Trusted Like The Fox

by James Hadley Chase

  He passed Inspector James’s house and noted with satisfaction that a light showed in the sitting-room. That meant the inspector had settled down to listen to the nine o’clock news. He wasn’t likely to move out now, for Rogers knew his habits well: he liked to get to bed early.

  Rogers slowed down as he came to the end of the inspector’s garden, got off his machine and stared up at Daphne’s window. The light was on but the yellow blind was drawn. He waited for several minutes, hoping at least to see her shadow on the blind, but the yellow glare revealed no sign of her. With a sigh of disappointment, he mounted his bicycle again and rode on.

  Although stolid and placid by nature, Rogers was aware of a vague excitement as he rode out of the village. So much depended on what he might discover up at Crane’s place. Ever since he had found out that Daphne had been seeing Crane on the sly, not telling her father that she had been for rides in the big Buick, Rogers had disliked the big, fleshy fellow. It wasn’t his business to tell James what his daughter was up to, although once or twice he had been tempted to, but had hesitated at the last moment, not knowing how the inspector would receive gossip about his daughter.

  There was something about Crane that Rogers didn’t like. He didn’t know what it was. On the surface he seemed a decent enough fellow. He turned out for the village cricket team and on the field treated Rogers like an equal. He played a good game too, and his slow off-breaks had won many a match when the furious bowling of Rogers was receiving a pasting. But there was something about the fellow — two-faced perhaps. You couldn’t believe that he was being pleasant because he liked you, but rather because he thought it might pay him to be nice to you. That’s the feeling Rogers had got from the infrequent meetings he had had with the chap.

  He was a bit too free with the women too. At one time girls used to come to the bungalow in smart cars with London number plates and stay late — stay all night more often than not. Rogers had spotted their cars parked in Crane’s drive while out on his late patrol. Once or twice he’d seen the girls in the garden: smart, hard and as slick as new paint. It worried Rogers when Daphne became friendly with Crane. They had met at the village dance, and Rogers had spotted her in the Buick several times, seen her at the local cinema with Crane. He didn’t like it.

  But would Crane deliberately shelter a rat like Cushman? It was unlikely. Crane had a fine war record. He had been one of the Battle of Britain pilots: had won the D.S.O. and D.F.C.: had shot down eleven enemy aircraft, had been shot down twice himself. But you never knew. These rich, daredevil types were up to all kinds of tricks: he might be sheltering Cushman just for the hell of it: then again he mightn’t even know the chap was Cushman.

  Rogers turned into the steeply-rising lane that led to Crane’s bungalow. He got off his machine, put out his cycle lamp, and pushed the machine quietly up the lane, keeping to the grass verge.

  The moon, like an old man’s face, was just rising above the trees. There was plenty, of light and dark shadows. Rogers, who had been a boy scout and had studied the art of stalking, was confident that he could reach the bungalow without being seen.

  He left his bicycle against the hedge, a few yards from the big wooden gates of the bungalow, cautiously opened the gates, entered the drive and struck off into the thicket that bordered the drive to the bungalow.

  The light of the moon came through the trees and Rogers could easily see where he was going. For a man of his bulk (he was big and muscular) he moved with surprising speed and silence, and as he approached the bungalow, he felt a rising excitement and an eagerness to get the job over.

  At the edge of the thicket, as it gave way to the large stretch of lawn, he paused and looked across at the lighted windows. No blinds or curtains obscured his view and he could look directly into Crane’s dining-room from where he stood.

  Crane and Grace were seated at a table that stood in the bay window. Two shaded lamps stood at each end of the table, and Rogers could see the gleam of silver and glass reflected in the light.

  Crane was wearing evening dress. He was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his chin in his cupped hands. He appeared to be talking to Grace, who sat at the other end of the table, her hands resting on the carved ends of the chair arms.

  Rogers watched them with a tinge of envy. The room was just the kind of room he’d have liked for Daphne. The glass, silver, flowers and the vellum-shaded lamps would have delighted her. A decanter of red wine, that gleamed like a ruby in the light, stood near Crane’s elbow, and as Rogers watched, Crane lifted the decanter and poured wine into his glass. He raised the decanter, smiled at Grace, who shook her head and put her hand on her glass, smiling back at him.

  Rogers grunted to himself. A pretty enough picture but a waste of time so far as he was concerned. He wished he had brought a pair of field-glasses with him. He was too far away to study Grace closely and he wanted a closer look at her.

  Dropping on his hands and knees, he crawled across the lawn, his eyes on the window. He moved swiftly and silently and arrived just below the window as Crane stood up, pushing his chair back. Grace was already moving to the door, and as Rogers raised his head cautiously so that he could peer over the window-sill, he could only see her back as Crane opened the door and stood aside to let her pass.

  She left the room and Crane turned back, wandered over to the sideboard and selected a cigar from a gold box.

  Rogers watched him pierce the cigar, light it and study its glowing end reflectively. He could see Crane clearly; there was an odd expression on the big fellow’s face that Rogers didn’t like. It was an amused, cynical sneering expression, cruel and unpleasant to see. Crane glanced at the door, smiled again, then poured himself another glass of port. He sat at the table, relaxed, his long, thick fingers toying with the stem of the glass.

  For several seconds Rogers watched him, then he began to wonder where Grace had got to. There were a number of lighted windows to investigate, and he turned slowly and began to crawl back to the shadows. Half-way across the lawn, an instinctive feeling of danger made him glance back. Instantly he flattened himself on the damp grass and lay still. Crane was standing at the window looking in his direction. He must have risen to his feet the moment Rogers had begun to move and Rogers lay still, his heart pounding, wondering if Crane could see him.

  Fortunately he lay in the shadows of two big fir trees that stood in the middle of the lawn. He felt somehow that Crane couldn’t spot him. He had on a dark suit and dark blue shirt and tie. He felt that he should be a difficult object to see. So he lay there, watching Crane, not moving a muscle. After a moment or so he began to breathe more freely. Crane hadn’t seen him, he decided, for Crane merely flicked ash out of the open window and turned back to the table. He sat down again.

  Rogers breathed a sigh of relief. That was a close call, he told himself — too close, and something to be avoided in the future. He’d been careless, and it would have served him right if he had been caught.

  Still keeping in the shadows, he crawled towards the next nearest window, the dew of the grass soaking through his trouser knees, but he was oblivious of the discomfort, so anxious was he to make a discovery.

  Peering into the room he was startled to see Grace standing near the window. He was only a few feet from her, and he instantly dropped flat, but a second glance reassured him. She was not looking out of the window but standing in profile, talking to someone out of sight.

  Rogers studied her closely. The light fell fully on her face, and he had a moment of doubt. True, she was like the photograph, but he couldn’t swear that she was Grace Clark. The dress and the hair style would, of course, make a difference, and he tried to remember the features of the girl in the photograph and compare them with the face before him. He found the task impossible.

  Who was she talking to? he asked himself, his heart beginning to beat excitedly. He raised himself to see further into the room. A bed came into his line of vision, and he straightened up, risking detection, t
o see the occupant.

  The moment Rogers saw Ellis he knew who he was. The white, livid scar running from Ellis’s right eye to his chin, the sandy hair and the hard, mean little face were unmistakable.

  For a long moment of time Rogers stood staring at Ellis, his mouth dry with excitement, his heart pounding. Here was the traitor, he thought, within his grasp. He had only to arrest him and promotion was assured. James would be generous. He’d forget that Rogers was acting against orders. It’d be a big thing for Taleham. Every newspaper reporter in the country would be down. There’d be interviews: Rogers’s photograph would appear in the papers. The Army security people would pat him on the back; the Yard would have something to say to him; might even take him into the plain clothes division. Then there was Daphne. She’d look at him differently: he’d be a national figure. His chest expanded. The man who arrested Cushman, the traitor. Why, he’d be a hero!

  He dropped on to his hands and knees again, but kept his head raised so he could still see into the room. The next step would be tricky. Should he go for help or make the arrest now? He was big and confident enough to handle this business himself. If he telephoned for James, he’d have to share the credit. It’d be better to walk right in and make the arrest. Crane wouldn’t make trouble. He couldn’t afford to in his position. And surely he didn’t know who this man was. Perhaps it would be better for Rogers to see Crane and explain the whole business to him and enlist his aid. Then when he had arrested Cushman, he’d ask Crane to telephone for James. Rogers grinned excitedly to himself as he imagined the look on the inspector’s face.

  “It’ll be worth a month’s pay to see the old boy,” he thought, watching Grace as she moved about the room. “And the girl too. She’s wanted as well. This is the biggest bit of luck that’s ever come my way.”

  And then he heard a rustle behind him, and for no reason that he could understand he was suddenly frightened as he had never been frightened before. He was too frightened even to look round, and he crouched, waiting, his heart like a lump of lead against his ribs. He felt something touch his back, and then he knew something horrible was about to happen. A cry of terror sprang into his throat but before he could utter it, before he could make a blind rush towards the lighted window and safety, he received a tremendous blow between his shoulder blades and white-hot pain ran through his body.

  He fell forward on to the damp grass, his hands ploughing deeply into the rich soil of the flower-bed. He knew he was being murdered, and he managed to cry out, a croaking sound that filled his ears and told him that he was past help. Blood ran into his mouth and he had a feeling that he was drowning, then the bright lighted window seemed to rush towards him with terrifying speed and explode against his face.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Inspector James, his hands in his pockets, a dour expression on his face, stood at the far end of the Taleham Station platform. He was anxious that none of the other travellers should get into conversation with him, for he had much on his mind.

  On his way to the station, James had passed Rogers’s billet and had wondered if Rogers was out of bed yet, decided it was unlikely and resisted the temptation to toss a pebble up at the curtained window. He knew Rogers would be all right on his own: Rogers wasn’t a bad sort of lad, he thought reflectively. You could leave him in charge and know the work would be done. There was nothing slap-dash about Rogers; a little obstinate, perhaps, inclined to have too many ideas of his own, but he was keen and loyal and those were two important assets for a policeman to possess.

  uring the journey to London, James was busy with his thoughts. Although he had only hinted to Rogers that he was uneasy about what was going on at Crane’s place, he was quite convinced in his own mind that the girl who called herself Julie Brewer was in fact Grace Clark. He was too practical to accept the coincidence that two girls could exist, both stone- deaf, both aged twenty-two, both with brown hair and eyes, both with the same shaped nose and mouth. But at the same time he knew that there was just the chance that it was a coincidence and before making any move he was determined to prove beyond any doubt that the chance did not exist.

  Most of the night he had lain awake thinking about the mysterious fingerprints, and his agile mind was beginning to suspect how it had been possible for the fingerprints on the watch to have had no criminal record.

  Nothing went on in the village that James didn’t know about. Although Rogers had thought the inspector had no notion of Crane’s association with Daphne, the inspector was very much aware of it. At first, he had been inclined to think it was rather a fine thing for a rich young man like Crane to drive his daughter about in a big, showy car. James knew that Daphne was a cut above the other girls in the village, and although he did not approve of her modern ways, he was confident that she had her head screwed on the right way and wasn’t likely to get into trouble. But as time went on, he began to doubt whether it was such a fine thing after all. He had kept his eyes open and had finally come to the conclusion that the association might be dangerous. He was in a difficult position. Daphne had gone her own way for a long time: she was self-willed and obstinate, inclined to fly up if either of her parents attempted to control her. In the past there had been one or two unpleasant rows, and Mrs James had, of course, sided with her daughter. James, a man of peace in his own home, had given way, and he had hesitated to speak to Daphne about Crane. Then later, Crane seemed to cool off, and Daphne did not see him. James had hoped that the association had burnt itself out.

  But had it? he wondered, staring out of the carriage window. His grizzled face was grim. Suppose Crane had got at Daphne and persuaded her to wipe off the fingerprints and substitute her own? It was an idea that had come to him suddenly in the night and had been immediately dismissed as ridiculous. But the idea kept coming back. If that had happened then the mystery of the fingerprints was a mystery no longer. Daphne could have got at the watch. James had packed it in a box and had left it in his bedroom while he attended to his morning duties, taking it into Eastwood on the afternoon train. Yes, she could have easily tampered with the watch; that was something — if she had done it — that must be kept quiet. It’d never do to let Headquarters know a thing like that: might get James himself into serious trouble.

  For some time James sat huddled in his corner, a hurt expression in his eyes. What a thing to have happened! His own daughter! The little fool. Well, that settled it, if she had done it, he’d give her the fright of her life. He had with him the photograph of the fingerprints found on the watch’and a little chromium box that she kept on her dressing-table. He’d drop in to the Yard and get the fingerprint expert to compare the photograph with the prints on the box. If they were the same, he’d know his suspicions were correct. Then he’d go along to Hay’s Mews and check up on this Julie Brewer. Perhaps she had once stayed with Crane and had left her identity card at the bungalow, and Crane had given it to Grace Clark.

  By tonight he would have all the facts he wanted to make an arrest. But what of this David Ellis, believed to be Edwin Cushman? Where was he? Had he left Grace Clark? Had she seen him on to a north-bound train and then come along to Taleham, or had the journey to King’s Cross been a feint and they had both come here? If so, where was Ellis?

  James brooded. There was something at the back of his mind that had been puzzling him. Why had the first-aid stretcher been taken from the clubhouse? At first he thought it might have been a convenient means of carrying the things that were missing, but a stretcher needed two people to carry it. Had the stretcher been used for this purpose or had one of them been hurt? Was it Cushman who had been hurt? Had the girl dragged him on the stretcher to the shelter of the woods and then led Rogers in the opposite direction, meeting Crane who, for some reason or other, had decided to shelter her? James scratched his chin. “Mustn’t let my ideas run away with me,” he thought; but it’s an interesting theory.”

  When he arrived at Paddington, he went immediately to Scotland Yard and made his way along t
he long corridors to the Fingerprint Department. Here he found his old friend, Ted Edwards, at work. Edwards and he had both joined the force at the same time and had also served together in the same regiment during the 1914-18 war.

  Edwards, a big, fat, good-natured looking man with reddish hair and fair, freckled complexion, smiled when he saw James come in.

  “What-ho, me beauty,” he said in his wheezy, soft voice. “Didn’t expect to see your ugly mug on a beautiful morning like this. What brings you here? Business?”

  James, who didn’t feel particularly jovial, nodded sourly. “Private business,” he said. “I want you to look at these prints and let me know if they’re the same. You might get a move on, Ted, I’m pressed for time.”

  The sandy eyebrows went up, and Edwards looked surprised.

  “And take that silly look off your face,” James barked, putting the chromium box on Edward’s desk. “It makes you look sillier than you are.”

  Edwards grinned. “Got out of bed the wrong side, haven’t you?” he said, picking up the box and dusting it with print powder. “Never mind, you were always a one to miss your Enos.”

  James took out his pipe, filled it and moved uneasily about the room. Edwards’s verdict was going to be of tremendous importance. Not only would it make things difficult at home, but it might also lead to the arrest of Edwin Cushman.

  There was a moment’s pause, then Edwards said, “They’re the same prints?”

  James sighed. “Sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure,” Edwards said with an expansive smile. “Have you ever known me to be wrong yet?”

  “I can’t say I have,” James said quietly, picked up the box and the photograph and put them in his pocket. Well, thanks, Ted.”