Battle for Inspector West

by John Creasey

  ‘Satisfied?’ the girl asked.

  ‘I like to know my company,’ Grant said.

  They were now out of the built-up area, travelling along a wide, main road. In the glow from the headlights of approaching cars, Grant saw factories on either side. There was something familiar about this stretch. They passed over a bridge and he leaned forward, looking towards the right, and heard a new sound, the roar of a plane flying very low.

  This was Croydon Airport, or very near it.

  Was he to fly abroad?

  Yes, there was the airport …

  The car went past, without slackening speed.

  ‘No, we’re not going to the airport,’ said the girl, without looking at him.

  ‘Where are we going? To my wife?’

  ‘It really matters like that?’ There was a note of incredulity in the girl’s voice.

  Grant stared at her profile, illuminated for a moment in the light of a passing car. Now he was sure about her. She was lovely, cold, hard-faced. He looked at the chauffeur, driving so casually, only a foot or two away from him, in front of the glass partition. If he were to put his hand round the man’s neck, he would be able to tell the fellow exactly what to do.

  ‘I have a gun in my hand,’ the girl announced calmly.

  Grant could just make out the pale shape of her arms and her hands, resting in her lap. He couldn’t see the gun, but felt sure that she had one.

  ‘If you ever get a chance of seeing your wife again, it will depend on the way you behave,’ she said quite flatly. ‘If there should be any trouble here, or if you should be followed—’

  ‘How well do you know Carosi?’ Grant asked abruptly.

  ‘Well enough to know that if anything goes wrong, he’ll make your wife wish she had never heard of you.’

  Grant gave a sudden shiver, and dropped back, silent, unnerved, seeing a mental picture of Christine as she had been at the pool – as she had gone into the bathroom. This woman must surely be able to hear his teeth grating.

  After half an hour, the driver pulled into the side of the road, but didn’t speak or get out. They waited for five minutes before the chauffeur started off again. Obviously he was making sure he was not being followed. Now he drove faster, and they passed through several small villages and towns.

  Rain began to gild the windscreen, and the chauffeur switched on the wipers.

  They had been travelling for about an hour when the chauffeur stopped again, this time under a tree. In the headlights Grant could see the white fingers of a signpost, but it was just too far away for him to read the names on it.

  Another car pulled up behind them.

  Grant leaned forward, tensely.

  A man came from the other car and spoke to the chauffeur. The rain still teemed down, and the new-comer’s face was hidden by a hat, the brim of which was curled downwards.

  ‘All okay,’ this man said. ‘You weren’t followed.’

  ‘I know I wasn’t followed,’ said the chauffeur.

  ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘Just like a lamb. He’s easy.’

  ‘He’d better be,’ said the other. He turned and opened the door. Grant caught a glimpse of the lower part of his face, thick lips and a square chin.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’re changing buggies.’

  Grant hesitated as rain splashed into the car.

  ‘Don’t waste time,’ said the girl, quietly, and Grant climbed out.

  ‘Other car,’ ordered the man, and the rain was pelting down so heavily that Grant made a dive for it. The door was open, and he climbed into a large limousine, much more luxurious than the first. He turned round to close the door, but someone else, sitting in the corner, closed it for him.

  Grant dropped into his corner, and brushed the hair from his eyes. This time, his companion was a man. The driver came back, and the car moved off, as the other car turned in the road and went back the way it had come.

  The girl had at least said something.

  Grant would not speak first, but he fumbled for his lighter. The figure in the dark corner stretched out a hand, and took the lighter away.

  Purgatory could be no worse than this, and memories were like little spiteful demons, stoking the fires of hell.

  But before long, the car turned off the road, and Grant saw drive-gates and gate-posts lit up by the headlamps. Then the lights were switched off, the car swung round, gravel grated beneath the wheels as they stopped.

  The man in the corner said: ‘Out.’

  His was a toneless voice, not unlike Carosi’s, but it wasn’t Carosi’s, Grant knew. Something was pressed into his ribs, and he felt a sharp prick of a knife. He climbed out. In front of him was the brooding pile of a huge house. No lights showed at the windows, but he could make out a flight of steps, and a front door. He mounted the steps slowly. There was a wide roof over a porch, giving shelter from the rain.

  The man with the knife followed him, after slamming the door. The car moved off to the side of the house as the front door opened.

  Grant stepped into a large, dark hall. There was a faint light upstairs, and he could just make out the staircase. 68

  He stood stockstill, and the man behind him bumped into him and swore. Grant hardly heard him, the shock was so great. In spite of the gloom, in spite of the fact that he could only just make out the stairs, although he had not recognised the drive-in, this was his father’s house.

  Then bright lights were switched on, dazzling him.

  Grant half-closed his eyes, as the man behind him shut the door; he did not see who had opened it. As soon as he could look about him with comfort, he saw the wide sweep of the staircase, everything which was so familiar; this was Grant Manor.

  Almost, for the first time, the image of Christine was driven out of his mind; in its place there was his father – Sir Mortimer Grant, once so proud and implacable, telling him of Carosi’s blackmail: not broken, but breaking.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said the man behind him.

  He must keep calm, and keep himself from striking out, must wait. There was so much more at stake: everything; Christine.

  He reached the landing, seeing the familiar dark doors all closed, the wide passage which led to the right, towards the servants’ wing, the other passages to the main bedrooms and, a door to the left leading to his father’s suite: a study, sitting-room, bedroom and bathroom.

  ‘In there,’ said the man, and pointed to the door of the suite.

  Grant turned to look at him.

  He was sharp-faced, and there was a beading of rain on the tip of his nose. He still wore his hat, pushed to the back of his head. His small eyes glinted, and he had a thin ugly mouth.

  ‘You’ve seen enough,’ he said. ‘Inside.’

  Grant stepped forward and opened the door. The light was on in this room, the sitting-room. No one was there.

  The door closed behind him. The key turned in the lock.

  Grant pressed his hands against his forehead, trying to push away the nagging ache over his eyes. What was he doing here? How had Carosi managed to gain access, to use it as if it were his own?

  There should be whisky, gin, anything he fancied, in the study, which was the next room. The key was in the lock. He had never wanted a drink so much.

  The light was on in the study, and he caught his breath. He saw the bookshelves lining three walls from wall to ceiling, the library steps, the deep red carpet, the great walnut desk which stood in the corner …

  And Carosi sitting at his father’s desk.

  Carosi wore a maroon tuxedo with grey revers. His round sallow face was set in the familiar, apparently meaningless smile. His thick hands were resting on the desk, palms downwards. His narrow eyes were turned towards Grant.

  Grant didn’t speak, but
turned to a cabinet which was built into one of the rows of bookshelves. He opened it with unsteady hands, took out whisky, a syphon and a glass, and poured himself a drink. He drank, turned away from the cabinet, took out his cigarettes, sat down in an easy-chair and lit up.

  Then he said: ‘Where is my wife?’

  ‘She is safe,’ answered Carosi, in his curiously flat voice. ‘She is safe for a while.’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘He is now aware that he was wrong to defy me,’ said Carosi. ‘You will discover the same thing. You made one great mistake, you must not make another.’

  Grant said: ‘Yes, I made a mistake. I didn’t choke the life out of you.’

  Carosi lifted his hands, and Grant saw that they had been covering an automatic. ‘Don’t make another mistake,’ he said. ‘I am not vindictive any more. You have paid for that. With your wife’s help. So charming. I did not understand before. I like her.’

  Grant swallowed whisky, and then gripped the arms of his chair. He must not throw his life away, he must wait, wait, wait and listen to this leering brute, this …

  ‘I like her, very much,’ went on Carosi. ‘It is perhaps a good thing for her. Perhaps. It may be a good thing for you. I do not know, yet. Grant, I have much to do. No time to waste with you. The past, it is past. I have new plans.’

  ‘Which concern me?’ Grant forced himself to ask.

  ‘In some ways, a little, in other ways a great deal.’ Carosi spread his thick hands over the gun. ‘Grant, I bring you here, I show you I am in possession, your father works with me. He does not do so willingly.’

  Grant couldn’t keep the question back.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He is here,’ said Carosi. A faint sing-song note had crept into his voice. ‘He will assist me. You, also. Until you have done what I wish, you will not see your wife again. Your father and your wife are both my hostages. I can ruin your father, easily. Those papers you destroyed, they were but part of the whole story. I have the rest. He does exactly what I require, because he must. No one can help him—or you. You think perhaps of Scotland Yard, that they “protect” you—protect! They allow your wife to be taken away, they cannot save anyone from Carosi. You begin, I hope, to believe that.’

  Grant said: ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  ‘It is beginning,’ approved Carosi. ‘Understand this. I am not a mean man. I am big. I forgive you for what you did in the past. But I will make you, all of you, suffer very much if you do not do what I tell you in future. That is understood?’

  Grant felt suffocatingly hot. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It must be. I shall watch you, closely. In my life I learn one big rule. I trust no one. But of the police. Through you, they hope, they catch Carosi. So, I make big trouble.’ He laughed. ‘They concentrate near Uplands. Good! You will return there, and wait until you have instructions from me how to behave. You will be attacked. Often. You will not be killed, you will not be hurt. You understand?’

  Grant said: ‘I think so.’

  ‘It is what they call the decoy,’ Carosi said. ‘You will appear very frightened. Worried, for your wife. You will always complain bitterly. You will do all you can to make it appear you are afraid of being killed. But if you behave as I instruct you, you will be all right.’

  Grant said: ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I will also tell you this,’ said Carosi. ‘You fail me, you disobey, and many unpleasant things happen to your wife. Tell the police you have come to a house where you are told you will find her. She is not there, so you return to Uplands. Then wait. I will send instructions.’

  ‘You didn’t bring me here just to tell me that and send me back.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Carosi. ‘I bring you here to show you that I have much power. I possess your father’s house. It is one place where the police will not consider looking. I repeat: you will receive instructions about what to do from time to time. That is all.’

  Sweat was standing out on Grant’s forehead, and his voice grated.

  ‘I’ll do what you want, but let me—let me see my wife.’

  ‘No. She will remain all right, if you obey. But wait.’ Carosi put out a hand, touched a bell-push, and sat back, putting his hands over the gun again. Grant hardly knew how to sit there, not knowing what to expect, not daring to hope, but hoping. Then footsteps sounded in the outer room, and the door opened.

  Grant saw his father.

  Chapter Twelve

  Betrayal

  Sir Mortimer entered the study quietly and closed the door. He nodded to Carosi, then looked at his son. He was tall and imposing, rather florid of face and running to fat. His eyes were grey – the same colour as his son’s – and he was strangely calm.

  Grant saw the lines at his forehead and the mouth, of great cares and anxiety. His father walked heavily, too, with none of the once familiar buoyancy.

  ‘Well, Michael,’ he said, very quietly.

  Grant said: ‘Hello, Dad,’ in an empty voice.

  ‘I have told your son the position,’ said Carosi. ‘You will confirm it, please. Be brief.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Sir Mortimer. ‘Mike—I’m desperately sorry. The truth is that Carosi carries too many guns for me, For you, too. We must let him have his own way.’

  ‘Just what has happened?’ asked Grant, and there was bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Simply that I know I can’t fight any longer,’ said his father. ‘I’m too old to fight now. After the last affair, I thought all would be well. I didn’t know how strong a hold Carosi had. I have been taking his instructions for over a year.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mike heavily.

  A year, and he hadn’t known; a year, and he had thought himself such a hero, so much smarter than the police, while Carosi had so frightened his father that this had been kept from him.

  ‘You will have to do the same,’ said Sir Mortimer. ‘He is quite capable of doing anything to Christine.’

  ‘I think that is enough,’ interrupted Carosi. ‘You will go, Sir Mortimer, please. And Grant, if I am caught before my work is finished, you will not see your wife again.’

  The tragedy for Grant was that his father turned and left the room as if he were a humble servant.

  Grant had never hated a man as he hated Carosi.

  ‘You will go back to Uplands now,’ said Carosi. ‘Remember to tell the police that this has been a wild-goose chase—you found no one at the end of it. You will be taken to Croydon, from there you will return to Uplands as you wish. Good night’

  ‘Good night,’ Grant made himself respond.

  He went out, feeling as old as his father.

  He crossed the empty sitting-room, hesitated by the door, and looked round as if expecting to find that this was a mirage.

  The door was unlocked. He went out on to the landing, and the thin-faced man who had driven him here stood at the foot of the stairs, beckoning. But it was impossible for Grant to hurry; the vision of his father, the numb helplessness in that voice, and the realization of the futility of his own actions, all combined to affect him. His legs seemed stiff, his feet leaden. He had gone storming into Carosi’s flat – and condemned his father to servility, damned Christine to – what?

  Was she in this house?

  He knew that even if she was, he dare not try to find her. Carosi had made sure of that.

  What evil genius sparked the man, to give him such ample power?

  ‘Get a move on,’ the other man said, opening the front door. ‘Stopped raining, that’s one good thing. I—’

  He broke off, and something like a scream started in his throat. It did not come out. Grant saw a man’s dark figure dart forward from the side of the porch. Next moment, the driver was slithering down, silent, helpless. His feet kicked against Grant, who backed away. The
light streamed out of the hall on to the rain-soaked drive, where puddles glistened.

  The man who had attacked the driver said almost conversationally: ‘Is Carosi here, Grant?’

  The voice was West’s, of Scotland Yard. But he was dark-haired and had a dark moustache and looked much older.

  Three other men came out of the shadows, and stepped swiftly into the porch. Police. Two slipped past Grant as West took his arm and pushed him into the hall. That attack had been frightening in its silent speed.

  ‘Is he here?’ demanded West again, and now Grant recognised his eyes.

  ‘He—yes, but—’ Fear because of Carosi’s threats welled up in Grant, and stifled his words. If Carosi thought he had plotted this with the police …

  He did not realise how remarkable it was that he did not take it for granted that Carosi would be caught tonight.

  ‘Where is he?’ West demanded urgently.

  ‘Upstairs. West! There’s something I must tell you.’

  ‘Keep it,’ said West. ‘Stay here.’ He slipped out into the porch again, and Grant heard him whisper. A moment later an engine started up, and a car moved down the drive.

  West came back.

  ‘Better let them think you’ve gone,’ he said. ‘How many people are there about; do you know?’

  ‘I—I’ve only seen two,’ said Grant. ‘West, my wife—’

  ‘If she’s here we’ll get her,’ West said. ‘Don’t worry, Grant.’

  ‘If Carosi thinks I planned this, he’ll kill her.’

  ‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll know we had police in cars, on bicycles and on foot keeping a look-out for you, and were in touch by radio nearly all the time,’ West said. ‘I was on the train from Salisbury, too. We’ve a dozen men, some at the back, some at the drive-gates, some on each side. Carosi hasn’t a chancel’

  Had Christine?

  If Grant joined with West now, if Carosi got away, if Christine wasn’t here …

  The thoughts and fears made anguish in Grant’s mind, and suddenly, wildly, he hated this policeman, with his damnable calm and cocksureness, for West might be passing sentence of death on Christine.