by John Creasey
Within two minutes the shed was locked on him, and he was alone.
At first, Janet’s relief at seeing Mrs Norman sitting in an easy chair with a magazine, and at finding the baby asleep in his cot, had been her only emotion, but by midnight she was a prey to all sorts of fears, and she could no longer resist the temptation to call the Yard.
She asked for Roger, and was told that he had not been in since half past six.
‘But he has been!’ cried Janet. ‘There was a message for him, and he went back.’
‘I haven’t heard about it, Mrs West,’ said the operator, ‘but I’ll make inquiries. Hold on, please.’
Eventually Inspector Sloan, who had been at the house the previous evening, came on the line. Within a few seconds he was as worried as Janet, for he was quite sure that no message had been sent to the cinema. He promised to put inquiries in hand immediately, told Janet to cheer up, and replaced the receiver. Janet straightened up, and stared at the clock. Suddenly, she dialled another number, and she heard the ringing sound for a long time.
At last, a gruff, sleepy voice answered.
‘Lessing here. Who’ssat?’
‘Janet. Mark, can you come over right away? Something’s happened to Roger, something mysterious, and I just can’t stand being here on my own tonight. Can you come?’
‘I won’t be twenty minutes,’ Mark assured her. ‘Jan, there’s nothing badly wrong, is there? Roger hasn’t been hurt?’
‘I don’t know where he is,’ wailed Janet. ‘I—’
Then she broke off abruptly, for there was a thud in a room upstairs. She gasped: ‘Mark, hurry, there’s someone here!’ and, without replacing the receiver, she flew out of the room and up the stairs to the nursery.
The cot was empty.
‘Oh, please God, don’t let him be harmed!’ she breathed.
There were footsteps outside, running away. She went to the window, which was wide open, and with every ounce of breath she shouted: ‘Help! Help! Police!’
She shouted again, and saw a light appear in a window opposite. It opened, and the silhouette of Mrs Norman’s head and shoulders appeared.
‘What is it, Mrs West?’
‘Oh, please come!’ cried Janet. ‘Please come! They’ve taken Scoopy, they’ve taken Scoopy!’
She could not speak again, and turned from the window and raced down the stairs. Perhaps they had a car waiting outside. She reached the front door and opened it. There was nothing to be seen and the footsteps no longer sounded. Mrs Norman came hurrying with her husband, a middle-aged couple in dressing-gowns and slippers; the man’s hair was standing on end.
Janet gasped: ‘I heard a noise, and—he’s gone, he’s gone!’
‘Come along, my dear,’ said Norman. He gripped her arm and led her back to the house. ‘Nothing serious will happen, you needn’t worry,’ he added, and in spite of the emptiness of the words they had a steadying effect. ‘Sit down,’ said Norman, and pushed her into an easy chair. ‘Now, take a sip of this, my dear.’ He unscrewed the top of a small flask of whisky he had brought and wiped it with deliberate care. ‘Now, head back!’ he put one hand beneath her chin, and added in an aside to his wife: ‘Go upstairs and look in all the bedrooms, Nora.’
‘I must go!’ said Janet.
‘Sit down!’ said Norman, and forced a little whisky into her mouth. ‘There’s nothing you can do that Nora can’t; now, sit down.’
As she swallowed the whisky, Janet felt giddiness and faintness overwhelm her, and all colour ebbed from her cheeks. Norman’s portly figure seemed to be moving in rapidly widening circles. Above the droning in her ears she seemed to hear the frenzied cries of her child. She sat gripping the arms of the chair, in an agony of mind which seemed to affect every nerve and sinew.
Then from upstairs there came a cry: ‘He’s here! He’s all right!’
‘No!’ cried Janet. ‘No! I—’ She jumped up and raced to the door and up the stairs.
Mrs Norman was standing by the open door of her bedroom – and when Janet reached the door, she saw the child sleeping in the middle of her own bed.
Chapter Eleven
More News of Griselda
‘I can’t understand it,’ said Janet to Mark Lessing, who had just arrived. She had the baby in her arms, and it was awake and looking steadily at her. ‘Why on earth should they pretend to take him? The devils! I’ve never been so tortured, it—’ She drew in her breath. ‘Someone must look for Roger. It must be connected with him, it must be.’ She looked down at the baby, and then said firmly: ‘I can’t help it, he’ll have to sleep in my room tonight, and I won’t leave him. Will you wheel the cot in, Mark?’
Twenty minutes later, she was much calmer. Two aspirins with a cup of tea had helped to steady her, and there was a tinge of colour in her cheeks. She was smoking a cigarette, a thing she rarely did, and looking anxiously at Mark. Mrs Norman had gone next door to get a warmer dressing-gown for her husband, who was on guard outside the bedroom door.
Mark had telephoned the Yard again, and explained exactly what had happened. He had been assured that a thorough search was being made for Roger, and that any news would be telephoned as soon as it came in.
‘There’s just nothing more we can do,’ said Mark.
Footsteps sounded in the street, and stopped at the gate. The gate opened and then slammed.
‘I expect the Yard has sent someone along, and he’s pretty sore at being woken up,’ said Mark. He reached the door, opened it, and then gasped: ‘Roger!’
Roger stood on the step, bruised, tired, his clothes torn and dirty.
‘Roger!’ cried Janet, and flew to him.
‘All safe and more or less sound, you see,’ he said with a grimace, ‘but have I got a headache! Could there be a cup of tea?’
‘Of course,’ said Janet. ‘We’ve just had some.’
Roger’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Here, what is this? What brought you, Mark? And why does Janet look so—’ He broke off as he heard footsteps in the hall, and then saw Mrs Norman with a dressing-gown over her arm. ‘Jumping jackanapes, what is going on here?’
‘We’ve had a bit of a shindy,’ said Mark, ‘but it’s all right now.’
Then Janet let loose a flood of words, to which Roger listened with a set face. When she had finished, he said slowly: ‘So that’s a warning of what we can expect. I’ll have a hundred men in the house until this show’s over,’ he added savagely.
‘Now don’t get worked up, Mr West,’ said Mrs Norman. ‘My husband’s on guard upstairs.’
‘Eh?’ exclaimed Roger, bewilderedly. ‘On guard—oh, I see. You are a good couple! We needn’t keep you up any longer, though, and I feel quite sure there is no need to expect further trouble tonight. There’s one way in which you can help us, though, Mrs Norman. I’d like to put one or two men in your house tomorrow, to keep an eye on ours. They won’t be in the way, I assure you. No one would know that they were there, of course, or what they were doing.’
‘Why, that’s simple,’ said Mrs Norman, and called upstairs, ‘Ted! Ted, it’s all right, you can come off duty.’
A few minutes after the Normans left, two plainclothes men arrived from Scotland Yard, and looked startled when Roger admitted them. He remembered then to telephone the Yard with descriptions of the three men. ‘When that was done, he wondered whether it would be wise to get in touch with the manager of the cinema that night, but decided to leave it until the morning. He stationed the Yard men in the sitting-room with strict instructions to call him if there were any kind of alarm, and then went to bed. Mark stayed again.
Roger was woken by the rat-tat of the postman. One of the Yard men opened the door, signed for a registered packet, and called up to ask what he should do with it. Roger asked him to bring it up. and took it from him on the landing.
It was a small envelope, heavily sealed with red wax, and with a typewritten address, marked: Personal to Inspector West. He glanced into the bedroom. Janet was still aslee
p, although the baby was murmuring, quite happily, to himself. It was nearly seven o’clock, and getting light.
Mark appeared at his door.
Roger opened the packet, and found that it consisted of folded sheets of blank typewriting paper. He unfolded them one after the other, frowning and suspicious, and found some typewriting on the last sheet. He opened it out, and read:
By now you know how easy it will be, West. This is being posted before we’ve talked to you or visited your house, but we know just what we’re going to do, and we’ll do it. We don’t want to hurt your wife or child, but—
Roger smiled twistedly, and handed it to Mark.
‘They’re confident, aren’t they?’
‘They’re fools,’ said Mark, briefly. ‘No one but a fool would think that they could frighten a Yard man, and even if they thought you’d back out, they ought to know that the rest of the Yard would soon be after them.’
‘That’s only half the story,’ said Roger. ‘Obviously they think that I know something which no one else does. They don’t want me to pass it on.’
‘Do you know anything?’
‘If I do, it’s unconsciously,’ said Roger. ‘One thing is established,’ he added with a grin, ‘they’re badly worried. We always knew that this was a big business, but it’s nice to know that we have them on the run. Will you bath first, or shall I?’
Soon afterwards Martin’s cries grew loud, and Janet woke up and went down to get his bottle. Roger bathed and shaved, and then went down to the telephone. He sent the two men off for some breakfast, and told them to come back within an hour; they had slept in turns, and assured him that they were quite fresh. By the time Janet had prepared breakfast, he had spoken to the Yard again, but obtained no information. He also arranged with Pep Morgan’s firm to send two agents to Mrs Norman’s house, telephoned Mrs Norman to say what time they would arrive, and then, after much trouble, managed to find the private number of the manager of the cinema.
That worthy was still in bed, and surly on being woken up. His manner changed when Roger said crisply: ‘This is Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard speaking. Can you hear me, Mr Lovelace?’
‘Eh? Scotland Yard. Oh yes, yes.’
Five minutes afterwards Roger replaced the receiver. The story was simple. A man had telephoned the manager the previous evening, just after half past eight, said he was a police inspector, and asked for the message to be flashed on the screen. The manager had not given it a second thought, for a similar request had come before. The only additional fact that Roger discovered was that the call had come from a private telephone and, the manager thought, through an extension. The first man had asked him to hold, and he had heard what he thought was the extension line being rung. A crisp and decided voice had given him the message.
‘Would you recognise either voice again?’ Roger had asked, and was told that the manager ‘thought he might’, which was quite useless as far as evidence went.
There were messages waiting for him at the Yard, one from Gardener, saying that he had left Poplars at half past seven that morning, in a Newbury police car, in the wake of Andrew Kelham. Alexander was still at the house, which was being watched by Mellor. There was nothing else of importance, and he went along to make his report to Chatworth.
‘Look here, West,’ said Chatworth when Roger had finished his story, ‘if you think your wife would be happier I’ll give the case to someone else.’ He grinned suddenly when he saw Roger’s expression. ‘All right, all right, don’t look as if I’d accused you of treachery! Now, what about this Griselda woman? These people seem to be very worried about her.’
‘Seem to be is right, sir,’ said Roger. ‘It might be a trick to make us concentrate on her while they get busy on something else.’
The telephone bell rang, and Roger turned to leave.
‘Wait a minute, West!’ said Chatworth. Roger turned back to see the AC listening intently to what was being said on the telephone. ‘All right!’ he said abruptly and rang off.
Then he looked at Roger. ‘That was Sloan,’ he said. ‘He thinks he’s cornered Griselda Fayne.’
Chapter Twelve
The Finding of Griselda
Detective-Inspector Sloan, a tall, fresh-faced and powerful man whose fair hair was brushed flat and whose blue eyes held a look of excitement which reminded Roger of Gardener, was standing at the corner of a small street near Ealing Common. At the far end of the street were two other policemen in plain clothes, and there were several uniformed men within sight. Roger’s car drew up at the corner, but did not turn into the street, and Sloan came hurrying forward.
‘Is she still here?’ asked Roger, eagerly.
‘Yes, we’ve got her all right,’ said Sloan, jubilantly. ‘Spotted her myself, and followed her here. Recognised her and her clothes from the photograph and description you had circulated.’
‘Is there anyone with her?’
‘I don’t know. No one else has been seen to enter or leave the house, but I haven’t been much closer than this—I thought I’d better wait for you,’ added Sloan, with a grin.
They walked quickly along the narrow street with one sergeant following them and the other policemen watching closely. There were a dozen houses, small, detached and identical, each in a garden which was trim and neat, even that of The Nook, where Griselda Fayne had been seen to enter. Roger opened the gate. It squeaked. The double gates of the short drive-in to the garage were at the other side of the garden and the garage was out of sight.
The sergeant went round to the back, and Roger knocked at the door. There was no answer.
He knocked again, then pressed the bell. They heard it ring clearly, but after he took his finger off the bell-push there was only silence. Sloan coughed, and Roger frowned as he said: ‘See if any of the windows are open, will you?’
The warrant he had brought gave him full authority to force an entry, and when Sloan came back to report that all the windows were closed and the back door was locked, Roger lost no time. He took an automatic from his pocket and broke the glass of the door with the butt. The pieces fell to the floor on the other side; there was no other sound.
Roger inserted his hand, and pulled back the knob. They stepped into a narrow, well lighted hall, which contained a hall wardrobe, one or two oddments of small furniture, and thick multi-coloured wool rugs on a polished wood floor. There were three doors in sight, and a staircase immediately in front of them.
‘Will you go through and open the back door?’ asked Roger.
When Sloan came back, Roger had looked through all the downstairs rooms, and found them empty. The furniture was modern and looked well kept, and there were two ash-trays with cigarette-butts, two or three of them with smears of lipstick. They went upstairs. There were four bedrooms and a bathroom, and all were empty. All had the same look as the room downstairs – as if they were regularly used and well kept. The only sounds came from their own movements and low-pitched voices.
On the landing a chair was standing near the wall, immediately beneath the loft trap-door. Sloan stood by, watching anxiously, while Roger mounted the chair and pushed his hands against the loft door.
It fell back with a crash.
Roger gripped the side of the frame and hauled himself up. As he reached the boarded floor of the loft, he thought he saw something move, but when he straightened up – there was just enough room for him to stand upright – no one was in sight. Sloan came up quickly, and they stood together, looking round a surprisingly clean apartment. Suitcases and trunks were piled up in one corner with odds and ends of furniture and some pillows and blankets. In another corner water gurgled in a cistern. The loft was well lighted from a skylight, and was also fitted up with electricity.
Roger was looking towards the cistern, and suddenly he went down on his hands and knees. The cistern stood on wooden blocks which kept it clear of the floor, and left a gap of several inches. On the other side of the gap he saw a pair of shoes. He smil
ed faintly, and straightened up.
‘All right, Miss Fayne,’ he said. ‘You can come out.’
He stepped towards one side of the cistern, and Sloan towards the other. There was a flurry of movement, and Griselda Fayne came into sight. All he saw at first were her bright eyes and the heavy walking-stick which she raised swiftly as she cried: ‘Stand away! Stand away, or—’
Roger advanced as if she had not spoken. She swung the stick, but he put out an arm and brushed it aside. The next moment he had gripped her waist and she was standing and staring at him in mute defiance. In that moment, which should have been one of triumph, his chief emotion was pity for the girl. She looked on the point of tears.
‘I knew I was right,’ said Sloan, jubilantly.
Roger said: ‘Will you be sensible?’
She said, bitterly: ‘What else can I do?’
‘That’s the spirit!’ said Roger. ‘Go down, Bill, and give her a hand, will you?’
Griselda made no effort to break away. Sloan climbed through the hole and dropped, then Griselda followed him, going backwards, and Sloan stretched up and gripped her waist, then lowered her to the floor. A moment later Roger joined them, dusted his hands on his trousers, and said to the sergeant: ‘Go and bring my car up here, will you?’
She said: ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘You were seen to come.’
‘When?’ asked Griselda, frowning. ‘It was dark when I arrived.’
‘Now look here,’ said Sloan. ‘I saw you come into this house this morning, not two hours ago, and—’
‘Nonsense! I haven’t been out of the house for twenty-four hours!’ snapped Griselda.
‘Oh,’ said Sloan.
‘You’d be a lot wiser if you looked for the others,’ said Griselda, bitterly, ‘instead of spending so much time looking for me. I can see that you don’t believe me, but I haven’t been outside the house for twenty-four hours. I know that someone else came here, another woman. There were some men here, too. I’ve been hiding in the loft, and I don’t think they knew I was here. I tried to get down, but the bolt was pushed home.’ She looked distraught, and her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed.
