  ‘Iced!’ breathed the others as if touched with horror.

  That was the moment when Coppell looked in. Was everything going all right, he asked breezily. What were the chances of catching Hunter in the next few days. Apparently the fellow had met and become enamoured of a red-haired girl and they had been out three nights in a row. If the affair prospered …

  ‘I’ll need at least two days,’ Roger said.

  ‘He’ll be word perfect in two days,’ said Maria Consuela. ‘But there is a problem, Commander.’

  ‘Made to be solved,’ replied Coppell smugly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We should be in a hotel suite not in a hospital,’ Maria declared. ‘Roger is probably used to it by now but this place does rather reek of antiseptics. He needs a Turkish bath or a sauna, it doesn’t matter which, and a suit of clothes which Hunter would wear, ties, socks, shoes—’

  ‘We can get all of those,’ Coppell said. ‘Trannion has done a remarkable job, Handsome. He’s found Hunter’s cleaners who have ‘lost’ a couple of suits, and his laundry, even his shoe-repairers.’ He was obviously elated. ‘But I do think Lieutenant Consuela is right, you can’t stay here any longer.’

  ‘When I leave here,’ Roger said, soberly, ‘I am supposed to be a corpse.’

  Coppell grimaced and went to the window. There was a dark shadow in the room, not caused only by the heavy clouds and the rain outside.

  ‘Yes,’ Coppell said at last. ‘Trannion and Partridge with the hospital authorities have arranged that. I don’t know whether you want the details.’

  He obviously hoped Roger didn’t but Roger answered: ‘Please.’

  ‘Right. It can be tonight or tomorrow night. An unidentified body will be placed in a coffin and will be officially you. Press, friends, your wife, will be informed. Your wife does know the truth, of course. There will be a simple ceremony planned for the Hampstead Crematorium. You, meanwhile, will be removed in a linen basket to a small hotel – one of those we run. Only those already in the secret will know you are there. You and Lieutenant Consuela can have communicating-rooms, of course. Once you are both satisfied that you can play his part, Handsome, he will be picked up at the nightclub he chooses to visit that night. He will be called to the telephone, leaving the redhead at the table alone – unless she chooses to run to the powder room. The switch will be made at the night club. O’Malley will be in charge of the operation and I haven’t any doubt at all that it will go smoothly – up to that point.’

  He paused. He drew a deep breath. And then he said gratingly: ‘After that, it’s up to you. We need absolutely convincing evidence of what happens at the house in Lowndes Square, what arrangements are made for theft and distribution of the jewels and currency – in fact, we want the place broken open so that we can walk in and take them all.’ He paused again.

  ‘But—

  ‘It will take days and it might take weeks.’

  ‘Give me those two more days, away from here, and I’ll be ready,’ Roger said.

  From his point of view, from Maria Consuela’s, from the point of view of the police, everything went perfectly. The transfer to the small hotel, one of several run in London by the police when it was necessary to have visiting policemen and other celebrities accommodated, was pleasant, comfortable, and had good English food. Their waiter, waitress and chambermaid were all well-trusted Yard employees.

  If Roger had an anxiety, it was for Janet. For the newspapers screamed the news of his death, reporters besieged her and, if he knew Richard, Richard would come flying home from wherever he was on location. When it was all over, when he was found to be alive …

  But would he ever return to life?

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ stormed Richard. ‘Supposing they’re lying? And supposing he walks into a trap? My God, it’s wicked. That’s what it is, it’s diabolical. I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to see Coppell in the morning. No, dammit, not that flat-footed oaf, I’m going to see Trevillion. And I’ll threaten them with all the glare of publicity television can give, and believe me, that’s plenty! I won’t stand for it!’

  ‘Richard, please,’ begged his mother.

  ‘Stop talking a lot of tommy-rot,’ Martin said, calmly. ‘Dad knew what he was letting himself in for. The police will get the real Rake Hunter and Dad will take his place. He may only need a few hours to get the information. Calm down, and—hush!’

  All three sat absolutely silent, and the front door closed; Anne Claire had just come in. Richard hadn’t yet met her and she had no idea that he had flown home that afternoon.

  ‘Don’t breathe a word to her, understand?’ Martin ordered.

  ‘Must we see her tonight?’ asked Richard, moodily. ‘I don’t mind that she’s got my room, but if we have to talk in whispers it’s a hell of a situation.’

  ‘We must say hallo,’ Janet declared. ‘We always do.’ She crossed to the door and opened it, calling Anne, who was already halfway up the stairs. She stood indeterminate, obviously not sure whether she should intrude on a family crisis of thi
s kind.

  Janet thought: She’s the most considerate child.

  Martin thought: What is it about her I like?

  Richard thought: And we can’t even talk!

  For Roger, it was utterly different, in every way, from anything he had experienced before. As he learned more about Hunter, about Pilaski the Polish plastic surgeon, about Cecil Smith the British make-up artist, the more he realised that it wasn’t nearly enough. After the first day or two of confidence, a mood of fear had set in. He should have expected, but had not, the fear of being recognised the moment he stepped inside. Fear, especially, of Pilaski. Coppell on one of his visits, had let out some facts about Pilaski. That as a plastic surgeon he was a genius; and as a man who could disfigure and mutilate, at least as good.

  In one way there wasn’t enough time to learn all he had to learn.

  In another, he had too much time, too much waiting.

  Maria showed remarkable patience. She was the person who could tell him about these men; what angered them, for instance, and what Hunter would do, or not do, in his dealings with them.

  He would never criticise, only praise, she said. Never say a change in a man’s appearance was bad or poor, simply that this, or that or the other might possibly be improved.

  And he would never utter a word of criticism about Poland to Akka Pilaski, not ever criticise or complain about the constant record-playing of Polish music. The Pole venerated Paderewski, for instance.

  One never called Smith ‘Smithy’ or, in view of ‘Cecil’, Cissy. Always the full name Cecil with the accent on the ‘e’. Sessil.

  There were dozens, there were hundreds of these things.

  And there was the layout of the house itself, learned from the architects’ plans but, so far, no sure way of knowing which was Hunter’s room. Of all the problems and the dangers this in many ways seemed the worst to Roger.