John Creasey - Inspector West At Home

They ignored him as Malone, recovering his balance, said : “Who is it?”

“Lessing,” a rat-faced man said. “And the yob with the curly hair.”

Malone’s eyes narrowed. “Tennant, Huh? I’ve been wanting to talk to him. How far away?”

“The end of the street.”

“Walking?”

“Yeah.”

Roger wondered : “Why have they come so soon?”

Malone did not look at Roger, but one of his companions stayed close. He had a knuckle-duster in his hand, an ugly, spiked weapon which would tear a man’s face to pieces.

“Don’t even squeak,” Malone flung at Roger, savagely.

Footsteps sounded on the pavement and then the gravel drive. There was a pause and a heavy knock at the front door. Malone did not move except to put out a hand towards the light switch as if he were going to plunge the room in darkness. If he did—

The man with the knuckle-duster moved swiftly, caught Roger’s right wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back. Whoever was outside knocked again; then Mark called :

“Anyone at home ?” There was a pause before a key scraped in the lock — Mark had a key to the house.

Malone flicked his finger; the light went out.

“What the—” began Mark, as if startled by the darkness. Actually it was broken by light streaming in from the open front door. “Roger !” Mark called. “Are you in?”

The pressure at Roger’s wrist increased and he felt the scraping of the knuckle-duster on his cheek. The veins swelled up in his neck and on his forehead, his breathing was heavy. He knew exactly what would happen if he called out. Damn it, he must call! He opened his lips.

Malone switched on the light. Mark gasped. Roger saw two men standing in the hall and guessed that one of them was showing a gun. Malone stepped into the hall with the sliding, swaggering gait which characterised him.

“Come right in, Lessing,” he said. “You’re very welcome.” He grinned. “Where’s Tennant?”

“ Here ’ s Tennant!” a man called. It was Tennant himself. There was a flurry of movement, a gasp and a shadow which loomed in the hall. It happened so suddenly that Roger felt his captor relax. He took the opportunity and wrenched his wrist away, back-heeled and caught the man’s shin. Two men crashed down in the hall, carried to the floor by Bill Tennant, who had leapt past Mark and sailed through the air. He landed on his feet, crouching, and looked at Malone and the other man. Malone held a knife now. There was a split second of silence, a hush while the two men weighed each other up. Malone was crouching now, and Tennant standing upright with his hands a little way in front of him. The men on the floor began to move.

Roger took a step forward.

Tennant jumped, feet foremost. His heels landed on Malone’s stomach, and Malone’s hand, holding the knife, swept round aimlessly. There was a squelching sound as Tennant’s feet sank into him and he fell backward, cracking his head against the floor. The man whom Roger had kicked drew back his fist with the knuckle-duster ready, but Tennant came on, keeping his balance by some miracle. He gripped the wrist which held the knuckle-duster, and Malone’s man gasped and was thrown against the wall with a thud which shook the house. Malone, scrambling to his feet and with no fight left in him, shouted for help, but no one came.

Tennant turned on him and laughed into his face.

“This is what you hand out, Malone,” he said. He struck the man with great power and Malone toppled backwards. “That,” Tennant said, “is for Lois. That is for Mrs Cartier.” He bent down and yanked Malone to his feet.

There were men’s voices, heavy footsteps and the sound of scuffling in the kitchen. Roger wondered who else had come. Mark was standing just in sight, with a gun in his hand; the two men whom Tennant had first attacked were backing towards the stairs. A familiar voice called :

“Is West all right, Lessing?” It was Cornish!

“Yes,” Mark called.

“ Mister Malone,” said Tennant, softly, “I never did like you.” The gangster was helpless, hardly able to stand on his feet, but Tennant lifted him by the waist and flung him against the wall.

Then Cornish and two or three plainclothes men came in with a rush. Tennant drew back. Roger could not look at Cornish, only at Tennant, to see the way he relaxed, the sudden fading of the glitter in his eyes, and the half-ashamed smile which curved his lips.

“It looks as if I lost me temper,” he said.

“Temper!” gasped Cornish.

Roger drew a deep breath. “What brought you?” he demanded.

Mark sauntered into the room, looking pleased with himself.

“Malone sent one of his men to see Oliphant,” he said. “I recognised him from the ‘Saucy Sue’, and we had a little talk with him on the Embankment — Tennant didn’t take long to make him open his mouth! He said Malone was waiting here -for you or Janet so I phoned the Yard.”

“You see, it was simple,” said Tennant. He looked into Malone’s face. “I hope I haven’t killed him,” he said. “I’ve been giving unarmed combat lessons for two years and as I haven’t fought in earnest yet, I thought Malone would do for some real practice!” He put his hands into his pockets and then, for the first time, seemed to notice the chaos of the room. “By George!” he exclaimed. “What a mess!” His eyes widened and he stared at Roger. “What have you done to your face ?”

Roger fingered his slashed cheek, surprised to find blood on his fingers.

“I’d better wash this off,” he said, and went to the bathroom. As he dabbed at his cheek, which kept bleeding, and while Mark began to dress the cut, things began to take on a proper perspective. ‘Simple’ was the operative word. He remembered seeing the vaguely familiar man near the Em-bankment and remembered that he had been at the Carders’ flat, but for once Mark had had the better memory for faces. By sending Mark and Tennant to Oliphant he had done the right thing, after all. No one at the Yard would have recognised the messenger.

“Feeling better?” Mark asked, when sticking plaster was in position.

“I’m all right,” Roger said. “So we’ve got Malone.”

“ And most of his men,” Mark said. “But — what utter swine! I — what’s the matter? Roger, what—”

“The other rooms !” snapped Roger.

Two minutes later, he had been in every room in the house and felt better, for only the lounge had been touched. He even found himself wondering whether it would be possible to make Janet come in the back way so that she would not get the full force of the shock that the lounge would be bound to give her. He looked at Mark, and explained what had suddenly preoccupied him; at that moment a Black Maria drew up outside. There was a crowd of people waiting and staring, a few dogs at the heels of the crowd, some schoolboys and two or three uniformed men. Masher Malone’s party was taken to the van, handcuffed together in twos. Malone, only just able to stagger, went last. Two plainclothes men climbed in, the driver started the engine and the van moved off.

“Any more for any more ?” boomed Tennant.

“You’ve had enough for one day,” Mark assured him. “Don’t ever take a dislike to me, will you?”

“That depends,” grinned Tennant. “Well, what are you going to do next, Roger?”

“Who did you leave to watch Oliphant?” Roger demanded.

“Now come off it,” said Mark. “We had our work cut out to rescue you from a dreadful fate, we had to take a chance somewhere. Shall we go back there?”

Roger said : “No.” He looked at the silent, rather subdued Cornish and there was a faint smile on his face. Cornish probably felt grieved because he had missed the fight. “It’s time I remembered I’m a policeman and worked by regulation.”

“You mean, interview Oliphant yourself?” Mark asked.

“Yes. I’d better have a word with Abbott first,” said Roger. “Mark, will you stay up until Janet arrives?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. “I think I’ll get the car out,” he went on. “You’d better stay around for a bit, Corny.”

“All right,” said Cornish.

Roger went out by the back door. The police had forced a window but Cornish had entered using the back door key which had been replaced in the tool-shed by Morgan’s man. There were signs of the struggle when the police had first entered but the kitchen looked in perfect order compared with the lounge. Roger scowled as he took out his keys, yet realised he had a great deal to be thankful for; when he thought of Malone he touched his cheek.

A single slip had finished Malone. It was difficult to believe that the man was on his way to the police-cells, that the striking arm of the Pickerell-Oliphant organisation had been paralysed. The quicker he interviewed Malone the better; not that he expected the man to squeal, although probably some of his gang would. Roger forgot his anxieties and the disappointment awaiting Janet in a sudden burst of confidence. If anything puzzled him at the moment he opened the doors of the garage, it was that Tennant had behaved in a peculiar way, to say the least.

The garage doors were wide open when he looked inside. His car was there, bonnet towards him. Sitting at the wheel, eyas wide open and mouth hidden by a scarf tied very tightly, sat a man with a peaked cap pushed to the back of his head, and with his hands tied to the steering wheel.

CHAPTER 22

Interview With Chatworth

IT WAS Dixon, the missing taxi-driver.

He could not speak even when Roger removed the scarf, and his mouth would hardly close; great red ridges showed on either side. His hands were so stiff that Roger had to prise them from the steering wheel. He had called for help, and Mark and Cornish, Tennant and two other policemen were outside the garage.

Roger helped the man from the car. They carried him into the house, put him on a settee, then began to massage his lips and legs and wrists. Mark laced strong tea with brandy and spoon-fed the man. The tension, which had relaxed after the disappearance of the Black Maria, was more acute than ever. Roger was desperately anxious to find out what had happened to Dixon, and who had brought the man here.

It was half an hour before the man could speak, and then only in a voice a little above a whisper.

Dixon had followed the Daimler to Bonnock House. Soon after he had parked his cab at the end of the road, another had arrived, bearing Mrs Sylvester Cartier. With her had been a man whom the taxi-driver knew by sight because he had worked a great deal in the East End and had often been to the Old Bailey for a free entertainment. The man’s name, he said, was Oliphant.

“Oliphant!” Roger exclaimed.

“Sure — and the lady.” Dixon moistened his lips. “Maybe I got too curious, mister. I went too close. I was hanging around and Malone arrived — you know Malone? He’s poison, he—”

“He’s at Cannon Row,” Roger said.

Dixon’s eyes glittered. “I wish I could have had a go at ‘im first. Well, I just stayed around. Malone was watching. The toff who had been with the lady came out and got into the Daimler again and I started to follow but before I got far Malone came on the running board. Know Hampstead Heath, mister? Well, it’s lonely enough an’ I couldn’t do a thing about it. There was four of them. They — they” — his voice was hoarse with anger — “they tied me up an’ put me at the back of me own cab an’ drove it ‘ere!”