Battle for Inspector West

by John Creasey

  Roger said more mildly: ‘No one will have your blood, anyhow. The Monitor will flay me and torture Grant, but it won’t hold you up to ridicule. There’s another thing to remember. Carosi’s gang has specialized in girls. Most of them were empty-headed, little fools with pretty faces and busty figures, who asked for trouble but got a lot more than they bargained for, or deserved. If I were told that Carosi had sent a hundred out of the country, and that they’re now living in Algiers, Buenos Aires or Montevideo, wishing they’d never been born, I wouldn’t disbelieve it.’

  Fratton drew in his breath.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘That bad.’

  ‘Michael Grant know that?’

  ‘He knows it.’

  ‘Now I can understand the look in his eyes,’ Fratton said.

  ‘So can I.’ Roger glanced towards the passage and caught a glimpse of Grant, who withdrew his head quickly, and stood just out of sight. ‘We can take it that Carosi snatched Mrs Grant instead of having her killed, just to add to Grant’s torment. But there’s a credit item: she is alive.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  Roger said, slowly, heavily: ‘I’m backing the obvious. They wouldn’t have carried a corpse away, and it would have been easier to have killed her in the bath. I’m not sure that in the long run this won’t help us,’ he added, moodily.

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’

  ‘This thing’s going into the Press in a big way,’ Roger reminded Fratton. ‘It will shock the public conscience. There’ll be more outcries against the vice laws as they stand, but it will also focus attention on Carosi, and will worry a lot of his small fry.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible—’ Fratton began.

  ‘It’s a hideous suggestion,’ Grant rasped. He stepped out of a doorway; obviously he had been hiding. ‘Who the hell are you?’ His glare at the kidnapper could not have been fiercer; and his eyes burned as if with tormenting fire.

  ‘This is Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard,’ Fratton said hastily. ‘He—’

  ‘So the Yard allowed this to happen,’ Grant said harshly. ‘I’ll see you’re slated all right, West. I’ll use every bit of influence I have to push you back in the ranks.’

  ‘At the time Mr West was out in the grounds a long way—’ Fratton began.

  ‘His job was to protect my wife,’ Grant said in a quivering voice. ‘I don’t care who suffers, provided I get my wife back. If I have to break you both to do so, I’ll break you.’

  The man was living in hell, Roger knew, and undoubtedly felt worse because he was blaming himself. It must be purgatory to know that he had been within yards of his wife when she had been kidnapped. But it was time to put the bridle on him, to pull him up. There was Fratton looking ten years older, and Fingleton about to set Fleet Street by the ears, and Carosi, laughing his head off.

  ‘So if you know what’s good for you—’ Grant went on.

  ‘Ever thought of blaming yourself?’ Roger asked, so softly that the words seemed to catch up on Grant very slowly. ‘Ever asked yourself how many people have suffered from Carosi because you let him go free?’

  Fratton stood open-mouthed.

  Grant was shaken out of his fury.

  ‘You must be crazy! Why—’

  ‘I’m not crazy about this, Mr Grant. You raided Carosi’s flat, you found records of his crimes, but you didn’t do a thing about it for fear your father would pay for his past sins,’ Roger said. ‘Now all you can think about is your wife. Well, I can think further. I can think of all of Carosi’s victims, past, present and future. I can think of making him pay for what he’s done already, and stopping him from ruining more men, breaking more homes, luring more girls abroad on phoney night-club deals. Like it straight? I’ll do everything I can, every policeman in the country will do all he can to get your wife back. We’ll do it because it’s our job. We’ll do it because we want to help both you and her, as well as all the other poor devils.’

  Grant stood silent; stunned.

  ‘Nothing will stop you trying to find your wife on your own,’ Roger went on, ‘but don’t listen to ransom talk, or Carosi’s promises. If you do, you may be cutting your wife’s throat.’

  ‘What makes you think he’ll get in touch with me?’ Grant made himself ask.

  ‘Because she’s a bargaining weapon while she’s alive,’ Roger said; and then his voice and manner seemed touched with compassion. ‘I think we’ll find her.’

  But the dread in Grant’s eyes told him that Grant had little hope.

  Chapter Eight

  Waking

  It was dark.

  Christine lay on something soft, a couch or a bed. Her eyes were painful and her head ached. She groped about the couch, and felt the edge, and the sheets and blankets. There was a quilt too, and she touched a hot-water bottle with her foot. So her captors were looking after her.

  If only there were a glimmer of light …

  One came.

  It appeared in front of her eyes, just ahead of her – a faint outline of a door against pale light. It made her calmer. She dozed off, and kept waking at intervals. She realised that she was suffering from the effects of the drug, that before long she would wake up and not want to go to sleep again. But now, she felt no fear.

  She woke from an uneasy sleep, and was aware of a different light. She looked towards it. There was a heavy curtain over the window, but some daylight forced its way through. It wasn’t enough to show her the room clearly, and she stretched out her right hand towards a bedside lamp. She pressed the switch and the glare of the light made her close her eyes, but soon she opened them again.

  It was a small room, luxuriously furnished, but very different from the room at Uplands. The ceiling was much higher. The divan bed on which she lay was exquisitely comfortable. The carpet, of pale blue and cream, was thick and rich. A dressing-table of wrought-iron, painted cream, had on it a small mirror with an iron frame, the most modern style.

  She had on a sleeveless nightdress of pale-green silk, with lace at the neck and the shoulders. It wasn’t hers. Slowly, she recalled the attack, and shivered at the recollection; then her mind began to work very quickly. Someone had put the nightdress on, put her to bed, taken great care of her.

  Why?

  Who had kidnapped her?

  And why?

  She remembered – Carosi.

  And Michael.

  He would be in torment, blaming himself, trying to tear down the world to find her. How little and yet how well she knew him!

  There was that youth, with the savaged throat.

  And the attempt to shoot her, at the pool.

  She sat up, put out a leg, put a foot to the floor, then stood up. She swayed, helplessly. The effort of moving had made her head ache far worse, and slowly she lay down again. She wished that she hadn’t moved, for her head thumped with pain. Her mouth was parched, and when she ran her tongue round it, seemed furry.

  The door opened.

  A girl came in, and closed it.

  A girl?

  A woman.

  The woman looked at Christine with a frown, then saw that she was awake, and smiled.

  It was a curious smile, in a face which was very white, and in eyes dark with mascara. Her lips were brightly painted, too. She walked rather mincingly across the room, and said: ‘Hallo, dearie, feeling a bit better?’

  She had a coarse but quite friendly voice; no viciousness, no evil.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ Christine muttered. ‘I’m thirsty, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s okay then, we can let a bit of daylight in,’ said the new-comer. She minced across the room and drew the curtains. The daylight reduced the bedside lamp to a dim yellow, and the woman came and switched it off.

  ‘Now, now,’
she said, reprovingly, ‘you’ve been trying to get up, and you shouldn’t, you know. Crikey, look! Your eyes are all bloodshot, you must have a splitting head. Like a cup o’ tea?’

  ‘Oh, I would!’

  ‘Okay, then, I’ll get one,’ promised the other. ‘Won’t be long. Don’t do anything silly, dearie, it can’t help you.’

  She went out; and Christine heard the key turn in the lock.

  It was a kind of prison, in spite of that unexpected ‘nurse’. How long would she be gone?

  Footsteps soon came near again. A key grated in the lock, the door opened, and the woman returned, carrying a tray. She put it down on a chair near the door, slipped the key into a pocket in her dress, then brought the tray over to the bed and put it on the bedside table.

  ‘Let it draw a minute, dearie,’ she said, sitting down. ‘It’ll do you more good then. You’re looking a bit better, I think; you’ll soon be okay. Morphine makes you feel like that, but you were lucky—he looked after you. You’re in one of the best bedrooms. I wish I had half your luck, you must have caught his eyes proper. Takes some pleasing, he does—I wouldn’t do for him. Not me. He never liked bow legs, either!’ She gave a little giggle. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Christine Morely.’ As soon as she had said ‘Morely’, she realised that it was Grant.

  ‘Chrissie’ll do for me,’ said the other. ‘I’m Maisie, ducks. Been here quite a long time, and it’s all right when you get used to it. I should think the tea’s about right now,’ she continued, and poured out the tea.

  Christine let a mouthful cool slowly inside her mouth, and then let it move from cheek to cheek before swallowing it. She took increasingly large sips, until the cup was empty, while Maisie talked and drank, and ‘he’ and ‘him’ were always on her lips.

  ‘Who is this he you keep on talking about?’ Christine made herself ask.

  Maisie stared. ‘Who is he? Don’t be daft, Chrissie.’

  ‘But I really want to know.’

  ‘Cor strike a light!’ said Maisie, and drew back a little. ‘Sorry, dearie, but if you ain’t been told, I’ll leave the telling to him. I’ve been smacked down too often for speaking out o’ me turn.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Not just yet, but he will be soon.’

  ‘Are we in London?’

  ‘You can ask him all the questions you like, but it’s no use asking me,’ said Maisie, quite firmly. ‘I’m here to do what I’m told, see. How about a wash and a bit of make-up on? Your nose is so shiny, I can see my old pan in it. Here, let me give you a hand.’

  It was strange to sit in front of the mirror and to watch the reflection of Maisie actually brushing her hair – as if she liked the feel and the sight of the wavy tresses. At last she finished, took the tray, went out and locked the door.

  Christine sat on the divan, her legs curled up beneath her. She felt better, her mouth was no longer parched, and her head hardly ached at all, but she was dizzy with bewilderment.

  She hated to think, but she had to. Of Mike …

  The door opened again, and she had plenty of warning, because the key turned in the lock. She expected to see Maisie, but it was the young waiter from Uplands. He was dressed in his white jacket, and with his oily mop of hair and his long, unsmiling face, he looked exactly the same as he had at the hotel.

  He carried some newspapers, put them on the bed, then turned and went out.

  Christine stared at the locked door for a long time before she touched the newspapers, then suddenly snatched them up.

  Chapter Nine

  Carosi?

  Christine’s own face stared up at her from the front page of the Monitor. Her wedding photograph. It was like reading about someone else.

  Fingleton had described vividly what the police imagined had happened, and had managed to get a photograph of the bathroom, showing her swimsuit and the crumpled towel on the floor. Another picture caught her eye, of the remarkably handsome man she had seen at Uplands. The caption read:

  ‘Chief Inspector Roger West of the Yard, who has been summoned to Uplands by the local police. Accompanying him is Detective-Sergeant Gill.’

  Christine looked through the inside pages of the newspaper, and was aghast to find an article about Carosi and Mike. There, in garbled form, was the story of the encounter between Grant and Carosi. There were lurid details of Carosi’s reputation, of the fact that he was suspected of so many different crimes.

  After she had first looked through all the papers, she noticed that some paragraphs were faintly marked with pencil. One mentioned that Carosi was suspected of white slavery; another emphasized the fact that he trafficked in drugs; a third, that he was suspected of being one of an international vice ring.

  Each of these hints heightened her fears.

  She put the papers down at last and closed her eyes. Her nerves were quivery. If Carosi came into the room now, she would scream – she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She knew so much more about him now.

  There was a faint sound, and she opened her eyes.

  Carosi stood at the end of the divan.

  Christine hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t heard a sound; but there he was. The man of the car; the man whose picture had hung in the wardrobe. Chin-chin Chinaman. He stood there like a statue, without speaking, without grinning.

  She seemed frozen. She could not move, could only stare at him.

  Why didn’t he move? Speak? Do something, anything – instead of just standing there, within a foot of the divan. He seemed to be staring through her – no, to be stripping her with his eyes. She felt as if she were in the presence of something unclean.

  The door behind him closed.

  Just when she thought that she could not stand it any longer, when she felt a scream forming in her throat, his lips moved.

  He spoke in a peculiar voice, as if he had a severe cold.

  ‘So, Mrs Grant,’ he said.

  Three simple words; and yet he managed to put evil into them, to touch each one with horror. There was a sneer and a malice in them. ‘So, Mrs Grant.’ Just that, and it seemed to emphasize her helplessness, to remind her that she was completely in his power, that there was nothing he could not and would not do.

  ‘You are comfortable?’

  Three more sneering words. ‘You are comfortable, but you will not be for long,’ he might have said. ‘You must not be stubborn,’ he said aloud, and moved nearer.

  Her scream came out, high, shrill.

  Carosi did not change his expression as he looked intently into her eyes, and he did not stop moving. He drew near to the side of the divan and then put out his arm and pressed her gently at the breast. Gently. Gently, but with such a threat of what he could do.

  ‘You are comfortable?’ he said again.

  ‘Yes—yes!’ she gasped. ‘Thank you, I—thank you.’

  ‘You will remain comfortable if you are not difficult,’ he said, as if speaking hurt his throat. ‘I do not want you here alone for long; I wish your husband to join you. You will do exactly what you are told. You understand?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I hope that you do,’ said Carosi, very precisely, ‘because if you do not, you will not be comfortable.’

  Now, he eased the terror a little, perhaps because he made it seem that he meant just what he said. She could not think of Michael, only of her terror.

  ‘You have read the newspapers?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes—yes, of course!’

  ‘I bring you something else to read,’ said Carosi.

  He took a slim volume from beneath his coat. The title meant nothing to her: Records. She stretched out for the book because he seemed to expect it, and he appeared to be going to let her take it, then snatched it away and tapped her across the head with it. A corner cau
ght her in the eye, which began to sting and to water, and involuntarily she closed the other eye. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t see what he was going to do. She pressed one hand against the stinging eye and made herself open the other. She could only see through a mist of tears, couldn’t see clearly, still couldn’t see him.

  And then she could see.

  He had gone, without a sound.

  She lay in a daze for a long time, and then began to realise the significance of what he had said, of the awful danger for Mike. She didn’t want to think about it. She clenched her hands, and her fingers touched the book which he had left beside her.

  Records.

  She opened it at random, to do anything but think.

  There were two photographs, each taking up a full page. On the left-hand side was a young girl dressed in a swimsuit. She looked no more than twenty, and promised all the gaiety that one would expect in a young girl. On the opposite page was another photograph of a woman, dressed in a cloak which reached the ground. Her face looked old and careworn. She was smiling, and that made the expression worse, there was only misery in her; it was as if someone had ordered her to smile and she had tried, but the camera had seen through the twist of the lips to the unhappiness beyond.

  Beneath this photograph was a date: 1949. And beneath the other another date: 1943.

  Then suddenly she realised the truth; this was the same girl – photograph taken six years after the other.

  Unsteadily, Christine turned to other pages. On every left-hand side were pictures of young girls; on the other side hags.

  She turned to the front of the book, and saw only the two words: Buenos Aires.

  When she had been in the room alone for another hour, the quiet outside was disturbed by an unfamiliar sound, one she had not heard since she had been here. It was the barking of a dog. Yet it was hardly a bark, but a deep-throated roar such as might come from the throat of an Alsatian, like the one which had killed Derek Allen.

  There was no real comfort here; only horror.