John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

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?”