by John Creasey
He mustn’t let West get Carosi.
‘Where was Carosi?’ West asked. ‘The quicker it’s over the better, now.’
Now that he had made up his mind, Grant felt much easier.
‘He was in my room,’ he lied. ‘Upstairs, along the first wide passage, and it’s the second door on the left.’
‘In your room?’ West looked startled.
‘This is my father’s house.’
‘Good Lord!’ said West. ‘That’s hard.’ Damn him for the compassion in his voice. ‘Lead the way, will you?’
Grant said: ‘West, I’ve had a hell of a time, and I’m all in.’
Now he needed that compassion.
‘All right, stay there,’ said West, and raised his voice just loud enough to be heard in the hall. ‘Follow me, you two.’
Grant waited until they had disappeared at the head of the stairs, then hurried after them, the carpet muffling the sound. Their backs were towards him when he entered the sitting-room, crossed to the study, and opened the door. Carosi was standing by one of the book-lined walls.
‘Grant, why are you here?’ His voice was still hoarse and unflurried. ‘I told you that—’
‘West is here, and has men all round,’ Grant said. ‘If you’re to get away, you’ll have to use the side door. Go through—’
‘I know the way,’ interrupted Carosi, and gave a smile that was surprisingly human as he added: ‘You will be well rewarded for this.’
Roger West went up those stairs with a vigour and eagerness which matched his mood. They’d catch Carosi. He had staked everything on this one throw, and could afford to pat himself on the back for anticipating what train Grant would catch, for getting some theatrical make-up from the hotel, borrowing an old suit from Fratton, making-up on the train. Fleet Street would give this banner headlines.
‘Yard Man, Disguised, Catches Carosi!’
He felt a fierce excitement as he tried the handle of the door, and then felt it yield. The other men were poised and ready.
West flung the door back, on to an empty room.
Half an hour later, he gave up the search.
At half past ten next morning, Roger entered Scotland Yard, and found a kind of furtive interest everywhere – among the men on duty in the main hall, in the uniformed and plainclothes officers, and especially in Eddie Day. Eddie was alone in the office.
‘Been having quite a time, haven’t you?’ he asked, sitting back to relish this. ‘I told you so, ’Andsome—you ought to ’ave—have—put Carosi away months ago. Years ago, if it comes to that.’
‘You didn’t tell me how,’ said Roger, and lifted the telephone and asked for Chatworth.
‘Come right away,’ Chatworth said. No headmaster could have sounded more forbidding.
‘Don’t go for a minute,’ pleaded Eddie. ‘Tell me what happened last night.’
‘Eddie,’ said Roger, patiently, ‘it’ll be in the papers. Why don’t you treat yourself to one?’
Chatworth sat like a prosperous farmer behind his shiny desk. He nodded and pointed to a chair.
‘I feel like hell about this,’ Roger said.
‘I know how you feel,’ growled Chatworth. ‘And I know you didn’t have the luck. How much did you miss Carosi by?’
‘Minutes, at most. He’d been in a different room, the chair he’d been sitting on was still warm, and his prints were on a brandy glass that was warm, too. Grant gave him his chance, of course. There’s a side entrance from the suite; it used to be the way the Lord of the Manor’s light o’ love sneaked in and out.’
Chatworth said: ‘Any sign of Mrs Grant?’
‘No, none at all. She certainly hadn’t been held there. I’d say Grant warned Carosi in order to give his wife a chance. I’m beginning to get an obsession about Carosi, sir.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘That he’s bigger and better than we know, and that he’s got a stranglehold on a good many people in high positions. Obviously, Sir Mortimer Grant is under his thumb again. He says that Carosi held him there under duress, but I’ll put my money on Sir Mortimer having worked with Carosi. All the regular staff have been dismissed, for instance. Sir Mortimer says he’s going away, but—’ Roger broke off. ‘We did pick up a bit at the house, though. Carosi had left a file of papers behind. In it were letters from three other men we think have been blackmailed.’
‘Who?’
‘Lord Raffety, Sir Arnold Dana, and Wilfred Harrison.’
‘My God!’ breathed Chatworth. ‘About fifty million pounds’ worth of men!’
‘That’s what I estimated,’ Roger said, quietly. ‘I want to talk to each one, sir.’
‘Go ahead,’ Chatworth said, and he looked positively shaken. ‘What do you think Carosi’s after? Any idea at all?’
‘I wouldn’t like to make a guess,’ Roger said, ‘but we can count it in millions, sir. And we can also count it in terms of human misery.’
‘Get Carosi, Roger,’ Chatworth said quietly. ‘I’ll back you with everything I’ve got.’
Not one of the three millionaires admitted knowing Carosi.
None of Carosi’s known associates turned up.
Grant stayed at Uplands, like a brooding bear. Sir Mortimer did not go away, but lived almost like a hermit in his country home.
There was no trace of Christine Grant.
Nothing gave Roger any hope until Arthur Morely, her father, was reported to be staying in a Kentish seaside town.
‘You’ll go down at once, won’t you?’ Chatworth said to Roger, when the report came in.
‘Yes, as soon as I can,’ Roger said, and went on very quietly: ‘I think it’s a bait, of course. Carosi must know that we know Morely was his go-between with Grant, and he’s allowed Morely to show up simply because it suits him.’
‘Well?’
Roger said: ‘I think it’s a bait, then, and that it would be a good thing to swallow it. We haven’t a line on Carosi. We only know that he’s the biggest powder-keg in the country. If he can force men like Mortimer, Dana, Raffety and the others to do what he wants, there’s no knowing how widespread his influence it. We’ve got to find out. So I’ve got to swallow that bait, and hope that Carosi himself is holding the other end.’
Chatworth said gruffly: ‘If ever Carosi gets hold of you, Roger, he might not let you go. You’ve hounded him more than any man alive. And you’ve a wife and children. Remember?’
Roger’s eyes were expressionless.
‘I’d like permission to swallow that bait, sir.’
There was a long pause. Then: ‘Handle the job as you feel wise,’ Chatworth said.
Chapter Thirteen
Bait
Morely sat on a seat overlooking the English Channel, smoking a cigarette and sunning himself. He looked much healthier than he had at Salisbury, and more prosperous too. There was a gentle smile on his face, as if he were dreaming of pleasant things.
Roger passed him twice, then went and sat down beside him. Morely glanced round, and murmured that it was a nice day.
‘Very,’ said Roger. He wore a pair of baggy flannels, one knee of which was patched, a pullover and an old sports coat. His hair was dyed again, and he had put on a heavy moustache, but it would deceive no one by day. It was intended to look like a disguise, not to be one.
Three navvies, working at a hole in the road, fifty yards along, were Yard men: if Carosi was up to form, he would know that, and would assume that the police were hoping to make a capture. He would not dream that Roger was offering himself as a kind of sacrifice.
Give Carosi’s men half a chance, and they would kidnap him.
Morely showed no sign of recognition, but seemed to doze, then kept glancing at an old gun metal watch which he had on a steel chain. It was nearly half past
eleven. At half past exactly, he stood up and sauntered along the promenade. There were low cliffs here, and at intervals, shallow steps which led down to the beach. Not far along was a boating station, with a dozen rowing-boats, one or two small yachts, pedal boats, canoes and motor-boats for hire. It was early in the season, and few people were about.
Roger followed Morely.
Christine Grant’s father might just be out for a stroll, but Roger could not bring himself to believe it; there must be more significance in it than that.
The browny yellow sand was very fine. A few small children played in it. A girl with a wide sun hat and wearing a sleeveless white dress which seemed to show every curve of her body came walking along with a great Alsatian dog behind her; it was now sniffing, now loping.
Roger’s heart began to thump with physical fear.
A dog like this had savaged and killed young Derek Allen. A dog like this could leap at him and catch him by the throat.
The policemen navvies had knocked off for their tea-break, because he had left the seat; but they were some distance away.
The girl was a beauty, and the dog was a beauty, too.
Then Michael Grant came striding from the other direction. He was in grey flannels and blue reefer jacket, head bare, eyes scanning first the distant sea and then the girl and Roger. It wasn’t an accident that they had met close to the little jetties, where motor-boats were moored. The girl had not even looked at Roger, but was smiling at Grant, as if with warm welcome. The dog came bounding up, and Roger instinctively put a hand up towards his throat, had to force himself not to back away.
‘You won’t get hurt, West,’ said Grant, ‘if you’ll come for a boat trip with us.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Roger gasped. ‘My name is Simpson; I—’
‘Don’t try it on,’ Grant said flatly. ‘If you do, this lovely will give a signal to the dog, and all those shovel-plying coppers on the promenade won’t be able to help you. Just go and get into that boat called New Day, the newly varnished one.’
The girl was smiling, a soft and gentle smile; she looked far too sweet and pure to be evil. But she held a hand towards the dog, as if a command; and the dog was looking up at Roger, great head on one side.
Morely was some way off, still walking steadily away.
‘Listen, West,’ Grant said almost desperately, ‘I mean what I say. Carosi wants to see you, and nothing will stop him. If you’ve got any sense you’ll come with us now. If you don’t, the next thing you’ll know he’ll be after your wife or the children.’
‘He loves children,’ cooed the girl, with another sugary smile. ‘Do come with us. Mr West, I’m sure a boat trip will do you a world of good. And a friend of yours would like to see you, too—a Mr Fingleton, of the Monitor. He is a friend of yours, isn’t he? He tried to harass Mr Carosi, and it didn’t work out quite as he expected it.’
‘West—’ Grant began.
There was a sudden squeal of brakes on the road above.
Roger swung round. A car was swinging off the road and mounting the pavement. One of the policemen was on the ground, and the other two were pinned against the railings. The timing was perfect; even if he had wanted help he would not have had a chance.
‘Come on,’ Grant rasped. ‘Get moving.’
The dog growled.
‘If you kill a policeman,’ Roger began, as if he were fighting back naked fear, ‘every man in the force will be after you, and—’
‘I’m sure that will frighten Mr Carosi ever so much,’ the girl said.
They were well out to sea. It was calm, and it could have been pleasant. The dog lay in the thwarts, and the girl dangled one arm gracefully over the side so that the water rippled through her fingers. Not far off, a motor cruiser of some fifty or sixty tons was hove to, and they were heading for it. The gangway was already down.
Was he going to see Carosi now? Was this how the man kept away from the police, by cruising outside territorial waters?
They drew alongside. A sailor in snow-white clothes was standing by to help them aboard.
‘You first,’ the girl said, and smiled at him, and Roger climbed on to the bottom step with his back to the land and to all he held dear; he went up. The cruiser seemed much larger now, and spick and span. Two more men in white were at the top of the gangway, and one gave him a hand.
He didn’t need help. He just wanted to see Carosi.
He did not see Carosi at once, he saw Fingleton.
The reporter looked like a man who had been through an ordeal beyond words. It showed in his eyes, at his lips, in the bruises on his face. He seemed hardly to recognise Roger as he sat in a small, dark cabin, until Roger schooled himself to ask: ‘What happened to you, Fingleton?’
‘The great newspaper man,’ Fingleton said bitterly. ‘The Fleet Street ace who was going to out-Yard the Yard, and out-glamour West. I thought I was on to something. I traced a line between Carosi and Lord Raffety. I went to see Raffety—and when I came away, I walked into a reception party. Mr Carosi wanted me to tell him exactly how I found the line to Raffety. I wouldn’t. But I think I will, West. That man is—’
He broke off, and there was fear in his eyes.
The door was locked, but before long a man came in with a tray and some food, and Fingleton fell upon the food as if he hadn’t eaten for days.
Roger made himself eat a little.
Within twenty minutes he realised that had been a mistake, for he began to feel overwhelmingly drowsy.
The food had been drugged, of course, and only one question burned in his mind.
Was it enough to kill?
When he came round, someone not far off was laughing. It was gusty laughter, as of a man doubled up with mirth, and yet with a different note in it – as if the laugh hurt the man. Wherever he looked, there was only darkness, but a light showed under the door, and peal after peal of tortured merriment came, as if the man could not help himself.
Roger got up from a chair. He swayed, and his head hammered, while that awful, hysterical laughter grated in his mind, killing all desire to think.
He reached the door.
By then he was bathed in sweat, his legs felt weak, and he was afraid that he was going to fall. But he groped for the handle, and found it.
The door opened when he pushed. He waited for a few seconds, to get used to the light, then thrust the door wider open, and stepped into the room beyond.
It was empty.
Another peal of laughter rang out from another room beyond. He went towards it. This one was in a house – a sitting-room. So he was ashore again. He looked back into the room from which he had come, and saw a bed.
The laughter died away into a giggling sound – strange, frightening giggling. Roger went forward to the next door, and opened it on another wild burst of laughter.
Fingleton was spread-eagled on a single bed in the corner of a small room. He was naked, except for his small trunks. Every bruise showed. Sitting on a stool at the foot was a girl, casually tickling Fingleton’s feet with a long feather. The girl of the beach and the floppy hat, and the dog. She wasn’t smiling, but looked bored; that made it more horrible. She didn’t seem to realise that Roger had entered the room. She stopped tickling, and Fingleton gave a little convulsive shudder and stopped laughing. But he didn’t lie still. His chest heaved, he gasped for breath, Roger could hear it whistling through his mouth and nose. He was running with sweat – down his face, his forehead, his chest, his legs and arms. Now that he wasn’t laughing, he looked as if he were writhing in agony; in fact he was.
The girl moved the feather and touched the sole of Fingleton’s right foot, just as the reporter had seemed to get a little repose.
Fingleton heaved.
Roger went forward, snatched the feather from her, crumpled it up in
his hand, and flung it away.
The girl wasn’t really surprised, but she looked round at him blankly, reproachfully.
‘You mustn’t do that,’ she protested. ‘Mr Carosi will be cross.’
She sounded almost simple, and did not speak or protest when Roger went to the bed, feeling in his hip pocket for his knife – but it wasn’t there. His keys were, as well as some odd silver. Fingleton looked up at him without recognition. His eyes were bloodshot and pain-racked. His tongue showed as he muttered a word: water. There was no water in the room, no taps, no hand-basin. There might be a hand-basin in the other bedroom, though. The girl hadn’t got the feather now.
‘Don’t touch him again,’ he growled, and turned and went into the sitting-room, then across to the bedroom. There was a hand-basin, with a tooth-glass on the rack above it; there was a sponge too. He ran cold water on to the sponge, squeezed it nearly dry, soaked it again, and then filled the glass and turned round.
Fingleton began to laugh again!
‘Stop it!’ shouted Roger. ‘Stop it!’ He rushed into the sitting-room, seeing the girl sitting in exactly the same position, with another long quill in her hand. He reached the door, but she slammed it in his face.
Water spilled over the edge of the glass as he tried to open it, while Fingleton went on laughing, those maniacal sounds which seemed so horrible.
Roger turned to put the glass down, to hurl his weight against the wood.
‘You seem very concerned about your friend,’ said Carosi, from the door behind him.
Roger lowered the glass and the sponge, as Fingleton’s laughter died away. He turned round, slowly. Carosi backed to a chair in the sitting-room. He was smiling what Christine Grant had called a Chinaman’s smile.
‘Fingleton will not laugh again, if you tell me the truth,’ Carosi said in that voice which sounded as if he was recovering from a cold. ‘Put those things down, West, and sit down opposite me.’
