John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

“His body was found. He’d been drowned. Face battered, fingers amputated, all the usual tricks to prevent identification, but they made a mistake. You made a mistake. You fools always make one. West had a scar or two which served as identification. I saw the body myself. I’ve seen those scars myself. I’ve seen them before—I was with West when he was wounded, and got one of them.”

Brilliantly clever; they had even scarred a man, so that the identification would be to the satisfaction of the police. And Janet—did Janet know? He felt a desperate surge of anxiety, he had never been nearer telling Sloan the truth. But he daren’t, yet. He heard a sound, metal on metal; a key was being inserted in the lock of the outer door.

Sloan didn’t seem to hear it.

“I’m sorry about West,” Roger said. He felt sick—did Janet know? “If this girl Doris told you that I was with her in the car on Sunday night, she lied.”

Sloan thrust the gun forward.

“I’ll give you half a minute,” he said. His eyes glared, all finesse had gone, but even now it must be bluff.

The door of the hall opened softly. Sloan had his back to it.

“I mean it, Rayner.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

A man slid into the room, gun in hand, and spoke. Sloan spun round. The man at the door fired. The bullet smacked into Sloan’s gun and wrenched it out of his hand. It dropped to the floor, between him and the gunman, who moved forward swiftly and kicked it away. Two other men came in swiftly. Both had guns.

Sloan drew back. “Get out. Get——”

They approached, remorselessly.

Roger screwed himself up. If the order had gone out, “Kill Sloan”, then they’d shoot again, whether Sloan took this lying down, or put up a fight. But if they had orders to kill, would the man have shot the gun out of Sloan’s grasp? Wouldn’t he have killed him with that first shot?

Sloan said: “Get away.”

“Don’t try any rough stuff, Sloan,” said the man with the gun. He was small, thin, evil-faced: evil because of his grin. Roger knew him slightly, as one of the most corrupt and vicious East End gangsters, a race-gang type, and one of Oily Joe’s mob. His name was Myers. He took another step forward, the gun still raised.

A third man came in.

Sloan said : “Get—away.”

And then he jumped——

Roger shot out his foot. Sloan kicked against it and went sprawling as the gunman squeezed the trigger. The bullet spat out, the sharp crack echoed. The bullet buried itself in the wall, and Sloan sprawled forward, unhurt. The two men from “behind the gunman pounced; wolves couldn’t have moved quicker. Before Sloan could save himself, he was manacled with regulation handcuffs.

Sloan suddenly became still.

Myers grinned at Roger. “Saved a lot o’ trouble, ain’t it? Okay, get him out.” He nodded to the others, who dragged Sloan towards the door, and at the doorway hoisted him between them so that they could carry him downstairs. He disappeared, and he was alive: they’d gone to a lot of trouble to keep him alive.

The thin-faced man said : “All okay?”

“That made a lot of noise,” Roger said.

“Nice and quiet up here. You don’t have to worry. If anyfink was ‘eard, we’ll fix it. So long.” Myers swaggered out of the room and closed the door behind him. The footsteps on the stairs sounded loud as the other men carried Sloan.

* * * *

He didn’t know how long he sat there before he heard the tapping. At first, he hardly noticed it, but it continued so persistently that he raised his head and looked about him. It came from the kitchen door—Harry, of course. He had forgotten Harry, forgotten his urgency when Harry had gone to open the door to let Sloan in.

He went across the room and turned the key.

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry. He didn’t look any less frightened. “I was afraid that you might get hurt.”

“What else are you afraid of?”

“I—I don’t think I’m afraid of anything, sir. I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry your supper was spoiled. Shall I prepare something else ? I will gladly——”

“Do you know where the dictaphone is in the flat?”

Harry gulped. “I’ve disconnected it, sir. I did that before I spoke in the first place.”

Roger said abruptly: “Get me a whisky. Help yourself to what you want. Then come and sit down.” He wasn’t sure that these were good tactics; one man would be more at ease with drink and in a chair; another would feel acute embarrassment. Harry had poured himself out a beer, in a glass tankard. Roger gave him a cigarette.

“Thank you, sir.”

They lit up.

“If it’s not blackmail, what is it?”

The fear was there, hovering in Harry’s eyes, but the new situation had given him confidence, and his voice was steady as he answered :

“I’ve noticed a lot while I’ve been here, Mr. West. One day before you arrived a lady came asking for you. I was here, fixing the place up. A Miss Day, she was. Miss Marion Day. I noticed in the papers what happened to her afterwards. It was from her I got an idea who you really were, sir. And I—I was a friend of Ginger Kyle’s. Very good friends we were in our young days. We got mixed up with the same bunch. I’m not pleading innocence, sir. We went into it with our eyes open, and we knew the risk we was taking. I was lucky—I’ve never bin inside. Made a little packet, and if it wasn’t for—for pressure, Mr. West, I would be retired now. Ginger ought to have had a nice little pile waiting for him when he came out. Instead o’ that, they didn’t look after him. They killed his wife, or he thought they did. And when they killed him—I can’t help it, Mr. West. If I’ve judged you wrong, I’m for it. I’ll take my chance, same as Ginger did. And others. But it seemed to me you slipped out the other night so’s they shouldn’t know, and you wasn’t working with them wholehearted. Are you, sir? If you are, then okay, I’m for it. If you’re not, if you’re against them—I’ll help if I can. My word on it, Mr. West.”

He sat back. His forehead and long upper lip were beaded with sweat, and that cloudy fear hovered in his eyes.

But—was that put on?

Was this another of Kennedy’s trick tests?

CHAPTER XXII

27 MOUNTJOY SQUARE

ROGER could tell Harry the truth; and Harry might send word to Percy, and so bring about the end of it all.

He could be non-committal; but if Harry were still spying on him, that would be as damning.

He could reject the offer, report to Percy—and if it were genuine, damn Harry, send Harry to his death. You slid into accepting that as a fact. You didn’t tell yourself that no one would kill as freely and as ruthlessly as Kennedy; you knew that it was true. The man was completely amoral, he didn’t regard killing as most men did. It was necessary, it was done—an obstacle removed, like a chalk mark wiped off a blackboard and leaving only a smear as trace.

Harry stirred in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette.

Roger said: “Where do you report, Harry?”

“To Percy, sir.”

“Yes. Where?”

“I have a telephone number. There is another way of communicating, also—through the men who sometimes are on duty outside. No doubt you’ve noticed them—I saw you looking out of the window to-night. There was one there. I always assume that when there is a special job on, they take extra care because they aren’t sure of you yet. I hope they never will be, sir. It’s a dirty business—it stinks. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but murder—I’m scared. I don’t mind admitting I’m scared. But I’ve taken a chance, and I hope it’s justified.”

“Don’t you know where Percy lives?”

“No, sir.”

“Kennedy?”

“I’ve heard the name, that’s all, and I think he’s called here once or twice, but when he’s been coming, I’ve had orders to keep out of the way.”

“How do you get your instructions?”

“From Percy, sir.”

“And he blackmails you into obeying?”

“That’s right.”

“What jobs have you done?” Roger asked.

Harry put down the empty tankard and half-closed his eyes.

“Safes, mostly, sir. And breaking and entering, more lately. One of the places I went to, an old man was killed. I didn’t do it, but Percy says he can pin it on me. I don’t doubt he can. I get well paid for this, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t do what I was told. You were just another dope. But after Miss Day and Ginger was bumped off—I couldn’t settle. There’s some things you can take, and there’s others that you just can’t swallow, and coldblooded murder’s a thing I can’t swallow.”

Roger wanted a cracksman. He said: “Have you got any burglar’s tools here?”

Harry’s eyes opened wide.

“Well——”

“Good, up-to-date stuff, not just a jemmy and a screwdriver.”

“I haven’t got any here, but I know where I could lay me hands on some.” Harry was puzzled yet eager.

“Will you take a big risk?”

“Nothing much to lose, now,” said Harry, and his face became more animated, a little colour glowed in his cheeks. “So I was right, you’ve been putting one across Percy and his boss.”

“That’s right, Harry.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and gave a little, satisfied smile. There was no gloating in it, but much relief.

* * * *

Roger stood in the doorway and looked across Lyme Street. The guard was still there. He himself was in the shadows, and the man couldn’t see him. He saw the other put his hands to his pocket and take out a packet of cigarettes; a moment later, a match flared. The man moved out of his doorway and strolled along the street—and Roger moved forward, but drew back suddenly. A policeman had turned the corner and was walking along, that was why the guard had moved. The guard crossed the road and stood outside a small cafe which was still open; a man, looking into a cafe and studying the menu card in the window, wasn’t going to attract much attention. He peered along the street. The policeman passed him. The guard waited until the policeman had turned the next corner, and then went back to his usual stand. Roger moved again, quickly. He saw the man stiffen. He crossed the road, but didn’t look at the man—whose job it was to report, and perhaps to follow. He walked towards the dark dingi-ness of the market lanes and alleys, and the man followed him. He slipped round a corner; it was very dark here. He heard the man hurrying after him, and knew when he was at the corner.

The man turned.

Roger grabbed him by the neck, stilling a cry, drove a fierce punch into his stomach, let him go, then struck at his chin. Two blows knocked the man out. No one was here, the policeman was out of sight. Roger dragged the unconscious man across the bumpy, cobbled road, into a narrow alley leading towards the main, covered market. He took out a length of cord, bound the man’s ankles and wrists, dragged him farther—into a little alcove—and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he dragged him, by his coat collar, and saw a dark pile of empty wooden crates. He shifted some of the crates, dumped the man behind them, and put them back into position. He wouldn’t be found until those crates were moved, and that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least.

He went back to Lyme Street.

Harry came out of the doorway. “All okay, sir?”

“Yes. Get a move on.”

“I had to see this through,” said Harry. “See you at the Burlington Gardens end of Burlington Arcade in about an hour, then. It’s just on eleven—I ought to be there by midnight.”