Battle for Inspector West

by John Creasey

  Silence came from the room beyond.

  Roger carried the glass and sponge to a small table, put them down and dropped into the chair and looked at Carosi. He tried to tell himself that he was not afraid, but he was.

  ‘I have seen you like this before,’ Carosi said, evenly, ‘although you perhaps did not realise it. The disguise—’ He raised his hands, and Roger saw that he held an automatic. ‘It would serve once, perhaps, if a man were not able to see beyond it. Very simple. You are a simple man, West. You have simple rules. One thing is right, another is wrong. You are always on the side of the right. But life is not as simple as that. You are a victim of a false culture and a false civilization. You are kind. Nature is cruel. Man is natural. I want a thing. I take it. A man opposes me. I make him suffer. A man refuses to tell me the truth. He is tortured until he does. Simple also in its own way, perhaps—but natural.’

  Roger didn’t speak; was glad even of this slight respite.

  ‘And you have the faults of this veneer of civilization,’ went on Carosi. ‘You suffer because another man is in agony. That is bad. I do not suffer. I hardly notice it. I train others not to notice it. I always find that the strongest weapon to use is that which plays on another’s emotions and affections. Grant, and his wife. You, and your wife and family perhaps—and Fingleton. But you carry it too far; Fingleton does not matter to you. What do you think of me, Chief Inspector West?’

  Roger didn’t answer, because he could not: there was nothing to say. Then Carosi gave a short sharp whistle, and almost at once Fingleton began to laugh!

  Roger started up. ‘You told me—’

  ‘I keep my promises,’ said Carosi. ‘You will learn that. You refused to answer my question. What do you think of me? Will you answer now?’

  Fingleton’s laughter died away.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger, hoarsely. ‘I’ll answer you, I think—’

  He paused.

  ‘Be quite frank,’ urged Carosi. ‘You will find that we have things in common, West. For instance, I like the truth.’

  Roger said: ‘I don’t think I know what I think. I did know. This has altered my opinion.’

  ‘For better or worse?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘That is the truth. Good,’ said Carosi. ‘What did you think about me before, West? I was just an important criminal—as you would say. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me know, please, exactly what you thought of my methods, my activities—everything,’ said Carosi. ‘You will understand that I seldom have the chance to discuss this with a police officer.’ This was a game he wanted to play: so why not humour him? It should be easy, but – there was that steady gaze from the narrowed eyes, giving Roger a feeling, almost a fear that if he lied, Carosi would know.

  ‘It isn’t easy to sum up what I thought,’ he said. ‘Are you clever? Up to a point. Clever enough to get what you want, to make people faithful to you, to make a lot of money, even clever enough to leave the country when things got too hot. But not really clever enough. I was sure you would come back. Whenever a man becomes as powerful as you, he can’t keep away from the source of his power. If you were really clever, you wouldn’t have come back.’

  ‘A matter of opinion,’ said Carosi. ‘And what else? Please.’

  ‘That you were as bad as men are made,’ Roger said. ‘That you enjoy watching pain, in causing pain for the sake of watching it, you get pleasure out of seeing and hearing a man in agony.’

  ‘Oh no,’ protested Carosi calmly. ‘That is not true. I get no pleasure out of hurting your friend Fingleton. It just does not matter. If I could get all I want without it, I would not trouble to cause any man or woman pain, but sometimes it is the only way. But to get pleasure—no. I simply do not care. Tell me, you regard me as different from the ordinary criminal? The thief. The man, like Arthur Morely, who becomes jealous and murders his wife. You would not consider I was the same as them?’

  ‘No,’ said Roger, ‘not now.’

  ‘Why not, please?’

  ‘They know they’re doing wrong when they do it,’ Roger said very carefully. ‘They know the difference between right and wrong, they do a thing and take the consequences. You don’t. You take a pretty girl and ruin her life, and—’

  ‘That is the sentiment,’ interrupted Carosi. ‘I have no time for that, none at all. I have affection for some people—like Julieta. She is in the other room. And like Christine Grant. I find her charming. I like her beauty. Yes, I like loveliness; to possess; to use. Julieta—you do not know the story of Julieta, perhaps.’

  Roger said helplessly: ‘No.’

  ‘She was a child when I first knew her,’ Carosi told him. ‘Of Spanish parents. Good to look at perhaps, but not beautiful like she is now. Young and promising. I thought, one day you will be just right for my bed. But she had a mind as well as a body. I did not make her into one of the girls to send away. She is just another mind. I have a great doctor, who helped me to train her, to cure her of what you call emotion. She does what she is told, always, without arguing. Good—bad? The only good thing is what I say, the only bad thing is what I dislike. That is Julieta. It was an experiment, as you would say. It has been one of my great successes.’

  ‘It could prove to be your greatest crime,’ said Roger, and then realised that this man meant exactly what he said. ‘To corrupt and break—’

  ‘No, no, no!’ exclaimed Carosi. ‘Understand me, West. She has one code of what you call morals, you have another. They are different, that is all. You were trained to do “good” things—on a certain code. She on another. You have loyalty to your employers. She to me. She is content. She has everything she could want. Her dogs, too—the affection you would perhaps have her give to a man, she gives to them. It is an outlet, a safety-valve. Those who work for me always have a safety-valve, West. They are sent away for a few weeks to do exactly what they like. I have just sent away a number of them from London, those for whom you have been looking. They have a rest. And they will come back when I require them. Now—did you understand before what I was like?’

  Roger said thickly: ‘No.’

  ‘Then, perhaps, you will admit how wrong you were in some of your judgements,’ Carosi said. He shifted his position. ‘Good—that is the first part. The second need not take long. How much have you learned about what I am going to do?’

  Roger could tell the simple truth, but would Carosi believe it?

  The door opened as Carosi spoke, and the girl Julieta entered the room.

  She wore a close-fitting housecoat of wine-red silk; it was very full-skirted, and billowed out as she moved across the room and sat down on a pouf.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ she asked, and gave her sugary smile.

  ‘So far, very well,’ said Carosi, complacently. ‘I congratulate you, Julieta; you told me that West would not lie to me about myself. He has been very frank. Now, we come to different business – I wish to know what he has learned about my future plans. Well, West? What have you learned?’

  The matter-of-factness in his manner did nothing to help. He was deadly, and he had no scruples, no feelings at all. Roger could sense that: knew now why dealing with Carosi had been so different and so difficult.

  ‘I don’t know a thing,’ he said.

  Carosi’s smile faded slowly, and it was remarkable that Roger should feel his nerves becoming taut again, and feel the dullness of fear. But it was so.

  ‘West,’ said Carosi, ‘you must not lie to me. I can always tell when a man lies. Fingleton lied. He visited one of my -associates. He must have had a reason, but he says not. I do not want to be unpleasant, West.’

  Julieta said smilingly: ‘Of course you don’t, but if Mr West should be so silly—’ She took an envelope out of her pocket and extracted a card. ‘He will have only himself to blame
if anything happens to—’

  She turned the card over.

  This was a photograph of his wife and two sons.

  ‘West,’ asked Carosi, ‘what do you know of my future plans?’

  ‘I don’t know a tiling,’ Roger said, hard-voiced. ‘I know that you’ve got Sir Mortimer Grant, Lord Raffety, Sir Arnold Dana and Wilfred Harrison under your thumb. None will admit it, let alone tell me how, or what you’re making them do. If I know these four, I assume there are many more, and—’

  ‘You guess?’

  ‘That’s as far as I’ve got.’

  ‘What a very good guess you have made!’ said Carosi. ‘Hasn’t he, Julieta? Take him back to his friend Fingleton, my dear.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Man Alone

  Fingleton was asleep on the bed, no longer spread-eagled and tied down. Someone had washed his face. The pillow-case was snowy white, so was the part of the sheet in sight. The contrast between this and what Roger had seen before seemed part and parcel of the plot to keep his nerves at an agonizing stretch.

  Carosi as a man was the frightening, fearsome factor. The flat, hoarse voice, the trick of motionlessness, the way of demonstrating just what power he had, of hinting at what he could do, to – anyone.

  To millionaires.

  To Janet and the boys.

  It was easy to understand why Grant had submitted, now, why he was helping Carosi. It was hard to believe that anyone could defy him.

  He, Roger West, bright boy of the Yard, was obsessed by Carosi’s nature, could think of little else. He ought to be scheming to get out of this room, of searching this house, of getting away with whatever he found, but he wasn’t: it was as if Carosi had put a steel band round his mind.

  He had to break it.

  He had to use this chance, probably the last he would ever have.

  Fingleton might help.

  Grant might …

  It was wishful thinking, Roger knew: whatever he did would have to be done on his own.

  He went to the window and pulled the curtains back, seeing the moonlight night.

  The window wasn’t barred or locked, as Carosi did not think there was much chance for him to escape.

  The soft moon shone upon a lovely countryside. He could distinguish huge, spreading trees in a great park. Not far away was a compound, and dogs were leaping and howling frenziedly. He could make out the iron fence and the three men who were standing just outside the compound. They had two of the dogs with them. One of the men locked the gate, then the three men and the two dogs walked away out of sight.

  Escape would be suicide.

  Cautiously, Roger opened the window, and as he did so, heard a man and a woman talking.

  The man was Michael Grant.

  The woman—?

  Grant did not know where he was either.

  He had done exactly what he had been told, because of what might happen if he refused. He was haunted by the sight of his father’s slow, weary movements and his hopelessness, and he could not get Christine out of his mind, for more than a few minutes on end. He had been promised that he would see her if he helped with West; and he had helped. He felt out of his mind because of that betrayal, because of his fears.

  He had prayed that he would see Christine on board the motor cruiser, but he had been taken to a cabin, told he would be there for some hours, and eaten the meal brought in to him.

  He had slept afterwards, realising only in the last few minutes of waking that he had been drugged. Frantically he had tried to fight the effect off, but failed.

  He woke in darkness.

  He did not know how long he had been unconscious, and had no idea where he was, except that he was not at sea. Then after a while he realised that someone else was in the room, breathing softly.

  West?

  He lay for a while in the darkness, then stretched out a hand, groped, found a bedside lamp, and switched it on.

  Asleep in the bed next to him was Christine. Christine!

  Soon, she woke …

  After the first few minutes of incoherent delight, they began to talk, swift, almost incoherent words. Grant could not keep his gaze away from his wife’s face; Christine had recaptured something of the radiance of her wedding day. The fact that they both were Carosi’s prisoners did not seem to matter.

  They talked about everything that had happened, and then about West; and Roger West heard them, in this country house that was also a prison.

  Next morning, Roger saw the Grants being driven off in a dark limousine. The gracious parkland seemed to swallow them up, and they disappeared. He could not be sure that this was England, but believed it was. He knew that he would have to do nothing today, unless an unexpected chance offered itself: all he could do was to wait for a chance.

  A timid woman who was raddled and made-up absurdly, brought him breakfast. An hour afterwards, Julieta came to invite him to go out with her. She meant it. He went out of the bedroom on to a wide landing, down a spacious staircase, into a noble hall. It was in England, there seemed no longer doubt of that.

  Soon Julieta walked with him across the springy turf, glancing up now and again. They were halfway between a huge Georgian house and a ring of trees which hemmed in the parkland. She wore the white sleeveless dress, with its curious mixture of purity and voluptuousness, but no hat.

  In front of them, two Alsatians walked with heads well up, sniffing the air, seldom running far away.

  The other dogs were in a yard behind the house.

  They drew very near the ring of trees.

  There was a lot of thick undergrowth, surprising for so early in the summer, and Roger could not see far. But beyond the trees was the outside world. He wondered what would happen now if he called out for help, or lost his head and made a run for the trees. Then he glanced at the dogs, which were so friendly and affectionate to Julieta.

  ‘I don’t think we will go any farther,’ said Julieta, with her strange simplicity. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘It seemed a pity to keep you locked up for so long,’ said Julieta, ‘and you cannot do harm. You are very closely watched, of course. There are men among the trees, and if there were any alarm, more dogs would be released. I hope you will do nothing silly.’

  ‘Not here and now, anyhow,’ Roger said. ‘It’s a lovely spot.’ He turned and looked at the house, and murmured, ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever realised what was meant by the phrase, the stately homes of England. Glorious, isn’t it?’

  Julieta laughed.

  ‘Yes, but is it England? No, do not answer! It is time to go back.’

  When they were near the house, Carosi had appeared on the front steps. Although he was some distance away, it was easy to identify his squat figure.

  ‘Carosi’s kingdom,’ Roger said, almost casually.

  Julieta laughed.

  ‘How right that is! And how much it would please Carosi just to hear you say that. Do you know that he has taken a liking to you, Mr West?’

  ‘Has he?’ Roger fought back the savage comment which came to his lips. ‘How much good will that do me?’

  ‘Perhaps very much,’ said Julieta, brightly. ‘Now you are a poor man, but with Carosi, you could become rich. Be friendly with him, please. The day might come when you will be glad of that.’

  The day might come when he would strangle Carosi with his bare hands, if he had no other choice.

  Julieta was looking at him with those deceptively smiling eyes. She hadn’t a mind of her own, remember; she was just a reflection of Carosi’s mind.

  ‘He is not all what you think,’ she declared simply. ‘He tells you the truth. Michael Grant has done what Carosi wanted, so he has been allowed to go home, with his wife.’

 
Roger stopped in the middle of a pace.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, but it is true. Also, the newspaper man Fingleton became sensible. He told us that he had followed a man who once worked for Carosi to Lord Raffety’s house. That was last week. He convinced Carosi that he knows no more, so he has gone, also. Carosi does not kill for the sake of it. And now, he has taken a liking to you. He would like you to work with him. He will watch and, perhaps soon, offer that chance to you. But if you should say yes, and then betray him, he would have no mercy. He would have no mercy at all.’

  She smiled so sweetly.

  Roger said: ‘If he’s such a humanitarian, why did he set that dog on to Grant?’

  ‘Oh, not on to Grant,’ said Julieta, and her smile was charming as she turned to face him. ‘On to the boy who was at that hotel. Michael Grant was in no danger. Carosi simply wished for help. The boy was killed, and Grant was brought to heel. You see?’

  Roger said in a grating voice: ‘What you mean is that Carosi was afraid that Michael Grant could spoil his plans, so a helpless youth who knew nothing about it at all was murdered to make an example.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julieta, frankly. ‘That is why Carosi always gets his way. He is so thorough.’

  There seemed few people in the house.

  Roger was not locked in his room, and was allowed to go wherever he liked. He had a sense of being watched, but there was no outward evidence of it. There seemed a likelihood that Julieta was right, and that Carosi would like him as a new recruit. There was even a possibility that if he did get an offer, and accepted, he might find out enough to betray the man.

  Dare he?

  Dare he even think about it?

  It was on the third day there, when he was in a library with Carosi, that Carosi was called away. Roger was left alone. He sensed now that he was being even more closely watched, that Carosi expected him to start searching, to take what looked like a heaven-sent chance. So he sat in his chair, smoking, waiting; for ten minutes, for twenty, for half an hour.