Inspector West At Home

by John Creasey

  Malone gripped a handful and tugged at it savagely, making her gasp with pain.

  Roger clenched his hands, but the men held him fast.

  Malone stepped back, and Mrs Cartier brushed the hair out of her eyes. She looked older, her cheeks were red and already swollen and there was a scratch on the lid of one of her eyes.

  “Tell him !” Roger cried.

  He was struck again, but half-heartedly. Malone threw a careless glance over his shoulder, then looked back at Mrs Cartier.

  “The guy’s got sense,” he said. “Where’s that machine?”

  “In the other room,” answered Mrs Cartier in a voice that Roger could hardly hear. She pointed an unsteady hand towards the library and then swayed back against a chair and slumped into it, burying her face in her hands.

  Malone turned to the larger of the men by the door.

  “Tell him,” he said. “Keep your peepers open.”

  “Oke,” said the man. He turned and crossed the flat. Roger heard the opening of the door and at the same time realised how little noise had really been made. It was doubtful whether anyone in the adjoining flats would dream of anything out of the ordinary. The tape which meant so much lay on the floor, behind a table, where he had kicked it when he had first heard Malone’s voice. Before long they would start to look for it.

  Then Pickerell came in.

  He walked furtively. He was not wearing glasses and his face had a hang-dog look. He averted his eyes from Mrs Cartier, who did not look up, and went with Malone into the room where the tape-recorder was.

  “Bring in the slop,” Malone said.

  Roger was hustled forward, unable to do or say anything to help the woman.

  Malone stared at him, looking up with his narrowed, sultry eyes. Pickerell stood at one side of the tape-recorder, Malone at the other.

  “Can you work this thing?” Malone demanded.

  Roger said: “Yes.”

  “Okay. Work it.”

  Roger opened his mouth — and was struck across the face. He wiped a trickle of blood from his chin, then picked up a tape from the cupboard, which was open. He pressed the switch and voices came through — a conversation between Pickerell and a man who spoke in broken English.

  “Is that it?” Malone asked Pickerell.

  “No, that’s nothing.” Pickerell licked his lips.

  “Try another,” Malone ordered.

  He took the first tape from Roger’s hands and flung it against the outer wall, where it unrolled like a length of film. Roger fitted on the second with the same result — Malone flung that, too. There were perhaps two dozen tapes in the cupboard and he tried one after the other. Had Malone asked whether he knew where the tape they wanted was, Roger doubted whether he would have had the courage to keep silent. Malone’s thoroughness, the slow deliberation with which he worked, helped Roger to retain sufficient moral courage to say nothing.

  Time was flying, but he did not give it serious thought. If Sam had been coming to help he would have raised an alarm by now. It seemed useless to hope for outside help.

  The twelfth tape crashed against the wall before Malone said softly :

  “You sure you’d know the one, Pickerell?”

  “Of course I do,” Pickerell was as frightened of the man as anyone. “The only one that could do any harm was when I gave Lois Randall instructions. It would have our voices, Masher.”

  “My name’s Malone,” the man said; “use it.” To Roger: “Go on, copper.”

  Roger tried four more tapes.

  “Why don’t you find out whether —” Pickerell began.

  “Close your trap !” snapped Malone. He nodded to Roger, who put on four more tapes only to take them off and see them hurled away. The carpet was covered with the shiny, worm-like tapes, and the wall was marked where they had crashed against it. There were four more left in the cup-board and Malone seemed prepared to hear them all. Pick- erell opened his lips as if he were going to make another suggestion, but thought better of it. Two more tapes went the way of the others. Two more, and then there would be the inevitable questions.

  Roger, his nerve steadier by then, was able to think more clearly. It was probable that they would start to question Mrs Cartier. It would be impossible to stand by and watch, he knew that he would have to speak. He knew, too, that having heard the record, he had the essential facts to work on; if he could not produce the record, Chatworth would have to take his word.

  But when Malone found it he would guess what Roger had heard.

  There was one tape left.

  Suddenly from the outer room there came a shrill whistle, the sound which Mark had heard near the ‘Saucy Sue’. It was clear and distinct and Roger guessed at once what it was — the gang’s signal of impending danger. Malone jerked his head up and Pickerell gasped :

  “What’s that?”

  “Pipe down,” said Malone, “someone’s coming.” He moved past Roger and went towards the door. Roger could see Mrs Cartier still slumped forward in the chair.

  Voices were raised, but not loudly enough for Roger to hear the words.

  Malone came back and spoke softly and with that evil glitter in his eyes.

  “The busies. So you’re clever, copper?” His teeth showed in an ugly sneer. “One day you won’t be, you’ll be kicking up the daisies. Where’s that tape?”

  “I don’t know what —” Roger began.

  “You know,” said Malone, “you know!” He moved his right hand with bewildering swiftness, and the cosh seemed to leap into it. He hit Roger over the temple, sending him lurching over the tape-recorder, which crashed down. He did not try to pick himself up. The room was going round and the blood was pounding in his ears. He thought he heard voices and a cry of pain but could not be sure. Doors opened and closed. There was silence, until slowly he became aware of a woman sobbing. He dragged himself to his feet.

  It was not Mrs Cartier. She was on her knees beside the maid who was sitting in a chair and crying, just as Lois had cried, and her mistress was speaking to her in a soothing voice. The passage door was shut but footsteps were audible in the passage; then the bell rang. Only the three of them appeared to be left in the flat.

  Mrs Cartier looked up at him.

  “Please open it,” she said.

  Roger went unsteadily to the door. The bell rang again as he reached it. He fumbled with the latch and pulled it open, stumbling as someone entered, as if to make sure that the door was not closed in his face. He thought he recognised the man but was not sure until a voice, for once lifted out of its habitual coldness, exclaimed :

  “West! What has happened?”

  It was Superintendent Abbott I

  Tiny Martin and two plainsclothes men came into the room followed by the lanky Sam. Roger realised then what had happened. Pep Morgan’s operative was grinning rather sheepishly. Roger knew that Sam had seen the mob come in and had guessed what they were going to do. Realising that on his own he would be useless, he had telephoned the Yard and made the summons urgent enough to bring Abbott and these men post-haste.

  Abbott put a hand on Roger’s arm and led him to the bathroom. Roger felt his face being sponged, warm water soaked into his cut lips, welcome and soothing. Abbott did not speak and his bony hands were surprisingly gentle.

  . It was over at last.

  Roger dried himself on a towel which felt as smooth as silk. There were a few pink bloodstains on it but the bleeding had almost stopped. He was sufficiently recovered to run a comb through his hair. His right eye was swollen but his left was all right and he could see Abbott clearly. The room was no longer going round and he felt all right except that his lips seemed to touch his nose, and his head ached.

  “I’ve never been so glad to see you,” he said.

  “I daresay,” said Abbott, his thin lips twisting in a smile. “I shouldn’t try to talk too much yet.” He led the way into the entrance hall and the lounge, where Mrs Cartier was sitting in an easy chair, with coffee by he
r side. The maid was stretched out on the settee, her face red and swollen with crying.

  Mrs Cartier had tidied her hair. One cheek was also red and puffy and the scratch on her eyelid was lined with blood, but she looked more presentable than Roger or the maid — and she was smiling, although with more than a touch of bitterness.

  “How it must hurt,” she said to Roger. “Will you have some coffee ?”

  Roger croaked. “I don’t think I could drink anything hot.”

  “Then some cold milk?” She rose and hurried out of the room, returning in a few seconds with a glass of cold milk.

  Roger said to Abbott: “Sam called for you, did he?”

  “Yes. But I think Mrs Cartier is better able to tell me what happened.”

  “I will, immediately,” said Mrs Cartier. “Oh, I am so sorry that they took the tape —”

  Roger snapped, his voice suddenly clear.

  “Did they?” He stood up too quickly, for his head began to swim, and stepped to the cabinet beneath which he had kicked the record. He saw the cardboard container and beckoned one of the Yard men, who went down on his knees and brought it out. The tape was inside.

  Mrs Cartier said eagerly.

  “That’s wonderful! Now —”

  Then she broke off and the others looked towards the passage door. Sam stood there ill at ease with one of Abbott’s men. There was a murmur of conversation before the door opened. A plainclothes man stood aside and revealed the tall, elegant figure of Mr Sylvester Cartier.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Air is Much Clearer

  AFTER THE first shock, Cartier took the situation remarkably well. He exclaimed at the sight of his wife’s puffy face and looked at Roger without understanding. Then he gripped her hands and looked into her eyes as she said :

  “It is all right now, cheri, quite all right now.”

  Cartier took a blue and white spotted handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed fastidiously at his forehead. Roger saw him closely for the first time. He was too narrow-jawed to be handsome, yet was good-looking with an excellent, almost feminine complexion. His fair hair was thin and curly, his eyes blue, his lips full and generous. There was a foppish air about him, but Roger wondered whether it was affectation.

  “Now perhaps someone will be good enough to explain this remarkable visitation,” said Cartier.

  “Cheri, I should have told you something of it before,” said his wife. She looked contrite and Cartier stared at her in growing bewilderment. “Perhaps you will be patient?” She looked at Abbott and added : “I would like to tell my husband what has caused this.”

  Cartier stepped to the tray. The fruit knives were crossed and he straightened them, then picked up an apple and toyed with it.

  “I should like to know it myself,” Abbott said drily. The man was positively human and Roger looked at him, surprised by this revelation, puzzled also by something else in his manner.

  “Then please listen,” said Mrs Cartier.

  Roger liked her telling of the story, touching on all she had told him and elaborating only those details which needed fuller explanation. She mentioned her visit to Bell Street and explained that she had seen Roger waiting at the end of Welbeck Street and had hurried off to arrange for this visit. She admitted that she and her husband had quarrelled at Welbeck Street, and she made it clear that because of his antagonism to her interest in the Society she had hesitated to take him into her confidence. She gave Roger the impression that it would have to be settled between them and that she was prepared to make concessions. Her eyes seemed to caress the man.

  Then she told them what had happened at the flat.

  Tiny Martin, probably the most proficient shorthand- writer at the Yard, took everything down, occasionally forced to write so fast that his pencil seemed to slide across the page of his note-book.

  “I would have refused to answer but the Inspector told me to,” Mrs Cartier finished.

  “I should think he did!” exclaimed Cartier. “I’ve never heard anything so wicked.” He broke off, put the apple down, stared at Roger and then went on : “Had you any idea what Pickerell was doing before ? If you did, you should have advised me.”

  “I hadn’t the faintest idea,” Roger told him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t think that the Inspector would lie about it, Sylvester,” said Mrs Cartier. “It is surely clear that as he was being victimised, he would hardly know.” She looked at Abbott. “The wrong can be righted, I hope.”

  Abbott so far forgot himself as to smile.

  “Yes,” he said. “And it will be.”

  Roger no longer noticed his swollen lips or puffy eye. Malone had receded, even the ‘unlucky 13th’ did not matter. He was in the clear, and Chatworth would admit it as freely as Abbott.

  Roger left Bonnock House with Abbott, half an hour later, when the flat had been scoured for finger-prints : there would be plenty of Malone’s on the fragments of the tapes, which were carefully collected and put in a big bag which the maid, now much more herself, brought from the kitchen. Cartier revealed himself to be acute and shrewd by his questions to Abbott, but he gave the impression that the main issue would have to be decided between him and his wife.

  Although it was barely half past nine, Roger telephoned the Legge hotel to find that Janet and the others were there. He told an excited Janet what had happened, and rang off. He frowned, thinking of Lois and wondering whether the time had come to tell the Yard all that he knew about her. He thought it had, but as he left the flats with Abbott he felt undecided. Sam had gone ahead.

  The moon was rising and casting a faint grey light about the heath and the large houses and mansion flats bordering it. It shone dully on the three police cars outside.

  The thought of the taxi-driver who should have telephoned Bell Street by now entered Roger’s mind. He missed a step, and Abbott asked :

  “What is it, West?”

  “I ought to telephone my house,” Roger said.

  “You can do that from the Yard,” said Abbott. “I called Sir Guy before I left and I expect he will be waiting for us. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  At the Yard, Abbott went to the AC’s office ahead, and Roger went into his own. It was dark and there was a smell of shag — Eddie Day’s tobacco.

  Morgan’s man answered his telephone call to Bell Street.

  “Have you had any calls?” Roger asked.

  “No, it’s been all quiet,” the man replied. “Think there’s any need for me to stay, Mr West?”

  “Yes,” said Roger. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go to bed in the room with a telephone.”

  “If you say so,” the man said.

  Roger replaced the receiver, then called the London Hospital. He was given a good report on Pep Morgan. He walked along to Chatworth’s office. One or two men passed, staring at him in surprise and one of them asked him what he had done to his face.

  Roger grinned painfully. Tobacco smoke stung his lips and he knew that he was a fool to smoke but could not bring himself to throw the cigarette away. He tapped on Chatworth’s door and was bidden to enter.

  Chatworth was sitting back in his big chair, Abbott standing like a statue beside him; the tape-recorder in Chat- worth’s office was near his hand, a tape — the tape — was in front of Chatworth.

  “Hallo, West,” said the AC. “You’ve had a nasty time, I hear. Sit down.” Roger did so. “Anyway, the air is much clearer,” said Chatworth.

  “Thank you, sir,” Roger said. It was difficult to speak and his words were inclined to run into one another.

  Chatworth tapped the tape.

  “I propose to take this as conclusive,” he said. “I must admit I’m bewildered.” For Chatworth that was a great admission. “I could not bring myself to believe that anyone would go to such lengths to frame you.” He hesitated, his round face sombre — “it remains hardly credible.”

  “I suppose not, sir,” mumbled Roger. Was
he still doubtful ? He decided that it was not a question of doubt but of sheer bewilderment, and he felt better although the mood of exhilaration had passed. “Have you heard about the unlucky 13th?”

  “Yes.” Chatworth indicated two manila folders on his desk. “Here are your reports for December 13th — it can only be the 13th of December.”

  “Of course,” said Roger, his heart beating faster. “Have you looked through them ?”

  “I’m leaving it to you,” said Chatworth. “But are you up to it just now?”

  “I ought to try,” Roger said. He pulled his chair nearer the desk, as the folders were pushed towards him. “Was there any other indication about my alleged misdemeanours ?” The question sounded absurdly formal. He knew that the evidence of the bank pass-book must have seemed conclusive enough and yet there was a lingering doubt.

  “Yes,” Chatworth answered. “There were statements that you had conspired with the man Malone, to warn him if action were to be taken against him.”

  “Who made the statements?”

  “Joe Leech,” said Chatworth. “There were other things which we won’t worry about now. If I were you I would go home and get some sleep. You’ll feel much fresher tomorrow. But if you insist on looking through those files —”

  “I would like to.”

  Ten minutes later, puzzled and frustrated, he pushed them away. There was nothing which gave him any idea as to why he had been victimised because of a discovery made on December 13th. Certainly nothing he had put in his reports was important enough to have worried Pickerell so much. The only thing of importance on the day had been a visit to a house in Battersea, where a man had murdered his wife. It had been a miserable affair, brightened only by the solicitor who had taken on the murderer’s defence. He sat back after he had told Chatworth so and the glimmering of an idea entered his mind, only to fade again. It reminded him of his flash of doubt concerning Antoinette Cartier. It faded as swiftly but made him feel uncertain and a little irritable. His eyes felt as if they were filled with grit and his tongue was like a plum against his lips.