Inspector West Alone

JOHN CREASEY

Inspector West Alone

Copyright Note

This e-book was created by papachanjo, with the purpose of providing a digitized format of the books written by John Creasey without the least intention of commercial gain of any sort. This e-book should hence be utilized for reading only and if you like it and can buy it, please do to support the publishers.

I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.

If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:

Scan the book in greyscale

Save as djvu - use the free DJVU SOLO software to compress the images

Send it to my e-mail: papachanjo@rocketmail.com

I’ll do the rest and will add a note of credit in the finished document.

from back cover

It never occurred to Roger West that anything faked about the message. He just assumed that his wife had run into trouble and needed help. So he went along, and got a knock on his head. And when he came to, he found himself being charged with the murder of a woman he though was his wife.

Table of Contents

Copyright Note

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XX III

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER I

LONELY HOUSE

EVEN now, it didn’t occur to Roger West that there had been anything faked about the message. He was just afraid in case Janet had run into trouble.

You could spend your life walking into trouble with your eyes wide open and feel hardly a tremor. When you began to wonder whether your wife was in danger, you had a sick feeling of dread; assuming that you were in love with your wife, of course.

Roger stood outside the back door.

It was locked, like the front door and like all the windows. It was a small, lonely house, and he hadn’t heard of the place until two hours ago. There was a rotting hurdle fence round the large garden, and the light was just good enough to show the distorted shapes of trees. Grass grew knee high on what had once been lawns. The gravel drive was covered with weeds.

There wasn’t a light anywhere.

A chilly wind blew on to his back, coming across the open moorland and hilly country of Surrey. Low clouds threatened rain.

Except for the wind, there was no sound.

The message had been clear enough, but he hadn’t taken it himself. Janet had telephoned Scotland Yard. Roger hadn’t been in his office, so Eddie Day had spoken to her. Eddie wasn’t a shining light, but a man who had been thirty years in the force and become a Chief Inspector; he didn’t get messages wrong.

“Bit of trouble for you, Handsome—Janet ‘phoned. All right, all right, you needn’t get worried, there’s nothing the matter with the kids! Janet’s gone to see a cousin of hers, Phyllis—the one that lives in Surrey. She says can you go straight there to-night? Copse Cottage, Helsham— not far from Guildford. Difficult place to find, she says. I’ve written the directions down.”

The note was in Roger’s pocket.

He’d followed the directions with ease; this was Copse Cottage. The big white stone at the corner, near the signpost, had been unmistakable. There’d been one odd thing about the old, rotting signpost; the pointing finger and the words Copse Cottage had been freshly painted, but the name-board, on the narrow wooden gate, hadn’t been painted for .years.

The house was as dark as the night.

He’d been startled on discovering that there was no light back or front; worried when there had been no response to his knocking.

Janet had a cousin named Phyllis, who lived somewhere in Surrey. Roger had never met her, and didn’t think Janet had heard from her more than twice in the past five years.

Be reasonable. Cousin Phyllis had probably been taken ill, Janet had hurried out here, taken things into her capable hands, decided to move Phyllis to a hospital, possibly even taken her to Chelsea. There was no reason to feel scared. He turned towards the front of the house. From here he could see the sidelights of his car, facing the main road and parked in the narrow, unmade lane. He would try once more at the front door, then go into the village—two miles away—and telephone home.

The lights of his car disappeared.

He stopped moving, and stared. Only one thing could blot those lights out—someone standing in front of them. They were still on; he could see a faint glow, and the vague silhouette of a—man ? Or Janet ?

No, it was a man. The lights appeared again. Yet he’d heard no footsteps, and any ordinary sound would have been clear. The vague figure was lost against the black outline of the car.

Then he heard a sound; of the car door, opening.

He shouted: “Here!” and broke into a run. The car door slammed and the engine hummed. He was ten yards from the open gate when the car began to move, and it was twenty yards along the road when he reached the gate.

“Here!”

The only answer was the snorting of the car.

Alarm sawed at Roger’s nerves. He ran, in desperate hope; the road was rough, the car couldn’t make much speed, and would have to slow down at the sharp corner. But the pot-holes and loose stones made running difficult. He turned his ankle, grabbed at a tree to save himself and lost precious seconds and still more precious yards. The red light glowed, then turned out of sight as the driver swung the wheels towards Helsham.

What was all this? How could it be explained rationally? There was a touch of fantasy about it, as well— let’s face it—as a touch of the sinister. Had Janet come here?

The sound of the engine faded into silence, and the wind was hushed, but his forehead felt icy cold. It was pitch dark now. He turned and stared towards the house, and could only just make out the outline against the lowering sky. Suddenly, gusty wind swept down upon him.

He could walk to the village and back to reason; or return and force his way into the house. He didn’t like to contemplate the possibilities of what he might find. He couldn’t give a name to his fears. The sensible thing was to go for assistance; he could get a car from the village and come here with the local policeman. It wasn’t easy to be sensible when fears for Janet crowded upon him.

Then a light went on in the house.

* * * *

It wasn’t bright; just the dim yellow glow. It was on the first floor, above the front door; and it moved. Suddenly a shadow, large and shapeless, was thrown against a window. Someone was carrying the lamp from one room to another. It passed the window, and only a faint yellow glow remained; then it shone more brightly from another window, and became steady.

Janet?

She would have heard him call out, would have-shouted after him by now.

Roger walked quickly towards the house, staring at the lighted window, but he could no longer see a shadow. As he turned into the open gate, another gust of wind swept down on him—and as the howling died, he heard the scream. Wild, shrill, eerie, it played on his taut nerves like a saw on an iron bar; and he knew that it d woman’s scream.

* * * *

He smashed a stone against the glass of the window, and the crash was like an explosion. A splinter of glass cut the back of his hand, but he hardly noticed it. He bent his elbow and broke off the jagged splinters which stuck out from the side, then groped for the window-catch. It sprang back sharply, and he pushed the window up.

It was pitch dark inside the room.

He used his torch for the first time. The beam shone upon oddments of furniture, the mirror of a huge sideboard, and a door. He climbed through, but heard no more screaming. Whoever had carried that lamp must have heard the window crash, but there was only silence. He reached the door, pulled it open and stepped into the passage. A faint glow of light came from upstairs, enough to show him the narrow stairs themselves, the gloomy hall, the glass in the picture-frames hanging on the walls. He put out his torch and stood quite still.

There was no sound, no movement.

Had he heard that scream ?

His teeth were set so hard that his cheeks hurt. He went slowly towards the foot of the stairs. Now that he was more accustomed to the light he could pick out the banisters, the shiny handrail, the dark, blotchy wallpaper.

He must go upstairs; he wasn’t a victim of nerves.

He started up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to avoid creaking boards. The light still glowed, dimly yellow. He reached a small landing and stood quite still, from the first attack of nerves, warning himself to be careful. There were three doors, one of them wide open, and the light came from this room. He stepped softly towards it, and peered inside. It was an empty bedroom; empty, that was, as far as he could see. A huge double bed, with big brass knobs on the posts, stood against one wall. Backing on to the window was a huge Victorian dressing-table with a big centre and narrow wing mirrors. The oil-lamp, without a shade, stood on this, and the light was brighter here because it was reflected from the mirrors.

He went to the foot of the bed and peered to the other side—and saw nothing.

Had that scream been a freakish trick of wind ?

He knew it hadn’t; he also knew that it might have been uttered to bring him here. Whoever had lit that lamp must still be near——

Hold it!

While he had been rushing towards the window and breaking in there had been time for man or woman to run down the stairs and leave the house by the back door. He couldn’t take anything for granted. He went into the room, picked up the lamp, which gave off a grey smoke and an oily smell, and placed it on a chest on the landing so that it gave more general light. Then he approached the first of the two closed doors. He took out his handkerchief and wrapped it round the handle before turning it. The door opened without difficulty, on to another, smaller bedroom, as empty as the first.

And silence——

It was broken suddenly, eerily, by a sound he placed at once, but didn’t want to hear; by moaning.

The, crying wasn’t loud, but sounded clearly because of the general quiet. Undoubtedly it came from behind that closed door. It wasn’t easy to tell the difference between a man moaning and a woman; but he thought this was a woman, and saw a picture of Janet in his mind’s eye.

Roger moved slowly to the door, repeated the trick with the handkerchief, and pushed—but the door was locked. The moaning was continual now, low, frightening, working on his nerves. It was a stout door, and there was no key in the lock. He put his shoulder against it and pushed, a practised trick which would open a flimsy door in a modern house, but it had no effect on this one. He drew back and flung himself at the unyielding wood; all he did was to hurt himself.

The moaning went on and on.

He turned and hurried down the stairs, using his torch. He found the kitchen at the first attempt, and opened the door cautiously; there was no one there. Another door led to a scullery; there was always a scullery and wash-house in an old cottage of this kind. The scullery was drab, and cobwebs hung across the window. He opened a cupboard and found what he wanted: an axe, lying rusted and dull on the cement floor, near a few logs and a heap of kindling wood, thick with dust. He wrapped his handkerchief round the grimy axe handle and went back upstairs.

He approached the door determinedly.

He swung the blade of the axe powerfully against the panel just above the lock; the wood caught the blade and held it, he had to wrench it out. That eerie sound didn’t stop. He smashed again, and splintered the wood; smashed on with fierce urgency until a strip of the panelling lay on the floor. He thrust his hand through the gap, hoping for the unlikely—a key on the inside.

There wasn’t one.

He smashed again and again, until the lock gave way and the door sagged open. By then, he was dripping with sweat; and the moaning sounded louder. He shouldered the door wide open, flashed on his torch, and stepped inside the room.

A man was pressed tightly against the wall, and Roger didn’t see him until he came leaping forward.

Sharp nails clawed at Roger’s face, a knee came up and caught him agonizingly in the groin. As he reeled back against the swinging door, hands clutched at his throat and squeezed; powerful, claw-like hands. He tried to use the axe as a weapon, but couldn’t get it into position. He felt the air locked in his lungs, his chest heaved as he tried to breathe, as blackness descended upon him. He struggled, kicked, but he couldn’t free himself.

He slumped to the floor.

CHAPTER II

THE DARK ROOM

IT was dark.

That was all Roger realized at first;—darkness and pain that was little more than discomfort at his chest, and a smarting soreness at his face. He didn’t know what had happened until he heard a sound—a moan. Then everything flashed back.

He was lying on the floor.

He couldn’t see where, but the moan was so near that he knew he was in the room.

There was a dull pain in his groin, and when he tried to get up, the pain became sharp and he collapsed, grunting. The moaning went on—a steady trickle of sound. He turned gently on to his right side, and began to get up. His head swam, but he managed to stand. He put out his right hand and touched the wall, swayed towards it and then leaned against it; his lungs still felt tight and locked.

Outside, the wind was howling.

He heard a different sound, neither the wind nor the woman—rather that of a car on the road. It faded. He bent down, and the blood rushed to his ears as he groped for his torch, found it, and switched it on. The light was so bright that it hurt his eyes. He didn’t switch off, but swivelled the light round slowly until at last it fell upon the woman.

She lay on a single bed, two yards away from him, one arm hanging over the side—a slim white hand. Her body was flat, and she lay on her back. Her clothes were dishevelled, her long legs, sheathed in nylon, were nice legs. As the light travelled up, he saw enough to judge that she was young and comely; not her face, the light didn’t touch her face yet—just her body. Her white blouse was open at the neck. The light fell upon the point of her chin, and it might be Janet’s. Then it travelled to her face and her head——

He dropped the torch.

It crashed on to the floor and went out, plunging the room into darkness.

When the worst of the shock was over and his mind began to work, one thought came absurdly into it: how could she be alive? How could anyone so injured be alive?

Then he heard the car again—much nearer. He didn’t at first realize what it was, but when the engine stopped and a door slammed, he knew that someone had arrived outside. He didn’t move, but stared towards the bed. He heard footsteps, and then a heavy banging on the front door.

Someone shouted; he didn’t catch the words.

He said aloud: “I’m a policeman. I’m used to seeing dead bodies.”

He wasn’t used to such a sight as that—or to the thing which brought the real horror—the possibility that the woman was his wife. Dark skirt, white blouse, long, slim legs, long, slim, slender arm and hand—he had seen the right hand, which had been ringless; Janet wore no rings on her right hand, but she often wore a dark skirt and a white blouse.

There were other sounds, now, of men walking in the house, then along the passage. He heard them talking, but still couldn’t catch the words. There were two or three men downstairs. They started to come up. He put out a foot, feeling for his torch. He didn’t touch it. Faint light appeared; the men were coming cautiously and carrying a torch.

He licked his lips and called: “Who’s there?”

The footsteps stopped on the instant, and the light went out.

He called: “It’s all right. Who’s there?”

He heard a shuffling sound, and then the creaking of boards—and suddenly a beam of light stabbed into the room and into his face. He shut his eyes against it, before he saw the two husky men and the third, behind them. Next moment, he felt powerful hands on his arm, and he was held tightly. When he opened his eyes, the torch light was shining towards the bed.

For a long time—minutes—no one spoke. Then one of the men said in a thick voice:

“You swine.”

Roger said: “Don’t be a fool. I——”

“Shut up!”

He didn’t want to talk, explanations could come later. And these were policemen; before the night was out, they would be turning somersaults in order to please him. Two of them were police-constables, anyhow, the third was in plain clothes. Roger didn’t recognize his lean face, and that wasn’t because of the poor light. He couldn’t be expected to know every plain-clothes man in the Surrey C.I.D. What he was expected to know didn’t matter. Fear had been driven away for a spell, but came back in waves of terror.

Was that Janet?

The man in plain cloths said: “Better have some more light. Light the lamp outside, Harris.”

“Yes, sir.” Harris, the policeman nearer the door, seemed reluctant to release Roger’s arm. When he did, the other man held on more tightly, and hurt; but that wasn’t important, all that mattered was finding out whether the woman was Janet.

The woman had stopped moaning.

The plain-clothes man approached the bed.

Roger said: “Look at her right shoulder.”

The man, his back turned on Roger, appeared to be shining his torch into her face.

“Look——” began Roger.

“You keep quiet,” said the big policeman, and dug his fingers more deeply into Roger’s arm.

“This will be the doctor,” said the plain-clothes man.

Harris came in with the lamp, alight but turned up too high and smoking badly. He stood it on the dressing-table, and the plain-clothes man told him to be careful not to touch anything. He trimmed the lamp clumsily. After the darkness and the beam of torchlight, it seemed a soft, gentle but all-revealing glow.

Roger said in a taut voice: “All I’ve asked you to do is look at her right shoulder.”

“The plain-clothes man was tall, with thin features; and the light made him look yellow.

“Why?”

“See if there’s a mole at the back of her right shoulder—egg-shaped.”

“Want to make sure you got the right woman?”

“You can be funny afterwards.”

“With you, no one will ever be funny again,” said the plain-clothes man. He made no attempt to look at the woman’s shoulder. She lay absolutely still, and hadn’t moaned again. It was better that she should be dead than alive, but—the question hammered itself against his mind, filling him with wild terror. Was she Janet?

He forced himself to speak calmly.

“Will you please look at her right shoulder and tell me if there’s a mole on it?”

The plain-clothes man said: “Take him downstairs, you two, and ask Dr. Gillik to come upstairs at once. If the squad car has come with him, tell them to be very careful what they touch and to start on that downstairs window. I’ll send for them when I want them. Oh, I’d better have the photographer up at once.”

“Yes, sir.” Harris and his companion pulled at Roger’s arms.

A mole—and it was Janet. No mole—not Janet.

Roger got one arm free, and then sensed what was coming. He turned his head. A ham-like fist smashed into his nose, blinding him with pain and tears. The woman and the plain-clothes man became shapeless blurs. He felt himself dragged out of the room. Then one man took his arm and bent it behind him in a simple hammer-lock, and pushed him downwards. The other followed. There were men in the hall, including a middle-aged man with greying hair and carrying a black bag; “doctor” was written all over him.

“Inspector Hansell would like you to go straight up, doctor, please.” .

“What’s this all about?”

“Very nasty business, sir.”

Cold grey eyes scanned Roger’s face. The doctor didn’t speak, but couldn’t have said more clearly: “And you’ve got the man, good.” Roger was thrust into a small front room, where a lamp burned, then pushed into a chair.

“That’s too comfortable for him,” said Harris. “Get up— sit on that chair.”

“That chair” was an upright one.

Roger didn’t move.

“I told you to get up!”

It wasn’t worth arguing. He stood up, then sat on the other chair, which was near a big, heavy, old-fashioned standard lamp. He didn’t realize what Harris was at until cold steel pressed into his wrist, and a lock snapped. He was handcuffed to the standard lamp.

So this was what it was like on the other side of the law; how they dealt with a suspect. No, be just. They hadn’t really manhandled him; Harris had been justified in striking him when he had tried to get away, and couldn’t really be blamed for the power he’d put into his punch. The handcuffs were justified, because he’d made one attempt to escape.

His arm, stretched out, began to ache.

Men were going up the stairs.

What had brought them so quickly and in such force?

Harris, red-faced and bucolic, kept staring at him.

Roger said slowly and deliberately: “I want to send a message to Inspector Hansell from Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard.” Harris started. “I want to know whether that woman has a mole at the back of her right shoulder, and I want to know quickly.”

Harris shrugged.

“When the Inspector wants to hear from you, he’ll tell you. Keep your mouth shut.”

“Damn you, find out about that mole! Tell him that I’m West. Get a move on!”

Harris was startled. The other constable grunted, and they exchanged glances. Then Harris said: “I’m Queen of the May.” But he went out of the room and made his way up the stairs; they creaked at every step. The other man, husky enough but smaller than Harris, moved to the door; as if he didn’t want to become inveigled into conversation.

When Roger heard Harris’s ponderous tread on the stairs again, the nightmare became reality. He sat upright, straining his eyes and his body.

A man spoke to Harris, whose rumbling voice came clearly; his words had nothing to do with Janet. Roger half-rose from his chair, and the constable at the door growled:

“Don’t try anything.”

The rumbling went on, then stopped; Harris appeared. A word burst out of Roger.

“Well?”

“No mole.” said Harris.

CHAPTER III

WHY ?

THE dead woman wasn’t Janet. Janet was alive, free, Janet was——

Janet wasn’t here.

And what about Cousin Phyllis?

What was behind all this?

As a frame-up, it was nearly perfect.

Once accept the possibility that someone had wanted to lure him here and have him accused of murder, and the rest followed easily enough. But swallowing that wasn’t easy.

The sobering process continued.

Everything had been laid-on, even the call to the police with the convincing warning that it was a case of murder. Nothing else would have brought Hansell and his squad along so fast.

He must get one thing clear. Hansell had been summoned so that he, Roger West, youngest C.I. at the Yard, could be caught in the house with the dead girl. Was he right in thinking he had only to convince Hansell that he was West, and the situation would switch in his favour?

He’d been found on enclosed premises, with a girl battered brutally, and with an axe by his hand.

Roger murmured to himself: “I’m in a spot.”

“About time you realized it,” Harris growled.

Roger shrugged and stood up. He could do that without pulling the standard lamp over. He hadn’t a chance to get away, but both policemen moved towards him. He turned away from them and looked into an oval mirror above the mantelpiece. This was the first time he had seen his reflection since he had come round, and it gave him another shock.

His face was a dark blotch, looking sinister and brutal.

* * * *

Hansell came in. Roger didn’t notice, because he was still staring at his reflection. The panic was subsiding into reason. His face was badly scratched, the scratches had bled a lot, and the blood had dried on it, in a brown mess which looked black in the mirror. He put his right hand to his cheek and felt a sharp pain in the back of the hand, looked down and saw the long cut in it—the cut which he had received from the window-glass.

Then he was aware of Hansell standing behind him and staring into the mirror. He turned. The two policemen had gone out, and the door was closed.

“Admiring yourself?” asked Hansell. “Who are you?”

“I’m——” Roger paused, as the vital question reared up in his mind again; would he be wise to allow this frame-up to succeed, for the time being?

“Aren’t you sure?” Hansell sneered. “Perhaps you’ve a split mind. Why were you so interested in that mole?”

“My wife has a mole just where I asked you to look.”

“So that makes you not a wife murderer.”

“That’s right.”

“Stop fencing. Who are you?”

Roger liked Hansell; he had a feeling that the man was a good officer, one in whom there was a full sense of responsibility. Once Hansell was convinced of the truth, he would hold his tongue.

“Roger West, Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard.”

“So you remember you’ve told Harris that. Mind if I see your wallet?”

Roger moved his left hand to get it, and the handcuff stopped him. “Help yourself.”

Hansell took out his wallet. In the poor light, this was an eerie experience, but he faced it out. He didn’t look at the wallet, but at Hansell’s lean, narrow face and the drooping lips—this man had the face of a cynic. Several letters were in the wallet, and Hansell took them and turned towards the light. Only then did Roger see that it wasn’t his wallet; it was brown, his was black; this was much thicker, too; and he saw a wad of one-pound notes, many more than he ever carried.

“That’s not——” he began.

“Three letters, addressed to Mr. Arthur King—at least you got the number of syllables right,” Hansell said sardonically. He probed into the wallet. “Driving licence— Arthur King. What gave you the idea of pretending to be a policeman?”

Roger sat down heavily.

“You’re Arthur King, of 18 Sedgley Road, Kingston-on-Thames,” Hansell said, “and I charge you with the murder of a woman, as yet unknown, and warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. Any legal quibbles about that?”

Roger said slowly: “It’ll do, for now.”

“I still want to know why you pretended to be West.”

“Work it out later, and don’t try any rough stuff, Hansell.” Roger spoke sharply, seeing the other’s hands clench. “What’s your evidence? Wholly circumstantial? I was in the room with her, you saw me and jumped to the conclusion and charged me. That story ought to please your superintendent and give the magistrate apoplexy.”

“You were near to the axe with which she was killed,” Hansell said. “Your prints are on the axe, on the torch you were using, and they’re all over the place—including the window, where you forced entry. That girl put up a fight and clawed your face, and skin and blood off your face are under her finger-nails.”

Roger said: “I didn’t kill her. I was outside, heard a scream, broke in, and then heard moaning. I broke the door down with an axe and when I went inside, a man attacked me and knocked me out. I hadn’t been conscious again for five minutes before you arrived.”

“How did you get here?”

“By car.”

“What car do you use?”

“A Morris 12, supercharged engine, registration number SY 31.”

Hansell laughed. “That’s why a Chrysler with registration number XBU 31291 is parked in the road outside, I suppose.”

That made the frame-up as near perfect as one could ever be, by breaking down the story of how he had approached the house. His assailant had scratched his face to make it look as if he had struggled with the girl. There was even a chance that he’d transferred blood and skin from Roger’s cheeks to the girl’s fingers; he would be as thorough as that, and yet it didn’t make sense. How could the man prove that a senior officer of the Yard was someone else ? How could he hope to make that stand up ?

He couldn’t.

He stood a chance of proving that Roger had been pretending to be someone else.

“Why not give up trying. King?” Hansell asked. “We’ve caught you with everything.”

“Then you ought to be happy.”

“I’ll be more satisfied when I know why you killed that kid upstairs.”

“I’ll be more cheerful when you start looking for the murderer. Give me a cigarette, will you?” He always kept his cigarettes in his hip pocket and couldn’t reach it with his free hand.

“No, I don’t smoke them. I wouldn’t give you a cigarette if I did. Harris!” Hansell raised his voice, and the door opened at once. “Go through his pockets and put everything from them on the table,” Hansell ordered. “You stay here with them. Lister.” So the other big constable was named Lister.

Hansell went out, and Harris began to go through Roger’s pockets. Out of the right-hand jacket pocket he took a slim gold cigarette-case; not Roger’s. From the waistcoat, a lighter, watch, and diary—none of them Roger’s. He was used to the idea now—that his assailant had taken everything out of his pockets and put someone else’s stuff in its place.

P.C. Lister made a note of everything, calling it out aloud as Harris placed it on the table.

Hansell came in.

“Finished?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harris.

“Anything marked with ‘R.W.’?”

“No, but several things have ‘A.K.’ on them, sir.”

“Good enough,” said Hansell. “Sergeant Drayton is outside, and he’ll take you and the prisoner down to the station. He can be tidied up, but before that I want you to scrape some of that dried blood off his face, and keep it. You can give him something to eat, and let him have a packet of cigarettes but no matches—when he wants a light, he will have to ask for it. Don’t let the Press get at him. Take him in the back way, and see that he doesn’t see anyone except our people.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harris unlocked the handcuffs. Roger rubbed his wrist gently. Both policemen kept close to him, and once they were in the hall, Lister held his arm tightly, just above the elbow. Outside, there was a blaze of light with silver streaks stabbing through it; rain was coming down heavily. The lights came from several cars parked in the lane, most of them facing towards the road and Helsham, but one, a glistening American model, was facing the other direction; this was “Arthur King’s” Chrysler.

He got into the back of a car. Harris sat next to him, Lister took the wheel, and a bulky plain-clothes man, presumably Sergeant Drayton, sat next to the driver. Roger watched the other cars as they passed slowly, and then saw the big white boulder and the newly painted signpost.

He sat back and closed his eyes, feeling Harris’s arm against him. If he made a move, Harris would use that ham of a fist again. There was no point in trying to escape, anyhow, Harris could rest easy. His thoughts flashed from one thing to another. But for that girl’s face and head, this would be laughable; farcical.

They were going cautiously down the steep hill, which Roger had come up, in third. There were several dangerous corners, and none of them was marked, because the road was little used. The headlights shone on the spears of rain and the leafless hedges bent beneath the fierce March wind. Road and banks glistened. Trees stood out like grey spectres, and dropped behind, only to be replaced by others. Roger saw lights, some distance ahead—the lights of Helsham Village, but they would go on to Guildford. Whom did he know at Guildford?

The driver turned a corner and then jammed on his brakes. All of them were jolted forward, Roger before he caught a glimpse of the road block or of the men who darted forward the moment the car stopped.

CHAPTER IV

HOLD-UP

THE glow of the headlights shimmered on the rain, on huge branches of trees which had been flung across the road, and on a man who stood huddled up in a raincoat, with a hat pulled low over his forehead and a gun pointing towards the car. Roger saw other men, one of whom wrenched open the driver’s door and poked a gun inside.

Harris grunted and grabbed Roger’s wrist. Cold steel brushed his hand, and then the handcuffs clicked—he was manacled to Harris.

“Take it easy.” The man who poked the gun into the car had a smooth voice. A scarf, tied round the lower half of his face, served as a mask. “Do as you’re told, and you won’t get hurt.”

“You’re crazy.” That was Sergeant Drayton, in a shrill voice.

“Not so crazy as you’ll be if you try to pull a fast one. We want West.”

“No one named West——” began the driver.

“Okay, forget who it is, we want your prisoner—he’s a pal of ours.” Bright eyes showed in the pale light inside the car. “Get out, pal.” He looked at Roger.

They were remarkable eyes; like silvery fire.

“We’re the police!” howled Drayton.

“We’d still want our boy friend, even if you were the Army, Navy, and Air Force rolled into one.” The gun swivelled towards Roger. “Get out.”

The door by Roger’s side opened; another man with a gun stood there. The rain hissed down until wind caught it and sent it in a wild flurry about the car.

“I can’t——” Roger began.

“You can, pal. And hurry, we haven’t got all night.”

“That’s enough of this,” said Harris heavily. Harris was good—ten times better than Drayton. “You clear off, the lot of you.” He might have been talking to a crowd of gapers gathered about a street accident. “This man’s our prisoner. Clear off.”

“I’m handcuffed to him,” Roger said. It wasn’t easy to make the words sound casual, or to try to sum this up; except to see that it was the next stage in the framing.

Why?

Harris sat back in his seat. It would be no fun trying to get him out of the car by force, he must weigh sixteen stone.

“He’s got a key, hasn’t he?” The man with the strange eyes said harshly.

“I told you to clear out,” Harris growled. “Another car will be along in a minute, and then——”

“We’d make fools of more policemen,” said the spokesman. The rain hissed and spattered, and the wind howled; it was bitterly cold. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll unlock those handcuffs.”

“Oh, will I,” said Harris. He moved his left arm. Something bright glistened in the light, flew across the car and out of the door and into the hedge—the key; it would take hours to find it.

Then the door at Harris’s side opened.

As Harris turned, a man struck at him with the butt of a gun. The heavy blow caught him on the chin. Quickly, the man with the gun tipped Harris’s helmet over his eyes and struck again—not savagely but with cold calculation.

Harris slumped down, and didn’t move.

“Look here, you’re crazy!” gasped Drayton.

“That’s right. You just do what you’re told.”

By then, men were dragging Harris out of the car, shoulders first. Roger slid towards the door. The tug at his wrist was painful, but the man eased Harris out gently. In five minutes Roger crouched over Harris’s huddled figure, still fastened to him by the single handcuff.

The rain pelted down.

“Take it easy,” said the man who had knocked out Harris. Another came forward and held Roger’s arm, so that the steel connecting bar of the handcuffs was visible, and Harris’s hand hung limp from it. The new-comer started to work with a small file, and the rasping sound was added to the night’s wild bluster. Water trickled down Roger’s neck, was bitterly cold on his sore face. His clothes began to get soggy. The two policemen in the front of the car did nothing, for they were still covered by the gun. The man with the file seemed prepared to work all night; but he didn’t, the job took only five or six minutes.

Soon they were moving down the hill.

* * * *

Roger simply let impressions rest on top of his mind.

Take one detective. Lure him to a lonely cottage with a faked message. Kill a helpless girl. Make it appear that he’d killed her. Give him a false name. Capture him from the police, and use his real name so clearly that the police couldn’t mistake it. Then take him away.

“Cigarette?” asked the man by his side. Those fantastic, silver-fire eyes showed.

“Thanks.”

The man lit cigarettes for them both, handed one to Roger and sat back. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but he had pulled down the scarf, and the cigarette glow showed the pointed tip of his nose. They turned off this narrow road to the main road which ran through Helsham and then towards London. The car was powerful, and well sprung.

“Enjoying yourself?” asked the man next to Roger. His voice and manner didn’t go with his eyes.

“So-so.”

“I must say you take it well, policeman. I think we’ll be able to work with you.”

“Sooner or later you’ll be asking yourself whether I’ll work with you,” said Roger, “and that’ll be the question that matters.”

The man laughed, as if he had no thought of failure.

“Another question, just to set my mind at rest,” said Roger, making himself sound casual.

“Let’s hear it.”

“My wife?”

“Expecting you home, probably. Unless she’s telephoned Scotland Yard, to report you missing.”

There was no reason why he should believe the man, but he did. He felt much easier in his mind. Janet had been used as a decoy, and it wasn’t much good blaming Eddie Day for his mistake. They sped on, carving an avenue of light through the blustery darkness. They soon reached the Guildford by-pass and drove along the wide road between rows and rows of small houses. There was little traffic. The car in front, as large and powerful as this, was never more than twenty yards ahead of them, and so made sure that no one cut in. A car with a blue “Police” sign coasted along in the opposite direction, and the man by Roger’s side laid a hand gently on his knee.

“I always heard it said that if there was such a thing as a good policeman, it was Roger West,” he said.

“Thanks. But I’m just a beginner.”

“If you behave yourself, you’ll have a lot more time and promotion ahead of you. Care for a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“You’ll have one, just to please me,” said the man by his side. “It’ll taste all right—Scotch. You won’t notice anything wrong with it, and you’ll have a nice rest for a few hours. After that, we’ll talk business.”

“And what if I spit it out?”

“Then you’ll get the same treatment that the ox had back on the road.”

As he spoke, the man took a flask from his hip pocket. He unscrewed the cap and then switched on the roof light. He had a narrow, pale face, and those flashing eyes had long, dark lashes. His hand was as steady as the car would allow. Roger took the flask; it certainly smelt like whisky. The whisky warmed and encouraged him.

“That’ll do.” The man took the flask away and screwed the cap on. “If you stay as sensible as this, we’ll get along.”

Roger leaned back, comfortably, not yet drowsy. He didn’t know what road they were on now. Both cars sped through the night, and the rain came down in silvery streaks.

Gradually drowsiness came upon him.

* * * *

Roger knew that he had slept a long time, because it was daylight when he woke. He lay in a comfortable bed, drowsy, unaware of any aches or pains, but his face felt stiff, and so did the back of his left hand. He felt no sense of alarm, even when he remembered what had happened in the car; he felt as if he were awake in a dream. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, opened them again and looked round the room. It was small but nicely furnished; more a woman’s than a man’s. On the dressing-table was a bowl of daffodils, heads drooping. Chintz curtains at the narrow window matched the flowered chintz on the bedspread, the eiderdown, and the two easy-chairs. The furniture, of light oak, was reproduction. There was a corner wash-hand basin.

All he could see out of the window from the bed, was the grey sky.

He knew that he ought to get up, but didn’t feel inclined to move. His mouth was dry—parched; the thing he would like most was tea. Weak, hot, sugarless tea, pints of it. Then he had a mental picture, of a battered head. That was his first bad moment since waking, he was really beginning to feel again. He pushed back the bed-clothes and sat up. His legs were stiff; he swung them over the side of the bed. His head began to ache. When he was steadier, he walked slowly to the window. He looked out on to a trim lawn, daffodil beds and, beyond a beech-hedge with massed brown leaves, trees. There were some dark firs and pines; but mostly they were leafless trees, spiky-looking beech and birch; silver birch. He heard nothing —absolutely nothing—but the tops of the trees were bent by the wind. So sound didn’t come into this room through the window. The window was a single pane of glass, and when he examined the frame, he saw that it was really a false one—this window wasn’t made to open. He pressed nearer and looked upwards, studying the glass. It had a yellow tint, a characteristic of toughened glass.

Roger went to the door.

It had a handle, but no lock—no keyhole. He tapped on it gently, and it didn’t sound like wood, it was more like steel. If he tapped louder, to make sure, he might attract attention. Well, why not? He turned from the door, and searched the room. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas with a broad blue-and-white stripe, and at the foot of the bed was a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, but no day clothes were in sight. He looked inside the wardrobe; there was nothing but clothes hangers.

He caught a glimpse of his face, and it surprised him because it was so normal. He went closer to the mirror, his face reflected above the daffodils. He could see the pink scratches and the shiny, greasy salve which had been rubbed into them after the blood had been cleaned off. His hand had been treated with the salve, too—that was why he felt little discomfort. He studied his face. By habit, he laughed when they called him “Handsome” at the Yard, but it wasn’t really a surprising soubriquet. His curly fair hair was ruffled, but undoubtedly it had been combed the night before.

He went to the wash-basin, washed his hands and face carefully in tepid water, and dabbed them dry. As a result the pink streaks turned red. They tingled, too. He went to the door and banged on it with his clenched fist, and then stood back and waited for someone to come.

Before long, he heard footsteps.

CHAPTER V

MARION

HE knew, before the door opened, that a woman was outside. The footsteps were quick and light, and he heard them distinctly, which argued against the door being steel. He heard a key scrape in the lock, so it had a lock on the outside. He sat down on the bed, looking towards the door.

The girl came in, started back when she saw him, then smiled, and closed the door. He caught a glimpse of a man who remained in the passage outside.

“Good morning,” the girl said brightly. “Is there anything you want?”

“Tea,” Roger said. “In urns, if possible, or pint mugs.”

“Some will be sent up in a few minutes.”

“Cigarettes and a lighter.”

“I can give you a cigarette,” she said, “but I am not allowed to leave matches with you, or to let you smoke when you’re alone.”

She took a small plastex case from a pocket in her pale-grey frock, and a lighter. She had to come near, to light his cigarette^ Few men would complain at being near her. She wasn’t beautiful, she just looked—good. It was in the clear grey of her fine eyes, the soft colour of her cheeks, the curve of her lips. She had a heart-shaped face, and light-brown hair—he supposed she would call it auburn. It was cut short, and if the waves and curls were machine-made, he would be surprised. Her hands were not small, but were well-shaped, and her nails were varnished a pale pink— pale enough to look natural.

He drew at the cigarette.

“All right?”

“Yes, thanks. Who are you?”

“You may call me Marion.”

He leaned back, nursed his knees with his hands, and looked at her without frowning.

“That’s thoughtful of you. What are you going to call me?”

“Mr. King.”

“Oh, I’m a king again, am I?”

She backed away until she reached one of the arm-chairs, and sat on an arm. She crossed her legs. She wore a long dress, but it didn’t hide the shapeliness of her ankles or the lower part of her legs. She was slim, but not too thin, tall for a woman.

“Did you patch up my face last night?” Roger asked.

“Yes, how does it feel?”

“As if it needs patching up again.”

“Now?”

“Yes, please.”

She went to the wash-basin and opened the cupboard above it, took out a small pot of white salve, and came towards him. “Sit up straight,” she said, and when he obeyed, she took some of the salve on her fingers and began gently to rub it along the scratches. When she had finished, she stood back and said:

“What about your hand?”

He held it out obediently.

“Thanks very much,” he said when she had finished. “You’re as good as a trained nurse.”

“You have to learn a little of everything.” She seemed anxious to make sure that he didn’t think she was a trained nurse. She was somehow wary, watching him as if he might attack her. She glanced out of the window, and for the first time he caught a glimpse of her profile. She had a short nose, slightly tip-tilted, and tiny pale-pink ears. In every way, she was a wholesome creature, and the word “goodness” came to his mind. Then he imagined her as she would be with her face smashed in.

The door opened.

This time, he’d heard no footsteps.

A man came in, a little fellow wearing a white jacket, with a grey, bullet-shaped head and mournful brown eyes. His brown shoes were polished brightly enough to attract attention. He carried a large tray with the experienced poise of an accomplished waiter, and placed it on the bedside table. Roger ran his gaze over the tray. The oddest thing was the ivory knife; more like a very blunt paper-knife than a table-knife. There was tea, toast, marmalade, butter—plenty of them all—and two plates under silver covers.

“I should sit in bed and have it,” said Marion.

“I never like breakfast in bed.”

“You don’t want to overdo anything,” she said, but humoured him by placing an upright chair in front of the table. He poured himself out a cup of tea; ah! He finished it before he lifted the covers. By then, the waiter had gone.

Porridge; and eggs and bacon.

The bacon was cut into small pieces; he could manage the egg with the ivory knife. All these things added up to one unavoidable conclusion. He didn’t speak of it. The girl sat on the arm of the chair, her legs still crossed, watching him or looking out of the window. He finished every scrap.

“Wonderful!” the girl said.

“What’s wonderful?”

“Your appetite.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” said Roger. “Now, I’d like to shave.”

“I’ll arrange it.” She leaned forward and pressed a bell by the side of the bed, and the little waiter came in. Without a word, he took the tray out. The girl followed him, saying at the door: “I won’t be long.”

When she had gone, he went to the little cupboard above the hand-basin. There were no scissors; no razor; nothing made of steel. He waited for ten minutes, as far as he could judge—he had neither watch nor clock. Then the door opened again, and the girl and the waiter came in; the waiter carried a little black bag.

The waiter spoke for the first time in a voice that was unmistakably Cockney, from the very heart of the East End.

“Goin’ to git in bed, or sit in front’ve the mirror?”

“I’ll sit in front of the mirror,” Roger said.

“S’right.” The man went over to an upright chair, then opened his little black bag. Out of it he took a large pink sheet. Roger sat down, the sheet was tucked round his neck in a professional manner. Then he was lathered and shaved with a safety razor. They weren’t even going to take a chance that he could snatch a cut-throat from the “barber’s” hand!

He was regarded as dangerous; the girl, presumably, considered him a dangerous lunatic.

* * * *

No knife, no razor, no weapon of any kind, no clothes, no watch or clock, no newspapers, neither pen nor pencil; at least, there were some books. These were on a little shelf in the bedside table. He glanced at the titles. They were mostly classics—the popular classics, Scott, Dickens, Macaulay, Trollope—with a book of verse and two modern novels. He didn’t open any of them, but went to the window again and looked out on to the trim lawn and the nodding daffodils and the trees which crowded upon the garden—an impenetrable mass of them, many more than there had been at Copse Cottage. How far was he from Copse Cottage? How many miles had they travelled after he had lost consciousness? Why was he here? When would he see his silvery-eyed companion of the night before ?

The waiter brought his lunch, and stood by while he used the ivory knife again. Five minutes after he had finished, Marion came in with coffee on a tray, and two cups and saucers. He was sitting in an easy-chair by the window.

“Do you mind if I have coffee with you?”

“I was hoping you would.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Mystified, but quite content.”

“I’m “so glad.” She passed over the “mystified” and poured out the coffee.

“Thanks. When are you going to tell me all about it?” Roger asked.

“There’s nothing I can say.” She was earnest.

“Do you think I’m mad?”

“No, of course not!” Coffee spilled out of the jug into the saucer. “That’s ridiculous. You haven’t been well, but you’re getting better, and soon you’ll be perfectly fit again. I want to help you. I wish you’d talk freely to me.”

“What about?”

“Anything that comes into your mind.”

“Applied psychology? Or psychiatry? Or what?”

“Just talk. It always does one good to talk.”

“Supposing I talk about my wife? And the boys.” She had the wary look again, and he decided that Mr. Arthur King had neither wife nor children. She poured the spilt coffee from his saucer into her cup. “Janet isn’t like you, except her hands. Hands reveal a lot—did you know?”

“Yes,” she said.

He made himself sound dreamy. “The only known infallible ways of telling one person from another are by comparing the tips of the fingers and the lines on the soles of their feet; it’s easier to take finger-prints than footprints. But I was going to talk about my family. Janet we’ll take for granted. The boys—there are two of them. The elder is Martin, but we call him Scoopy. Odd name, isn’t it?”

“I rather like it.” She was pretending to believe him.

“It’s grown up with him. Scoopy’s a big chap. Rising six. Tough as they come and a plodder—he takes life pretty seriously. Richard is a year younger and a very different kettle of fish—he takes life as it comes, a gay young man who will go places if he can only develop half of his brothers power of concentration. You don’t believe a word of it, do you?”

“Please go on.”

“Why don’t you believe it?”

“Please go on.”

“Why do you work for a killer?”

“I just have my job to do.”

“Being handmaiden to a murderer shouldn’t appeal to you.”

She smiled.

“Do I strike you as being insane?” he demanded.

“I can’t talk to you about that,” she said. “I know you have dreams—nightmares. The dreams are good, the nightmares—I’ll help you to forget them, help you to sleep without them. It’s only temporary, as a result of the strain. Don’t worry about them. Just tell me about them. That’s all I want you to do. You won’t shock me. I’ve heard so many strange stories and helped so many people. Just tell me about the worst of them. Please.”

What did they want to do? Make him think that he was crazy?

CHAPTER VI

NIGHTMARE

HE could hear the moaning. . . .

And he could see the girl with the battered face and the white blouse and her hand lying over the side of the bed.

The nightmare gripped him with a feverish intensity, and went on and on, but was always exactly the same— the girl, the moaning, clearer, louder, clearer, louder. He wanted to shout, and opened his lips and screamed; but no sound came.

Then, he was awake.

The nightmare was no longer real, just vivid memory. He lay in the darkness. He felt the hot sweat bathing him, and his arms, legs and face twitching. He peered up at the darkness of the ceiling, and felt afraid. He didn’t try to move. He had only to stretch out his hand and switch on the light, but he didn’t want to. He had to overcome this new terror—a terror of the dark.

This was the third night of these nightmares.

It was always dark when he woke; and he knew that if he submitted to the terror and gave himself light, then he would have lost a battle.

He heard no movement, but suddenly it was no longer pitch dark. He opened his eyes. A small light burned by the door, which Marion was closing gently behind her. She wore a dressing-gown, her hair was in a net, and she was smiling reassurance. She came straight to him, and her hand was cool and gentle when she pressed it against his forehead. She went to the basin and damped a sponge, came back and sponged his face and hands; he wanted her to go on doing it.

“You’ll be all right, when you’ve told me about them,” she said. “If you’ll only tell me, there’s nothing more to worry about.”

She’d said that a dozen times in the past three days, but always in daylight. She hadn’t come in just after he had recovered from a dream before. He lay looking at her fresh, wholesome attractiveness, and felt that he hated her. She was the only human being he had spoken to, except the waiter, since he had first come round. She was always the same, and nothing he could say would make her change her attitude—he was ill, she was there to help him. He’d tormented himself, trying to fight against it; just as submission to the fear of darkness would mean a lost battle, so would the narration of his dream to her.

They could make him dream; they had.

“You’ll feel better soon,” she said softly.

He sat up.

“Water, please.”

She went and got him a glass of water. He sipped it, looking at her all the time.

She was like Janet.

It wasn’t just her hands; she was like Janet. If Janet were here, he would feel better. Being away from her was agony in itself. Knowing that she was worried, frightened because he was missing, was perhaps the worst thing of all, except that insistent question—why?

He hadn’t seen a newspaper or heard the radio, he had no idea what was happening outside in the world. Whenever Marion came in, there was always a male guard at the door, and he had no doubt that the man was armed.

“Tell me what it was about?” she whispered, and leaned over him.

He mustn’t lose the battle.

“I’m too hot.”

“I’ll take off the eiderdown.” She stood up, and folded the eiderdown back, took off one blanket, folded it and laid it across an easy-chair. “Lie down,” she said, and when he obeyed, she lay on the bed beside him. She was cool and impersonal; it wasn’t as if a girl were lying there, but someone unreal and unhuman; unhuman, not inhuman. “Just tell me about it.”

That quiet, insistent demand was always the same.

“You’ll feel much better.”

So was the promise.

They wanted to make him lose the fight, wanted him to talk to her, and he’d be damned if he would let them win. They could try as much as they liked, but-

He started.

“It’s all right, I’m with you,” she said.

He wasn’t thinking about her, now, but the idea which had come suddenly. It made him want to laugh, and he hadn’t felt like laughing since the first morning he had seen her. The next stage wouldn’t be reached until he had talked, until “they” thought he had succumbed.

“Just tell me——”

He shook off her hand, sat up sharply and pushed her away.

“Mr. King——”

“Get out! Get away. I hate the sight of you!”

“If you’ll only——”

“Get out!” He pushed her again, and then suddenly raised his hands and clutched her neck. He didn’t hold tightly, but enough to scare her. She called sharply “Come in!” He was still clutching her neck when the door opened and two men sped into the room. One held his wrists and forced his hands from her neck, the other helped the girl from the bed. Then they went out and left him alone.

He felt cool, now—cool and more in command of himself because the cloying helplessness had eased a little. He had a plan of campaign. Three days had sapped his energy and dulled his mind, making it soggy, filling it with one obsession—and he hadn’t seen the obvious, that nothing further would happen until he had done what she wanted him to do—talked freely.

He got up and went to the window.

There were stars, but it was very dark. He went back to bed and closed his eyes, and felt rested. He waited, and waiting was an agony in itself. Judging time was almost impossible, but before he tried again he must wait. It wouldn’t work unless he waited.

He wanted a cigarette, but the only time he was allowed to smoke was when the girl or the barber-waiter were with him—which meant that, ostensibly, they were afraid he would set fire to the room. Everything they did was done to convince him that he was a dangerous lunatic.

At last he decided that he had waited long enough. He went back to bed—and began to shout.

“No, no no!”

Nothing happened.

He screamed again. “No, no, no!”

Was he losing his reason? Could a sane man lie here and shout like that, in an otherwise empty room, with no one to hear him ?

The light came on.

Marion stood in the doorway, smiling, calm. The light was just above her head, and her face was framed in that wispy auburn. She closed the door gently.

“Did it come again?”

“I—I can’t stand it.” He licked his lips, and wondered whether he appeared frantic enough to be convincing. Apparently he did, because she went to damp the sponge again, came back and bathed his forehead, face, and hands.

She lay down beside him.

“Tell me,” she said.

“It’s—so foul. Foul.” He made his voice break. — “Yes, it must be, but don’t worry—I’m used to hearing all kinds of strange stories. The nightmares will stop when you’ve talked about it.”

He told her the simple truth of what he had seen in Copse Cottage. His voice kept breaking, twice he stopped and turned his head away from her, his body becoming rigid; and each time she rested a hand on his arm and waited, until he went on again hoarsely.

Strangely, he felt easier in his mind.

She put an arm round his shoulders and her face was very close to his.

“Don’t worry,” she said very quietly. “Just go to sleep.”

“What—what time is it?”

“It’s the middle of the night. Don’t worry, just go to sleep. You won’t dream.”

* * * *

He didn’t dream.

* * * *

It was full daylight when he woke, and the sun was shining. He felt more rested and calmer than he had for three days—now nearly four. He lay for a while, looking at the sun shining into a corner of the room, then got up and went to look into the garden. The grass smiled, and the daffodils’ heads were raised; the scene was beautiful and as quiet as his mind. He didn’t ask himself whether he had succeeded in doing what he had set out to do. He knew that he had; and that although he might have to pretend again, this part of the ordeal would soon be over. Marion brought him his breakfast. The man with the white jacket and the mournful face shaved him.

Afterwards, Marion brought in a suit of clothes.

* * * *

Except for a handkerchief, there was nothing at all in the pockets, but Roger felt more himself, fully dressed. The clothes fitted well. He wasn’t allowed a tie, the shirt had a collar attached. He was brought a pair of leather slippers, but not shoes—and therefore no laces.

Marion allowed him twenty minutes to dress, and then came in. She left the door wide open. No one was in the narrow passage behind her. She looked fresh, with nothing to show that she had lost so much sleep during the night.

“Would you like to walk round the garden?”

“Er—may I?”

“Yes, it’s a glorious morning,” she said. “And afterwards you can sit downstairs for a while, a change will do you good. Did you sleep well after I left you?”

“Er—yes.”

“No dreams?”

“No.”

“I told you so,” she said; and she had.

He laughed inwardly, but was haunted by an uneasy feeling; she had prophesied it, and it had happened—her “cure” had worked.

The passage was narrow, with cream walls. There were four doors in it. It led to a landing and a narrow staircase, and he didn’t think that it was the front of the house. Downstairs, in a small hall, Marion took an overcoat from a peg and helped him on with it, slipped a coat over her shoulders like a cloak, and then opened the door. The sun shone brightly on them, warm and spring-like. It was good to breathe fresh air.

A bent old man approached a herbaceous border, but quickly disappeared. The beech-hedge was higher than it had seemed from the window—seven or eight feet high, and it looked thick; it wouldn’t be easy to get through or over that hedge. As they walked, Marion talked idly about trivial things.

At the end of the garden Roger stood and looked at the house.

There was nothing remarkable about it. The walls were grey, most of the windows small—only those on the ground floor appeared to open. Radio music came from one of the rooms. He guessed she didn’t want him to study the house closely, and she pressed his arm gently. He turned— and as he did so, a man appeared at a ground-floor window.

He knew it was the man who had talked to him after the hold-up. Even at this distance, those silvery-steely eyes were unmistakable.

CHAPTER VII

NEWSPAPERS

THE man withdrew, as if anxious not to be seen.

Roger kept his face blank, let his gaze roam past the window towards the daffodils near it. He knew that Marion was looking at him intently, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. She held his arm lightly and exerted a gentle pressure as they moved on.

“What is the matter?”

“I’m all right.”

“You must learn to tell me exactly what passes through your mind when you’re frightened.”

“I’m not frightened.”

“You are,” she said, and he couldn’t look away from her any longer, had to meet her eyes. They were so clear and grey—restful eyes. “I felt your arm go taut. Unless you talk freely, you won’t get better,” she said. She hadn’t talked so openly before about his being ill. “Why don’t you trust me?”

“You’ve been very good.”

“I want to help, that’s all, and I think I can.”

“How many other patients have you had here?”

“Quite a lot. I’ve been able to help some of them, and I’m very anxious to help you.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter with me, instead of hinting?”

“Don’t you know what’s the matter?”

“No.” He tightened his lips. “I’m as sane as you are. I want to leave here.”

“You may, as soon as you’re well.”

He pulled his arm free and stalked ahead of her, and she made no attempt to catch him up. The gardener went on working and showed no interest in him, behaving as if this were an everyday affair. He walked across the lawn glancing towards the window where he had seen the man with the fierce silvery eyes, but without staring. He caught a glimpse of the man, standing by the side of the window with a hand at the curtains.

He turned, and saw that Marion was walking slowly across the lawn. The sun shone on her hair, filling it with golden lights, giving her beauty. He waited for her, feeling —and looking—like a sulky schoolboy. She made no reference to what they had been saying.

“I expect you’re tired, you’d better come indoors.”

“I’m all right out here.”

“It’s the first time you’ve been out for several days, you shouldn’t overdo it,” she said. She took his arm again and drew him towards the side entrance to the house. This time there was no doubt; she pressed gently against him. He went into the house, which seemed gloomy after the bright sunlight, and she led the way to a door on the right —overlooking the back garden. Was it the room where the man had been?

It was large, pleasant, sunlit—a drawing-room, furnished with the same taste as his bedroom. In one corner, near the window, was a grand piano, and on it a huge bowl of daffodils and early tulips. Freshness seemed to come from them. There were several sofas and easy-chairs, the carpet was pale green and yellow, on the cream-papered walls were water-colours—good ones. She led him to a chair and waited for him to sit down, pulled up a small table on which was a box of cigarettes and a table lighter. She offered him a cigarette.

“Thanks.”

“Just sit here for a while. I’ll see you again soon.”

She left him with the lighter—the beginning of trust. The door closed softly behind her. He fought back a temptation to jump up and follow her, and as he began to sit down, saw the newspapers.

The sight had a curious physical effect. He stared at them—at this first contact with the real world in four days. The papers were in a rack, near the piano, with several magazines. He went across and picked them up. Before he did so, he thought: “It’s a trick.” They would be old newspapers, of no real interest.

They weren’t; there were four, each a Daily Cry. The first dated March 14, the day he had left the Yard. He looked at the others; March 15, 16, and 17. He looked at the second, and the headline leapt up at him:

GIRL MURDERED IN LONELY COTTAGE.

The body of an unknown girl, her face savagely mutilated, was found by the police in Copse Cottage, Helsham, one of the loneliest parts of Surrey. The killer had smashed a window in order to force entry, and broken down the door of the girl’s room with an axe.

There was a great deal more, but nothing about Roger or the hold-up. He dropped the paper and picked up the next.

GANG RESCUES KILLER—

POLICEMAN SAVAGELY ATTACKED

There was the whole story; much more than there had been in the first paper. He scanned it swiftly, for names. The man who had been charged was “believed to be Arthur King, with an address at Kingston-on-Thames”; there was nothing about Roger West. He glanced through the rest of the paper quickly, seeking only headlines, and found what he wanted on an inside page—a short paragraph with a small heading: Yard Man Missing.

Chief Inspector Roger “Handsome” West, youngest C.I. at Scotland Yard, left his office late on Monday afternoon, and has not been seen or heard of since. The Yard authorities believe that West, who has been working at high pressure for several months, may be suffering from loss of memory or some other illness.

POLICE HUNT MURDER GANG

There was much more behind that; he could see the wary hand of the Yard, requesting the newspapers to play down the fact that he was missing. There was no photograph, nothing to suggest a hue and cry, nothing to hint that his disappearance might be in any way connected with the murder. He picked up the fourth paper—that morning’s.

Everywhere in Great Britain the police are seeking the gang which rescued a killer from a police guard near Helsham, Surrey, late on Monday night. It is believed that an arrest will shortly be made. The rescue, described fully in yesterday’s Cry, was the most daring in police annals.

The dead girl has not yet been identified. There was nothing at the house where she was found to suggest that she lived there, and the house has been empty for several months, the owner, Mrs. Ethel Malloy, being abroad. The police theory is that the murderer made an appointment with the unknown girl who discovered his evil intentions too late and locked herself in. Her face was so badly mutilated that photographs cannot help with identification.

Sir Harry Gregg, chief pathologist at Scotland Yard, says that the girl was probably in the early twenties, but there were no distinguishing marks on the body. The police are anxious to have details of any young woman who has been missing from her home since Monday last, and who answers the following general description: Height: 5 ft. 6 in.; medium to dark hair; blue eyes; well-developed; Weight: 10 stone 4 lb. At the time of her death, the victim was wearing a pleated black-serge skirt, white-silk blouse with four mother-of-pearl buttons the size of two-shilling pieces, a three-quarter-length coat to match the skirt, nylon stockings size 9½ (French make), black suede shoes, rayon underwear (peach colour). The names of the suppliers and manufacturers of all these articles of clothing had been removed.

* * * *

Roger groped for another cigarette and lit it without thinking of that token of trust—he was left with a lighter. There was plenty to go on; absence of name tags shouldn’t prevent the police from tracing the clothes. The “French make” introduced a difficulty; was it possible that the girl had come from France? No more than an outside possibility.

He was thinking almost as if he were at his office. He turned the pages, and again found what he wanted— another reference to himself, this time with a small photograph; and a poor one.

YARD MAN STILL MISSING

Chief Inspector West (photo side) still missing from the Yard and from his home in Bell Street, Chelsea. There has been no trace of his movements since he left the Yard late on Monday afternoon to keep an appointment with his wife. The police theory that he is suffering from loss of memory is supported by his wife, who says that the pressure of work for the past few years has affected his health.

Nonsense! Janet knew better. Janet had been visited by the pundits, had been told what to say to the Press—and the pundits were still influencing the Press. There was not a hint that he was even remotely connected with the Copse Cottage murder. Janet, by now, would be in agony of mind.

* * * *

So mystery was piled upon mystery. The dead girl was unknown, which meant that the Yard wasn’t getting far in its inquiries. That was trivial, compared with the greater mystery—what did these people think they were going to do with him? Why had they brought him here, why had they identified him with Arthur King, and then talked so plainly during the rescue that the police must realize that he was in fact West? Why had they treated him like this, as if trying to convince him that he was ill, in need of treatment—that his mind was unbalanced ?

What good was he to anyone if the Yard had reason to believe him to be a killer? He lit another cigarette.

He stood up and went to the window, looking into the garden, and then saw that this window was exactly the same as the one upstairs—of toughened glass, and without a movable frame.

He turned from the window and picked up the newspapers again—and then he heard a sound behind him. It made him swing round. A shutter was falling over the window from the outside, a shutter like a Venetian blind, blotting out the sun from the top half of the window, then descending over the bottom half. When the shutter was nearly down he rushed to the window and touched the glass, but there was nothing he could do. All he could see was a little of the lawn and the heads of a few daffodils; they disappeared when the shutter fell right into position, and he was left in absolute darkness. Only the glowing tip of his cigarette relieved it, and that faded when he stopped drawing at it.

He heard no sound, now—just stood with his back to the window, staring into darkness.

He heard a whirring noise, which came suddenly, and turned his head to the right. Then he saw light—a beam, as from a powerful torch, shining on the opposite wall. There, the wall was bare. The light hit the wall, much like that from a cine-camera and about the same shape; it made an oblong of light, two yards across, a yard and a half down. Yes, it was from a small projector, and the whirring was explained, they were going to put on a film. He forced himself to walk slowly to a chair facing the wall: he could just pick it out, among the other furniture. He sat down and crossed his legs.

A picture appeared.

A girl was walking along a narrow street—that was all. He didn’t recognize the street, but there were things in it which told him that it wasn’t in England; more likely, France. The terraced houses were tall, and the windows had shutters fastened back against the walls. There were several little balconies at the higher windows. The street was empty, except for the girl, who appeared to be walking towards him. She looked tall. She walked quickly. She was smartly dressed and seemed thoughtful. In a way, she wasn’t unlike Marion; but he might also say that she wasn’t unlike Janet. She kept on walking—was the street as long as that, or was it a trick of the camera ?

She turned into another street where there were more people, into yet a third. This was a wide busy thorough-fare. He caught a glimpse of a single-decker bus with a crowd of people standing on the platform at the back— peculiar to Paris.

The dead girl had worn French nylons.

He had forgotten that sharp nervous fear of the sudden darkness, was absorbed in the pictures.

The girl was lost among the crowds; no, not quite lost, she appeared occasionally, once stood and looked into a shop window—at handbags. Then she walked on—and there was a cut in the film.

Another picture came, this time of a small cafe, with a big striped awning over a dozen or so small tables, a waiter standing in white jacket by the open door, one couple drinking out of long glasses. Then the girl appeared and sat down as far as she could get from the couple. The waiter approached her; she shook her head, said something, indicated that she was waiting for a companion. The waiter took up his position in the doorway. The girl lit a cigarette, adjusted her long skirt, looked up and down the street. Twice she glanced at her wrist-watch. She began to frown.

She opened her handbag, and took something out—a letter? She studied it closely. Yet her eyes didn’t move from side to side, as they would have done had she been reading. She put the thing down, and he saw that it was a photograph; he thought it was of a man, but couldn’t be sure. The girl finished her cigarette, and began to tap her foot on the ground.

Then a shadow appeared over her.

She glanced up—and although the frown disappeared, she didn’t smile, but looked anxious. She said something, and Roger wished this weren’t a silent film, then scoffed at himself for the inanity of the thought.

The shadow grew into a man, who had his back to the camera. He pulled up a chair and sat down. The waiter reappeared. The man with the girl leaned forward and hid most of her from Roger. The man was hatless; he had fair wavy hair which needed cutting. There was something familiar about him; Roger couldn’t place it. Then the man turned, as the waiter approached, and Roger caught a glimpse of the profile—and sat up, a chill shiver running up and down his spine, a physical thing which he couldn’t prevent.

It was his profile.

He had never seen that girl in his life before, but he was sitting there as if in the flesh and talking to her.

The picture faded.

But the whirring continued, it hadn’t finished yet. The light seemed bright. The sweat on Roger’s forehead was cold; this was getting on his nerves, he could sense unnamed terrors hidden from him.

Another picture flashed on-

Of the girl—without a face, or with a face that was unrecognizable. She was just as he had seen her at Copse Cottage.

And then a man spoke from a corner of the room.

“Why did you do it, West? Why?”

CHAPTER VIII

CONVERSATION

ROGER hadn’t heard him come in; hadn’t dreamt that anyone was there. He started violently, and peered towards the corner. He could see a vague shape, which faded as the light from the projector died away.

“Why did you do it, West? Why?”

There was nothing sinister about the voice; it was just a man’s, earnest, rather grim. He’d heard it before, in the car driving down the hill near Helsham.

The man moved; Roger heard the sound, but it was too dark to see anything.

“Why don’t you tell me? Why did you do it?”

The man moved again.

Light came on, not bright, just a single wall-lamp near the door; everything in this affair seemed to be played out in semi-darkness. The man was little more than a shape, but his eyes were like silver fire.

“Why did you do it?”

“I don’t get this. I didn’t do it.” The denial sounded weak, even to Roger; he wasn’t really on top of himself.

“Who do you think will believe you?” the man demanded.

“Anyone with sense.”

“Anyone who sees that film, and knows the rest, will believe that you killed her, West.”

Roger turned and sat down. The cigarette-box was on its side, and the cigarettes were spread over the table. He took one and lit it; it was a relief to smoke. The man stood staring at him.

“What do you want?” Roger asked, heavily.

“I want you to get some facts straight. Don’t you remember going to Paris? Don’t you remember going to the cottage?”

“I haven’t been to Paris for over a year.”

“You could have seen her then.”

“I didn’t see her. I’ve never seen her before.”

The man drew nearer.

“West, you don’t seem to realize your position. You went to Paris and saw that girl—the camera doesn’t lie, the film is here, a copy of it can be sent to Scotland Yard. You went to Copse Cottage, you were alone there when the girl was killed. You appeared to be someone other than yourself—to fool the police. You were rescued by friends, who nearly killed a police-constable. Your colleagues at the Yard think you killed the girl. The evidence is so strong. That film, proving that you knew her before and had an affaire with her, gives you a motive. You met her by assignation in a lonely country cottage. You arranged that someone should telephone the Yard with a faked message, pretending to come from your wife, but you didn’t realize that your wife would deny having sent such a message. You thought you’d get safely home and no one would suspect you, didn’t you? But you didn’t have the

Roger said: “One of us is crazy.”

“No one at Scotland Yard would believe that you’re crazy. You’re too well known, too clever. This has all the hall-marks of a crafty crime—the kind of crime that a man who knows the law might commit. You’re a policeman.” The voice maintained its monotonous level, there was no sneer, no hint of a gloating smile, it was just factual. “You know how the police build up their cases, you’ve often collected the evidence to send a man to the gallows. You’ve briefed the prosecuting counsel a hundred times. Imagine him being briefed with all this evidence! That you once went to Paris; that this girl is French; that you saw her there; that she came to England and threatened to break up your home life; that you planned to meet her and to kill her, to save your domestic life from collapse. Don’t just tell me that you didn’t do it. West, tell me what you think a prosecuting counsel would make of it.”

Roger said: “In every trial, there’s a defending counsel, too.”

“I’ll leave you to think it over,” said the man abruptly. He put his hand to his pocket, pulled out an envelope and tossed it into Roger’s lap. He turned towards the door, and as he went out of the room the shutter began to fold up, and sunlight came in through the window again.

Roger fingered the large envelope, which seemed to have several folded papers inside. He groped for another cigarette. His hand was unsteady when he took the contents from the envelope. There were three smaller envelopes, each of them stamped with a French stamp; each with a Paris postmark, each with a blue sticker reading Par Avion, each addressed to Arthur King, at 18 Sedgley Road, Kingston-on-Thames. The writing was large and feminine, the ink bright blue. He took out the first letter, and the words which flew up at him were: “My darling Arthur—”

The writing was the same as on the envelope. The address was simply: Paris, with the date. He scanned the first. It was a love letter, as from a woman pouring out her heart. It was a good letter, written in fair English with a few odd turns of phrase, and an occasional word or expression in French; the signature was “Lucille.” There was a postcript: “Soon, I must see you, when can you come?”

He opened the second letter, dated two weeks afterwards, and the first words were the same, and then it went on with a fierce directness which shook him badly. “I am coming to see you. Yes! I am able to come to London, very soon. I am delirious with the delight of it. Cheri . . .”

The third letter was very brief; she would be in England on Saturday, March 12, and he was to write to her at the Oxford Palace Hotel, London, to say when and where he could meet her.

* * * *

He could tear the letters up and be no better off. They would have anticipated that, would have photostat copies, and there would be other letters, too, not just these three. Letters addressed to Arthur King, and passionately written. Put these into the hands of the prosecuting counsel together with everything else, and no jury in the country would acquit him. The film was faked. It wasn’t hard for experts to fake a film, and it might be possible to get other experts to testify that it had been faked, that one had been placed upon another—but by itself that wouldn’t be a defence. He had been superimposed on the picture; that was all—a simple technical problem. Someone had photographed him, taken away the background—or it needn’t be a faked film! Make-up could create features like his for the purposes of a film.

He went back to his chair and read the letters through again and felt something of the passion in them and knew one thing; Lucille had been in love with the man to whom she had written. They weren’t faked; they had a quality which reflected sincerity. So Lucille had had a lover, and had come to London to see him.

Who was the lover?

The man with the fiery eyes?

* * * *

The man came in again.

* * * *

Roger really saw him, this time. Apart from his eyes there was nothing remarkable about him. He had a thin face, not ugly, not handsome—a vague kind of face. His lips were unusually well-shaped and red. He had brown hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead, with a wide centre parting. He was dressed well in dark grey, but apart from those eyes, he was just an ordinary man. He walked easily, smiled, and sat down.

“Have you read them?”

“Yes.”

“Have you asked yourself what a prosecuting counsel would say?”

“The defence would want proof that the letters were addressed to me.”

“Oh, they’d have proof. Admirable proof. From two or three blameless people who would swear that you often went to 18 Sedgley Road to collect these letters—irreproachable witnesses. West. Do you like it?”

Roger said: “Not much. When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”

The man laughed—as lightly as if this were a normal conversation, and Roger had made some casual quip.

“Now you’re being sensible,” he said. “You’re half-way towards doing a deal. Before you’ve finished you’ll have to come all the way, because it’s the only thing that will save your neck from being stretched. I’ll tell you, later, possibly to-morrow. I’ve one or two other items of information for you. This house is a private asylum. You’re not the only borderline case they’ve had here. The doctor, like those witnesses, is irreproachable. The staff is thoroughly trained. Some time ago, a Mr. King was brought here by his friends, because he was a psychopathic case and given to moods of violence. He received treatment for a few days and was released. He came back once, before this week. He came when you were away from the Yard on special jobs, and you would have great difficulty in proving you had been somewhere else. He was a fair-haired man, who might be mistaken for you. The only two members of the staff who really saw him at close quarters and could be sure it wasn’t you, were the male nurse who shaves you and the doctor. Your own nurse never saw him—nice girl, isn’t she? She’s very sorry for you. She thinks that you’ve committed some violent crime and are under the proper treatment. The doctor who is prescribing for you will swear that Arthur King and you are one and the same. The theory will be, of course, that as Roger West you knew something was going wrong with your mind, you called yourself King and submitted to treatment. Now the defending counsel might make something of that, but—think what the prosecutor would say.”

Roger said harshly: “Do my thinking for me.”

“Very well. The prosecutor would say that this was all carefully planned, so that if you were caught, you would be able to offer evidence that you were a mental case. The resident doctor here would swear to it, but others would say—truthfully—that if a man wants to pretend that he’s over the border he can do so, and fool almost anyone. You’ve simply fooled this resident doctor.”

The man laughed.

Roger eased his collar.

“The case rests,” said the other easily. “Spend the rest of the day and to-night seeing if there’s a way out of it. If I were in your shoes, I’d come to a conclusion pretty quickly. The only courses open to you are to play ball with me or kill yourself. And if you don’t play ball with me, you will kill yourself. Your body will be found with those letters in your pockets, and a veil will hastily be drawn. Your wife will have a bad time for a while, but she’ll get over it. It’s surprising how quickly human beings recover from the worst of shocks, and she’ll have plenty of helpers. Your friend Mark Lessing will help her to bear the burden stoically, won’t he? And he’ll probably become step-father instead of uncle to your two boys. Nice kids, I’ve seen them several times. What’s the name of the elder one? Something unusual, Marion was telling me—she doesn’t believe you’ve any children, of course, she just thinks you’re a bad case. A violent case, who——”

There was just so much one could stand . . .

At the first mention of Janet, Roger had felt his muscles tensing; at mention of the boys, he’d felt a savage hatred which locked him in his chair. And that question—”what’s the name of the elder one”—brought a vivid picture of Scoopy, big, eager, and trustful, looking at him. Rage took possession of him, and he leapt up, smashed at the blurred face, hit something—and felt agonizing pain in his stomach, from a kick.

Next moment he was surrounded by a surging group of people, fighting wildly. His right arm was forced behind him in a hammerlock, he felt sick with the pain. He saw three men as well as his tormentor; two were holding him, one of them was holding something that looked like a coat harness. In the doorway stood Marion.

Marion said: “Oh, please——”

The men ignored her. Roger’s arms were forced through holes in the “coat”; and he knew it wasn’t a coat, but a strait jacket. There were tears in Marion’s eyes.

He was taken out of the room—upstairs; not into his own room, but to one much smaller—a padded cell.

* * * *

He stayed there for the rest of the day and during the dread, dark night. There was a couch on which to lie. Before daylight had faded, two men had come in and fed him with a spoon; that was the only food he had. He couldn’t rest; dozed fitfully, and dreamt as soon as he dropped off. They weren’t nightmares, and he wasn’t sure whether they were dreams of waking or sleeping. He saw Marion with tears in her eyes, and Janet, with the two boys.

When daylight came, he was lying on his back on the couch, looking at the ceiling: at least that wasn’t padded. There was a small window, set high in the wall, and no sunlight, although the morning was bright enough to tell him that the sun was shining; and outside there was a quiet, bright and happy world. Happy! He tried doggedly to reason with himself, but always came back to the ultimatum: to do what the other man wanted, or to be killed—they’d make it seem like suicide. Suicide depended a lot on motive, and there was one strong enough. Any man who had gone to these fantastic lengths wouldn’t bungle a “suicide”.

But it wasn’t as simple as the man had made out. He could choose, now, between living and at least pretending to help—and no pretence would satisfy his mentor for long —and dying, and thus defeating the man’s mysterious purpose. That was a simple fact. If he refused to “play”, he would be killed.

He could make sure of bitter victory by refusing to play.

But that wouldn’t avenge the dead girl.

It wouldn’t help Janet.

It wouldn’t give Scoopy and Richard back their father.

He lay, unmoving, even when the door opened; movement wasn’t easy, once he was lying down. He expected to see the two male nurses, but instead it was Marion. She smiled at him, closed the door, determinedly, came across, and as he started to sit up, helped him. Then without a word, she began to unbuckle the strait jacket, at the back. She took it off.

His arms were numbed, pins and needles began to run up and down them; agony came. She rubbed his arms briskly.

“Do you feel better? More rested?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m so desperately anxious that you shouldn’t have another relapse,” she said. “I felt sure that you wouldn’t hurt me. You mustn’t attack your friends, you know.”

She spoke with great simplicity, as if to a child whom she was anxious to impress. He looked at her with his head on one side, and wondered what she would think if she suspected the truth. Was she sincere? Had the man told the truth about her? If so, she might become a useful ally.

“You understand, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I am going to ask them to let you return to your room again. I think perhaps you were out too soon after the last attack. Dr. Ritter believes in giving patients every possible chance.”

At last Roger had a name: Dr. Ritter. It brought reality a little nearer.

“I’ll soon be back,” promised Marion.

She didn’t close the door.

That was deliberate, either because she was putting him on trust, or because the man wanted to find out whether he was desperate enough to try to escape. What could he escape to? The certainty of arrest and the near certainty of conviction; it would be crazy to try. He couldn’t try anything. He was forced back to the choice; whether to “play” or whether to let himself be killed. He’d play, of course; he’d have to play.

Marion was soon back, and her face was radiant. No one was in the passage outside.

They were on the second floor; they walked down to the first, and she led him into the bedroom in which he had first come round. He went straight to the window, for he wanted to see that real world beyond the beech-hedge. He saw three men talking together: the gardener, a tall, thin man with a hooked nose, and the man whose eyes impressed themselves so deeply on his mind.

Roger gripped Marion’s arm.

“Who are the men in the garden?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know the doctor!”

“Ritter—the tall man.” He didn’t have to think that out very deeply. “Who is the other?”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. King.”

“I’ve seen him before somewhere, and can’t place him.” He put his hand in front of his eyes, as if to shut out a dread vision, and her voice became soft and soothing again as she led him towards the bed. He sat down, but didn’t lie flat. She said quietly: “That’s your very good friend, Mr. Kennedy. He brought you here.”

Marion went out.

CHAPTER IX

THE GAME

KENNEDY came in during the afternoon; the sun was low in the west, and Roger had finished lunch an hour— or was it two hours?—ago. Kennedy came in softly and closed the door behind him, and Roger looked up but didn’t move. Kennedy was smiling a faint, sardonic smile. He came straight across and offered cigarettes.

“Aren’t you scared of me?” Roger sneered.

“I shall never be frightened of you. West,” said Kennedy easily. “I’ve only to call for help, and my friends here will come at once. They know they’re dealing with a dangerous lunatic. Have you had time to realize the hopelessness of your position?”

“I’d like to change it.”

“You can,” said Kennedy softly. He walked to the window and looked out, beyond the trees. “Out there, the world is going on much the same as usual. Your wife, your children, your friends—all of them are living, eating, sleeping, behaving normally. If you ever want to go back into that world you’ll have to do what you’re told.”

“It would help to know what you want.”

Kennedy turned the full force of those shimmering eyes on him.

“I want you, West,” Kennedy said quietly. “The man and the policeman. Your knowledge of crime and of police methods. I want the expert on criminal investigation. The man who knows Scotland Yard as a doctor knows his patient—and better. I want inside knowledge of the C.I.D. All the tricks of the policeman’s trade. You can lay your finger on anything at Scotland Yard, and I want everything. I want you, not part of you. Mind, body, soul, if you’re fool enough to think you’ve got a soul. The rest steps out and I take possession.”

He meant every word.

His eyes were the true guide to his mind; he wasn’t sane, or he wouldn’t ask for the impossible.

He said: “No, I’m not mad, West.”

“What’s in your mind?” Roger asked roughly. “To send me back to the Yard, whitewashed?”

“Forget it. You’re wanted for murder. I’ve made the evidence too strong. If you ever left here alive and alone, you’d swing. Thinking about escape won’t help you. You can only escape to death.”

Be rational; use reason.

“It sounds wonderful. I work for you and forget my past.”

“You haven’t got a past.”

“Wife? Family?”

“They’re alive. They’re well. They’re not in danger. Forget them.”

“Every C.I.D. man in the country, every patrol man, every village copper, every journalist, and about thirty million people who’ll know what I look like when the Yard really releases this story, will be on the look-out for me.”

“They won’t find you. You won’t look yourself. You won’t be yourself.”

Roger swung round, to stare into the peaceful grounds, to convince himself that this was happening, to grope and gasp. Kennedy didn’t speak or move. A thrush flew down and drove a dozen sparrows away from crumbs which lay white on the lawn.

“Make up your mind,” Kennedy said.

“What do I get out of it? I’m to lose plenty.”

“You’ll be alive.”

“I suppose I’m to live on air.”

Kennedy threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but high-pitched and grating; it matched his eyes. He clapped his hands together, crossed the room and slapped Roger on the back. Roger stood rigid, although the touch was loathsome.

“You’re like the rest, Roger! High-minded while you’ve no temptation. What you mean is—what’s in it for you?”

“Well, what is in it for me?”

“A fortune. An easy life. Plenty of the right kind of company. Do what you’re told and put your best into it, and you can have the world.”

“But nothing out of my past?”

“Nothing,” said Kennedy.

Roger said: “You say you want the man as well as the policeman. Both have memories.”

“It’s easy to forget.” Kennedy’s voice was soft, now, almost a hiss. He turned away, as if to hide the glitter in those frightening eyes. “I know it’s easy, because I’ve forgotten.” He was haunted by memories at this moment, they crowded upon him and he fought them away savagely. “You won’t remember anything for long, not in a way that hurts. You’ll think of the others as dead. Going to play. West?”

There was more in it than this: the whole plan wasn’t unfolded, only a corner was turned up.

“I don’t want to die.”

“You don’t have to. Will you play?”

“It looks as if I’ll have to.”

“You’ll be given paper and pencil,” Kennedy said. “Write out a list of all the senior officers at Scotland Yard, and their special duties. Indicate the particular qualities of each man. Make a precis of the way the organization works. That’ll fill in your spare time for the rest of the day. Make sure it’s right in every detail.”

He went out abruptly.

* * * *

There was no great betrayal in this; few secrets; none Roger need give away. He wrote until his fingers and wrist ached. The male nurse came in with his evening meal, and took away all he had written.

Night came slowly, but he wasn’t tired. He had a watch, now, all the cigarettes and matches he needed, and whisky; the beginning of the “easy” life. His mind was alert, things were crystal clear. His first task was to convince Kennedy that he would really “play”. There’d be trick-tests and crafty traps, and he would have to be on his guard every waking moment, until Kennedy was finally convinced of his goodwill.

He began to think, dispassionately, of how he could send word to Janet and the Yard, and if he found a way, whether he should do it. Janet, when vexed and sharp-voiced if he’d worked too late, had a trick of gibing: “You’re a policeman first, man second.” There was truth in it; never more truth than now. The battle was on—a strange, tenuous, bitter battle.

* * * *

He was asleep when Marion came to him. For a moment, he thought it was Janet. He started up. Only the dim light was on, and she sat on the bed, looking fragile.

“What is it?”

She said : “I’m terribly frightened.”

“You’re frightened!”

“Yes.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

She asked: “Who are you?”

Beware the traps.

“Don’t you know?”

“I thought—you were Arthur King.”

“Aren’t I?”

“He called you by another name.”

“Who? The doctor?”

“No. Kennedy.”

“When?”

“I heard you talking in here to-night.”

She might have; much more likely she was in the plot and came as an agente provocatrice from Kennedy.

“Forget it,” he said roughly.

“Please! Don’t raise your voice. I want to help you, if you’re in trouble. I saw a photograph——”

“I’m ill. You know that.”

“But are you?” She gripped his hands tightly. She wore the woollen dressing-gown, and it parted at the neck; her nightdress was of pink silk. “I’ve been unhappy about you, you seemed so rational at first, not like the others. I thought——” She paused, and her fingers pressed hard enough to hurt.

“Well?”

“I thought it was because I—liked you.”

“That’s happened to me before.”

“Oh, please. Tell me the truth. If you’re someone else I can get a message sent for you. It would be a hideous crime to keep a sane man here. Perhaps I could tell your friends, or the police. I have time off to-morrow, and can go into the village—to London—anywhere. I want to help you.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then let me get some sleep.”

She drew back, as if he had struck her, and her eyes seemed filled with pain. Could any woman act like that?

She went slowly towards the door; for the first time, her shoulders drooped as if the vitality had been drained out of her. She opened the door; there was still time to call her back.

He let her go.

* * * *

The safety razor felt unfamiliar in his hand, but he didn’t cut himself. When he looked into the mirror afterwards, he saw that the last traces of the scratches had all but gone.

The male nurse brought him a Daily Cry. There was a little paragraph about the nation-wide hunt, and more about him, with a larger photograph, and the words:

Reliable reports say that Inspector West was last seen on Monday evening, in the Guildford area. Anyone who saw him after six-fifteen that night should communicate at once with Scotland Yard or the nearest police-station.

* * * *

That was placed close to the murder story; so, slowly and reluctantly, the Yard was allowing him to be connected with that affair.

He put the paper down as the door opened. Kennedy came in with a little sparrow of a man. The newcomer had a beak of a nose and beady eyes, a fresh complexion and tiny, bloodless lips. He stood hardly higher than Kennedy’s shoulder, but was immaculately dressed in black coat and striped grey trousers, pale spats, a diamond tiepin in a silvery grey tie. His voice was high pitched, almost shrill.

“Good morning, good morning. So you’re the patient.”

“For what?” asked Roger.

“You’ll see,” said Kennedy.

“Yes, yes,” said the little man. “Yes, I see. Mr.—ah King, go over to the window, please, sit sideways to it, and look at the wall. Please.”

Roger obeyed.

The little man came closer, peered, breathed on him, and kept nodding. It went on for an age. Then the man pinched his cheeks, his forehead, and the flesh beneath his chin. Roger felt like a biological specimen.

“Yes, yes, that will do.”

“A good subject?” asked Kennedy.

“Quite satisfactory.”

“Mind it is, damn you!”

“There is no need to be abusive,” said the sparrow perkily. “When?”

“This morning.”

“Very well, I will get ready.” The sparrow went out, bustling and confident.

Roger felt the glittering eyes on him; he felt hot and frightened, but schooled his voice to calmness.

“What’s on?”

“The second stage in the transformation of Roger West. You don’t need to worry, you won’t feel anything.” Kennedy laughed, and then Marion came in with a tray on which were two cups of coffee; a departure from daily practice and therefore suspicious. She spoke, as if to lull his suspicions.

“As you were here, Mr. Kennedy, I thought I would bring two cups.”

“That’ll do.”

“Thank you.”

“Drink coffee. West?”

“I prefer tea.”

“You’ll like this for a change.”

He drank it.

* * * *

It was drugged. He knew that from Kennedy’s grin, and had proof in his own drowsiness, ten minutes after he’d had the drink. Kennedy left him and the male nurse came in, said: “Follow me” and went out again, expecting unquestioning obedience. Roger followed him along the narrow, plain-walled passages. The nurse opened a door. A powerful smell of antiseptics stung Roger’s nostrils; the bleak white austerity of an operation theatre met him. Panic rose inside him like a tempest, he stopped and gripped the door.

His mind was numbed with the drug, or he might have drawn back then, and fought to escape.

Beneath a single bright light was a chair; a barber’s chair. It stood beyond the operating-table. The nurse led him to it, and said: “Coat off.” He took off his coat and the nurse pushed him into the chair. As he sat down, the sparrow came hopping in. He went straight to a steaming metal pan, where surgical instruments gleamed through steam. Roger closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair; the neck rest was of hard rubber, quite comfortable. The mist rising from the pan seemed to become thicker, a billowing cloud, hiding the window, turning the light to an iridescent haze. The sparrow loomed out of it, or else was enveloped and almost invisible. He kept clicking his tongue; or was it his false teeth? He put on a long white coat. The mist looked like ectoplasm, and the sparrow a wraith. Roger’s head whirred as if the cine-projector were inside it. The speed increased, the harsh sound grated in his ears, eyes, the whole of his head. The mist became a billowing cloud stirred up by a strong wind. Men became shapes. On a tray in front of him instruments gleamed— glittered—it was as if Kennedy were staring at him from the tray.

He lost consciousness.

* * * *

He groaned. Someone spoke, softly, soothingly. He groaned again, but not from pain. There was no pain, only fear of something he could not comprehend.

A hand was at his shoulder, and the voice came again.

He tried to open his eyes.

He could not.

Panic, a hundred times worse than when he had been in the chair, took hold of him and shook him violently, his whole body seemed to be in physical turmoil. He felt pressure on his hands and—worse—on his eyes; that was why he couldn’t open them, something pressed firmly against the lids. That wasn’t all; there was pressure against his cheeks, chin, lips, and throat, a constricting pressure, as if his face were in a special “strait jacket”.

“Mr. West!”

He knew that voice.

“Please don’t struggle, please don’t.”

Was he struggling? He felt as if he were convulsed by forces stronger than himself. But he became calmer and more conscious of the gentle pressure of Marion’s hands.

“You’ll be all right,” she promised, “you’ll be all right.”

He was still; and he was hot; prickly heat affected his whole body, and there was a warm glow over his face. He tried to speak, and couldn’t move his lips.

“Don’t try to speak yet. You’ll be all right. You’ve had an operation on your face.”

He lay quite still, aware of the stiff warmth of his face, clearly understanding what had happened. The sparrow was a plastic surgeon; Kennedy had talked of the second stage in the transformation of Roger West—a transformation in his looks, of course.

He moved his right hand.

He felt the same warm stiffness at the tips of his fingers —so they’d taken the skin off them, and grafted new, to prevent identification through his finger-prints. But the prints would grow again; didn’t they know that?

“I’m going to help you to sit up,” said Marion. “Then I’ll feed you.”

Her arms were young and strong, and soon he reclined comfortably against the pillow. She put something to his lips and it seemed hard, cold, and round; like a cigarette. It was a rubber tube. Warm sweetness filled his mouth and he gurgled as it ran down his gullet.

“Are you fairly comfortable? Just nod.”

He nodded.

“Is there anything you want?”

He wanted freedom; Janet; the boys; all the things which were impossible to have. He shook his head.

“I’ll come and see you again, soon.”

He wanted to ask how long this would go on, but he couldn’t move his lips, and so had to let her go.

An hour or an age passed before she was back.

* * * *

“Mr. West, I want you to listen carefully to all I have to say.”

He nodded.

“You can talk now, if you try. Your lips are free of the bandages, but your chin and nose aren’t. If you try to talk without moving your lips much, you’ll manage.”

Old lags knew that trick; he’d often demonstrated for fun, and sent the boys off into peals of laughter. He tried now.

“Okay. I can hear.” The voice didn’t sound like his own.

Had they changed that?

“You’ll be here just for a day or two, and after that more of the bandages will be taken away and you’ll feel easier.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a cord above your head. Pull it if you want someone to come.”

“Thanks.”

“Would you like the radio?”

“No!”

“If you would, just pull the cord. And please remember this. I want to do everything I can to help. I know who you are now, I’ve seen the newspapers, and——”

She broke off in a choking voice, and he heard her rush out of the room.

* * * *

Routine.

Special feeding, liquids only; visits once a day from the sparrow. Radio music in half-hour doses. After the third day, some of the bandages were removed. The burning sensation went completely, but his face and fingers felt numb.

Routine: practise speaking; practise moving his fingers. Radio music; dull radio comedians, bright radio comediennes—no news. Never any news.

Routine: look forward to Marion’s visits. Wait for them. Hear a faint sound and hope she had entered. Feel sick with disappointment if she hadn’t, exhilarated if she had. Routine: stop thinking about Janet. Stop it, stop it! Stop an avalanche, stop the waves, stop thinking about Janet and about the boys.

Each day for seven days a little more of the bandage was removed.

On the eighth day, the awful darkness lifted, for the bandages and pads were removed from his eyes. He opened them to a subdued light, and the hazy face of the sparrow in front of him—a perky, peering sparrow, who seemed fully satisfied with the results.

“Two or three days now, and you’ll be all right, quite all right; perfectly satisfactory case. No complications. You’ll be weak, but you’ll get strong quickly.”

Routine: wait.

CHAPTER X

NEW MAN

RAIN hissed and spattered against the windows, heavy grey clouds hung low, and the garden was a sorry drenched mass. Many of the daffodils were dead or dying, and there was little colour in the borders, except green.

Roger stood there, looking out.

The door opened. Marion ? His heart leapt, because hers was the only friendly voice and friendly face. But this was the sparrow, and Kennedy was with him. Kennedy nodded and smiled, as if in an affable mood.

“Good morning!” The sparrow rubbed his hands together briskly. “Feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good. Come and sit down.”

Roger sat in a chair in front of the mirror. The pale white bandages covered most of his face, and he had become familiar with the “new” eyes, nose, and mouth since seeing them three days ago. They made him different.

Kennedy stood behind him, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“Now!” chirrupped the sparrow.

Bright scissors snipped the bandages at the back of Roger’s head, nimble but gentle fingers plucked the gauzy stuff away, and it peeled off, almost like a skin. There were several layers. Roger gripped the arms of his chair and deliberately closed his eyes. The sparrow said: “There!” After that there was silence, until Kennedy spoke in a marvelling voice.

“Wonderful!”

“Yes, yes, it’s good. I knew you’d be satisfied.”

Kennedy sneered: “Aren’t you going to look at yourself, West?”

Roger clenched his teeth, and his fingers seemed stuck to the arms of his chair. He could imagine the delight in the sparrow’s eyes and the gloating satisfaction in Kennedy’s. Very slowly, he opened his eyes. The vague shape of his head and shoulders appeared first, and he stared as through a mist. That cleared.

He looked into the face of a stranger.

It wasn’t a bad face; not evil. His good looks had turned into ruggedness. His nose was broader at the bridge, his eyes were narrower—he knew that skin had been taken out of the corners. His chin jutted, and seemed less pointed. His lips were thinner, but not turned down at the corners. As a face there wasn’t much the matter with it, but it wasn’t his. His usually long and wavy fair hair was cut very short, showing the shape of his head.

* * * *

After the others had gone, Marion came in. She saw him sitting by the window, gazing out on to the rainswept garden and a prospect as desolate as his own future. She came slowly and softly, as if afraid of what she was going to see. He wouldn’t turn his head, made her come round in front of him. She put her hands to her breast and opened her mouth as if to cry out, but no sound came.

Roger growled: “Satisfied with your share in it?” It was hard to say why he felt that he had to be harsh with her.

“I’ve tried to help.” She was near tears.

“And this is the result.”

“If only you’d let me send for others——”

“Let you! Did I stop you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t tell the police because I thought you were afraid of them. I wanted to help you. I’d give my life to help you. I didn’t care—I don’t care—whether you killed her or not.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you let me——”

“Oh, forget it.” He stood up abruptly. “All right, Marion. Tell me how it is you’ve been nursing me since you stopped thinking I was mad. You know that your precious Dr. Ritter and my dear friend Mr. Kennedy are crooks, don’t you?”

“I—yes.”

“You knew all the time—didn’t you?”

“No,” she said dully. “I’d no idea there was anything wrong when you first came. After I’d looked after you. Dr. Ritter told me that you’d killed that girl and had to be—changed. He gave me the chance of helping you. I took it. I had to take it. I think he knew why.”

“Why?”

“I love you,” she said.

* * * *

Was she lying ?

* * * *

Or was she trying this way to win his confidence? Was she a tool of Kennedy’s, or simply a victim?

Kennedy was in the lounge downstairs when Roger went in. He put down a newspaper and raised a hand.

“Hallo, West. Are you as well as you look?”

“I’m all right.”

“Good. After a spell like you’ve had, you want to get back into civilization slowly. I’m going to let you take Marion around a bit. You’ll both be closely watched, but I don’t think you’ll try any funny stuff.”

“I’m tired of doing nothing.”

“I’ve plenty of work for you—when I’m ready. For a start, here are the newspapers for the past ten days. Get yourself up to date with the news. Then you can take Marion to the flicks. Dance around a bit, afterwards, start living.”

He went out.

Roger read newspapers until he could take in nothing more.

The Copse Cottage murder had gradually faded from the Daily Cry, and the story of his disappearance replaced it. The disappearance of Roger West was—or had been, it was deep in the past already—a nine-days wonder. But there had been no official connection between that and the murder, all the statements were guarded. Only one thing hurt: a photograph of Janet. An obsession began to take hold of him: he must get word to his wife. If she received even a hint that he was alive, then he could rely on her faith to help her over the agony she was suffering now.

Marion? Could he trust her?

* * * *

A weak sun pierced the clouds, birds chattered, the air was fresh, crisp, exhilarating. Roger, dressed in well-made new clothes, stood beside Marion, by a small car, outside the front of the house. Beyond were dripping trees and hedges, and great fields, where a few cattle grazed. He could see no other sign of habitation.

“Get in,” he said.

Marion climbed in.

She wore a red plastic raincoat over a blue dress. Her eyes sparkled, her freshness seemed to match the day, fears were gone, and she was set fair for enjoyment: being with him. They settled down, and their chauffeur, the male nurse, let in the clutch. This winding road led for miles between trees, and then they came upon a main road. There were telegraph poles, wires, cars, lorries, the half-forgotten things. They passed through a village where a constable stood leaning on his bicycle, talking to two old men.

They came to a town.

It was bustling and pleasant, had a friendly atmosphere. The streets and wide market-place were thronged with people, cars, single-decker buses, a few horses and traps. The nurse took them to a car park, near a huge Odeon Cinema.

“Do you want to see a film at once?” he asked Marion

“We’re to go to tea at the Royal, first.”

He was mingling with ordinary people again, and felt numbed with the strangeness. There were several policemen here; none showed any interest in him, yet each would have scored a rousing triumph had he guessed.

Marion held tightly on to his arm.

No one appeared to follow them, but he was sure that they were being watched wherever they went; that sixth sense which came from years of experience hadn’t died. They came upon a large hotel, where a sign outside read : Tea Dance, Daily, 3s. 6d.

“Where are we?” Roger asked.

“Worcester.”

He recalled it, now. The old town cheek by jowl with the new. They went in. The atmosphere was friendly, a good band was playing, but only three couples were dancing, half a dozen others sitting round a large room. The waiter came up promptly.

They danced; Marion was as light as a feather.

“If we could go on like this,” she said.

He nodded, but made no comment. Her presence hurt because she reminded him of Janet in her complete contentment at being with him. He danced mechanically a quick-step with a gay lilt and quickening rhythm.

Then he saw a couple enter; and he froze.

Marion said: “Don’t look like that!” He turned away, but looked at the new-comers out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t fancy. His blood ran hot, he missed a step again. Marion asked urgently:

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer, but led her towards their table, feeling physically sick and racked with pain. The new-comers looked around—man and woman.

Man—and JANET.

* * * *

The man was Mark Lessing, Roger’s one close friend.

* * * *

“What is it?” demanded Marion. “Please tell me.”

“Never mind.”

“Have you seen someone you know?”

“Yes. Please don’t talk.”

She fell into a reluctant silence. Janet took off her coat, the now shabby black sealskin which he had bought her years ago. Mark put it over the back of her chair, Janet was sideways towards Roger, not five yards away. She began to look round her, and he hated what he saw in her grey-green eyes. She was older—careworn and tense. Her hands were clenched in her lap. Her eyes sought out every man here, and Roger knew she was looking for him. She’d come here, hoping to see him, but the hope was already dying. She looked at him, but her gaze didn’t linger for a moment; she showed no interest in Marion.

Her eyes were so tired, her hair, dark yet usually so full of light, had lost its lustre. Mark Lessing gave her a cigarette, and she began to smoke nervously, agitatedly.

Mark sat back, looking about him with less obvious tension than Janet, but eagerly, searchingly. He was good-looking—in his way, handsome. His expression was austere, and those who did not know him well took him for a snob. His skin was rather sallow, his dark hair was wavy, and worn too long; it looked affected.

No two people knew Roger so well.

“Please tell me,” Marion whispered.

“A friend—of mine.”

“Oh. Kennedy——”

“Sent us here. This is a test of my nerves and goodwill. I’d rather not talk.”

“It’s your wife isn’t it?” Marion said in a flat voice.

Roger nodded.

“She’s——”

“Don’t.”

“She’s very sweet.”

“Let’s get out of here!”

“No! Kennedy’s watching.” Marion feared Kennedy so much.

Kennedy was grinning, as if to himself.

“Come on,” said Roger.

He led the way, and Kennedy still grinned. Mark glanced at him; was there a puzzled gleam in his eyes? Roger paid at the cash desk, and when he looked round, neither of the others was looking at him. He was sticky hot. He went into the lobby and saw a man sitting in an easy-chair, from which he could see into the ballroom. It was all Roger could do to look away from the watcher who was Detective Inspector Sloan of New Scotland Yard —and no man at the Yard knew Roger more intimately.

Sloan stared at him blankly.

* * * *

The film didn’t matter; all he saw was Janet. It was dark when they left. The male nurse was outside with the car. The journey to the nursing-home took an hour. He wanted to get to his room and be on his own, but Kennedy called him into the lounge. Marion made to follow.

“Not you,” Kennedy said. “Close the door and leave us alone.”

Marion obeyed.

Kennedy grinned. “Good, isn’t it, West?”

“Is it?”

“I’d call it good. In future, you’re to be known as Rayner—Charles Rayner. I’ve a passport, registration card, business, home, past history, and everything else you might need. Don’t forget, Mr. Rayner.”

“You forget my bad memory.”

“Your memory is all right, so far, but it won’t hurt for long. Marion’s a nice girl, and she’s yours for the asking. Oh—Rayner.”

“Well?”

“You might have the bright notion of sending word to your wife. Don’t. I sent her a message, saying she might see you in Worcester to-day. So she hasn’t given up hope. I knew she was on the way, when you left. Know how I knew?”

Roger didn’t answer.

Kennedy laughed.

“Your wife has a new maid. She’s spent so much time away on wild-goose chases after you that she had to have a reliable nurse for the boys. She’s got one. That nurse will be loyal to her for exactly as long as you’re loyal to me. Not a day longer. You’re no fool, West. If your wife got a message which convinced her you’re alive, she’d tell the nurse—or at least, give it away. Remember all this. The nurse is a nice girl, and fond of children. But she’ll do what I tell her. I don’t want to have to hurt the kids.”

* * * *

Roger left the house again a week after he had seen Janet.

London!

Fresh under an April sun, but with her great buildings dark with smoke and grime. London, a seething, toiling mass of people, crowded streets, giant red buses, box-like taxis, shops, shops, shops—and factories, docks, the broad, smooth Thames. The London he knew and loved, revealed to him again as he was driven along the straight, wide tawdriness of Oxford Street, into Regent Street with its curving stateliness. Piccadilly bustle, Leicester Square a quiet, friendly grass patch with gargantuan cinemas around it, Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, massive Government buildings and—Scotland Yard. The driver turned towards Scotland Yard, but didn’t go past the gates. He stopped the car so that Roger could see the reddish brick of the old building, housing the civil police. Constables on duty looked at them disinterestedly, as at all sightseers. They drove past Cannon Row Police Station, dark, low-roofed, and dingy, with its barred windows. He knew every inch of it—and of the Yard. It had been his life.

The Embankment; the white new building, housing the C.I.D. Then they drove off the cluttered road near the pale-grey austerity of the new Waterloo Bridge, and into the Strand.

Roger, by the driver’s side, hadn’t said a word since they had reached London. Now :

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

They turned out of the Strand, near Covent Garden, empty and desolate and waiting for the next day’s business. They stopped in a narrow street. Here the buildings were old—a mixture of flats and offices.

“This is you,” said the driver. “Number 15.”

Roger got out. Number 15 was opposite—with an open door, a dark hallway, and narrow stairs. He went in, completely mystified. The driver sat in the car and grinned at his back. He glanced at the notice-board: there were six names, and one newly painted sign read:

Charles Rayner.

Commission Agent.

Wholesale—Retail.

4th Floor.

There was no lift. He walked upstairs slowly. He was Charles Rayner, and this was where he would work, do what “business” he would. It was dark on each landing; darkest on the fourth where a broken window was boarded up. He stood undecidedly outside a door marked with his new name; took the plunge and opened it.

A man leapt at him from the corner behind the door.

CHAPTER XI

GINGER

WILD eyes burned in a pale face. An iron rod clenched in a claw-like hand brushed Roger’s shoulders as he swung to one side. The rod hit the door with a metallic clang, and clattered on the floor. Roger ducked and dodged, then went into the attack, striking out savagely.

Right to the stomach; left to the chin. The first blow brought forth a soughing groan, the second, a screech. The man backed away helplessly, banged against a chair and sprawled into it.

Roger closed the door, and listened intently. He could hear a typewriter, going at speed; that was distant, the only audible sound. The man in the chair sat up, licked his lips and put out a hand as if afraid of further violence.

“Can you give me one reason why I shouldn’t break your neck?” Roger growled. His voice was hard and grating, the voice he’d trained himself to acquire.

The man cowered back; hardly a hero. He wasn’t difficult to read. He had screwed himself up to make that assault, and when it had failed, courage went out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

He was thin, his pallor sickly. He needed a shave, and his gingery hair wanted cutting. His clothes were poor; navy-blue suit frayed at the cuffs, and a choker-scarf, not a collar and tie.

This was a waiting-room; the high, cream-washed walls were bare, and there were two leather arm-chairs and four good uprights, reproduction Hepplewhite. On a plain walnut table, a dozen new magazines were neatly placed; alongside it was a similar arrangement of trade periodicals. There was a faint smell, dry and not unpleasant, of distemper. Two doors led from here. One was marked: Inquiries: Please Ring, with a sign beneath a bell-push; the other, Charles Rayner, Private. There were frosted-glass panels in each.

“Why did you attack me?” Roger demanded, roughly.

“I—thought——” The man hesitated, thrusting out his hands appealingly. “You’re not the man I expected.”

“It would still have been murder.”

“I came to kill him.”

You couldn’t mistake the touch of dignity which came unexpectedly with the words; the man was proud of what he had come to do.

Roger said: “Stay there.” He turned, pushed open the inquiries door and saw a large office, with six or seven desks, three typewriters, several telephones, cabinets—a well-equipped place, where everything was new. There was a large cupboard, with hooks for hats and coats. He went back, gripped the ginger-haired man and took him into the room and locked him in the cupboard.

Another door led from this room—to the “Private” one. Roger opened it; the office beyond was sumptuous; more study than office, with a thick carpet, panelled walls, a library of books, and several easy-chairs. No one was here. He studied the ceiling and the panelled walls; a policeman again, knowing exactly what he wanted and knowing pretty well where to find it. He saw a small panel, one of several in the wall behind the desk, and prised it open with his fingers.

He grinned broadly; that was his first natural smile since he had left Scotland Yard.

Inside a foot-deep cavity was a tiny dictaphone recording outfit. He switched it off, using a pencil, and closed the panel. Then he scanned the ceiling and panelling again until he was sure there was no peephole through which he could be watched or heard. He went to the outer room. The ginger-haired man stepped meekly out of the cupboard.

“In here,” Roger said.

He locked the outer door with the key on the inside; there was no way of getting in except by the windows. These overlooked a blank wall, and the drop to the area below was sheer. He stood first at one side, then the other, to make sure that the office could not be overlooked. Finally, with the ginger-haired man gaping and nervous, he stood on a corner of the desk and examined the ceiling; no, there was no break to mar the white paper; no peephole through which he could be watched.

“Who did you expect to find?”

“Not—not you.”

“I’ve believed you, so far. Who did you want to kill?”

“Rayner,” said the ginger-haired man.

So he had inherited an enemy as well as a name.

“Why?”

“He killed my wife.”

“Murderers get hanged.”

“It wasn’t known as murder,” the ginger-haired man said wearily. “It just wasn’t discovered, but I knew. I was inside when it happened. He always told me he’d kill her if she wouldn’t do what he wanted. She didn’t, and he killed her.”

Was this another of Kennedy’s little tricks?

“I’m—Kyle,” the man muttered.

“Why did they put you inside?” Kyle, Kyle? The name was familiar, and rang a bell in his memory.

“Forgery,” Kyle said simply. “I’m an engraver. I’m a good engraver.” That incongruous hint of dignity came again. “My products were practically undetectable.”

That was true: yes, Kyle. He’d been caught and tried in Manchester. It was one of those cases in which a provincial force had stolen a march on the Yard. Eddie Day, purveyor of faked messages, had gone to Manchester to hold a watching brief for the Yard, and had come back shaken by the cleverness of the forgeries.

“When did you come out?”

“A month ago.”

“What have you been doing since?”

“Looking for Rayner.”

“Are you still on your ticket?”

“Yes, I report twice a week. I go to Bow Street while I’m in London.”

“What does this man, who calls himself Rayner, look like?”

The watery pale-blue eyes, with their pink lids and thin fair lashes, looked puzzled.

“Don’t you know?”

“I am Rayner.”

“No, no! You can’t be! You——”

“The other man used my name. What’s he like? What’s his most noticeable feature?”

Kyle said softly and in a voice which seemed to be filled with hatred:

“You would never forget Rayner. His eyes—how I hated his eyes. Denise did, too, although they fascinated her, she—she was attracted to him, but he frightened her. He wanted her to go with him and leave me. My pals told me that Rayner told her he would kill her if she didn’t go to him. She didn’t go. She was killed in—in an accident. Accident!” Shrillness put an edge to his voice, and his eyes blazed. “She was run down by a car, all her beauty spoiled. All her beauty.” He took a photograph from his pocket, and his fingers trembled. He stared down at it, and tears glistened in his eyes. He whispered: “Look!”

She was gay and smiling, a queen to this man’s slave. It was easy to believe that Kyle had worshipped her.

Roger said: “I can understand why you don’t like Rayner. Let me have a look at your wallet.”

“I—no!”

“Come on.”

Kyle handed it over, reluctantly. Roger shook the contents of the wallet on to the brown-leather surface of the desk. He saw the expected oddments: a ticket of leave, prison-discharge form, registration card—an old, tattered, dog-eared letter dated eight years ago, a ten-shilling note, and another photograph. He turned the photograph over. He knew that Kyle was watching him, jealously intent, and kept his face set.

It wasn’t easy, for this was the girl from Paris—Lucille.

He stared down at it, then at the picture of Kyle’s dead wife.

These were alike, with unmistakable family likeness.

* * * *

“You pick good lookers,” Roger growled, after a long pause.

“Please!” Kyle’s dignity rose again. “That is my daughter.”

“Sure?”

“I am quite sure,” said Kyle. “That is Lucille.” He gave a gentle smile. “Years ago, I sent her to France, to my wife’s family. I met Denise during the first Great War. Lucille was so good and clever, and I did not want her smeared with my reputation. My wife and I agreed it was best. We had anxious days during the last war, my wife suffered most, because I wasn’t there to help her bear her loneliness, but all was well, Lucille was in a country-district, no harm befell her.” The pedantic phrases had a touch of dreaminess.

“Lucky Lucille,” Roger’s voice seemed to stick in his throat. “Where does she live now?”

“In Paris.”

“What’s her address?”

“That I shall not tell you.”

“Let me have that address. Kyle. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Afterwards, you can clear out of here. I’ll stake you for a few weeks.” Roger took out his wallet, and counted ten one-pound notes; Kennedy had given him fifty.

Eagerness but not avarice gleamed in Kyle’s eyes.

“I’ll stake you for ten a month,” Roger said. “I’ll send them to your address.”

“No! No, that wouldn’t be safe, I’m at Joe’s.” Joe’s was a verminous den, a doss-house that remained a blot on London, as it had been in the dark, squalid London back streets of Victorian days. “Send it to—but why are you going to stake me?”

“I don’t like men who use my name. You’ll keep quiet. If anyone asks, you came here to beg, and I kicked you out.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Where’s Lucille?” In a lonely pauper’s grave, somewhere in Surrey, a nameless corpse.

“She is at 23 Rue de Croix, Paris 8.” The information came out slowly and reluctantly; but it came. “You won’t harm her?”

“No. I’ll post ten bars a month to you in the name of John Pearson at the Strand Post Office—Trafalgar Square end. Now clear out. If anyone worries you, telephone me here.” Using block capitals, he wrote the number, taken from the telephone, on a strip of paper, printed the name of John Pearson, c/o the Strand G.P.O., as a reminder, and pushed it across the desk. “Don’t write, don’t come again unless I send for you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, but—I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.” Roger stood up. “Pull your hat over your eyes when you go out, don’t let anyone get a good look at you. You might be in trouble if your friend knows you’ve been after him.”

Kyle nodded. For years, in prison, he had done what he was told, the habit of obedience was strong in him.

Roger went into the outer office with him, watched him pick up his cap and go out, small, spindly, nervous. Roger followed him down the creaky narrow stairs, a few steps behind him.

Ginger Kyle slipped away towards the market.

Another man came along the street, walking briskly.

Detective Inspector Sloan of the Yard, tall, blond, with an alert, eager face, good blue eyes and powerful body and shoulders, watched Kyle keenly.

Roger, his heart hammering, went upstairs. At the second-floor landing, he paused.

Sloan was coming in from the street.

CHAPTER XII

TEST

ROGER opened the dictaphone panel, switched the machine on, then sat at his desk. He opened a drawer, took out some papers—the first that came to hand—and spread them out. Sloan’s footsteps sounded on the landing. Roger heard the outer door open.

Kennedy was a fool not to have primed him. But was he? This had all the signs of a trap; the empty office, and Sloan’s visit. Would Kennedy have let him stay here alone without a purpose?

No.

Sloan’s footsteps were firm, not heavy: Roger knew them well, they had worked on a hundred cases together.

Sloan tapped.

Roger wiped his forehead, and called: “Come in.”

Sloan thrust the door open firmly and took a good look round the office before coming in and closing the door. He looked hard at Roger, as at a man he was seeing for the first time. To Roger, it was a moment of screaming tension, but—Sloan did not recognize him.

Roger said: “Well?”

“Mr. Rayner? Charles Rayner?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry to worry you, Mr. Rayner.” That was perfunctory, Roger couldn’t mistake Sloan’s hostility, as he pulled up a chair and sat down. He took out his cigarettes, in a familiar yellow packet.

“Smoke?”

“No. Who are you?”

Sloan lit up and took out a card and held it forward. Roger glanced at it.

“You may be a policeman, but you don’t own the world.”

“I just help to keep it clean,” said Sloan. “You had a visitor just now. A certain Mr. Kyle, who spent a lot of time behind bars.”

“So he told me.” The dictaphone picked that up, so Kennedy would learn about Kyle’s visit.

“What did he want?”

“Work.”

“Did you give him any?”

“No.”

“Why did you see him off?”

“To make sure he left the premises.”

“So you’ve got all the answers, Mr. Rayner.”

“That’s right.”

“I hope you’ve some more answers up your sleeve, Mr. Rayner.” Sloan was heavily sarcastic. “This is an informal call. Can I take it that you’d swear in court that you’d never seen Kyle before?”

“Yes.”

“What business do you transact, Mr. Rayner?”

“I’m a commission agent.”

“That covers a lot of—things.” The pause made the words an accusation. “How long have you been in business here?”

“I haven’t.”

That startled Sloan. “This is your office.”

“I open here next week.”

“Did you have another office, before this, or have you just started in business, Mr. Rayner?”

“You’ve a lot of men to help you find out things like that.”

“A peculiar attitude to adopt, Mr. Rayner.”

“If there’s anything peculiar here, it’s your manner.”

“I see.” Sloan read the obvious into that—the obvious that wasn’t true, and which made Kennedy’s failure to give a briefing almost a tragedy. “So you don’t intend to help the police, Mr. Rayner.”

“When I know how I can help, I will.”

“Is this a new business?”

“How will the answer help you?”

Sloan said: “People who are awkward with the police often regret it. Don’t forget that.”

“Policemen who come on their own aren’t entitled to all the answers.”

“So you’re clever, too. Where do you live?”

“This is my address.”

“Morning, noon, and night?”

Roger said slowly, heavily: “Inspector, I don’t like your manner. I don’t know the man who came here just now. Don’t blame me if he’s a crook. I’m not. Next time you want information, don’t start by accusing me of being a liar. Now I’ve work to do.”

“Who for?” asked Sloan. “Kennedy?”

* * * *

It was like looking at the world from the moon; he knew what lay behind every word, was familiar with every inflection of Sloan’s voice. He’d had a split second of warning that a bombshell was coming. He hadn’t known what, and the “Kennedy” came out with shattering effect, but he kept a poker face.

“Who’s Kennedy?” he asked, blankly.

“So you don’t know?”

“No.”

“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Rayner.”

“Try making one yourself,” Roger said.

“You insist that you don’t know Kennedy?”

“Tell me which Kennedy and why you want to know, and I’ll tell you—if I like your reasons.”

It was fascinating to sit and watch, to guess—to know— the thought passing through Sloan’s mind. They stared each other out, and then Sloan’s eyes went dull, which meant he was going all the way.

“You are Kennedy,” he said. “Let’s have the truth.”

He was Roger West, alias Charles Rayner.

Kyle knew Kennedy as Rayner.

Sloan had guessed that Kennedy and Rayner were one and the same person; and Sloan wouldn’t make a wild guess, he had reason for thinking that.

* * * *

“You can’t keep facts from the police for long,” Sloan said, but he knew that his challenge had failed.

“I can’t stop the police making fools of themselves. I’m Charles Rayner. I’m in honest business, and I’ve a lot of work to do.” Roger stood up, but Sloan stayed in his chair, looking puzzled. Why?

Sloan said: “You’ll regret your attitude, Mr. Rayner.”

He got up and went out. Roger waited until the outer door closed, and heard a faint sound in the outer office. He saw the handle of the door turn, but Sloan didn’t come in, just left the door ajar and stood listening—an old trick, almost all tricks were old. Roger picked up the telephone and banged the cradle up and down, making the bell ring faintly. Sloan would feel himself to be on the verge of a triumph, expecting him to telephone an accomplice, ears strained for every word. Another temptation came; call the Yard, ask whether they had a Chief Inspector Sloan. This time, he succumbed. He dialled, and could imagine Sloan’s eyes bulging. A calm, familiar voice answered him, and the flood-gates of temptation opened wide again.

He had been a fool to do this.

“Scotland Yard, can I help you? . . . Can I help you?” As he didn’t answer at once, the man at the exchange spoke more sharply.

“Er—yes. Can you tell me whether you have an officer named Sloan—Chief Inspector Sloan?”

“We have Detective Inspector Sloan, sir.”

“Is he a tall, fresh-faced——”

“Who is that speaking, please?”

“My name is—oh, never mind.” He put back the receiver.

Here he was, at the end of a telephone which could connect him with the past which was to be drummed out of his mind. Lift the instrument and dial a familiar number, and Janet would answer. Janet—what would she do if she heard his voice?

Forget that! He could call Mark Lessing; a dozen, a hundred friends. Forget it!

He pushed the telephone away and lit a cigarette. His hand was unsteady, he had never felt more in need of a drink. He opened a cupboard in the big desk, and felt no surprise at sight of a whisky bottle, a set of glasses, and a soda syphon. He poured himself out a drink.

This was a pretty good start; whisky in the middle of the afternoon. And it wasn’t the only good start; plunged into an unfamiliar office, with no information, no knowledge even about himself as he was supposed to be; murderously attacked in mistake for Kennedy; accused of being Kennedy. Where was Kennedy? How much of Kyle’s story had been genuine? He pictured Kyle’s wife being crushed beneath a car; and Lucille, lying dead.

He began to go through the papers in the desk; routine, everything was routine. There were account books, order books, files of letters from customers, details of the business he handled; it could hardly be more varied. He lost himself in the task of studying it all. Charles Rayner had a flourishing business, and dealt in practically anything from tobacco and cigarettes to wines and spirits, tubular-steel chairs to plastic goods, bric-a-brac manufactured in Birmingham for sale in the bazaars of India and China—he had an export business as well as that at home, but apparently imported nothing. The business had been conducted from offices in Leadenhall Street; there were “change of address” cards which had been sent out to all customers; he was plunged into an established business, and much was explained by a stencilled circular letter:

Mr Samuel Wiseman begs to inform you that he has disposed of his business to Mr. Charles Rayner, and will remain with the firm for a short while in an advisory capacity. He takes pleasure in assuring you that Mr. Rayner will have personal charge of the business, and you may be, assured of his close attention to your special requirements at all times.

This letter was dated 1st March: two weeks before Lucille’s death. Had Kennedy been so sure of himself that he had planned that far ahead, or had he had another man in mind for “Charles Rayner” and thrust Roger into the position at the last moment? What were his real plans?

In a drawer of the desk, Roger found “his” passport; he leaned back as he glanced through it. As a Yard man, he knew that it was comparatively easy to obtain false passports, but this was a prime example; it had been used, had visa and customs stamps for the United States, several European countries, even Germany; and his photograph was unmistakable. He hadn’t even realized that he’d had one taken in his new personality, but here it was—a good likeness as passport photographs went. He hadn’t discovered any foreign correspondence; there must be some in one of the cabinets; if he worked hard he would find out where he had been.

The telephone bell rang.

Kennedy ?

Roger took the instrument off its cradle, hesitated, then put it to his ear. He schooled his voice, spoke with little movement of his lips.

“Hallo.”

“Roger!” His heart leapt at the name, for this was a woman. “Roger, please help me, I ——”

This was Marion—Marion, in trouble.

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t tell you here, I must see you. I’ll be at Piccadilly, by Swan and Edgar’s in an hour. Please help me.”

“Marion, listen. I——”

But she’d gone.

* * * *

Roger stood outside Swan and Edgar’s, hub of London, watched the traffic and jingled the office keys in his pocket. He hardly noticed people, but every policeman in sight seemed to be twice life size.

Marion was a quarter of an hour late.

Half an hour——

It was no use waiting, she hadn’t been able to come.

He had grown fond of Marion, as one could grow fond of the only really friendly soul in one’s life. He had once had the opportunity to use her to help himself, and had missed it because he hadn’t trusted her.

Had it been a mistake to come here? And a mistake to talk to Kyle, a mistake to——

The male nurse appeared, short, flashily dressed in a loud blue suit and bright brown shoes and a spotted red-and-white bow tie. He strutted.

“Getting tired?” he asked.

“What do you want?”

“You, Mister Rayner. You’re wanted at the office. If I was you, I wouldn’t come away so easy in future.” He held up his arm, and a passing taxi stopped. “Inside.”

Roger obeyed. The male nurse gave the office address.

“What’s all this?” Roger demanded.

“You’ll find out.”

There were three traffic blocks; a ten-minute journey took them twenty minutes, and not another word was exchanged. The male nurse waited for him to start up the stairs. He went towards the office door, and the man said;

“Other side—that’s where you live.” He tossed Roger a key. Roger opened the door opposite the office, and stepped into a well-furnished, bright, and colourful sitting-room.

A radio was on, and Kennedy sat with his legs stretched out and his eyes closed, a dreamy expression on his face, listening to Brahms. The male nurse closed the door and then went out of this room into another. Kennedy kept his eyes closed, but as the music stopped, he said:

“So you had a visit from Ginger Kyle, did you?”

His manner was overbearing, even threatening. Revolt had to start some time.

Roger chose now.

CHAPTER XIII

REVOLT

AS he stared at Roger, Kennedy kept his eyes closed, or nearly closed. Roger strode across the room and switched off the radio, took out his cigarette-case, and lit up.

“I spoke to you,” said Kennedy, and opened his eyes wide; they burned as if at white heat.

“I heard you.”

“Then answer me.”

Roger said: “One of these days I’ll break your neck. Are you congenitally crazy? You let me come here without a briefing, easy meat for anyone who happened along. Kyle doesn’t matter, but Sloan does.”

“What did you say to Kyle?”

“Just now I’m asking the questions. Why didn’t you brief me properly? Or did you think I had a sixth sense? If I’d been able to tell Sloan all about the business, who I’d bought it from, what it was, he’d have gone away satisfied. Now he’s after me. He’s a bull-dog type. He’ll keep at me until he’s satisfied, and that probably won’t be for a long time. I thought you were supposed to be good.”

Throughout all this, Kennedy gradually sat up in his chair and drew in his legs. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away from Roger. The cigarette tasted unpleasant. He stood his ground, and Kennedy said softly:

“It was unavoidable.” Kennedy stood up. He had submitted to the first squall of revolt, which was a minor triumph. “I also had a visit from the police at my office.”

“So they’re after us both.”

“They’ve asked a few questions. You’ve got to find a way to stall them. That’s your job—understand, Rayner? That’s what you’re here for—countering the work of the police. You’d better do it well.”

“You bungled this. I should have been briefed before I got here. Your funny-funny business will get you to the gallows if you’re not careful.”

“You’ll come with me.”

“That’s why I’m worried about it.”

Kennedy smiled slowly.

“That’s a good frame of mind to be in,” he said. “I think I chose the right man. But watch your step. I’m the boss.”

“What I do, I’ll do my own way.” Roger went to a chair and sat down heavily—and flung out the next question: “What’s happened to Marion?”

“Why should you worry ?”

“She called me, asked me to——”

“Sure, I know. But you don’t answer appeals for help from pretty women, you go where I tell you to go, and forget all the rest.”

“Where is she?”

Kennedy leaned back and thrust his legs out again.

“She isn’t,” he said softly.

The significance of it was a long time dawning on Roger. It might not have dawned when it did but for that slow, cruel smile. “She isn’t.” Marion wasn’t alive, they’d killed her.

“She met with an accident,” Kennedy said.

“Accident?” On the tip of his tongue were the words: “Like Kyle’s wife,” but he bit on them. “So you——”

“That’s right. Haven’t you realized who you’re working for? Marion made it easier to handle you. But she wasn’t reliable. She fell in love with you. She listened at keyholes and learned this address and enough of the truth to be dangerous. She was silly enough to threaten to tell the police all she knew.”

Roger said: “Every detective in Scotland Yard could tell you what I’m going to tell you now. You’ve had it. You can get away with one murder, maybe two—but in your frame of mind, you go on until you get caught. You’re as good as hanged.”

“Very nice. I’ve been telling you, your job is to keep me free from the police.” Kennedy stood up and went to the window. This one overlooked the narrow street. “I don’t want to turn you into a yes man, you won’t be any good to me that way, but don’t forget who’s the boss, and don’t forget that if I get caught, you’ll be caught with me. I asked you what you said to Kyle.”

“How did you know about Sloan?”

“I’ll talk about a lot of things that mystify you, and you won’t say much I don’t get to hear. The question is—Kyle.”

“He was waiting when I got here. He expected to see someone else, although he didn’t say so. He pitched a hard-luck story, and I flung him out on his ear.”

“What kind of hard luck?”

“He wanted money. If I’d had time, I’d have listened to his story, but there wasn’t any time, because I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want anyone to find me with an old lag.”

“Who told you that Kyle was an old lag?”

Roger stared and laughed. He managed to sound amused. He lit another cigarette and waved his hand, as if at something which was ridiculous.

“I’ve been dealing with old lags most of my life. I’ve only to set eyes on them to know where they’ve been living. Kyle’s been inside for at least four years, you don’t get that way until you’ve had a stretch or longer.”

Kennedy said: “Okay, West. Keep on the level. Now, listen to me. This business is going to expand! You can leave all the details of staff and the daily running of the business to the secretary—Rose Morgan. You’ll get your instructions for the rest from me. You’ll travel a lot— didn’t I promise you an easy life?” He sneered. “This is your home address in England. There are two rooms and a kitchen besides this. You’ll have a man to look after you named Harry. He’ll be along later in the day. Just settle into your new life, Rayner.”

“When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”

“You’ll learn. I’ve told you enough for a start. Just remember what happens to people who won’t play the game my way. The girl at Copse Cottage was one. Marion was another.”

Kennedy got up and went out.

Roger sat quite still, looking at the ceiling. Images on his mind were far too many and too vivid; Marion was added to them, now—good, wholesome, attractive Marion, who had wanted to help him; had begged to help him. If he’d trusted her, he might have avoided all this, or much of it. The ruthless devilry of it swept over him like a stinking cloak of corruption.

Rose Morgan was forty-ish; plump, shapeless, dressed in a kind of black sack. She had a little beak of a nose, small pale lips which opened very little, a high-pitched, decisive voice. She was efficiency to the last syllable. Her hair was mousy colour and fastened in a bun at the back. She had good hands and perfectly kept nails. She seemed willing to teach Roger everything there was to know about the business.

He saw her for the first time the day after Sloan’s visit— a Friday. The staff was coming here on Monday, she said.

He asked for a list of the staff of nine; she assured him that all of them were thoroughly reliable and had worked for Wiseman, the previous owner, for several years. He examined the salary list; it was high—he paid his staff well! Rose Morgan received a thousand pounds a year, and the annual wages bill came to a little over five thousand. Rent, rates, other general expenses, were as much again. Before the business paid a penny profit, it had to show income over expenditure of ten thousand pounds. According to the figures it did that without much trouble; the profit for the past two years had been nearly five thousand. The profit was to be his share.

His.

As Charles Rayner, he had a private bank account with a credit of over two thousand pounds, and Government securities which made him worth ten times as much as Roger West.

This opened a completely new vista; he could call himself rich. He felt the lure of wealth; began, as the days passed, to expect the little luxuries he had never had before. He could stand outside himself, in an odd fashion, and watch the effect of this on him. He took to luxury and plenty of money as a duck took to water.

Harry, who “did” for him, was a quiet, vague individual, with a doleful face and big, brown eyes, a perfect servant who never intruded; that was part of the luxury attack on him. There was tea first thing in the morning, a drink ready before luncheon and dinner, perfectly cooked food, pressed clothes—everything.

He had accounts at three exclusive restaurants and two big stores. He bought clothes of good quality and cut. He could have whatever he wanted, and had only to sign the bill and, later, the cheque.

Kennedy didn’t come again during the next ten days. He heard nothing from Kyle or from Sloan. He was withdrawn more completely from his old life than he had ever dreamed possible. The past had begun as a nightmare and become a distant dream; frighteningly distant. He had to remind himself of it and also to remind himself of his chief objective—to find out the truth about Kennedy and all Kennedy stood for.

He found the business, as such, absorbing; there were many callers. He bought from this man and sold to that; he found that the business had many old and valuable contacts. It could get foods which were in short supply with little difficulty, and therefore could command its own price. There was nothing in short supply in which the firm didn’t deal, but he checked carefully and found that everything was above board and legal.

There was one thick barrier to all investigations; everywhere he went, he was watched. Waking and sleeping, he knew that he was watched.

Day by day, he grew into life as Charles Rayner.

Day by day, Roger West receded.

By the end of three weeks, he knew that the greatest danger to success would be himself; the new conditions, the constant surveillance and the desire to be free from it —and real freedom would come only when Kennedy was sure of him—worked together to soften his mind. Soften— or harden it?

Exactly a month after Kyle’s visit, he sent a registered letter to Mr. John Pearson at the Strand G.P.O. Kyle didn’t telephone; Roger was at once pleased and sorry about that.

It was on the morning after he had posted the money to Kyle that he received a letter marked “Personal”. It was the first he had received since coming to the flat, and Harry brought it to him with his morning tea. He waited until the man had gone, and then opened it with unsteady fingers. Inside was a single slip of paper on which were two words: Kyle’s dead.

The morning papers confirmed it; Kyle had “fallen” in front of a train at Edgware Road Tube Station.

Kennedy came on the telephone later in the day. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes.”

“Take it to heart. I’ve a job for you.”

“Where?”

“You’ll be brought to me—remember the male nurse? You can call him Percy. He’ll meet you at the corner of Putney Bridge, near the old theatre. Just make sure you’re not followed. Leave at once—Percy will expect you in an hour’s time.”

Kennedy rang off. Roger leaned back in his chair and faced up to the new situation. For the first time he was to be used for a job. He rang for Rose Morgan.

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“I’m going out, and I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“Tell Harry he needn’t get luncheon, but I expect to be in for dinner.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“See Renfrew when he comes, and apologize—say I’m ill. Handle everything else yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

Rose was like a machine.

Roger put on his hat and went downstairs. He reached the Strand and beckoned a taxi from a rank. “Harrods,” he said, and sat back, looking out of the tiny rear window. No one followed him except the usual stream of traffic. Three quarters of an hour after getting the message, he was at Putney Bridge.

Percy sat at the wheel of a big, roomy black Daimler— an old model, but it had an air. Percy was in chauffeur’s uniform and wore a peak cap. He nodded, but didn’t smile when he got out and opened the door for Roger, behaving in the same way as Rose Morgan—like a machine. Roger sat back on the luxurious seat, and a feeling of well-being came upon him like a cloud or a shroud. He watched the traffic coming over the bridge and along Putney High Street, with its steep hill. At the top, the driver turned right towards Richmond. Not far along he heard a whirring sound which reminded him vividly of the cine-camera at the nursing home.

The blinds were dropping at the windows; they were worked from a control button at the front.

The Daimler gathered speed, took corners easily, hummed along a main road where, judging from the sounds, there was little traffic. They went on for more than half an hour, and were well out of London when the car turned a corner sharply and went along a bumpy road. Soon it turned again, at the foot of a hill so steep that Percy had to change gear. They crawled to the top of the hill, and stopped.

The blinds shot up; sunlight streamed into the Daimler, dazzling Roger. When he was accustomed to the glare, he saw they were outside a small country house. Trees were packed densely behind the house. In front there was a long drive; lawns and flower-gardens, with tulips and wallflowers in brightly coloured beds, misty forget-me-nots adding a background of blue. It was delightful; and it overlooked sweeping countryside. The road along which they had come was hidden by a fringe of oak and beech.

“Out,” said Percy, opening the door.

Roger said: “One day you’re going to change your tone, Percy.” The little man glared, but made no comment. Roger went up three stone steps and stood beneath a brick porch, warm, browny-red. The door was of natural oak, oiled, not painted, and was studded with iron nail-heads. As he reached it, a man opened the door—a stranger and obsequious.

“Mr. Rayner?”

“Yes.”

“This way, sir, please.” The door closed behind them, and Roger was led up a wide staircase: wider than the outside of the house had led him to expect. He went across the square landing. A passage led to a window through which the bright sunlight glowed. Several doors led off it, and he was taken to the first door on the right. The man tapped, and opened it.

“Mr. Rayner, madame,” he said, and stood aside for Roger to pass.

Madame?

CHAPTER XIV

“MADAME”

SHE wasn’t like Marion, Lucille, or even Janet, simply an attractive woman; she was beautiful—and young. She sat in a chair at a small bow-shaped mahogany desk, with the sun streaming through the window behind her, so that her features were in shadow. She smiled faintly, and indicated a chair; she didn’t get up and didn’t offer her hand.

The chair was placed opposite the window, so that she could sec every feature and every line on his face. She pushed a silver cigarette-box across the desk, and waited for him to light up; she didn’t take a cigarette herself.

She wore a white blouse, simple, plain, and fastened high at the neck. Her voice was pitched low; it was somehow less attractive than he had expected, with a faint accent he couldn’t place.

“Mr. Kennedy tells me that you will be able to help me,” she said. “I understand that you have a considerable experience of police matters, criminal law, and all the relative factors.”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Kennedy assures me that your services are at my disposal. Is that true?”

“Yes,” he said.

She went on quickly:

“My husband is under remand at Brixton Jail. I think it probable that the prosecution would be able to prove their case against him. If it should be proved, he is likely to serve a long prison sentence. I have copies of all the statements he has made to his legal advisers, and I want you to study them. There are, also, details of the charge and a summary of the evidence against him, so far as we are aware of it. I want you to study all those papers and form an opinion as to the likely result of the trial. If there is a weakness in the case for the prosecution, I want you to elaborate it, so that my husband’s counsel can be properly primed. He is charged with smuggling currency from a number of foreign countries into this country; with smuggling sterling out of Great Britain to the Continent.”

“I’m no expert on currency,” Roger told her.

“You can assess the case in the light of the evidence that will be given you. You will work here—is that convenient ?”

It might take hours; a day; or several days. But Kennedy had pledged his services, and the obvious thing was to say: “Yes.”

“Thank you. What is your fee, Mr. Rayner?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had a look at the job.”

“Very well.”

“Unless you would rather deal with Mr. Kennedy,” he said.

She shook her head.

“I have paid him a fee for the introduction, and this aspect of the matter is now between you and me. If your work is satisfactory in every way, I shall not be ungenerous. It is essential that my husband should not serve a prison sentence.”

There was something else in her mind, but he didn’t judge this the moment to probe.

“Where shall I work?”

“I will have you taken to your room, and the papers will be sent to you,” she said. “You may ring for anything you require. While you are here, I would prefer you not to leave the grounds—in fact, to go no farther than the garden fence.”

She rang the bell, and the interview was over.

* * * *

Roger knew where he had seen her face before—in the newspapers.

It had been a bad likeness, but he had placed her when she had talked of currency smuggling—one of the biggest rackets with which the Yard was dealing, one with widespread ramifications and an incredible number of loopholes. She was Mrs. James Delaney—the Honourable Mrs. James Delaney. Her husband was the son of an impoverished peer, and as far as the Press reports had implied, the charges against him were trivial. So this was a job where the Yard had played canny with the Press, giving no indication of the scope of the offences.

His room was large, and had every comfort; it overlooked the garden at the back. Off with the old luxury, on with the new. Tea arrived; and half an hour afterwards, two bulky brief-cases were brought in. Then he was left on his own. . . .

He felt a strange nostalgia.

Here was his work; the careful study of amassed facts, the scrutiny of detail, the building up of a case. This one had started when a Customs officer had discovered that Delaney was taking a hundred pounds above the allowed maximum, in sterling, out of the country—nothing remarkable. But some correspondence had been found in his cases—the fools always had something like that, they seldom destroyed all the evidence—showing a list of French and Swiss people with whom Delaney was in contact. Currency smugglers, all small, had been in touch with the same people. There was an astonishingly detailed account of what the Yard man had asked Delaney and what information he had given away.

It was nearly eight o’clock when he had finished, rubbed his eyes after the concentrated reading, and rang the bell. The footman answered him promptly.

“I would like to see Madame,” Roger said.

“Madame would like you to dine with her, sir, and dinner will be at eight-thirty. It is not usual to change.”

* * * *

She had changed into a black dress which had touches of white at the cuffs and neck. She waited for him in a small room, off the dining-room; there was an elaborate steel and coloured-glass cocktail bar. She was grave when she offered him a drink; grave while they drank; she looked pale but not worried, and she knew what the answer was going to be. But she didn’t ask a question until dinner was nearly over and they were at the sweet; it had been a meal to dream about.

She looked at him suddenly.

“Have you reached an opinion?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“You’re quite right. He has little chance of getting off.”

“Have you found any loop-hole?”

“There isn’t one. He wasn’t clever when dealing with the police.”

“No,” she said, and smiled, as a mother might smile over an erring child. “He isn’t used to dealing with the police. He is under remand———”

“There was a note about that. He’s at Brixton, and the case comes up at the Old Bailey on Monday or Tuesday next week. I’m sorry, but it’s a simple fact that he hasn’t a chance. You probably think it’s harsh, because before the war this wouldn’t have been an offence, but——” he shrugged. “At least he hasn’t involved you in any way.”

“I am not involved. I didn’t know what he was doing. I had no idea that I owed so much to that particular kind of activity.” She smiled; she was really quite beautiful. “I am vain enough to think he probably sank deeper and deeper into it, because of me; that is why it is essential that I should help him. He mustn’t go to prison.”

“You can’t prevent it.”

“He wouldn’t go to prison if he were never tried, would he?”

Roger saw the truth then, in a blinding flash.

“And he won’t be tried if he’s removed from Brixton before the trial or on the way, will he? You know the daily routine at Brixton thoroughly—I want you to decide what is the best way to get him out. Then I want you to organize it. I have everything ready to leave the country; once I am safely away with him there will be nothing to worry about. Mr. Kennedy is extremely able, and he is arranging all that for me. Don’t say that it can’t be done, Mr. Rayner. It must be done.”

CHAPTER XV

JAIL BREAK

PERCY drove Roger from the Delaney house to London, and they picked Kennedy up at Putney Bridge. It was high time Roger knew where to find Kennedy; high time he went over to the attack, but—patience was vital, Kennedy was still dangerously wary.

Kennedy sank down in his corner and spoke almost as soon as the door closed.

“She says you’re very sure of yourself.”

“I am.” Roger had told the woman that it could be done; and knew that it could.

“When are you going to do it ?”

“Sunday night. There’s always less discipline on Sunday night at any jail.”

“I’ll believe you. How are you going to do the job?”

“I want two powerful men, one waiter’s rig-out, one police-constable’s uniform, and a girl, to give me an alibi. The uniform must be a good one, with genuine fixings— numbers and badges. Dinner will be taken into his room that night by my waiter. My constable will follow and deal with the duty warder. I shall want to drill that constable and waiter myself, and they need to be good. You’ll have to make arrangements with the restaurant from which Delaney gets his special food to allow my waiter to work for them that night.”

“What risks are you going to take yourself?”

Roger laughed. “I’ll drive the car we get away in, if you call that a risk.”

“I can’t see the scheme yet,” Kennedy said.

“I’ll work that out with the two men and the girl— you’re not interested in the scheme, only in the results.”

Kennedy laughed; his eyes were half-closed, just silvery slits.

“In some ways you’re better than I expected, Rayner! What else do you want from me?”

“Two cars. An ordinary, shabby one outside the prison, and a fast one stationed half a mile away. How are you going to get the couple out of the country?”

“By air.”

“Where from?”

“I’ve a private airfield near Watford.”

“I don’t want to know where it is, yet,” said Roger, “but when I’m in that fast car, I want someone with me who knows the road and can guide me there without losing a minute. Then I want a different car ready at the airfield to take me away. All right?”

“I’ll see you,” said Kennedy. “I want you to keep going, don’t make any mistake about that.”

* * * *

It was dark outside Brixton Jail. Only a few lights glowed at the street lamps; beyond the high grey walls, dim yellow squares shone against blackness. Two policemen stood on duty outside the iron gates. A little Morris car, grey, dirty, and with adjustable registration plates which could be changed by pressing a button in the dashboard, was round the corner from the gates. Roger sat at the wheel, with a girl by his side—a pretty little blonde showing no intelligence and no nerves; if she had any, she didn’t betray them that night, She would swear, if need be, that he had been with her all the evening, at her rooms.

He knew what was happening inside, could follow every move of the policeman and the waiter.

* * * *

The waiter had arrived first.

There was a trail of them, most nights, to the prisoners under remand, who had privileged treatment if they had plenty of money. The waiter came from a nearby restaurant. He carried his tray, with a huge metal cover over it. The gate guards let him through. He walked to the main doors of the remand building, and there a warder lifted the lid off the tray.

“Don’t let it get cold,” said the waiter.

“Smells all right.” The policeman lifted the lids off the three dishes. The light was good enough to let him make sure that nothing was being taken in which the prisoner might use—to help himself escape or to do violence; suicide was the most likely form of escape. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Days mostly. I’m doing a special turn to-night.”

The warder laughed.

“Okay.”

The waiter went inside. The building was badly lighted, bare, but not like a prison; the remand “cells” were plainly furnished rooms with low ceilings. Another warder, a tall, gangling man with drooping eyelids approached the waiter.

“Who for?”

“Mr. Delaney.”

“Okay.” The warder led the way, jangling his keys. A prisoner had a midget radio on, playing softly; it wasn’t allowed, but there were ways and means, according to the station in life of the prisoner; you just didn’t hear that music if you were on the staff. The warder unlocked the door of Delaney’s room, and as he did so, a constable appeared at the end of the passage. He walked smartly along, as the waiter went inside followed by the warder.

The warder would watch every movement, make sure that nothing but the food passed from waiter to prisoner.

Delaney sat in an easy-chair. He was fair, blue-eyed, slim, dressed well—almost an exquisite. His expression spoiled his good looks; he was frowning, and looked as if he were suffering physical pain. He didn’t look up as the waiter approached the small table and began to lay the cloth. A cigarette drooped from his lips, and his eyes were closed; he had long curling lashes, as fair as his hair.

The constable turned into the room.

“Now what?” asked the warder.

“Mr. Carnody sent me from the Yard,” said the constable easily. Carnody was a Yard Superintendent who dealt most frequently with Brixton. “Just seen old Do-Do. He said you could tell me what I want. About him.” He nodded casually towards the drooping prisoner.

“Just you wait a minute,” said the warder.

“Okay, okay.” The policeman unbuttoned the breast pocket of his tunic, and looked up and down the passage.

No one else was in sight. He drew out what looked like a white pencil, and the warder watched the waiter.

“Now,” said the policeman.

“Shut up,” said the warder, and turned his head.

The policeman broke the white “pencil” across the other’s chin and drove a terrific punch into his stomach. The warder gasped and doubled up; and tear gas, billowing up in a whitish cloud, stung his mouth, nose and eyes. As he staggered back, the waiter snatched a gas-mask from his pocket and tossed it to Delaney.

“Put that on—quick!”

Delaney gaped.

“Put it on.” The waiter slipped a mask over his own face, the constable did the same with swift, practised movements. The waiter helped Delaney with his. The policeman bent over the warder and struck him on the nape of the neck with a length of rubber; the man stopped spluttering and struggling, but wheezed badly.

The waiter said in a muffled voice: “Get your top clothes off,” and tugged at Delaney’s coat sleeve.

Delaney jumped to it then.

* * * *

Roger felt Delaney’s hands and body shaking.

“Take it easy,” he said.

They were in the fast car, half a mile from Brixton and no alarm had been raised. The waiter and the girl were now in the muddy grey Morris, which was still parked along the road. This car, a Buick, leapt along.

“You’ll be all right. Your wife has fixed this. There’s an aeroplane waiting to take you out of the country. Everything’s fixed—just sit back.”

There was little traffic on a Sunday night, and no need to go through the West End. Roger kept strictly down to the speed limit of thirty miles an hour while he was in the built-up area. Policemen, people, cars, and buses passed them, cinema lights glowed; but soon they were in the suburbs and on the main arterial road. Roger opened out. Delaney, who hadn’t uttered a word, said at last: “Who —who are you?”

“Never mind.”

“Where are we going?”

“Airfield, near Watford.”

“Are you sure——”

“There’s a whisky flask in the dashboard pocket. Have a good nip. You’ll be out of the country in two hours, and your wife will be with you.”

Delaney kept the bottle to his lips long enough to drain the flask. Roger watched the telegraph wires and poles flashing by. He’d altered his original plans in only one way; he’d driven along this road the previous night, so as to become familiar with it, and didn’t need a passenger for a guide. The lights of Watford stretched out in front of them, tiny glims in the darkness. They reached the airfield, where two aeroplanes, both small, were warming up. A flare glowed like a torch of liberty.

Beneath a tiny hangar, Mrs. Delaney waited. The pilot of their aircraft called : “You ready?” Two or three other people watched from the surrounding darkness, Roger felt their gaze. Was Kennedy here ? Or Percy ? He felt the keen wind as he opened the door. Delaney got out the other side, and his wife rushed towards him.

“Save it!” snapped Roger. “Get in.”

She turned towards him, and there was just enough light to show her beauty and the glow in her eyes. She thrust a thick packet into his hands.

He watched them climb in; saw the mechanic take the chocks away from the wheels, and stood by the side of the car as the aircraft taxied along the even grassland and then took off. Roger didn’t wait any longer, but got back into the car and drove as far as the gates. There, a smaller car was parked with the headlights on.

A man stood by it: Percy.

“Not bad,” Percy said. It was the nearest thing to a friendly word that he had uttered.

“Change the number plates of that Buick before you go anywhere,” Roger said. “And don’t go back along the main road. Risk a late night.”

“Think you were followed?”

“I know I wasn’t followed. I also know the fantastic coincidences that can catch crooks.”

“Okay, okay,” said Percy. “Your night out.”

No one was in Lyme Street, no one watched from the shadowy doorways. Roger walked briskly from the Strand, and turned into his doorway. As he unlocked the front door he glanced right and left. Now that he was back and it was over, his heart beat like a trip-hammer. He stepped inside and closed the door, then wiped off the perspiration on his forehead. So often he had waited, at just such a place as this, to catch a crook who believed that he’d been completely successful. He switched on a landing-light, which had another control switch upstairs. The building was silent. He reached his own door—the flat—unlocked it and went inside. It was Harry’s night out, and the flat was in darkness. He went from room to room, switching on the lights. He mixed himself a drink, looked at the dish of sandwiches and the plate of smoked salmon left for him by Harry, and laughed. He lit a cigarette. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He showed signs of strain.

He took the packet which Mrs. Delaney had given him from beneath his coat. It was of brown paper, heavily sealed. He opened it. There were packs of one-pound notes inside, some new, most of them old, all tightly held together by adhesive paper. He counted one pack—a hundred. There were five packs. There was something else, too—a piece of cotton wool, which dropped from the paper and fell at his feet. He picked it up. Something hard was inside it. He unwrapped it, and a single diamond scintillated dazzlingly, the size of a small peanut, worth— he couldn’t guess what it was worth.

There was a fortune in crime.

He washed, then started on the sandwiches—he was ravenous. Half-way through, the telephone bell rang. He had to get up to answer it. He seldom had calls, and they were always from Kennedy or Percy. He lifted the telephone, and was surprised that his own voice was harsh.

“Hallo?”

“Mr. Rayner?”

“Yes, speaking.”

The man at the other end hung up without another word —and left his voice ringing in Roger’s ears. The voice had been unmistakable: Bill Sloan had called.

Why to-night?

Why now?

* * * *

Roger picked up the Sunday newspapers. His own Times, Observer, and Express were there, together with Harry’s Sunday Cry. He’d seen his own, glanced through the Cry —and suddenly stopped breathing.

His photograph—the real West’s—looked up at him.

He scanned the article, saw a mention of Copse Cottage, and sat very still.

CHAPTER XVI

BULL-DOG

THE front-door bell rang.

Sloan couldn’t have reached here as quickly as that, even if he’d called from a kiosk nearby. Roger got up, and the bell rang again. He went to it slowly, not worrying about the caller’s impatience, searching for any weakness in his own alibi.

The bell started to ring again as he opened the door.

Kennedy said: “Getting lazy ? Like someone to replace Harry on his night off?” He came forward.

Roger barred his way.

“You choose the damnedest times for coming. When you’re wanted you’re not here, when you’re not wanted you find your way. Is Percy downstairs with the car?”

“No.” Kennedy stood on the threshold, too startled to protest, and worried for the second time since Roger had known him. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve just had a call from Detective Inspector Sloan, and I fancy he’s on his way here. I don’t know why he chose to-night, and I hope the reason isn’t what I think it might be. If I were you, I’d go into the office, wait until he’s come into this room, and then leave.”

“I don’t think I like your friend Sloan,” said Kennedy in a soft voice. He glanced over his shoulder towards the stairs. There was no sound.

Roger said: “Forget it, Kennedy. I’ll tell you here and now there’s one thing I won’t lake. That’s violence against the police.”

“Won’t you?”

“No. Get into the office.”

“Did he say he was coming here?”

“No, that’s why I think he is. He telephoned. The D’s have taken off, I can’t think of anything that’s gone wrong, except you calling.” The whispered voices couldn’t travel far, but he wondered if Sloan were here and near enough to see the shadows on the top landing. “Have you an office key?”

“You like giving orders, don’t you? Watch yourself.”

Roger said: “Hurry.”

Kennedy crossed the landing and let himself into the office, making hardly a sound. Roger went back to the living-room, put the money and diamond into a drawer, locked it and pocketed the key, then went slowly downstairs. He peered into the dark corners of each landing and the passage; there was no trace of Sloan, and nowhere the Yard man could hide. He opened the door and went into the street and strolled up and down; two people turned into the street, but neither took any notice of him or turned into Number 15. Sloan hadn’t arrived yet. He withdrew into the doorway and heard a car turn the corner. Headlights blazed and shone on to Number 15, but he dodged back in time to avoid them, left the door unlocked, and went upstairs.

He put on all the lights and was eating another sandwich when the flat door-bell rang. He let it ring, as with Kennedy, but Sloan wasn’t so impatient and didn’t ring again. When Roger opened the door, Sloan stood back from it, head on one side, smiling with taut lips.

“Who——” began Roger.

“Remember me?” asked Sloan.

Roger relaxed. “Well, well, it’s the policeman who came to my house-warming! Don’t you rest on Sundays?”

“Policemen never have any time off.”

“Come in and relax,” said Roger. He wished the lights weren’t so bright; putting all on had been a mistake. It was easy to understand mistakes which crooks made, now, the list of possible slips was a mile long. He felt a tug of the tension he had experienced when Sloan had first come here, and when he had seen Janet and Mark.

Sloan looked round and tossed his hat into a chair.

“You do yourself well.”

“I’m a successful business man. Have a sandwich.”

“Thanks.” If Sloan had a weakness, it was for food. “You’re very affable to-night.”

“I’ve been enjoying myself,” Roger said, and grinned. “You like these unofficial visits, don’t you?”

“I never pay calls when I’m off duty, you can call me the man who’s always on the job.”

“What will you drink?” asked Roger.

“Beer, if there is any.”

“Other people besides policemen drink beer.” The conversation was too slick. Roger hadn’t any idea whether Sloan had come because of the Brixton job, but as his mind roamed restlessly about the possibility, he didn’t see where he could have slipped up. He poured beer into a glass tankard and had a gin for himself; gin, because as Roger West, he had never drunk it. He kept his voice hard and spoke with little movement of his lips; he was more afraid of his voice than of anything else, when with Sloan. “What do you want?” he asked.

“That’s a leading question. Been places to-night, do you say?”

“A nice little girl,” Roger said dreamily. “Sweet and innocent, no intelligence, no questions, a nice little healthy little pleasant little animal. They still grow like that. Suppose you tell me why you want to see me.”

“I hope you’re in a more talkative mood than the last time.”

“You’ve discovered all you want to know about me, haven’t you?”

“Not enough. I don’t know all your friends.”

“The Kennedy one?” Roger laughed.

“Wrong name, right initial. Remember Mr. Kyle?”

Roger said, “Kyle, Kyle?” He stood his ground, but wanted to sit down. “Kyle—oh, the little crook who came to see me just before you arrived that day. Yes, I remember.”

“You’ve a good memory. Heard from him lately?”

“No.”

“Surprising,” said Sloan, and grinned. “He carried a slip of paper round in his pocket, with a different name on it, care of the Strand G.P.O. When he was brought in last, that piece of paper turned up. I went and collected a letter addressed to the alias from the Post Office. There was nothing written inside, but there were ten pound notes. Are you a philanthropist?”

“Not yet.”

“Did you send that money to him?”

“No. Ask him.”

“Don’t you know what happens to your friends?”

“He wasn’t a friend of mine. He——”

“Friends of yours are liable to die suddenly, aren’t they? By accident?”

“So he’s dead!” said Roger, and frowned. “What do you expect me to do? Cry about a man I’ve only seen once in my life, and didn’t want to see again ?”

“What about the girl?”

Roger poured himself out another gin, refilled Sloan’s tankard, and hoped he was as casual as he ought to be. “I don’t follow? The girl I’ve just left——”

“No, not her. Marion Day.”

Sloan’s approach was puzzling. He was giving more away than a good policeman should. He had chosen to come on a Sunday night because it was the least likely time for a detective to call, and that was good tactics—but apart from that, he was being too clever.

Roger said slowly: “Marion Day ? No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

Sloan laughed, spontaneously; there was nothing at all sinister about it.

“Ringing a bell is good.” He took a photograph from his pocket—of Marion. He thrust it forward under Roger’s nose. “Have a good look.”

Roger said : “I’ve seen her before, somewhere, but I don’t remember where, just now. I don’t know her well.”

“You will, if you ever join her,” said Sloan cryptically. “Either someone is storing up a lot of trouble for you, or you’re storing it up for yourself.” He came forward and looked hard into Roger’s eyes. “There was a telephone number with that alias of Kyle’s—Temple Bar 89511. Your office number. There was a telephone number in that girl’s handbag—T.B. 89511. Can you explain either?”

“Kyle, possibly because he’d been here, and might have wanted to try again. The girl——” Roger shook his head, but felt tension rising. “No, there’s no reason why she should have the number. There’s one thing you’ve probably overlooked.”

“What?”

“There are eleven people in my office. One of them might be involved—might be a friend of these people. I wouldn’t know.”

“I’ll find out,” said Sloan. “In fact I’m finding out, Rayner. These two people were killed by accident, if you believe the coroner, but I don’t always agree with inquest verdicts.” He finished his beer and took out cigarettes from a familiar yellow packet. Roger took one. “Remember the Copse Cottage murder?” Sloan asked, and his eyes were close to Roger’s above the flame of his lighter.