by John Creasey
His arms were numbed, pins and needles began to run up and down them; agony came. She rubbed his arms briskly.
“Do you feel better? More rested?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m so desperately anxious that you shouldn’t have another relapse,” she said. “I felt sure that you wouldn’t hurt me. You mustn’t attack your friends, you know.”
She spoke with great simplicity, as if to a child whom she was anxious to impress. He looked at her with his head on one side, and wondered what she would think if she suspected the truth. Was she sincere? Had the man told the truth about her? If so, she might become a useful ally.
“You understand, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I am going to ask them to let you return to your room again. I think perhaps you were out too soon after the last attack. Dr. Ritter believes in giving patients every possible chance.”
At last Roger had a name: Dr. Ritter. It brought reality a little nearer.
“I’ll soon be back,” promised Marion.
She didn’t close the door.
That was deliberate, either because she was putting him on trust, or because the man wanted to find out whether he was desperate enough to try to escape. What could he escape to? The certainty of arrest and the near certainty of conviction; it would be crazy to try. He couldn’t try anything. He was forced back to the choice; whether to “play” or whether to let himself be killed. He’d play, of course; he’d have to play.
Marion was soon back, and her face was radiant. No one was in the passage outside.
They were on the second floor; they walked down to the first, and she led him into the bedroom in which he had first come round. He went straight to the window, for he wanted to see that real world beyond the beech-hedge. He saw three men talking together: the gardener, a tall, thin man with a hooked nose, and the man whose eyes impressed themselves so deeply on his mind.
Roger gripped Marion’s arm.
“Who are the men in the garden?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know the doctor!”
“Ritter—the tall man.” He didn’t have to think that out very deeply. “Who is the other?”
“Don’t be silly, Mr. King.”
“I’ve seen him before somewhere, and can’t place him.” He put his hand in front of his eyes, as if to shut out a dread vision, and her voice became soft and soothing again as she led him towards the bed. He sat down, but didn’t lie flat. She said quietly: “That’s your very good friend, Mr. Kennedy. He brought you here.”
Marion went out.
CHAPTER IX
THE GAME
KENNEDY came in during the afternoon; the sun was low in the west, and Roger had finished lunch an hour— or was it two hours?—ago. Kennedy came in softly and closed the door behind him, and Roger looked up but didn’t move. Kennedy was smiling a faint, sardonic smile. He came straight across and offered cigarettes.
“Aren’t you scared of me?” Roger sneered.
“I shall never be frightened of you. West,” said Kennedy easily. “I’ve only to call for help, and my friends here will come at once. They know they’re dealing with a dangerous lunatic. Have you had time to realize the hopelessness of your position?”
“I’d like to change it.”
“You can,” said Kennedy softly. He walked to the window and looked out, beyond the trees. “Out there, the world is going on much the same as usual. Your wife, your children, your friends—all of them are living, eating, sleeping, behaving normally. If you ever want to go back into that world you’ll have to do what you’re told.”
“It would help to know what you want.”
Kennedy turned the full force of those shimmering eyes on him.
“I want you, West,” Kennedy said quietly. “The man and the policeman. Your knowledge of crime and of police methods. I want the expert on criminal investigation. The man who knows Scotland Yard as a doctor knows his patient—and better. I want inside knowledge of the C.I.D. All the tricks of the policeman’s trade. You can lay your finger on anything at Scotland Yard, and I want everything. I want you, not part of you. Mind, body, soul, if you’re fool enough to think you’ve got a soul. The rest steps out and I take possession.”
He meant every word.
His eyes were the true guide to his mind; he wasn’t sane, or he wouldn’t ask for the impossible.
He said: “No, I’m not mad, West.”
“What’s in your mind?” Roger asked roughly. “To send me back to the Yard, whitewashed?”
“Forget it. You’re wanted for murder. I’ve made the evidence too strong. If you ever left here alive and alone, you’d swing. Thinking about escape won’t help you. You can only escape to death.”
Be rational; use reason.
“It sounds wonderful. I work for you and forget my past.”
“You haven’t got a past.”
“Wife? Family?”
“They’re alive. They’re well. They’re not in danger. Forget them.”
“Every C.I.D. man in the country, every patrol man, every village copper, every journalist, and about thirty million people who’ll know what I look like when the Yard really releases this story, will be on the look-out for me.”
“They won’t find you. You won’t look yourself. You won’t be yourself.”
Roger swung round, to stare into the peaceful grounds, to convince himself that this was happening, to grope and gasp. Kennedy didn’t speak or move. A thrush flew down and drove a dozen sparrows away from crumbs which lay white on the lawn.
“Make up your mind,” Kennedy said.
“What do I get out of it? I’m to lose plenty.”
“You’ll be alive.”
“I suppose I’m to live on air.”
Kennedy threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but high-pitched and grating; it matched his eyes. He clapped his hands together, crossed the room and slapped Roger on the back. Roger stood rigid, although the touch was loathsome.
“You’re like the rest, Roger! High-minded while you’ve no temptation. What you mean is—what’s in it for you?”
“Well, what is in it for me?”
“A fortune. An easy life. Plenty of the right kind of company. Do what you’re told and put your best into it, and you can have the world.”
“But nothing out of my past?”
“Nothing,” said Kennedy.
Roger said: “You say you want the man as well as the policeman. Both have memories.”
“It’s easy to forget.” Kennedy’s voice was soft, now, almost a hiss. He turned away, as if to hide the glitter in those frightening eyes. “I know it’s easy, because I’ve forgotten.” He was haunted by memories at this moment, they crowded upon him and he fought them away savagely. “You won’t remember anything for long, not in a way that hurts. You’ll think of the others as dead. Going to play. West?”
There was more in it than this: the whole plan wasn’t unfolded, only a corner was turned up.
“I don’t want to die.”
“You don’t have to. Will you play?”
“It looks as if I’ll have to.”
“You’ll be given paper and pencil,” Kennedy said. “Write out a list of all the senior officers at Scotland Yard, and their special duties. Indicate the particular qualities of each man. Make a precis of the way the organization works. That’ll fill in your spare time for the rest of the day. Make sure it’s right in every detail.”
He went out abruptly.
* * * *
There was no great betrayal in this; few secrets; none Roger need give away. He wrote until his fingers and wrist ached. The male nurse came in with his evening meal, and took away all he had written.
Night came slowly, but he wasn’t tired. He had a watch, now, all the cigarettes and matches he needed, and whisky; the beginning of the “easy” life. His mind was alert, things were crystal clear. His first task was to convince Kennedy that he w
ould really “play”. There’d be trick-tests and crafty traps, and he would have to be on his guard every waking moment, until Kennedy was finally convinced of his goodwill.
He began to think, dispassionately, of how he could send word to Janet and the Yard, and if he found a way, whether he should do it. Janet, when vexed and sharp-voiced if he’d worked too late, had a trick of gibing: “You’re a policeman first, man second.” There was truth in it; never more truth than now. The battle was on—a strange, tenuous, bitter battle.
* * * *
He was asleep when Marion came to him. For a moment, he thought it was Janet. He started up. Only the dim light was on, and she sat on the bed, looking fragile.
“What is it?”
She said : “I’m terribly frightened.”
“You’re frightened!”
“Yes.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
She asked: “Who are you?”
Beware the traps.
“Don’t you know?”
“I thought—you were Arthur King.”
“Aren’t I?”
“He called you by another name.”
“Who? The doctor?”
“No. Kennedy.”
“When?”
“I heard you talking in here to-night.”
She might have; much more likely she was in the plot and came as an agente provocatrice from Kennedy.
“Forget it,” he said roughly.
“Please! Don’t raise your voice. I want to help you, if you’re in trouble. I saw a photograph——”
“I’m ill. You know that.”
“But are you?” She gripped his hands tightly. She wore the woollen dressing-gown, and it parted at the neck; her nightdress was of pink silk. “I’ve been unhappy about you, you seemed so rational at first, not like the others. I thought——” She paused, and her fingers pressed hard enough to hurt.
“Well?”
“I thought it was because I—liked you.”
“That’s happened to me before.”
“Oh, please. Tell me the truth. If you’re someone else I can get a message sent for you. It would be a hideous crime to keep a sane man here. Perhaps I could tell your friends, or the police. I have time off to-morrow, and can go into the village—to London—anywhere. I want to help you.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Then let me get some sleep.”
She drew back, as if he had struck her, and her eyes seemed filled with pain. Could any woman act like that?
She went slowly towards the door; for the first time, her shoulders drooped as if the vitality had been drained out of her. She opened the door; there was still time to call her back.
He let her go.
* * * *
The safety razor felt unfamiliar in his hand, but he didn’t cut himself. When he looked into the mirror afterwards, he saw that the last traces of the scratches had all but gone.
The male nurse brought him a Daily Cry. There was a little paragraph about the nation-wide hunt, and more about him, with a larger photograph, and the words:
Reliable reports say that Inspector West was last seen on Monday evening, in the Guildford area. Anyone who saw him after six-fifteen that night should communicate at once with Scotland Yard or the nearest police-station.
* * * *
That was placed close to the murder story; so, slowly and reluctantly, the Yard was allowing him to be connected with that affair.
He put the paper down as the door opened. Kennedy came in with a little sparrow of a man. The newcomer had a beak of a nose and beady eyes, a fresh complexion and tiny, bloodless lips. He stood hardly higher than Kennedy’s shoulder, but was immaculately dressed in black coat and striped grey trousers, pale spats, a diamond tiepin in a silvery grey tie. His voice was high pitched, almost shrill.
“Good morning, good morning. So you’re the patient.”
“For what?” asked Roger.
“You’ll see,” said Kennedy.
“Yes, yes,” said the little man. “Yes, I see. Mr.—ah King, go over to the window, please, sit sideways to it, and look at the wall. Please.”
Roger obeyed.
The little man came closer, peered, breathed on him, and kept nodding. It went on for an age. Then the man pinched his cheeks, his forehead, and the flesh beneath his chin. Roger felt like a biological specimen.
“Yes, yes, that will do.”
“A good subject?” asked Kennedy.
“Quite satisfactory.”
“Mind it is, damn you!”
“There is no need to be abusive,” said the sparrow perkily. “When?”
“This morning.”
“Very well, I will get ready.” The sparrow went out, bustling and confident.
Roger felt the glittering eyes on him; he felt hot and frightened, but schooled his voice to calmness.
“What’s on?”
“The second stage in the transformation of Roger West. You don’t need to worry, you won’t feel anything.” Kennedy laughed, and then Marion came in with a tray on which were two cups of coffee; a departure from daily practice and therefore suspicious. She spoke, as if to lull his suspicions.
“As you were here, Mr. Kennedy, I thought I would bring two cups.”
“That’ll do.”
“Thank you.”
“Drink coffee. West?”
“I prefer tea.”
“You’ll like this for a change.”
He drank it.
* * * *
It was drugged. He knew that from Kennedy’s grin, and had proof in his own drowsiness, ten minutes after he’d had the drink. Kennedy left him and the male nurse came in, said: “Follow me” and went out again, expecting unquestioning obedience. Roger followed him along the narrow, plain-walled passages. The nurse opened a door. A powerful smell of antiseptics stung Roger’s nostrils; the bleak white austerity of an operation theatre met him. Panic rose inside him like a tempest, he stopped and gripped the door.
His mind was numbed with the drug, or he might have drawn back then, and fought to escape.
Beneath a single bright light was a chair; a barber’s chair. It stood beyond the operating-table. The nurse led him to it, and said: “Coat off.” He took off his coat and the nurse pushed him into the chair. As he sat down, the sparrow came hopping in. He went straight to a steaming metal pan, where surgical instruments gleamed through steam. Roger closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair; the neck rest was of hard rubber, quite comfortable. The mist rising from the pan seemed to become thicker, a billowing cloud, hiding the window, turning the light to an iridescent haze. The sparrow loomed out of it, or else was enveloped and almost invisible. He kept clicking his tongue; or was it his false teeth? He put on a long white coat. The mist looked like ectoplasm, and the sparrow a wraith. Roger’s head whirred as if the cine-projector were inside it. The speed increased, the harsh sound grated in his ears, eyes, the whole of his head. The mist became a billowing cloud stirred up by a strong wind. Men became shapes. On a tray in front of him instruments gleamed— glittered—it was as if Kennedy were staring at him from the tray.
He lost consciousness.
* * * *
He groaned. Someone spoke, softly, soothingly. He groaned again, but not from pain. There was no pain, only fear of something he could not comprehend.
A hand was at his shoulder, and the voice came again.
He tried to open his eyes.
He could not.
Panic, a hundred times worse than when he had been in the chair, took hold of him and shook him violently, his whole body seemed to be in physical turmoil. He felt pressure on his hands and—worse—on his eyes; that was why he couldn’t open them, something pressed firmly against the lids. That wasn’t all; there was pressure against his cheeks, chin, lips, and throat, a constricting pressure, as if his face were in a special “strait jacket”.
“Mr. West!”
He knew that voice.
<
br /> “Please don’t struggle, please don’t.”
Was he struggling? He felt as if he were convulsed by forces stronger than himself. But he became calmer and more conscious of the gentle pressure of Marion’s hands.
“You’ll be all right,” she promised, “you’ll be all right.”
He was still; and he was hot; prickly heat affected his whole body, and there was a warm glow over his face. He tried to speak, and couldn’t move his lips.
“Don’t try to speak yet. You’ll be all right. You’ve had an operation on your face.”
He lay quite still, aware of the stiff warmth of his face, clearly understanding what had happened. The sparrow was a plastic surgeon; Kennedy had talked of the second stage in the transformation of Roger West—a transformation in his looks, of course.
He moved his right hand.
He felt the same warm stiffness at the tips of his fingers —so they’d taken the skin off them, and grafted new, to prevent identification through his finger-prints. But the prints would grow again; didn’t they know that?
“I’m going to help you to sit up,” said Marion. “Then I’ll feed you.”
Her arms were young and strong, and soon he reclined comfortably against the pillow. She put something to his lips and it seemed hard, cold, and round; like a cigarette. It was a rubber tube. Warm sweetness filled his mouth and he gurgled as it ran down his gullet.
“Are you fairly comfortable? Just nod.”
He nodded.
“Is there anything you want?”
He wanted freedom; Janet; the boys; all the things which were impossible to have. He shook his head.
“I’ll come and see you again, soon.”
He wanted to ask how long this would go on, but he couldn’t move his lips, and so had to let her go.
An hour or an age passed before she was back.
* * * *
“Mr. West, I want you to listen carefully to all I have to say.”
He nodded.
“You can talk now, if you try. Your lips are free of the bandages, but your chin and nose aren’t. If you try to talk without moving your lips much, you’ll manage.”
Old lags knew that trick; he’d often demonstrated for fun, and sent the boys off into peals of laughter. He tried now.
