Battle for Inspector West

by John Creasey

  The story was now known to everyone.

  Anne and her Derek had been walking, close together, when the dog had leapt at them out of the bushes. There had been no warning; just silence, then the leaping figure, which had buried its fangs deep into Derek’s throat.

  To Christine, everything which had followed held the quality of a nightmare. Grant had said very little, except to the grey-haired manager whom she hadn’t seen before, and to the police. The inspector, named Fratton, appeared to have been satisfied with all that had been done since the attack. The hotel residents sat about the big lounge, ill-at-ease.

  Christine was in an armchair near the window in the bedroom, with the blinds drawn. Grant stood by the dressing-table, a glass of whisky in his hand.

  Christine said flatly: ‘He was deliberately murdered, Mike.’

  ‘No doubt about that.’

  ‘He was mistaken for you.’

  ‘It could be,’ Grant conceded. He tossed his drink down, and lit a cigarette.

  Would nothing make him confide in her?

  ‘Have you told the police that?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You will, won’t you?’

  Christine spoke tensely, because it was no longer possible even to hope that whoever hated Michael so much would be satisfied with spoiling their honeymoon.

  They meant to kill him, and if she was right, an innocent youth had died in mistake for him. And he had talked to her in short, almost brusque sentences, reminding her how little she knew of his past, how little she knew about him.

  He pulled up the dressing-stool, placed it in front of her, squatted down, and took her hands.

  ‘Chris, my darling,’ he said very quietly, ‘I should have told you of this, and postponed our wedding. I couldn’t bring myself to, and in a way I’m glad. If anything should happen to me now, you’ll be all right for the rest of your life.’

  She closed her eyes, because that hurt so much.

  His grip on her- fingers tightened.

  ‘But I’m going to have a stab at living,’ he went on, with a grim note of raillery. ‘That boy’s death will be on my conscience for a long, long time.’

  ‘Don’t torment yourself with that, Mike! But don’t make it worse by keeping it from the police.’

  ‘I’ll tell the police,’ Grant promised, ‘but an hour or two’s delay won’t make any difference. I—’

  Then his voice seemed to fade, for Christine saw the handle of the door turn. The expression on her face made Grant swing round, to see the door opening slowly. He leapt towards it, and Christine held her breath.

  Then Prendergast appeared, looking very tired, his face a paler pink. He cried out when he saw Grant, and backed away.

  ‘My dear sir!’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Grant towered over him.

  ‘I—I just had to come and have a word with you, I really did.’

  ‘Why didn’t you knock?’

  ‘I thought you were in the lounge. I was going to wait here,’ said Prendergast, unconvincingly. ‘I can’t bear those other people tonight, they’re so devastatingly earnest. You are a man of understanding, of intelligence. I could tell that when we met this evening, and I was going to wait for you. Really I was. If—if I startled your wife, I do apologize, but I had to come. After what I was saying earlier about violence, fancy this happening.’

  ‘It’s remarkable, isn’t it?’ Grant wasn’t mollified, but Prendergast had a skin like a hide.

  ‘Remarkable is hardly the word,’ he said. Uninvited, he sat on an upright chair near the wall, and mopped his forehead. Then his gaze fell on the whisky bottle and the syphon on the dressing-table.

  Grant turned to the whisky and said: ‘Care for a drink?’

  ‘Oh, I would!’

  Grant poured out, splashed in soda, and took it across. Prendergast drank deeply.

  ‘Thank you—thank you, indeed, Mr Grant. You’re very kind. I feel as if my whole world has collapsed. I thought that here we had found a real haven of peace, that we could forget violence and crime, and yet—such a terrible thing. That poor, young man, struck down in all the splendour of his youth and vigour. Imagine it, Mrs Grant—imagine it if you lost your husband in such a way. Imagine the terrors of the nights. Imagine how every time you moved out of the friendly lights of home and the shadows closed about you, you would picture that brute leaping towards you, its ugly great mouth open, its hot breath on your face.’

  ‘You’ve quite an imagination. Not everyone appreciates it,’ Grant said curtly.

  ‘It is always the same with those who have the artistic temperament,’ sighed Prendergast. ‘One feels the pain of others. Take Mrs Grant now. I need only look at her to know that she feels much as I do. Somewhere among her antecedents there must have been an artist, a man of great understanding, great gifts, who passed them on to her—’

  Christine jumped to her feet.

  ‘Mike!’ she breathed. ‘Stop him!’ Her face had lost every vestige of colour. ‘Please stop him!’

  Prendergast stood up, as if startled, blinked from her to Grant, put his glass on the chair and stepped forward.

  ‘My dear young lady, if I have caused you any distress, I am terribly sorry. I am indeed.’

  ‘You draw your pictures too vividly,’ Grant said coldly. ‘Have the police questioned you yet?’

  ‘Police? Questioned me?’ The pink, plump man looked dumbfounded. ‘Why should they?’

  ‘They’re bound to question everyone who was outside immediately after dinner.’

  ‘I didn’t stir!’

  ‘Then I must have seen your ghost,’ said Grant.

  Prendergast stood staring, his colour deepening from pink to red; and now he looked as if he was afraid.

  ‘I haven’t been outside the hotel since before dinner!’ he cried. ‘I’ve been here all the time.’

  ‘I saw you outside,’ Grant said sharply. ‘Perhaps you were carried away by some artistic vision, and—’

  ‘It’s a damnable lie!’

  ‘Now don’t be absurd. I saw you.’

  ‘It’s a lie!’ screeched Prendergast. ‘I didn’t step outside the door!’

  He jumped forward, as if to emphasise his protest with a blow. It was absurd, for Grant was so much bigger, but he had made the man lose his head.

  Christine realised that he had revealed how much the little artist was living on his nerves, and she sensed the significance of this without really understanding it.

  The tension was broken by a tap at the door, and Grant went to see who it was. The tall, comfortable figure of Inspector Fratton stood outside.

  Prendergast was so carried away by his rage that he still stood glowering, his feet planted wide apart, his hands clenched and raised.

  ‘I didn’t go outside, I tell you. Understand that? If you say I did, I’ll tell—’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Prendergast is getting rather excited,’ Grant said. ‘Come in, Inspector.’

  Fratton smiled, as if excitement was one of the emotions which would never affect him. He looked genial, and smiled with a natural affability. Perhaps the expression in his brown eyes as he looked at Grant did something to belie his smile, but his voice was friendly, rich and deliberate with its broad Dorset vowels.

  ‘Excited, is he?’ he echoed. ‘What about, Mr Prendergast?’

  Prendergast didn’t answer, but tried to regain his poise.

  ‘He’s forgotten that he went outside after dinner,’ said Grant dryly. ‘I suppose he doesn’t want to be in the limelight; artists are such shy, retiring people, but I think you should know everything.’

  Fratton actually chuckled.

  ‘That would be a tall order, now, wouldn’t it?’ he remarked. ‘I’d like to kno
w as much as I can, but—’

  ‘It’s disgraceful!’ snapped Prendergast. ‘You are here to investigate a most dreadful crime, and—you laugh. Laugh! It is hardly surprising that crime flourishes; the incompetence of the police throughout this land is a crying shame, a scandal, a mockery.’

  ‘Can’t live as if I was at a funeral all the time,’ Fratton remarked. ‘Did you know the dead man, Mr Prendergast?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You’d only met him here,’ remarked Fratton.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very humanitarian of you to be so distressed,’ said Fratton. ‘Did you notice this dog when you were outside?’

  ‘I did not leave the hotel!’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Fratton frowned, and deep grooves appeared on his forehead. ‘Possibly you were mistaken, Mr Grant.’

  Christine liked the casual way that Michael said: ‘I’ve no reason for saying that Prendergast was in the grounds if I didn’t see him, but that’s for you to decide. Is there anything I can do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘There are one or two questions I’d like to ask you, sir. No need for you to stay,’ Fratton added to Prendergast, ‘but I’d like a word with you a little later, if you don’t mind.’

  Prendergast opened his mouth, as if about to protest, closed it again and went out.

  ‘You seem to have upset him,’ Fratton remarked. ‘Was it only your saying you saw him in the grounds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’ Fratton’s expression became positively cherubic. ‘You’ll both forgive me if I say how sorry I am that this has happened tonight, of all nights.’

  Christine dropped into a chair.

  ‘Do all the residents know we’re honeymooners? ‘Grant asked.

  ‘Couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure. A lot of information comes my way, of course, and you aren’t exactly unknown, Mr Grant.

  I’d like to say how glad I am to have this opportunity of meeting you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Grant dryly. ‘Now, how can I help?’

  Fratton was bland.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know that we’ve had a report of a car which passed along this road about nine o’clock, a green Mercedes. There was an Alsatian dog in the back, next to a passenger.’

  ‘Quick work,’ said Grant, and Christine watched his strong face and prayed that he would tell Fratton everything now that the opening was made.

  ‘There’s a strong feeling among the guests that the dog broke away from his master, and is a mankiller,’ Fratton went on. ‘Just one of those tragic accidents, like a hit and run on the road. I’m not altogether satisfied that accident is the word, though.’

  Grant said: ‘I don’t think it was an accident, either.’

  ‘Do you think the dog was set on the man?’ Fratton was calm and deliberate. ‘That would make it murder, Mr Grant.’

  ‘Yes. And I think it was an attempt to murder me.’

  ‘Now that’s what I hoped to hear,’ said Fratton with engaging frankness. ‘I was afraid you weren’t going to tell me that, Mr Grant, and I didn’t see how I was going to drag it out of you.’

  Chapter Four

  Flight

  ‘You knew!’ Christine burst out, and even Grant looked surprised. ‘Yes, Mrs Grant, I knew,’ said Fratton. ‘At least we had a shrewd idea, and that really amounted to the same thing.’ Grant laughed a little too loudly.

  ‘I take back all I’ve thought of the provincial police, Inspector.’

  ‘Oh, we’re a much maligned body of men,’ Fratton said equably, ‘and in some ways I think I can understand it. In a case like this, there isn’t much we could do on our own. We’re used to our own particular forms of vice and crime, we know the countryside and country people, but if a city-type crime is committed in the country, then we send for Scotland Yard. You didn’t realise that some of your recent movements have not passed unnoticed, Mr Grant?’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Grant said, but Christine believed that he followed very well. He did not look at her, and he had a sharp, unhappy feeling that he might wish she wasn’t present to hear all this.

  ‘Well, sir, you’re a public figure, in your own way, you know, and Scotland Yard wasn’t unaware of the little difference you once had with Carosi a while ago. Carosi’s been in England for several months, and naturally you were watched, just in case he started a vendetta against you. And apparently he has. How long have you been aware of it, Mr Grant?’

  ‘That he was in England—three weeks or so. That he was out for revenge—a few hours.’

  ‘Since the ceremony?’

  ‘On the road this afternoon, but there isn’t much I can tell you, Inspector.’ Grant told Fratton exactly what had happened with a precision of detail which amazed Christine: he had not missed any trifling thing, and could even describe the painted face in the wardrobe, its colouring, the fact that it was in oils. ‘And Prendergast is a painter,’ he remarked, and made it clear that he thought Prendergast had been sent by Carosi.

  ‘Ah, yes, sir, I know. Did you in fact see Mr Prendergast in the grounds after dinner, sir?’

  Grant grinned.

  ‘No. But an artist had painted that grinning face, and I thought it might be possible to make Prendergast nervous for his interview with you, Inspector.’

  ‘Now if I did a thing like that, I’d be called an agent provocateur or something similar,’ Fratton said solemnly. ‘Planning to spend a few days here, Mr Grant?’

  ‘Like us to?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I would. Only half an hour ago I was talking to Scotland Yard. The truth is that there couldn’t be a better spot to lay a trap for Carosi. The hotel can be watched easily, we can check up on everyone who comes and goes without any trouble. You know how badly Carosi’s wanted, and you’re a certain draw for him. But he’s not back in England just for vengeance, sir, he’s not that kind of fool. The Yard thinks we can’t touch him for what he’s done in the past, as there’s no evidence. I’m sure you understand, Mrs Grant.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Christine.

  Grant looked at Christine, very wryly.

  ‘I don’t have to, sweet,’ he said, ‘and it’s a hell of a way to start a honeymoon.’

  Fratton kept silent.

  There was only one thing to do, Christine knew, although as the police knew what had happened she had dared to hope that they could go on. A honeymoon for vengeance. She tried not to show how scared she was, how Fratton had made her realise that Carosi was big enough and evil enough to worry even the police.

  ‘Of course we must stay,’ she said, and her smile was a little too bright.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Fratton said, almost humbly.

  When he had gone, Grant locked the door, came to Christine, and took her into his arms so very gently; and soon there were only the two of them in the whole world.

  Later, when he slept by her side, she realised that he still hadn’t told her why Carosi hated him so.

  Prendergast was trembling from head to foot when he left the Grants’ room, and the sight of a constable on duty outside made him start violently. He hurried to his room, went in and locked the door. He leaned against it, wiping the sweat from his pink forehead. Then he went to a cupboard, took out whisky, and poured himself a stiff peg. He was drinking when the telephone bell rang.

  The glass seemed to jump in his hand. The bell kept ringing. He moistened his lips as he crossed the room, took off the receiver and held the mouthpiece against his chest.

  ‘Hal-hallo.’

  ‘What is the matter?’ a man asked, in good English with a marked accent.

  ‘I–I am all right,’ said Prendergast. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

  ‘You sound nervous,’ said the other. ‘Did all go well?’

  ‘It—
well, yes, it—’

  ‘Did all go well?’ The man’s voice sharpened.

  ‘It—no, no, it didn’t,’ gasped Prendergast. ‘I have had a terrible evening, terrible! I have not been able to do much work and—and a terrible thing happened tonight. A young boy was killed—killed! Savaged by a dog. It was terrible! Such a lad—’

  The other said softly: ‘A boy was killed?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that is what I am trying to tell you—’

  ‘We won’t talk more now,’ interrupted the other. ‘I will see you in the morning, as we arranged.’

  ‘I—I will try to come,’ said Prendergast. ‘The police will ask questions, they may wish to see me, I may not be free to leave.’

  ‘You must be very careful, and not offend the police,’ the other said. ‘I will see you as soon as I can.’

  ‘That swine Grant,’ Prendergast burst out. ‘He says he saw me in the grounds tonight. It’s a lie, but he told the police, he—’

  There was a sharp exclamation; a pause; then: ‘I think you had better leave the hotel at once,’ the man with the foreign voice said. ‘Come, please, at once.’ He rang off before Prendergast could say another word.

  Prendergast stood very still for a minute or more, only his lips working. Then he moved abruptly, put out the light, and stepped to the window. His room overlooked the hillside and the shrubbery. He drew back the curtains softly. In the distance lights were flashing, and he could just make out the figures of the searching police. They were fools, the police; what could they hope to find now that it was dark? The thought that the police were fools did a little to make him feel better. He put on the bedside lamp, that would look natural enough and began to pack his few clothes. The case wasn’t really heavy, but heavy enough, as he had to walk.

  He switched out the light again, put the case outside, and climbed out.

  Nothing stirred, no one seemed near.

  He crept towards the drive, and when he was on the gravel he looked towards the gate. He could just make out the figure of a policeman near the end of the drive. Prendergast went across the drive, and reached the comparative security of the far side, where he was partly hidden from the gate by some shrubs and trees. He trod down tulips and daffodils, without knowing it, and at last reached the meadow.