Inspector West Alone

by John Creasey

  It opened slowly and slightly, not wide enough for anyone to look into the room, but wide enough for them to see the light and know that burglars were here. It stayed open; the handle didn’t move again. He wanted to warn Harry, but a call, even a whisper, would warn whoever was outside. He stepped a pace nearer and glanced over his shoulder. Harry bent low over the safe. The flame dazzled Roger, and he averted his gaze quickly; that glance had been folly.

  He closed his eyes to shut out the image of that fierce flame, opened them again cautiously. Door and handle were blurred, but he could see that the door was still open, and the handle hadn’t dropped back into position.

  It began to move——

  The door began to close.

  He waited for ten pulsating seconds, then stepped towards it swiftly. Harry said something he didn’t catch. The hissing stopped, and only the subdued light of the lamps was on.

  “What——” Began Harry.

  Roger waved a hand to silence him, reached the door and turned the handle as stealthily as it had just been turned. He heard Harry grunt as he straightened up, glanced over his shoulder and saw the man approaching. He waved him back again. He opened the door an inch. A light was on in the passage, but no one stood outside the door.

  “What is it?” hissed Harry.

  “Someone outside. Quiet.” The whisper was agonizing, because it might be heard. He opened the door a little wider and looked round. He saw a bright light coming from a door which was closing—Kennedy’s wife’s door. He saw her shadow on the landing; then it was shut out. Harry was close behind him. “Who——”

  “Hold it. Watch.” Roger went across the landing, heart thumping, touched the handle of the other door and pushed —she hadn’t locked it yet. He heard a ting !; a telephone being lifted. He thrust the door open. Kennedy’s wife, so small and exquisite, stood by the side of a bed in a luxury S room. The telephone was at her ear, her great eyes were staring towards the door. At sight of Roger, she drew herself up and terror flared in those eyes. But she didn’t take !; the telephone from her ear. Instead, she grabbed at something on the silken pillow—an automatic pistol. She didn’t speak.

  She hadn’t had time to finish dialling. Harry said: “Strewth!” His heart was in the word. He stood behind Roger, who moved slowly towards the woman. This was a room of silver and gold, the right setting for beauty. She wore a flimsy, filmy dressing-gown which trailed on the floor, a pale-gold creation. She looked like something out of another, lovelier world—and the automatic was steady in her right hand. She put the ? receiver down slowly, and it clattered on the table; a faint burring sound came from it, she was connected with the exchange. She stretched out her hand and put a finger in one of the dialling holes, but she couldn’t judge which to turn while watching him, and she had to watch Roger.

  He took a step nearer. Harry followed and closed the door. “Open it,” she said.

  It was the first time he had heard her speak. Her voice was taut with fear, but she was full of courage. Harry didn’t respond. Roger took another step towards her. This was a long room, she seemed a vast distance away from him—ten or twelve yards.

  “Don’t come nearer. Open the door.” Her voice was icy cold, now.

  Roger said: “Put the gun down if you don’t want to get hurt, and come away from the telephone.” He whispered, although there was no danger of being heard outside the room. He went another step forward, and the gun was trained on his stomach, held so steadily that he knew she wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t watch both her eyes and her hand, and he had to watch her hand. He would see the sudden spasmodic movement if she were going to squeeze the trigger. So he watched her hand, not her eyes, and took another step forward. He felt prickly sweat over his face and neck, and he shivered.

  He said: “I don’t want to hurt you. I——”

  He jumped to one side as she fired. The bullet spat out with a bright flash. He felt it tear through his coat—and he heard Marry cry out. The bark of the report seemed like a thunderclap.

  Roger leapt at her.

  She was staring at Harry with horror in her eyes. That was for a split second. She jerked the gun up again as Roger sprang, but she had lost her composure; she fired again, but the bullet smacked into the floor. He reached her, hand thrust out, swung it and pushed her to one side. She struck the side of the bed and toppled on to it, still holding the gun. He grabbed her wrist, and twisted; the gun fell. He snatched it from the bed and backed away.

  Harry gasped: “She—she got me.” His voice had a strained, wondering note in it.

  Roger glanced at him. He was kneeling, with his right hand pressed into his side, and blood already seeped slowly through his fingers. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He had his mouth open, and gulped as if he were in pain.

  Kennedy’s wife stood tiny and erect by the side of the bed, as if trying to defy Roger by her strength of will. The humming sound still came from the telephone, but he wasn’t worried about that, only about the door. Had the servants heard those shots? Only seconds had passed, but it seemed an age before he moved. She shrank back. He grabbed her shoulder and span her round, then reversed the gun in his hand. Her hair was short, a cluster of curls. He struck her at the back of the neck, and it was like striking a Dresden figure. She groaned and pitched forward.

  She lay still, against the bed.

  Roger put the telephone back on its cradle.

  Harry said: “I’m—done for.”

  There was no sound outside on the landing, but whoever came would come stealthily.

  “Nonsense.” Roger stepped past him. Gun in hand, he I, opened the door cautiously, then drew back and switched off the lights. The landing light glowed faintly. He peered towards the stairs, saw no one and heard nothing except . . . the thunderous beating of his heart. He waited; there was no creaking of approach, no visible shadowy shape. Nothing.

  The study door was ajar. He turned, passed Harry again and said: “You’ll be all right, Harry.” Harry still pressed his hand to his side, and the blood smeared the back of his hand, his face was ghastly. He reached the woman, lifted her and carried her across the landing to the study. She was as light as a child. He dropped her into an easy-chair, and turned and went back for Harry, who knelt in the same awkward position, and licked his lips.

  “I’m going to take you into the other room. Take it easy. Just hold your side.”

  Harry didn’t speak.

  How did a lean man come to weigh so heavy?

  Roger grunted with the strain as he lifted him and took him across the landing. He laid him on the floor, stretched out. He went back into the bedroom, dragged a sheet and two pillows off the bed, and hurried out, closing the door. He closed the study door firmly.

  Neither Harry nor the woman moved. He pushed her chair away from a table, so that there was nothing she could pick up stealthily, while he was looking away from her; she would soon come round and might try to fox him. Then he put a pillow under Harry’s head. I “Let me have a look.”

  “I’m—done for,” gasped Harry.

  “Not yet—not by a long way. A doctor——”

  “Don’t you—send for one.” There was pain instead of fear in Harry’s eyes. “You finish the job.” He licked his lips again.

  Roger said: “Let me have a look at you.” He forced Harry’s hand away, and the blood dripped on to the carpet. The wound seemed to be on the left side, not dead centre. He unfastened Harry’s waistcoat and trousers and pulled up the sodden shirt. Blood oozed out of a wound. He folded a handkerchief into a wad and pressed it on the wound to staunch the flow. “Hold it there, Harry.” He put Harry’s hand on the pad, and then turned to the sheet. He started a tear with his knife, then ripped off strips. With one, he made a second pad, with another he began to bind Harry’s waist. It wasn’t easy to pass the bandage beneath the man.

  Harry clenched his teeth now, fighting against the pain.

  The bandage was in position at last, with a thick wedge over the wou
nd.

  Get Harry into hospital now, and he’d have a chance; leave him for an hour, and he’d probably die. Roger glanced at the woman. She seemed to be as he had left her, unconscious.

  The safe gaped open, the tools and case stood on the floor near it. Roger went across. The edge of the metal was still warm to the touch. The safe was much larger than the opening seemed to suggest. There were rolls of paper— thick rolls. Jewel-cases, money, a dozen oddments. He pulled out several of the rolls, which were fastened with thick rubber bands. One lot of paper was stiffer than most— like photographs. He slipped the band off and saw that these were lithographed prints of the dossiers taken from the Yard.

  He felt sick with hope and anxiety.

  He unfastened another roll, and found sheet after sheet of paper with names and addresses and a few remarks against each. Dozens of the names were familiar; they were people with whom Rayner & Co. dealt, who supplied the short-supply goods—and the type of goods supplied was noted in the remarks column.

  Another roll unfurled; more names and addresses, none of them in England—there were several sheets of paper for each country on the Continent. He’d seen some of these names before, too—when he had studied the case against Delaney. So Kennedy had been behind that. Another list of names followed, with a familiar look about them; peers of the realm and—Members of Parliament; peers and members of all political parties. Yet another list showed stockbrokers of irreproachable reputation.

  There were many more, but Roger didn’t look at them. Kennedy kept his records here, that alone mattered. The Delaney contact would give the Yard sufficient to hold him on, and there were other things that would give them the excuse he wanted. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, and turned away.

  Kennedy’s wile sat in her chair, her eyes wide open, staring at him. Harry’s eyes were closed.

  He said: “You’ve had your run. It’s all over.”

  She didn’t speak.

  He went to Kennedy’s desk, glancing at the papers which littered the floor, picked up the telephone and began to dial WHI-

  “Don’t do that!” Kennedy’s wife called. “Don’t do it. You’re throwing everything away.”

  “Some will go as far as the gallows.” He dialled two numbers—1-2. The last time he had called Scotland Yard was to make that silly inquiry about Sloan, to give Sloan plenty to think about. Where was Sloan now?

  “You can be so wealthy——”

  “I’m sick of riches.” He finished dialling with another 1-2. He heard the ringing sound. He hardly knew what he felt or thought, except that he was tired—not exhilarated or excited, but tired. He could see Harry’s pale face and closed eyes and didn’t think he could see any sign of breathing. Brrrr-brrrr; brrrr-brrr. Why didn’t they answer? Brrrr-ck!

  “This is Scotland Yard. Can I help you?”

  Roger drew in his breath.

  “Can I help you?”

  “1 am speaking for Detective Inspector Sloan. He wants Squad cars at twenty-seven Mountjoy Square, at once. Also, an ambulance—a man has been shot and badly injured.”

  “Is Mr. Sloan there?”

  “He’s busy. Hurry.”

  “Very good, sir.” The operator didn’t go away. “What is your name, sir?”

  West!

  “My name is Rayner, Charles Rayner. Will you please hurry?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m calling the Squad Room on another line. Let me make sure I have it right, sir. Twenty-seven Mountjoy Square, and you are Mr. Charles Rayner.”

  “That’s it.”

  Roger put down the telephone. The woman hadn’t moved; nor had Harry. It was deathly quiet in the room. He brushed his hand over his forehead, and it came away filmed with sweat. He didn’t smile or feel like smiling— and he didn’t know why. The Squad Room always moved fast, cars and ambulance would be here in ten minutes. In ten minutes it would be all over, except the proving. He’d taken the chance, and it had come off. There were risks still; to Janet, the boys, and Sloan. How could he persuade the Squad cars to move off as soon as the police were here, so that no one would warn Kennedy, when he arrived. How——

  The door opened.

  Kennedy came in, with the woman in green behind him.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  HEMMINGWAY

  KENNEDY had a gun in his hand.

  He stepped into the study quietly, and looked round— and although it was Kennedy, there was something different about him. What? The woman’s automatic was in Roger’s pocket. He put his hand to his pocket, and Kennedy said: “Don’t.” The gun covered Roger, and there would be no warning when this man fired.

  Kennedy’s wife said: “He’s just telephoned Scotland Yard, Ray.” She was breathless. “Hurry!”

  The woman in green walked across the study, stood in front of Roger for a moment, and then struck him across the face. It was a blow as savage as the blaze in her eyes. But she didn’t speak. She put her hand into his pocket and drew out the automatic, then backed away.

  What was the difference in Kennedy? He was the same man, yet not the same man!

  His eyes: they weren’t orbs of silver fire, they were ordinary eyes, with nothing remarkable about them. It made a great difference to his appearance.

  “What did he tell them?” he asked.

  “He just asked them to come here.”

  “Were there any other men with him?”

  “Only that one.” Mrs. Kennedy pointed, and stood up. By her husband’s side, she looked ridiculously small.

  There was a movement at the door, and Percy came in. He started, quickly recovered himself, and said: “I warned you.” Kennedy nodded. Not two minutes had passed since his arrival, but they were two precious minutes.

  “What—— “ began Percy.

  Kennedy said: “Collect all the papers, Percy, and take them away. Don’t go to Miss Kennedy’s flat—take them to one of the other places. First thing in the morning, tell Grace Howell to take the kids away from West’s house. I’ll deal with his wife afterwards. Tell Myers to put Sloan away, we won’t need him now—he wouldn’t be safe.”

  Percy was already picking up the curled papers, and stuffing them inside his coat.

  “Hurry,” said Kennedy dispassionately.

  “Okay, okay,” said Percy. “No need to panic, we’ve looked after emergencies like this before.” He stuffed the last rolls of papers away, straightened up—and struck at Roger as he passed.

  “Don’t waste time,” said Kennedy.

  The Squad cars might be on the way already, but they might not be here in time to prevent Percy from leaving. There was no way of stopping him, except going for him now. That wouldn’t stop but only delay him. Percy passed Harry—paused again, and drove his foot into Harry’s side. Harry whimpered. Roger felt the blood rushing to his head in rage. No one spoke, and Percy went out. Kennedy backed after him, and closed the door. His wife went across the room and opened a cocktail cabinet and poured out three drinks. The seconds dragged. Kennedy looked at Roger with those dull eyes—the eyes that weren’t really his, and the eyes which had made Kennedy so noticeable among a crowd. The woman in green had said it would be impossible to swear that Kennedy was Kennedy. Impossible?

  Kennedy came slowly. “Your mistake was in thinking we didn’t check up on your guard, West. We sent a man to see him, every couple of hours. When he wasn’t there, we guessed what had happened. I wish I knew why you did it.”

  “Changing a face, you don’t change a mind.”

  “I offered you everything——”

  Roger said: “Why talk about it? You wouldn’t understand.” His cheeks and chin were smarting. He didn’t see how it would end, now, but Kennedy would get away with it for the time being, because that damning evidence had gone. He wondered what was in the man’s mind, what thoughts were passing behind those odd eyes. Kennedy didn’t look himself; looked a different man; he had become Raymond Hemmingway.

  Kennedy shrugged.

  “I still don’t understand i
t, West.”

  Roger said: “You can judge a man by his actions, but not by his plans. You tried with me and failed. You used every pressure you could think of—threats to my wife and boys. You failed. I’m no further use to you. My wife and family can’t be. They’ll have enough to worry about, but just to get your petty revenge, you’ll make it worse for them. You’re as cheap as they come.”

  Kennedy laughed. “Think so. West? I shall use someone else at the Yard and hold up what happened to your wife and the kids as an awful example. I’ve others marked down. Before I’m through, I shall have several contact men at the Yard. Banister is a good start, but a small one. I shall be able to get away with a lot of crimes with help from the Yard. But there isn’t time to go into detail.” He laughed again. “Just one more detail will interest you. I’m going to shoot you.” He raised the gun. “When the police arrive, I shall tell them the simple truth: my wife heard someone about, came to investigate, found you two in the house, shot one of you, and was overpowered by the other. Then I returned, and caught you red-handed. There’s the open safe, all the evidence. I am not Kennedy here, I am a respected society and businessman, named Hemmingway. I suppose you knew that. I shall pretend to know nothing at all, except that there were burglars and both were shot while trying to get away. That’s justifiable homicide. To make it more realistic, I may wait until the police are at the door—the sound of a shot would be most impressive, and would prove that I’d waited as long as I dared, and that you made a final desperate attempt to escape.” He laughed again. “It was a good throw, West, you almost deserved to succeed. Harry was the weakness, of course. I suppose it was a mistake to use a friend of Ginger Kyle’s.”

  The gun covered Roger’s stomach.

  There was one thing he’d forgotten, and his wife might forget; that Roger had used Sloan’s name. How would he explain that away?

  It was very quiet in the room.

  The woman in green said: “I shouldn’t lose any more time, Ray.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Kennedy, and raised the gun a fraction.