Trusted Like The Fox

by James Hadley Chase

Still Ellis could say nothing. He stared at her, feeling a hungry longing for her, an overwhelming need to have her for himself.

  “I thought you’d be surprised,” she went on, delighted to see his obviously bewildered expression. “I scarcely believed it was me when I looked in the mirror.”

  Then he saw through the glamour, saw her innocence and he knew instinctively that she was in danger. Crane had designs on her. He must have. He wouldn’t have dressed her up like this, given her diamonds unless he meant her harm.

  He found himself in despair that he might lose her, and he forgot about himself, forgot his pain and that he would hang if the police caught him; all he could think of was her: to open her eyes to her danger; to convince her that Crane was not kind but cunning and dangerous. (And Crane had dared to call him a fox! Treason is but trusted like a fox. He had said that, but what of him? He was to be trusted even less.)

  “Come here,” Ellis said, struggling to speak calmly. “I wouldn’t have believed you were the same girl.”

  Grace moved into the room. The long dress gave her poise, and she moved smoothly as if she was being drawn along on wheels. She stood by his bed and looked down at him. He realised bitterly that she was not thinking of him. She was only thinking of herself, coming to him because there was no one else in the bungalow to whom she could show herself off.

  “So he gave you those diamonds?” he said slowly, his eyes watchful and hurt.

  “Isn’t he kind?” she said happily. “Of course they’re only lent to me. They belonged to his sister, Julie . . . . the one who died.”

  Without knowing why, Ellis felt a cold wave of fear run down his spine.

  The one who died . . . Why should those words strike fear into him? It was as if he were suddenly able to look into the future, to see danger for her, and for a brief moment, he fancied a shadow lay between them: something tangible, black and frightening, and he struggled up in bed, pointing at her.

  “Be careful you don’t die too,” he said. “He means you no good. I know it. You’re mad to accept things from him.” Then suddenly, still not thinking of himself, he jerked out, “Go! Leave me. Get out of here before it’s too late. Do you hear? Get out of those things and go!”

  She stared at him, shocked by his frightened eyes and the despair on his face.

  “Don’t stand gaping at me,” he exclaimed, beating his fist on the eiderdown. “Get out and save yourself! He’ll harm you. I know he will. There’s something about him. He’s devilish . . .” He broke off as he saw Crane standing in the doorway, smiling, but his eyes dark.

  “What an odd word to use — devilish,” Crane said, looking at Ellis, who glared back at him. “You mustn’t frighten the poor girl.” He wandered into the room and stood beside Grace who looked up at him, her eyes worried, her face a little pale. “Doesn’t she look nice?” he went on, smiling at her. Watching them, Ellis saw Grace’s face light up when Crane smiled at her, and the worried expression went from her eyes.

  Ellis could think of nothing to say, and after the first glance, he could no longer bear to look at them. He stared out of the window, his fists clenched, his face a hard mask of misery.

  “How have you been getting on?” Crane asked cheerfully. “Is there anything I can bring you . . . a book perhaps?”

  “Get out!” Ellis snarled at him. “Leave me alone.”

  “Funny chap, isn’t he? Crane said to Grace, leading her to the door. “We’ll get him some supper. Perhaps that’ll sweeten his temper.” His hand rested on Grace’s bare arm. “Shall we tell him?” he went on, pulling her against him.

  Grace broke free and went quickly from the room. Ellis did not see her face, but he knew she was confused and shy. He had, however, seen with sick horror, Crane’s familiar caress.

  Crane glanced at Ellis, a sudden shifty expression in his eyes. “We’re celebrating tonight,” he said, and added as he was about to leave the room, “I’m opening a bottle of pop. You must congratulate me. Grace has promised to be my wife.”

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Except for the blue-painted lamp over the entrance and the blue and white sign: Police on the gate, the Taleham Police Station looked what it was: an old world cottage.

  The front room had been converted into the office (much against Mrs James’s wishes) and the rest of the house was given over to the inspector, his wife and daughter, Daphne, for their living quarters.

  Police Constable George Rogers was seated on the hard Windsor chair before the inspector’s desk. In half an hour’s time he was due for his evening patrol; he was not looking forward to bicycling along the hot, dusty lanes, a task he undertook, winter and summer, wet or fine, twice daily. It was always an uneventful trip and he had long lost his first enthusiastic ambitions to make an arrest, catch a poacher or even rescue a beautiful young lady from assault. He was only too anxious to get the patrol over and return to the station. For two years (ever since he had had the good fortune to be sent to Taleham) Rogers had adored Daphne James from afar. He was prepared to admit to his more intimate friends that he was scared of her, but that did not alter the fact that he was head over heels in love with her. In his most pessimistic moments he realised that Daphne would never be his. He knew he wasn’t in her class. For that matter no one in the village was in her class except, of course, the gentry. She was as out of place in Taleham as an orchid on a coster barrow. She wasn’t meant for village life and she was always telling him so. She had the looks and the figure for the stage, the films — Hollywood.

  Rogers knew she was friendly with Crane. Now Crane was the kind of bloke you’d expect Daphne to be friendly with, Rogers had reasoned time and again. Crane had a big 38 h.p. Buick, a luxuriously furnished home; he dressed well, had the right manners, and plenty of money.

  But that didn’t prevent Rogers from loving Daphne, and at this moment, he was listening to the sound of her voice as she talked to her mother in the kitchen.

  The heavy clump of the inspector’s boots coming along the passage aroused Rogers, and he hurriedly crossed over to his own little desk that stood in the draughtiest corner of the room.

  The door opened and James came in. He carried a small despatch case that had been delivered but a moment ago from Headquarters.

  “I must say these fellows are quick,” he said grudgingly as he sat at his desk. “Quicker than when I was a young man. A bit slap-dash, of course, but that’s to be expected. Everything’s a bit slap-dash these days.”

  Rogers grunted. He’d heard all this before and wasn’t interested.

  “Got your watch back, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s back,” James said. He pulled at his moustache, frowned. “They have no record of the fingerprints. It’s the first time I’ve tried that little dodge it’s failed. Well, it just shows you.” He looked up and fixed Rogers with his piercing blue eyes. “Let this be a lesson to you, my lad. Never tamper with the gentry, and the next time you think a young lady friend of Mr Crane is a wrong ‘un, I’ll thank you to keep the information to yourself.”

  “Very good, sir,” Rogers said, and hid a grin. He knew that James had also suspected Grace, and was disappointed that the trap he had sprung had come to nothing.

  James pawed over the contents of the despatch case.

  “Now what have they got here to worry me?” he muttered, took up a printed sheet of paper to which a photograph was pinned. He studied the paper for some time, then put it thoughtfully back on his desk. “Now here’s a strange coincidence; a very strange coincidence if you like,” he said, taking out his pipe and looking at it gloomily. He caught Rogers’s eye. “I’ll trouble you for a fill of tobacco. A young fellow like you shouldn’t smoke so much. You’d better wait until you’re my age before you ruin your wind. You never know when you’ll have to use it.”

  Rogers was used to handing over his tobacco pouch, He pushed it across the inspector’s desk. “What’s the strange coincidence, sir?” he asked.

&nbs
p; “This ‘ere,” James said, tapping the printed sheet of paper. He took the pouch and began to fill his pipe. “Now this only goes to show how careful you have to be. The London police are looking for a young woman, aged twenty-two medium height, brown hair and eyes, stone deaf, lip reads well, has served ten days for stealing, and is now wanted in connection with a further theft and as an accomplice in a crime of violence.”

  Rogers pulled at his thick nose. “Stone deaf and lip reads, eh?” he said. “Got ‘er photograph there, sir?”

  Silently James handed it over and as silently Rogers studied it.

  “I know what you’re thinking, my lad, but you’re wrong,” James said evenly. “You’re thinking this Mrs Brewer and this Grace Clark are one and the same. Now, admit it. That’s how your mind’s working, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir,” Rogers said cautiously, “but like you, I’d say it’s a very strange coincidence.”

  “And so it is,” James returned. “What do you think of the photograph?”

  “I would have said it was the same girl if you hadn’t proved different,” Rogers returned. “You’re sure about that watch?”

  “The only thing I’m sure about in these difficult days is that I like to hear a young police officer say ‘sir’ when speaking to his superiors,” James returned acidly and took the photograph from Rogers to study it again.

  “Yes, sir,” Rogers said, unabashed. He had worked with James now for two years and knew his bark was a lot worse than his bite. In fact, he liked James, admired him, would have liked him for a father-in-law, although he had been discreet enough not to let James have an inkling of any of these facts.

  “Yes, I’m sure about the watch,” James said slowly; “and what’s more, I’d have said it was the same girl myself if I didn’t know better. It just goes to prove how careful a policeman has to be.”

  “You’re quite sure about the fingerprints, sir?” Rogers persisted.

  “I’m sure the young lady handled the watch,” James said sarcastically. “That means she left her fingerprints on it. I’m quite sure I put it in a box and delivered it to Headquarters. I’m equally sure that Headquarters found three perfect female prints on the watch and there is no record of them.” He scratched his chin, went on, “If this young lady staying with Mr Crane is Grace Clark, then how is it the Yard hasn’t a record of her prints? Answer me that one and I’ll believe she is Grace Clark, but not before.”

  “It beats me, sir,” Rogers said, scratching his bullet head and frowning at the photograph. “The likeness is remarkable.”

  While he was speaking James had broken a heavy red seal on the back of an envelope marked ‘Secret’. He drew out a printed notice and waved Rogers to silence while he was reading.

  Rogers watched him with considerable interest. It was some time since they had received a ‘Secret’ envelope from Headquarters, and that was during the war in connection with information concerning espionage.

  “Well, blow me!” James said sharply, laid down the notice and regarded Rogers with astonished eyes. “Now, look here, my lad, I’m to pass this information on to you, but no talking mind! I know what you young fellows are. Always trying to impress your girl friends with your importance, but this is ‘ush-hush, see? and it’s to go no further.”

  “I understand, sir,” Rogers said, stiffening.

  “This young woman Grace Clark was last seen in the company of a man known as David Ellis,” James said, waving the printed notice. “They give his description here and you’d better study it carefully. But this is the bit that’s secret. This David Ellis may very possibly be Edwin Cushman, the renegade, who is known to have escaped from Germany and believed to be hiding in this country. What do you make of that?”

  Rogers was startled. “Cushman? The fellow who broadcasted for the Huns?”

  “That’s the chap,” James returned grimly. “It’d be a pretty fine thing for Taleham if we managed to lay our hands on him, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would indeed, sir,” Rogers said, his brain buzzing with the possibilities of promotion. They might even transfer him to the Yard if he caught Cushman and then he would be in a position to marry Daphne. “May I see the paper, sir?”

  “All in good time, my lad,” James said, studying the notice with irritating slowness. Rogers saw his face fall as he read on. “Hmm, well, it doesn’t look as if he can be in our district. Last they saw of him was at King’s Cross, and they think he’s gone north.”

  “But he was with this Grace Clark, sir?”

  “So they say. A taxi-driver identified the pair of them. Apparently they knocked their landlady over the head — half- killed her, before they made off.”

  Rogers came over to the inspector’s desk and read the notice over his shoulder.

  “Funny thing the girl’s down here and he’s in the north, isn’t it, sir?” he said thoughtfully.

  “Who said she was down here?” James snapped. “You be careful, my lad. I’ve already proved to you that she isn’t here.” The two men exchanged glances; there was doubt in both their eyes. “If it wasn’t for those damned fingerprints . . .” James went on, pulling at his moustache. He picked up the photograph again. “It’s like her, but these ‘ere photos are so unreliable. If she wasn’t deaf . . .”

  “Just a minute, sir,” Rogers said excitedly. “Mr Crane did see a fellow snooping near the clubhouse. I’ve got his description in my book.” He pulled out his well-worn notebook and flicked through the pages. “Here we are, sir. Young, aged about nineteen, tall, dark hair, wearing a blue suit, brown shoes, green shirt and black tie. He wore no hat and walked with a slight limp. How does that compare with Cushman’s description?”

  “Not at all,” James said a little sourly. “Cushman’s under five foot eight, slim, aged thirty-five, sandy hair, believed to have a self-inflicted knife scar from his right eye to his chin, last seen wearing a brown suit, white shirt and blue tie.”

  “I wonder if Mr Crane noticed the scar,” Rogers said, reluctant to abandon such a clue.

  “Now you’d better hop off on your round, my lad,” James said shortly. He felt Rogers was getting too many ideas. “The way your mind is working will lead to trouble.” He put the papers away in his desk drawer and locked it. “Mr Crane’s a man of considerable influence. We don’t want to tread on his corns. You leave this business to me. It wants handling with tact, and tact, let me tell you, is my strong suit. You just leave it to me.”

  “Very good, sir,” Rogers said, determined to do no such thing. “Then if there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll be getting along.”

  James scratched his chin, stared down at his boots.

  “I wonder who this Mrs Julie Brewer is,” he said thoughtfully. “I didn’t know Mr Crane had a married sister, did you?”

  “No, sir, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. We don’t know much about him, do we?”

  “Not yet, we don’t,” James said softly, “but we might keep our eyes open a bit; no harm in that.”

  “I suppose not, sir,” Rogers said, a little puzzled.

  James picked up the London telephone directory, glanced down one of the columns of names, grunted, shut the book.

  “She’s in the book; same address as her identity card. 47c Hay’s Mews, Berkeley Square, Mayfair. Good address. We’ll have to be careful, Rogers, but I think we might make a few discreet inquiries.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rogers said, his round red face lighting up.

  “I don’t think we’ll make the inquiries through the Yard. It wouldn’t do to start something we couldn’t finish,” James said, getting to his feet. “I’ve got a day off tomorrow. I might run up to London. Yes, I think I’ll have a look round, might even go to Somerset House. Have you ever been to Somerset House, Rogers?”

  “Can’t say I have, sir,” Rogers returned. “That’s where they record births and deaths and wills, isn’t it?”

  “And marriages too. I’d like to know something about Mr Brewer as well a
s Mrs Brewer,” James said. “Now, you hop off, my lad, and leave this to me.”

  “Right-ho, sir,” Rogers said, his mind seething with his own plans. “Then I shan’t see you until tomorrow evening?”

  “That’s right. Keep an eye on things and don’t be late in the morning, and listen, Rogers, don’t you go poking your nose anywhere near Mr Crane’s place while I’m away, understand? That’s an order.”

  Rogers nodded, his face falling. “Very good, sir,” he said, but as he bicycled down the village High Street, he decided that he was going to take a look at Crane’s bungalow as soon as he came off duty.

  “Who knows?” he thought, grinning to himself. “I might even find Cushman up there. My word! What a surprise for poor old James — him and his Somerset House.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

  The light of the big harvest moon that floated serenely in the clear sky turned night almost into day. The white, dusty road winding through Taleham and towards the downs showed up in the moonlight like a phosphorus ribbon of paint.

  P.C. Rogers wheeled his bicycle from the wooden shed at the back of his billet, and pushed the machine up the garden path to the road.

  Casey, the owner of the local public-house, happened to pass at this moment.

  “Going out?” he asked, surprised. “And not in uniform, eh?”

  Rogers grinned at him, bent over his lamp and adjusted the smoking wick.

  “I’m making a call,” he said with a wink.

  “Wish I was coming with you,” Casey said gloomily. “But I reckon my courting days are over. Careful ‘ow you go, George. They’re mighty quick to catch you if they can.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Rogers returned, swinging his leg over the machine and settling himself on the hard saddle. “So long, Casey,” and he peddled away along the twisting road.

  It was a two-mile ride to Crane’s bungalow and Rogers was in no hurry to get there. He knew the district well and he wanted to give the moon time to climb a little higher above the belt of woods surrounding Crane’s place. He didn’t intend to grope about in the dark, nor did he wish to use an electric torch. If he reached the bungalow in half an hour’s time the light would be just right for him.