John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

The pain still wasn’t easing, but now it no longer obsessed him. He felt the carpet with his fingers; a carpet, not necessarily at “Rest”. Rest! He felt his mouth go taut, as if he were grinning in spite of himself. He pressed against the floor and began to reason as well as to remember. He must get up cautiously, if his hands and legs were free. That meant turning to one side, putting some weight on one arm, levering himself up. He moved his arms and legs, teeth gritting together against the new waves of pain. At least he wasn’t tied up. He eased slowly over on to his left side, put his right arm over, drew his right leg up. He knew he was taking a long time; knew, too, that if he tried to be too quick, he would collapse again and lose more precious minutes. He must get to a telephone.

He might be locked in the room —

One thing at a time.

He clenched his teeth again. He felt as if his head was raw, his neck torn. Jagged pain struck at him when he lowered his head, and he hadn’t the strength to move it up again quickly.

Go slow. Go slow.

Right hand against the floor, right knee over the left leg, right knee on the floor. Over, gradually, take the strain on right hand and knee. They were clawing at his head, ugly, jagged, ripping claws. And his head and face burned with a strange heat. He was getting up, he mustn’t fall back, once on his feet he would feel better.

Up — up — up!

He stood swaying. The waves of pain were like waves hurling themselves against a leaking boat, he couldn’t resist them, had to heel over.

He didn’t fall.

After a while he stood without swaying, his feet well apart He didn’t know where he was, what he was looking at, because of the darkness; and it was utter darkness. He stretched out his right hand, went forward slowly and was less conscious of the pain. His fingers touched a wall. He turned right, hand against the wall, and went forward a step at a time. He kicked against something, and felt cautiously; his fingers told him that some kind of cabinet was in his way. He felt round it, touched something light; a glass fell, tinkling as it broke on the carpet.

His right foot crushed glass into the carpet, and he heard it crunch.

He found the wall again, then touched a picture, felt it move and heard it scrape. It swung back and touched his hand. He explored beyond that and went on again, until he touched something else, smaller and shiny. He kept still for a moment, then felt it carefully with his fingertips, until he knew that he was touching an electric-light switch. He had only to press it down, and there would be light. He longed for and yet feared it, because of the way it would strike at his eyes. As he closed them, and pressed down, he felt a moment of panic, in case the light didn’t come on.

It came.

It was bright enough to show pale red through his eyelids, but not too fierce to hurt. He stood quite still, then gradually opened his eyes. It was a dim light, and still didn’t hurt; not enough to make him close his eyes again.

This was the dining-room; he was still at “Rest”.

But Shawn wasn’t and Gissing wasn’t; he could be sure of that.

Where was the telephone?

What was the time?

11

MAN WANTED

ROGER looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. Shawn had arrived at ten o’clock, just as the clock had stopped chiming. Allow an hour, an hour more or less, for the time they had talked in the drawing-room. Gissing had at least twenty-five minutes’ start on him, perhaps three-quarters of an hour.

What of the watching police?

If they had known the others had left, they would have been here by now, so Gissing, Shawn, and his unknown assailant, had slipped them.

Roger opened the door and stepped into the square hall, then looked back into the dining-room; there was no telephone there. There wasn’t one in the hall. He put on the drawing-room light.

He gasped and jerked his head. Pain seared through it, rushed to his shoulders, his back, everywhere — the pain of movement following the shock.

Shawn was still here.

He lay back in the chair in which he had been sitting when Roger had seen his hand move for the tickets. He didn’t move. His mouth was open, and his lips were moving, no he wasn’t dead. Roger gave a sound that was almost a whistle; not dead, when he had expected him to be dead. Why? He didn’t try to answer. This wasn’t the time to think, he had one thing to do — call the Yard. The telephone was in a corner of the drawing-room, he remembered it now; a corner behind the door, near the window. As he edged towards it, he kept looking at the huge figure slumped in the chair. The telephone was a long way off. Ten feet. Eight feet. Movement was more difficult now, his head didn’t hurt so much, but it was swimming, and the room began to sway round him. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, made himself stay there for some time before moving again.

Six feet. Four.

He lunged forward, grabbed the telephone, clutched it first time, and grinned, as if at an enemy he had fooled. Resting his shoulders against the wall, he raised the instrument to his ear, then put his right hand towards the dial. His finger seemed to be going round in circles. Must keep it steady. He dialled W, the first letter in Whitehall 1212, the most familiar number in his life, before he realized that there had been no dialling tone. He found a spurious energy, rattled the platform up and down, and tried again.

The telephone was dead.

“Ought to have known,” he said. The words sounded loud. “Wire cut” He looked at the instrument stupidly, closed his eyes, and fought another spasm of giddiness. When he opened them again he was looking straight at some bottles on a tray. Whisky — gin — soda. He wanted a drink, to pull himself together, nothing would do that like a drink, but — his head. Spirits would go straight to it, make the pain worse; it might knock him out. The bottles shone, straw-coloured, honey-coloured. The colour of clear honey. Where had he seen clear honey lately? Ah! Lissa’s eyes.

The bottles leered like wanton demons. He turned his back on them and on the figure of Shawn, but couldn’t get rid of the mental picture of the man, mouth drooping open, face looking ugly. Then he realized why, at the first glance, he had thought Shawn to be dead. The man’s eyes were hidden by their lids, and his life was in his eyes.

He must get outside, the cool air would do more good than whisky. It wasn’t far along the road. What was a hundred yards? Three hundred feet. He was thinking with the deliberation of a drunk, and he wouldn’t have even a sip of whisky. That proved how completely he was in control of himself. No whisky.

He opened his mouth.

“ Stop talking like an idiot! ”

The words seemed to echo at him from the wall, but they did him good. He went to the door cautiously, but without support, then turned towards the front door. Of course the crisp night air would revive him, and he could rest on his way to the main road and the watching police.

His hand was on the front-door latch when he heard the car approaching.

He kept his hand there for some seconds, fighting against this further shock, and telling himself how far he was from normal. Who was this? The police? Gissing? Or one of Gissing’s men? Probably Gissing, so he must take precautions. The trouble was, he couldn’t move swiftly. He backed slowly towards the treacherous sanctuary of the dining-room. It wasn’t any use putting out the lights, whoever had come would have seen them by now. He stepped back into the dining-room, as he heard footsteps, but his back was against the light, he had no cover there. Then he realized that the cloakroom opposite was in darkness, offering a kind of safety. He went slowly across the hall towards it, as footsteps sounded on the porch. He listened with great care, head tilted to one side, and solemnly came to a conclusion which at first didn’t surprise him.

A woman was approaching.

A woman? Why should a woman —

The bell rang and the knocker clanged; both sounds went agonizingly through his head. He felt in his pockets, foolishly; of course, he hadn’t the gun. The bell kept ringing, the knocking continued furiously; and then both stopped and the footsteps started and faded. Was she going away? Would she give up so quickly? Who was she? Gissing’s woman? Or Belle — Belle, after Shawn?

He heard a crash of glass in the drawing-room, and realized that the woman had gone to the window and smashed it. He heard glass falling for what seemed a long time afterwards. He looked around, saw a golf club standing in a corner. He moved for it, making himself go slowly; every jerk, every attempt at speed, sent the pains shooting through his head and neck. Club in hand, he went to the hall, heard more glass break and an explosive:

“Goddam that glass!”

Roger went in, no longer nervous, but not relieved, for Lissa was here.

How had she discovered the address?

• • •

Lissa’s back was towards Roger as he entered the drawing-room. One leg was inside the window. Her skirt was drawn up above the stockings, showing bars of pink suspenders against the golden tan of her leg. She lowered her head carefully, brought head and shoulders into the room, then drew the other leg after her; before turning, she raised her right hand to her lips and began to suck. In spite of the awkward way she had come in, grace gave beauty to every movement. Roger stood and watched her, club in hand, and suddenly she swung round, surprised; frightened?

Her tension vanished.

“Roger!” She came towards him, arms outstretched. “My God! You look terrible. You mustn’t stand there, sit down.”

As she took his elbow, blood welled up from a cut on the back of her right hand. Ignoring this, she guided him to an upright chair. She glanced at Shawn only once, and seemed to forget him. When Roger was sitting, his head thumping but the rawness of the pain at bay, she stood back and scanned his face; concern turned her eyes to a glowing golden colour.

“How — did you get here?”

“Don’t move,” she said. “Just sit still.” She went behind him, and he felt the touch of her fingers on his head; they hurt, and he flinched. He knew that she was parting the blood-matted hair, trying to see how badly his scalp was cut. After a few seconds her fingers seemed to soothe. Then she went on: “I don’t think it’s too bad. I’m going to bathe it.” She turned away.

“Lissa! Come back, I want you to —”

“Be quiet, there’s a honey,” she said, and was gone.

She came back with water in a bowl, a towel and a sponge.

“Now, I’ll bathe your head, and afterwards —”

“Put those down!” he shouted at her. “Go to the front door. Flash a light, five times. Now. Put those things down I tell you!”

She put them down, asked no question, took a pencil-slim torch from her handbag and went out again. She was soon back, went behind him, and very gently laid the wet sponge on his forehead.

“I’m all right,” he muttered. In fact, he felt tired now — only one thing kept his mind probing: the fart that she hadn’t answered his question — how had she got here?

“Sure, you’re wonderful,” she said. “You could spend the whole night searching for Ricky.” She moved away but was still behind him, and he didn’t want to turn his head. He heard a snap, perhaps of a handbag opening. Then she appeared in front of him, with two white tablets on the palm of her hand. “Aspirins,” she said, “I’ll get you some fresh water.”