Battle for Inspector West (4 page)

Grant said: ‘I don't think it was an accident, either.'

‘Do you think the dog was set on the man?' Fratton was calm and deliberate. ‘That would make it murder, Mr Grant.'

‘Yes. And I think it was an attempt to murder me.'

‘Now that's what I hoped to hear,' said Fratton with engaging frankness. ‘I was afraid you weren't going to tell me that, Mr Grant, and I didn't see how I was going to drag it out of you.'

 

 

‘
You
knew!
'
Christine burst out, and even Grant looked surprised. ‘Yes, Mrs Grant, I knew,' said Fratton. ‘At least we had a shrewd idea, and that really amounted to the same thing.' Grant laughed a little too loudly.

‘I take back all I've thought of the provincial police, Inspector.'

‘Oh, we're a much maligned body of men,' Fratton said equably, ‘and in some ways I think I can understand it. In a case like this, there isn't much we could do on our own. We're used to our own particular forms of vice and crime, we know the countryside and country people, but if a city-type crime is committed in the country, then we send for Scotland Yard. You didn't realise that some of your recent movements have not passed unnoticed, Mr Grant?'

‘I don't follow,' Grant said, but Christine believed that he followed very well. He did not look at her, and he had a sharp, unhappy feeling that he might wish she wasn't present to hear all this.

‘Well, sir, you're a public figure, in your own way, you know, and Scotland Yard wasn't unaware of the little difference you once had with Carosi a while ago. Carosi's been in England for several months, and naturally you were watched, just in case he started a vendetta against you. And apparently he has. How long have you been aware of it, Mr Grant?'

‘That he was in England—three weeks or so. That he was out for revenge—a few hours.'

‘Since the ceremony?'

‘On the road this afternoon, but there isn't much I can tell you, Inspector.' Grant told Fratton exactly what had happened with a precision of detail which amazed Christine: he had not missed any trifling thing, and could even describe the painted face in the wardrobe, its colouring, the fact that it was in oils. ‘And Prendergast is a painter,' he remarked, and made it clear that he thought Prendergast had been sent by Carosi.

‘Ah, yes, sir, I know. Did you in fact see Mr Prendergast in the grounds after dinner, sir?'

Grant grinned.

‘No. But an artist had painted that grinning face, and I thought it might be possible to make Prendergast nervous for his interview with you, Inspector.'

‘Now if I did a thing like that, I'd be called an
agent provocateur
or something similar,' Fratton said solemnly. ‘Planning to spend a few days here, Mr Grant?'

‘Like us to?'

‘Yes, sir, I would. Only half an hour ago I was talking to Scotland Yard. The truth is that there couldn't be a better spot to lay a trap for Carosi. The hotel can be watched easily, we can check up on everyone who comes and goes without any trouble. You know how badly Carosi's wanted, and you're a certain draw for him. But he's not back in England just for vengeance, sir, he's not that kind of fool. The Yard thinks we can't touch him for what he's done in the past, as there's no evidence. I'm sure you understand, Mrs Grant.'

‘Of course,' said Christine.

Grant looked at Christine, very wryly.

‘I don't have to, sweet,' he said, ‘and it's a hell of a way to start a honeymoon.'

Fratton kept silent.

There was only one thing to do, Christine knew, although as the police knew what had happened she had dared to hope that they could go on. A honeymoon for vengeance. She tried not to show how scared she was, how Fratton had made her realise that Carosi was big enough and evil enough to worry even the police.

‘Of course we must stay,' she said, and her smile was a little too bright.

‘Thank you very much,' Fratton said, almost humbly.

When he had gone, Grant locked the door, came to Christine, and took her into his arms so very gently; and soon there were only the two of them in the whole world.

Later, when he slept by her side, she realised that he still hadn't told her why Carosi hated him so.

 

Prendergast was trembling from head to foot when he left the Grants' room, and the sight of a constable on duty outside made him start violently. He hurried to his room, went in and locked the door. He leaned against it, wiping the sweat from his pink forehead. Then he went to a cupboard, took out whisky, and poured himself a stiff peg. He was drinking when the telephone bell rang.

The glass seemed to jump in his hand. The bell kept ringing. He moistened his lips as he crossed the room, took off the receiver and held the mouthpiece against his chest.

‘Hal-hallo.'

‘What is the matter?' a man asked, in good English with a marked accent.

‘I–I am all right,' said Prendergast. ‘Nothing's the matter.'

‘You sound nervous,' said the other. ‘Did all go well?'

‘It—well, yes, it—'

‘
Did all go well?
'
The man's voice sharpened.

‘It—no, no, it didn't,' gasped Prendergast. ‘I have had a terrible evening, terrible! I have not been able to do much work and—and a terrible thing happened tonight. A young boy was killed—killed! Savaged by a dog. It was terrible! Such a lad—'

The other said softly: ‘A
boy
was killed?'

‘Yes, yes, that is what I am trying to tell you—'

‘We won't talk more now,' interrupted the other. ‘I will see you in the morning, as we arranged.'

‘I—I will try to come,' said Prendergast. ‘The police will ask questions, they may wish to see me, I may not be free to leave.'

‘You must be very careful, and not offend the police,' the other said. ‘I will see you as soon as I can.'

‘That swine Grant,' Prendergast burst out. ‘He says he saw me in the grounds tonight. It's a lie, but he told the police, he—'

There was a sharp exclamation; a pause; then: ‘I think you had better leave the hotel at once,' the man with the foreign voice said. ‘Come, please, at once.' He rang off before Prendergast could say another word.

Prendergast stood very still for a minute or more, only his lips working. Then he moved abruptly, put out the light, and stepped to the window. His room overlooked the hillside and the shrubbery. He drew back the curtains softly. In the distance lights were flashing, and he could just make out the figures of the searching police. They were fools, the police; what could they hope to find now that it was dark? The thought that the police were fools did a little to make him feel better. He put on the bedside lamp, that would look natural enough and began to pack his few clothes. The case wasn't really heavy, but heavy enough, as he had to walk.

He switched out the light again, put the case outside, and climbed out.

Nothing stirred, no one seemed near.

He crept towards the drive, and when he was on the gravel he looked towards the gate. He could just make out the figure of a policeman near the end of the drive. Prendergast went across the drive, and reached the comparative security of the far side, where he was partly hidden from the gate by some shrubs and trees. He trod down tulips and daffodils, without knowing it, and at last reached the meadow.

He walked close to the hedge which bordered the road. At the first five-barred gate he climbed into the road. No one was in sight, and he began to hope that he had escaped from the police, so he had little to worry about now.

After half an hour's walking, he came within sight of the spot where he was to meet the man with the accent. He strained his eyes to try to catch sight of a car parked near the road, and although he could not see one, he was not greatly worried; it would be parked discreetly behind some bushes.

He kept looking behind him, but did not think he was followed.

He reached some cross-roads, and heard a car start up. So it was parked out of sight, and he had been seen; they were ready to take him to safety.

Then a man appeared out of the shadows, right in front of him.

‘God!' gasped Prendergast, and went icy cold.

‘You need to call upon God,' the other man said, and his right hand moved. The knife was actually sliding into Prendergast's flesh before he realised what caused the searing pain.

He was dead as he fell.

The killer turned and hurried towards the car, parked without lights, and was in it and away before two of Fratton's men, trailing Prendergast, stumbled in the darkness over his body.

 

‘I couldn't bear it if anything happened to him,' Christine thought, and there was fear in her.

Grant, sleeping on his back, was breathing evenly, all unconcerned.

If only she knew more about this man Carosi and his hatred, it might help.

 

 

Chief Inspector Roger West of New Scotland Yard knew a great deal about the real reason for the hatred between Michael Grant and Carosi, and was pondering over this, and over the report from Fratton, of the Dorset CID. Sound chap, Fratton. Brilliant chap, Grant! His father was a millionaire, always in the news with spectacular trading deals, and making vast profits. Grant managed to hit the headlines with his own activities almost as often. Big Business didn't always descend from father to son, but here it did. Young Grant's money, looks and record for outstanding courage had made him London's biggest matrimonial prize. He had been proof against all beauty, until he had met the girl whom he had married, after a characteristically whirlwind courtship.

But West was thinking more about Carosi than Grant.

Carosi had lived in London during most of the war. His reputation had never been good, he was known to be on the fringe of many sordid crimes, but for years he had not been suspected as a leader of a vice gang.

It had fallen to West's lot to prepare for the edification of the Home Office, to which Ministry Scotland Yard and all the British police were directly responsible, a comprehensive report on gangs which operated in or from London. He put them into three separate groups.

The first was the race-gang which, despite popular belief to the contrary, did specialize exclusively in race-courses. But it was small-time crime.

In the second group were the ‘posh' gangs.

There were fewer of these, all members of which were experts at their particular line of business. They comprised the cleverest cracksmen, con-men, forgers, fakers of Old Masters, jewellers and craftsmen, and ‘gang' was perhaps the wrong word: there was a ring of them, who had virtually a monopoly of major crimes. There was also a common factor: they did not use violence.

The third group included Carosi's; indeed, it might almost, at one time, have been called Carosi's own.

This was more general than the others, with member-criminals who might easily serve with gangs in either of the other groups, but who were held together by an uneasy allegiance to this particular group. They were almost exclusively led by aliens or by men who had somehow contrived to acquire British nationality, and if they had a speciality, that speciality was vice. All kinds of vice, which riddled London's West End and made it a show place for street walkers.

There was more than vice, of course; much more, and Carosi was a directing genius.

He had been born of an Italian father and an Irish mother.

Nothing was outside the scope of Carosi's activities, and he touched hideous things which the other gangs would not look at. His had been the most powerful gang which had operated for several years, and it had prospered greatly.

For some years Carosi had owned a large country house, to which he retired at irregular intervals with his latest
inamorata,
and a luxury flat in the heart of Mayfair. He had been a familiar figure in the West End, at night-clubs as well as at the most exclusive restaurants. He levied tributes from many dance-bands and night-clubs, from public-houses, even from sections of the big London markets, but he did it with great skill.

The Yard had set many a trap to catch Carosi but had failed.

He had been known to have a set of
dossiers
of rich and of public men, and to extort blackmail. He had always been careful in his choice of victims, but had made one serious mistake. He had blackmailed Sir Mortimer Grant.

The Yard still did not know the skeleton in the financier's armour. They did know that Sir Mortimer Grant had not gone to the police; but he had told his son Michael. Quite cold-bloodedly, Grant had forced his way to Carosi's apartment, and eye-witnesses agreed that afterwards it had looked like a Florida shanty struck by a whirlwind. What was more, Carosi had slipped out of the country, obviously afraid that young Grant could give evidence that would jail him for years.

Grant had never vouchsafed such evidence, and Carosi had not stopped operating by a kind of remote control.

During his absence, the Yard had built up an even more imposing record of the activities he sponsored, and sent several of his associates to jail. But they were still without the proof needed to put Carosi himself inside, and to break up the whole grim, forbidding, menacing organisation.

 

At nine o'clock on the morning after the murder in Dorset, Roger West entered the office which he shared with four other Chief Inspectors. He was the first to arrive. Five bilious-looking desks and five battered-looking chairs awaited five massive policemen. He looked through his post, then pushed most of it aside, reading over a report which had come from Inspector Fratton by special messenger.

He lifted one of the telephones on Iris desk.

‘Is the Assistant Commissioner in?' he asked the operator.

‘I don't know, sir, I'll find out.'

‘Thanks,' said Roger.

‘Yip, he's in,' said a man who had just entered the office. He was tall, with a huge paunch, a long, pointed nose and a receding chin. Whenever he grinned, he showed his prominent teeth. ‘Spoke to him myself just now; he walked along the corridor with me.'

‘That's a nice start to your day,' said Roger.

‘No need to be sarky,' said Chief Inspector Eddie Day, squeezing his bulk between an armchair and a desk, and going to his own place, which was near the window. ‘He's all right when's he in a good mood, Chatty is.'

‘Let him once hear you call him Chatty, and you'll never know him in a good mood again,' said Roger.

‘Gertcha,' said Eddie. ‘What do you want him for?'

‘Carosi.'

Eddie Day sniffed.

‘Put Carosi inside, Handsome, that's what you ought to do—put him inside, no use playing cat-and-mouse with a type like 'im. Go wild and commit bloody murder one day, and once he tastes blood I wouldn't like to say where he'll stop. Here, what's up?' he demanded. ‘Have I struck something?'

‘There were two murders last night at an hotel where Grant was starting his honeymoon.'

‘Cor!' exclaimed Eddie Day, and grinned. ‘I'll bet that put an end to
one
sex orgy!'

Roger smiled, stood up, and then picked up the telephone as it began to ring.

‘The Assistant Commissioner's in his office, sir.'

‘Thanks. Be seeing you, Eddie.'

Roger went out.

He was a fraction under six feet tall, and an exceptionally handsome man, hence his nickname. With his wavy fair hair and fresh complexion, he looked younger than his thirty-eight years, although he was still the youngest CI at Scotland Yard.

He tapped on the Assistant Commissioner's door.

‘Come in,' called Sir Archibald Chatworth.

He was alone, a big, burly man with a fringe of grizzled, grey hair, a brown, weather-beaten skin, round face and a permanent scowl, which barely lifted even when he smiled. A farmer behind an office desk.

‘Come in, Roger, and sit down.'

Roger obeyed.

‘What's on your mind?' Chatworth went on.

‘Carosi,' said Roger, and won all the attention he wanted.

‘So you want to be off to Dorset?' Chatworth said when the report was finished.

‘As quick as I can,' said Roger.

‘Yes. No need to worry about formalities; the Dorset Chief Constable called me last night and said he'd be glad if we'd send someone down if Grant intended to stay there more than a day or two.' Chatworth looked at Roger narrowly, then asked in a growling voice: ‘Come on, what've you left out?'

‘There's a strong streak of coincidence running through the business,' Roger said mildly.

‘What is it?' asked Chatworth.

‘You know that Michael Grant married Arthur Morely's daughter, don't you, sir?'

Chatworth said: ‘Yes. Can't blame the daughter because her father was lucky to get a reprieve after murdering his wife.'

‘Morely was at the church yesterday morning—Jameson spotted him,' Roger said. ‘He watched the girl, kept his face hidden from her, and went off straight after the ceremony. No fuss, no trouble, but—'

‘You mean it's odd that he should have turned up there?' mused Chatworth. ‘Natural thing for him to do, surely. I'd say it's a point in his favour that he didn't thrust himself forward so that his daughter couldn't miss him. He's pretty well on his uppers, and might have thought that it would be easy to get some money out of his newly-rich daughter. Hardly a coincidence, though.'

‘Arthur Morely was an artist, and maybe he still is. He specialised in portraits. So did Prendergast, who was knifed last night.'

‘I see,' said Chatworth. ‘H'm, yes. Well, you'd better go down. But don't jump to any conclusions, will you?' he added, almost sarcastically. ‘About what, sir?'

‘Michael Grant's innocence. These big money barons get high above themselves at times. Sir Mortimer Grant must have a nasty blot on his past to lay himself open to Carosi's blackmail. We never knew that. His son presumably got the incriminating stuff from Carosi. Did he get anything else?' Roger said: ‘I won't overlook any of that, sir.'

‘Sure you won't. Keep this in mind, too. We believe Carosi tried to blackmail Sir Mortimer, but the quarrel may have some other basic cause.'

‘You mean, when thieves fall out,' Roger said dryly. ‘And possibly Michael Grant kept as silent as the sphinx, after discovering whatever the truth was, so as to make sure he didn't give anything away to harm his father. There was talk of one law for the rich and another for the poor when we didn't tackle young Grant for raiding Carosi, remember.' ‘Just what's on your mind?' Chatworth asked suspiciously. ‘The
Monitor
is the newspaper which began the rumour, and if we bring them on to the inside of this job—'

‘You're in charge of the case,' Chatworth interrupted. ‘Just remember that regulations say we must treat all the Press without fear or favour.'

‘Can we help it if some are more equal to the occasion than others?' Roger asked.

Chatworth said: ‘You be careful.'

Roger hurried back to his office, cleared his desk and then telephoned the
Monitor,
asking for a reporter named Fingleton.

He was told that Fingleton was away for a few days, and replaced the receiver thoughtfully.

 

That morning Roger, with Detective-Sergeant Hubert Gill in his car, and his equipment in the back, made a hurried detour leaving London: he went to his home in Bell Street, Chelsea.

Janet, his wife, was waiting with sandwiches prepared for the journey, and a small suitcase packed.

She looked a little forlorn when he drove off, then poked her fingers through her dark hair, and turned back to the household chores.