by John Creasey
“Look here, you’re crazy!” gasped Drayton.
“That’s right. You just do what you’re told.”
By then, men were dragging Harris out of the car, shoulders first. Roger slid towards the door. The tug at his wrist was painful, but the man eased Harris out gently. In five minutes Roger crouched over Harris’s huddled figure, still fastened to him by the single handcuff.
The rain pelted down.
“Take it easy,” said the man who had knocked out Harris. Another came forward and held Roger’s arm, so that the steel connecting bar of the handcuffs was visible, and Harris’s hand hung limp from it. The new-comer started to work with a small file, and the rasping sound was added to the night’s wild bluster. Water trickled down Roger’s neck, was bitterly cold on his sore face. His clothes began to get soggy. The two policemen in the front of the car did nothing, for they were still covered by the gun. The man with the file seemed prepared to work all night; but he didn’t, the job took only five or six minutes.
Soon they were moving down the hill.
* * * *
Roger simply let impressions rest on top of his mind.
Take one detective. Lure him to a lonely cottage with a faked message. Kill a helpless girl. Make it appear that he’d killed her. Give him a false name. Capture him from the police, and use his real name so clearly that the police couldn’t mistake it. Then take him away.
“Cigarette?” asked the man by his side. Those fantastic, silver-fire eyes showed.
“Thanks.”
The man lit cigarettes for them both, handed one to Roger and sat back. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but he had pulled down the scarf, and the cigarette glow showed the pointed tip of his nose. They turned off this narrow road to the main road which ran through Helsham and then towards London. The car was powerful, and well sprung.
“Enjoying yourself?” asked the man next to Roger. His voice and manner didn’t go with his eyes.
“So-so.”
“I must say you take it well, policeman. I think we’ll be able to work with you.”
“Sooner or later you’ll be asking yourself whether I’ll work with you,” said Roger, “and that’ll be the question that matters.”
The man laughed, as if he had no thought of failure.
“Another question, just to set my mind at rest,” said Roger, making himself sound casual.
“Let’s hear it.”
“My wife?”
“Expecting you home, probably. Unless she’s telephoned Scotland Yard, to report you missing.”
There was no reason why he should believe the man, but he did. He felt much easier in his mind. Janet had been used as a decoy, and it wasn’t much good blaming Eddie Day for his mistake. They sped on, carving an avenue of light through the blustery darkness. They soon reached the Guildford by-pass and drove along the wide road between rows and rows of small houses. There was little traffic. The car in front, as large and powerful as this, was never more than twenty yards ahead of them, and so made sure that no one cut in. A car with a blue “Police” sign coasted along in the opposite direction, and the man by Roger’s side laid a hand gently on his knee.
“I always heard it said that if there was such a thing as a good policeman, it was Roger West,” he said.
“Thanks. But I’m just a beginner.”
“If you behave yourself, you’ll have a lot more time and promotion ahead of you. Care for a drink?”
“No thanks.”
“You’ll have one, just to please me,” said the man by his side. “It’ll taste all right—Scotch. You won’t notice anything wrong with it, and you’ll have a nice rest for a few hours. After that, we’ll talk business.”
“And what if I spit it out?”
“Then you’ll get the same treatment that the ox had back on the road.”
As he spoke, the man took a flask from his hip pocket. He unscrewed the cap and then switched on the roof light. He had a narrow, pale face, and those flashing eyes had long, dark lashes. His hand was as steady as the car would allow. Roger took the flask; it certainly smelt like whisky. The whisky warmed and encouraged him.
“That’ll do.” The man took the flask away and screwed the cap on. “If you stay as sensible as this, we’ll get along.”
Roger leaned back, comfortably, not yet drowsy. He didn’t know what road they were on now. Both cars sped through the night, and the rain came down in silvery streaks.
Gradually drowsiness came upon him.
* * * *
Roger knew that he had slept a long time, because it was daylight when he woke. He lay in a comfortable bed, drowsy, unaware of any aches or pains, but his face felt stiff, and so did the back of his left hand. He felt no sense of alarm, even when he remembered what had happened in the car; he felt as if he were awake in a dream. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, opened them again and looked round the room. It was small but nicely furnished; more a woman’s than a man’s. On the dressing-table was a bowl of daffodils, heads drooping. Chintz curtains at the narrow window matched the flowered chintz on the bedspread, the eiderdown, and the two easy-chairs. The furniture, of light oak, was reproduction. There was a corner wash-hand basin.
All he could see out of the window from the bed, was the grey sky.
He knew that he ought to get up, but didn’t feel inclined to move. His mouth was dry—parched; the thing he would like most was tea. Weak, hot, sugarless tea, pints of it. Then he had a mental picture, of a battered head. That was his first bad moment since waking, he was really beginning to feel again. He pushed back the bed-clothes and sat up. His legs were stiff; he swung them over the side of the bed. His head began to ache. When he was steadier, he walked slowly to the window. He looked out on to a trim lawn, daffodil beds and, beyond a beech-hedge with massed brown leaves, trees. There were some dark firs and pines; but mostly they were leafless trees, spiky-looking beech and birch; silver birch. He heard nothing —absolutely nothing—but the tops of the trees were bent by the wind. So sound didn’t come into this room through the window. The window was a single pane of glass, and when he examined the frame, he saw that it was really a false one—this window wasn’t made to open. He pressed nearer and looked upwards, studying the glass. It had a yellow tint, a characteristic of toughened glass.
Roger went to the door.
It had a handle, but no lock—no keyhole. He tapped on it gently, and it didn’t sound like wood, it was more like steel. If he tapped louder, to make sure, he might attract attention. Well, why not? He turned from the door, and searched the room. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas with a broad blue-and-white stripe, and at the foot of the bed was a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, but no day clothes were in sight. He looked inside the wardrobe; there was nothing but clothes hangers.
He caught a glimpse of his face, and it surprised him because it was so normal. He went closer to the mirror, his face reflected above the daffodils. He could see the pink scratches and the shiny, greasy salve which had been rubbed into them after the blood had been cleaned off. His hand had been treated with the salve, too—that was why he felt little discomfort. He studied his face. By habit, he laughed when they called him “Handsome” at the Yard, but it wasn’t really a surprising soubriquet. His curly fair hair was ruffled, but undoubtedly it had been combed the night before.
He went to the wash-basin, washed his hands and face carefully in tepid water, and dabbed them dry. As a result the pink streaks turned red. They tingled, too. He went to the door and banged on it with his clenched fist, and then stood back and waited for someone to come.
Before long, he heard footsteps.
CHAPTER V
MARION
HE knew, before the door opened, that a woman was outside. The footsteps were quick and light, and he heard them distinctly, which argued against the door being steel. He heard a key scrape in the lock, so it had a lock on the outside. He sat down on the bed, looking towards the door.
The girl came in,
started back when she saw him, then smiled, and closed the door. He caught a glimpse of a man who remained in the passage outside.
“Good morning,” the girl said brightly. “Is there anything you want?”
“Tea,” Roger said. “In urns, if possible, or pint mugs.”
“Some will be sent up in a few minutes.”
“Cigarettes and a lighter.”
“I can give you a cigarette,” she said, “but I am not allowed to leave matches with you, or to let you smoke when you’re alone.”
She took a small plastex case from a pocket in her pale-grey frock, and a lighter. She had to come near, to light his cigarette^ Few men would complain at being near her. She wasn’t beautiful, she just looked—good. It was in the clear grey of her fine eyes, the soft colour of her cheeks, the curve of her lips. She had a heart-shaped face, and light-brown hair—he supposed she would call it auburn. It was cut short, and if the waves and curls were machine-made, he would be surprised. Her hands were not small, but were well-shaped, and her nails were varnished a pale pink— pale enough to look natural.
He drew at the cigarette.
“All right?”
“Yes, thanks. Who are you?”
“You may call me Marion.”
He leaned back, nursed his knees with his hands, and looked at her without frowning.
“That’s thoughtful of you. What are you going to call me?”
“Mr. King.”
“Oh, I’m a king again, am I?”
She backed away until she reached one of the arm-chairs, and sat on an arm. She crossed her legs. She wore a long dress, but it didn’t hide the shapeliness of her ankles or the lower part of her legs. She was slim, but not too thin, tall for a woman.
“Did you patch up my face last night?” Roger asked.
“Yes, how does it feel?”
“As if it needs patching up again.”
“Now?”
“Yes, please.”
She went to the wash-basin and opened the cupboard above it, took out a small pot of white salve, and came towards him. “Sit up straight,” she said, and when he obeyed, she took some of the salve on her fingers and began gently to rub it along the scratches. When she had finished, she stood back and said:
“What about your hand?”
He held it out obediently.
“Thanks very much,” he said when she had finished. “You’re as good as a trained nurse.”
“You have to learn a little of everything.” She seemed anxious to make sure that he didn’t think she was a trained nurse. She was somehow wary, watching him as if he might attack her. She glanced out of the window, and for the first time he caught a glimpse of her profile. She had a short nose, slightly tip-tilted, and tiny pale-pink ears. In every way, she was a wholesome creature, and the word “goodness” came to his mind. Then he imagined her as she would be with her face smashed in.
The door opened.
This time, he’d heard no footsteps.
A man came in, a little fellow wearing a white jacket, with a grey, bullet-shaped head and mournful brown eyes. His brown shoes were polished brightly enough to attract attention. He carried a large tray with the experienced poise of an accomplished waiter, and placed it on the bedside table. Roger ran his gaze over the tray. The oddest thing was the ivory knife; more like a very blunt paper-knife than a table-knife. There was tea, toast, marmalade, butter—plenty of them all—and two plates under silver covers.
“I should sit in bed and have it,” said Marion.
“I never like breakfast in bed.”
“You don’t want to overdo anything,” she said, but humoured him by placing an upright chair in front of the table. He poured himself out a cup of tea; ah! He finished it before he lifted the covers. By then, the waiter had gone.
Porridge; and eggs and bacon.
The bacon was cut into small pieces; he could manage the egg with the ivory knife. All these things added up to one unavoidable conclusion. He didn’t speak of it. The girl sat on the arm of the chair, her legs still crossed, watching him or looking out of the window. He finished every scrap.
“Wonderful!” the girl said.
“What’s wonderful?”
“Your appetite.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” said Roger. “Now, I’d like to shave.”
“I’ll arrange it.” She leaned forward and pressed a bell by the side of the bed, and the little waiter came in. Without a word, he took the tray out. The girl followed him, saying at the door: “I won’t be long.”
When she had gone, he went to the little cupboard above the hand-basin. There were no scissors; no razor; nothing made of steel. He waited for ten minutes, as far as he could judge—he had neither watch nor clock. Then the door opened again, and the girl and the waiter came in; the waiter carried a little black bag.
The waiter spoke for the first time in a voice that was unmistakably Cockney, from the very heart of the East End.
“Goin’ to git in bed, or sit in front’ve the mirror?”
“I’ll sit in front of the mirror,” Roger said.
“S’right.” The man went over to an upright chair, then opened his little black bag. Out of it he took a large pink sheet. Roger sat down, the sheet was tucked round his neck in a professional manner. Then he was lathered and shaved with a safety razor. They weren’t even going to take a chance that he could snatch a cut-throat from the “barber’s” hand!
He was regarded as dangerous; the girl, presumably, considered him a dangerous lunatic.
* * * *
No knife, no razor, no weapon of any kind, no clothes, no watch or clock, no newspapers, neither pen nor pencil; at least, there were some books. These were on a little shelf in the bedside table. He glanced at the titles. They were mostly classics—the popular classics, Scott, Dickens, Macaulay, Trollope—with a book of verse and two modern novels. He didn’t open any of them, but went to the window again and looked out on to the trim lawn and the nodding daffodils and the trees which crowded upon the garden—an impenetrable mass of them, many more than there had been at Copse Cottage. How far was he from Copse Cottage? How many miles had they travelled after he had lost consciousness? Why was he here? When would he see his silvery-eyed companion of the night before ?
The waiter brought his lunch, and stood by while he used the ivory knife again. Five minutes after he had finished, Marion came in with coffee on a tray, and two cups and saucers. He was sitting in an easy-chair by the window.
“Do you mind if I have coffee with you?”
“I was hoping you would.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Mystified, but quite content.”
“I’m “so glad.” She passed over the “mystified” and poured out the coffee.
“Thanks. When are you going to tell me all about it?” Roger asked.
“There’s nothing I can say.” She was earnest.
“Do you think I’m mad?”
“No, of course not!” Coffee spilled out of the jug into the saucer. “That’s ridiculous. You haven’t been well, but you’re getting better, and soon you’ll be perfectly fit again. I want to help you. I wish you’d talk freely to me.”
“What about?”
“Anything that comes into your mind.”
“Applied psychology? Or psychiatry? Or what?”
“Just talk. It always does one good to talk.”
“Supposing I talk about my wife? And the boys.” She had the wary look again, and he decided that Mr. Arthur King had neither wife nor children. She poured the spilt coffee from his saucer into her cup. “Janet isn’t like you, except her hands. Hands reveal a lot—did you know?”
“Yes,” she said.
He made himself sound dreamy. “The only known infallible ways of telling one person from another are by comparing the tips of the fingers and the lines on the soles of their feet; it’s easier to take finger-prints than footprints. But I was going to talk about my family. J
anet we’ll take for granted. The boys—there are two of them. The elder is Martin, but we call him Scoopy. Odd name, isn’t it?”
“I rather like it.” She was pretending to believe him.
“It’s grown up with him. Scoopy’s a big chap. Rising six. Tough as they come and a plodder—he takes life pretty seriously. Richard is a year younger and a very different kettle of fish—he takes life as it comes, a gay young man who will go places if he can only develop half of his brothers power of concentration. You don’t believe a word of it, do you?”
“Please go on.”
“Why don’t you believe it?”
“Please go on.”
“Why do you work for a killer?”
“I just have my job to do.”
“Being handmaiden to a murderer shouldn’t appeal to you.”
She smiled.
“Do I strike you as being insane?” he demanded.
“I can’t talk to you about that,” she said. “I know you have dreams—nightmares. The dreams are good, the nightmares—I’ll help you to forget them, help you to sleep without them. It’s only temporary, as a result of the strain. Don’t worry about them. Just tell me about them. That’s all I want you to do. You won’t shock me. I’ve heard so many strange stories and helped so many people. Just tell me about the worst of them. Please.”
What did they want to do? Make him think that he was crazy?
CHAPTER VI
NIGHTMARE
HE could hear the moaning. . . .
And he could see the girl with the battered face and the white blouse and her hand lying over the side of the bed.
The nightmare gripped him with a feverish intensity, and went on and on, but was always exactly the same— the girl, the moaning, clearer, louder, clearer, louder. He wanted to shout, and opened his lips and screamed; but no sound came.
Then, he was awake.
The nightmare was no longer real, just vivid memory. He lay in the darkness. He felt the hot sweat bathing him, and his arms, legs and face twitching. He peered up at the darkness of the ceiling, and felt afraid. He didn’t try to move. He had only to stretch out his hand and switch on the light, but he didn’t want to. He had to overcome this new terror—a terror of the dark.