Battle for Inspector West (5 page)

 

That afternoon was fine and warm. Michael and Christine left Uplands after lunch to walk across the far hills. They were not surprised that a detective, to whom Fratton had introduced them, followed fifty yards or so behind.

They walked for half an hour, exchanging only a word now and again, until Grant said abruptly: ‘We'd better get back. This police shadow almost makes me wish I hadn't said a word to them.'

‘It wouldn't have made any difference,' Christine said practically. ‘But I suppose we may as well turn back.' She gave a little laugh, not very gay. ‘It's funny, this policeman's made us forget that someone we can't see may be watching us, ready for a chance to—'

‘Now get this clear,' said Grant, firmly. ‘We are not in danger every minute of the passing day.'

‘Darling,' Christine said, with a tremor in her voice, ‘I don't like being scared. I don't like seeing you edgy, either, and you often are. Don't let's fool ourselves.'

‘H'm,' said Grant, and then ignored the police shadow and held and kissed her until she was almost breathless. ‘Sweetheart, I don't think there's another woman who would have been as patient as you have,' he said. ‘Don't put up with my moods too much, though; half the world and every newspaper will tell you that I've been spoiled. Your job's to unspoil me.' He let her go. ‘Now, the story of me and Carosi—'

He told her the story that Roger West had discussed with Chatworth and added very quickly, while they stood looking at each other: ‘The blackmail stopped. At Carosi's fiat I found some so-called evidence against my father, and some of information against other people which would have opened a few eyes. I burned the lot, but Carosi didn't know that. He probably thought I'd keep it and use it myself.' Grant looked quite fierce. ‘He doesn't know right from wrong, my darling; he's incapable of anything but evil, because to him there's no such thing as right and wrong. There's only money and power. Now! Let me kill another bird while I'm at it. My father's as safe as a pontificating bishop now, and I'm fond of him, even if his heart is made of whatever makes most money at the moment. As mine is! The stuff which Carosi had on him could have ruined him socially. Me, too, because of that Biblical bit about the sins of the fathers. I destroyed the proof but not Carosi's knowledge of it. I didn't intend to stand by and see my father ruined, or see his life made miserable by blackmail. But before young Derek Allen died, it was just a family feud. Now it's very much deeper.'

‘Yes, of course,' said Christine, and gave a funny little laugh. ‘Will you think I'm heartless if I say our fathers did leave us quite a legacy, didn't they? Mine—'

‘That's enough of that!'

‘But it isn't, Mike,' Christine said firmly. ‘We may not be in the mood for talking about it again for a long time. Whatever your father did, he can hardly have a worse—worse past than mine.' Her eyes were very bright, and she spoke too quickly.

‘You know that he lulled my mother and went to prison, you know that he was an artist. Every time Prendergast spoke to me, it seemed as if he were reminding me of that. I've an early photograph of my father, the only one I've seen. He wasn't like Prendergast, but he looked rather plump, and as if he might be pink and fluffy. I was brought up by an aunt and uncle, I've told you all about them. They were kindness itself, but they would never talk about my parents. Darling – it's strange that Prendergast was so like my father, isn't it?'

‘That's enough,' insisted Grant. ‘If you go on like this I'll think you're suggesting that Prendergast
was
your father, which would be absurd and impossible, as he's still in prison.'

‘He isn't,' Christine said.

Grant looked startled.

‘No?'

‘He was outside the church yesterday morning,' Christine told him. ‘But of course he isn't like Prendergast
now,
he's much older. I wouldn't have recognised him, but yesterday morning I had a letter, delivered by hand.' She put her hand in the neck of her blouse, and drew out a crumpled envelope.

Grant stood very still.

‘I didn't tell you, I didn't want to spoil the day, and—I was so happy,' said Christine hesitantly, ‘and afterwards—well, there wasn't a chance to tell you last night, was there? At the hotel I had a feeling that everything we did was watched, everything we said was overheard. The detective behind us doesn't matter, up here.' She put the envelope into Grant's hands.

He drew out the contents. There was a small sheet of paper, a few typewritten words, and a snapshot which had been taken on a fine day, so that every feature of the subject was there. The man was small, with a deeply lined face, rather pathetic eyes, with a fringe of grey hair.

The note said: ‘
This was taken of your father a week ago. He was released from prison in February this year.
'

Grant put the photograph back in the envelope.

‘You and I ought to get the booby prize for idiocy,' he said. ‘Each of us deserves it. We've got to get rid of this crazy idea that we can help each other by keeping personal worries to ourselves. So I'll tell you one more thing, which I was determined to keep to myself to my dying day! Carosi knows your father. He mentioned him when he telephoned two days ago. I preferred not to tell the police that.'

‘Mike!'

‘It was so characteristic of Carosi that it didn't worry me at all,' said Grant. ‘It was just part of his plan to get us on edge, and spoil everything for us—and strike to kill. At least we know everything now.'

 

Christine's happiness seemed deeper, now, and less dreamlike. There were causes for fear, but no secrets from each other. That was how she had hoped it would be.

It was nearly three o'clock when they entered the hotel.

‘Do you know what?' said Grant. ‘I'd like a swim. How about you?'

‘I'd love to.'

They were laughing and carefree as they passed a tall, fair-haired, good-looking man whom they had not seen before. There was something friendly and attractive about his grin.

In the bedroom, Christine commented: ‘He looked interesting, didn't he?'

‘For the next week or two, no man may look interesting to you,' declared Grant. ‘Rule one for newly-weds.'

‘Yes, dear,' said Christine meekly.

Her swimsuit was royal-blue, and fitted snugly, and she caught sight of Michael eyeing her, as if he had never really seen her before.

‘There is a time and a place,' she said.

‘This is the place,' said Grant, and held and lifted her over the bed, and then dropped her.

‘Still want to swim?'

‘Later,' she said.

 

They went out soon after four, wearing their raincoats, and carrying towels. They walked across the flagged courtyard towards the bathing-pool. In spite of the warmth and brightness, no one else was there. Mike took off his coat and began to run when a few yards from the edge. He dived in, as if born to the water, bobbed up and called: ‘Come on! It isn't cold.'

Christine poised for the dive.

Even before she started, they heard a sharp report from a long way off. Next moment, something cracked against the side of the bath not a foot from where she stood.

Christine dived, in spite of it. When she broke surface Grant was standing at the shallow end, staring towards the distant woods.

He called: ‘Keep low, darling, and swim here.'

She obeyed. They crouched down so that only their heads showed above the side of the pool. By that time, the detective who was guarding them and another policeman had started to run towards the shrubbery.

‘So he's still at it,' Grant said, heavily.

He hoisted himself out of the water, and pulled Christine up. They stood watching the policeman, and trying to discern some movement among the trees. They failed, but heard the roar of a motor-cycle engine some way off.

Mike went to the spot where they had left their towels and coats, and brought them back. They wrapped the towels round their shoulders before going to the deep end. One of the surround tiles had a new crack, and a few tiny pieces had been chipped out of it. A little farther away, on the asphalt path which ran round the pool, they saw a shallow groove.

Not far ahead lay the bullet, with its squashed lead nose.

Mike bent down to pick it up.

‘Hallo,' a man said, ‘found something interesting?'

Both Christine and Mike looked up, and saw the fair-haired man whom they had seen in the hotel.

‘I think it's interesting,' said Mike, closing his fingers about it. ‘Come on, Chris, we'd better get in.'

‘It is a bit chilly,' said the new-comer. ‘For more reasons than one. Didn't I hear a shot?'

‘Someone fooling about in the woods,' growled Grant. ‘Excuse us, please.'

‘Of course,' the other said.

‘We need a hot tub after that,' Grant said, when he and Christine were in the room. ‘You first, darling.' He was very matter-of-fact. ‘I hope that blond Adonis won't go blabbing among the others at the hotel. It only wants one or two more attacks like this to cause a panic in the hotel. I'm going to make a genuine sacrifice in the cause of justice,' he added, standing in the bathroom door. ‘I'm going to call Fratton, instead of helping you bath!'

Fratton was already at the bedroom door. He took the bullet, said that he hoped his man would find some trace of the man who had fired at them, heard about the young ‘Adonis' and smiled rather grimly.

‘I don't think you need worry about that,' he said, ‘I'll have a word with him. But there's another fellow at the hotel who might really make things difficult—a London reporter, named Fingleton, a big fellow with curly red hair. If he tackles you, I should just say as little as you can.'

‘I'll deal with him,' Grant said, as if looking forward to it. Fratton gave his fatherly smile, and went to the door. As he opened it, a man exclaimed aloud.

Standing with his hand outstretched, and looking foolish, was a powerful man with an untidy mop of curly red hair -the hair of the newspaper man, Fingleton. And Fingleton recovered quickly, and actually stepped inside. ‘Mr Grant, if you could spare me—'

‘Not now, probably later,' said Grant, civilly enough. ‘Just tell me this,' begged Fingleton, not in the least put out. ‘May I say you're packing everything, including your wife, and flying out of Carosi's vengeful reach?'

Grant looked at him thoughtfully, then moved to the telephone and lifted the receiver.

‘Tivern 53, please,' he said, and waited for at least two minutes, while the detective and the reporter looked at him. Then: ‘Hello,' said Grant quickly. ‘Is that you Haydon? I want you to pack everything again and bring it to Uplands … Yes, the morning will do. Goodbye.' He rang off. ‘That a good enough headline?'

‘Hero on Honeymoon,' Fingle said, and his eyes seemed to smile and approve as he hurried off.

‘Wise to humour the Press, I always think,' Fratton murmured approvingly. ‘I think you're right to stay, Mr Grant, although I'd be the last to blame you if you preferred to leave. No point in ignoring facts. I wouldn't like to be positive that the staff here can be trusted. You fixed up to come here ten days ago, and in those ten days they've had three staff changes. We are checking on the new people, all of whom come from London.'

‘Thanks,' said Grant, gruffly.

‘Every bit of food you eat is going to be carefully prepared by our chaps,' said Fratton. ‘We'll take no chances which can be avoided, and I'm sure you'll be equally careful. Don't drink or take any wine or spirits except out of a bottle you know hasn't been tampered with. All that kind of thing.'

‘I hope your chaps can cook,' Grant said dryly.

Fratton said: ‘Well, I admire your courage, Mr Grant, I really do. And Mrs Grant's. We'll do all we can but—'

They hadn't been able to stop that shooting at Christine.

Grant didn't go into the bathroom at once. The two visitors had made him even edgier, and he wanted to calm down. Soon he realised that he could hear no splashing, but then, Christine would be out of the bath by now. He looked at her clothes, spread out on the bed.

He called out: ‘Going to be long, Chris?'

She didn't answer.

‘Chris!' Grant strode across to the door, and turned the handle. She was teasing, of course, proving how …

The door was locked.

‘Chris!' Grant called out, and there was an edge of alarm in his voice. ‘Chris, are you all right?'

She still didn't answer.

‘
Chris!
'
he shouted, and rattled the door-handle wildly. ‘Unlock the door; let me in!'

There was no response at all.

He ran towards the passage door and hurried out, calling: ‘Fratton—
Fratton!
'

No one answered, although he caught a glimpse of one of the white-jacketed servants, at the end of the passage.

He went to the next room, which also had access to this bathroom, and was part of a suite he intended to take for the rest of the stay here. He tried the handle, but that door was locked also.

He rattled it savagely, and shouted: ‘
Fratton!
Where the hell are you?'

Fratton appeared, hurrying. Two passing guests looked up, startled to see Grant in his swimsuit, standing and shaking the door like a crazed man. A servant hovered at the end of the passage.

‘My wife's locked herself in the bathroom,' Grant said. ‘I can't get any answer. There's another way in, through here.'

‘Well, don't break the door down,' said Fratton. He slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a master-key.

They stepped into a room which was furnished like the Grants'. The bathroom door was in the far corner. Mike ran across and turned the handle.