Battle for Inspector West (6 page)

This door was unlocked, and he thrust it open …

The bathroom was empty.

Christine's towel lay on the floor, in a heap near the swimsuit, which looked a darker blue because it was wet. There were damp footmarks on a cork mat by the side of the bath. The water was still in it, hot to the touch.

The only window was a small, high one, which could be pulled open or shut by means of a long cord: the only exits were through the bedrooms.

Fratton asked in a gruff voice: ‘Did she have any clothes with her?'

Grant looked as if he would go mad.

‘No. Just the towel—the costume. My God, they—'

‘She wouldn't willingly leave the room stark naked,' said Fratton, mildly. ‘She must have been forced to go, but she can't have gone far. We'll soon get her back.' He hurried at last, hurrying out of the bathroom and calling over his shoulder: ‘Don't touch anything, don't open that other door.'

Grant didn't answer, but stared at the door which led to their bedroom. Bolts at the top and bottom had been shot, but there was no key.

Yet someone had come in here through the other bedroom, managed to overpower Christine and carry her off.

Grant heard a sound behind him. He turned round slowly. Fingleton stood just beside him, pushing a hand through his unruly mop of hair.

‘Damnably sorry, Grant,' he said. ‘I'll help any way I can.'

 

Within half an hour of the discovery that Christine Grant was missing, every room in the hotel had been searched, but there was no trace of her. The staff quarters were subjected to the same thorough scrutiny. Members of the staff and all the guests who had been in during the afternoon were questioned. The outbuildings and the garage, the lofts of both the main building and the garage itself were all combed.

There was no trace of Christine.

At five o'clock, dressed in grey flannels and sipping a whisky and soda, Grant sat in his room, bleak-faced, hard-eyed.

The police had found nothing to help in the bathroom; no fingerprints, no footprints which they could photograph. A lot of water had been splashed on the bathroom floor, and there were damp marks on the passage carpet, probably made by a man's footsteps after he'd left, but the marks were not plain enough to be of any use, Fratton told him.

At one end of the passage was the hall: at the other, a blank wall. A porter had been on duty in the hall most of the afternoon. He admitted that he had left the hall several times to answer the telephone, but had never been away for more than two or three minutes. Two of the telephone calls had been for guests; the other had been a wrong number.

‘It's just possible that she was carried through one of the bedrooms,' Fratton went on. ‘There's one room—at the end of the passage—from which you can get by the window past a blank wall to the other wing. But even that only leads to the servants' quarters. Most of the servants were off duty,'

Grant growled: ‘Where's all this leading to? She's missing. We've got to find her.'

‘We shall do everything we can,' Fratton said, but the promise sounded empty. ‘Everything, Mr Grant, I assure you. There's just one thing I must say. You may hear from Carosi about this. You mustn't lose sight of the fact that he's after you, and Mrs Grant is only incidental to him. Don't leave the hotel without telling us, will you?'

Grant put his cup down.

‘I shall do exactly what I like,' he said.

Fratton stood up, looked about to speak again, but changed his mind. He went out, closing the door softly behind him.

 

 

The water in the bath had been hot – rather too hot. Hitching herself forward in the bath, Christine had turned on the cold tap, and the splashing had drowned the sound of the door opening, and of the man behind her, who stepped into the room, leaving the door open. She ran her hands through the water to distribute the new patch of cold, then turned the tap off.

The man crept nearer.

He held a large, thick bath-towel in his hands, spread out.

Christine reached forward for her sponge.

The man moved forward again, and with a single sweep brought the towel over her head, pressing tightly against her mouth. She tried to scream, but could not. The pressure eased from her mouth, and tightened on her neck. She couldn't breathe, and the pressure grew worse. Her head began to swim, she felt great pain at her chest, and it was as if she was going to die.

Then everything faded.

The man released his pressure, and, supporting her with one hand, backed away. The lower part of his face was covered with a brown scarf, and he wore a light-coloured raincoat. He removed the towel from her head and shoulders cautiously. Her eyes were half-open and glazed, her lips were parted, and the tip of her tongue showed between her teeth.

He dropped the towel on to the floor, lifted Christine out, and dabbed her body to get most of the water off her skin.

Then he laid her on the floor, on her back, went to the communicating door and shot the bolt quietly, using a handkerchief to prevent fingerprints adhering. Next he took off his raincoat and put it on Christine with quick, rough, impersonal movements. He buttoned the coat high at the neck, made sure that his prisoner was still unconscious, then left her and went across the smaller bedroom, opened the door, and looked into the passage.

The young waiter with dark hair and a long face stood near the entrance hall.

He beckoned. The stranger went back into the bathroom, lifted Christine, and carried her to the room at the end of the passage. French windows led to a small loggia with a blank wall on one side. He went across a small hall and through another doorway which led to the scullery, empty, as it always was at that time of the afternoon.

Outside in the yard, behind the garage, stood a small tradesman's van, with the name
Frost – Fruiterer & Florist
painted on the sides. The doors at the back of the van were open. The man lifted the girl inside, then climbed up behind her and closed the door.

He hadn't seen the driver, who was at the wheel, but the van started off immediately, coasting downhill so as to make little sound.

The man took the scarf from his face, wiped the perspiration off his forehead, and turned his attention to Christine. He laid her face downwards on the floor, and began to apply artificial respiration. It wasn't easy, with the van swaying on the poor road, but after ten minutes, Christine stirred. The man kept on until Christine uttered a little groaning sound. Then he stopped, helped her up, and sat her on an empty crate resting against the side of the van. Her eyes flickered open.

The van reached a small quarry, where a large black limousine was parked just off the road. The man at the wheel of the car waved, the van stopped, and Christine was carried to the car.

‘She all right?' asked the car driver.

‘She'll do. When I get her in, I'll give her a spot of brandy. Got any car rugs?'

‘They're in the back.'

Soon, Christine was sitting up, her head lolling against the upholstery. The man forced a little brandy between her lips.

‘It's okay, sister,' she heard her kidnapper say. ‘Just go to bye-byes for a bit longer.' He took a hypodermic syringe from his pocket, plunged the needle into her forearm, and pressed his thumb on the plunger.

 

Fratton was not told of the tradesman's van which had left Uplands until after his talk with Grant. Then a kitchen maid mentioned it to a policeman. She hadn't thought it worth worrying about, because the van came so often, and the driver was usually the same.

Had she seen him?

No, but that didn't mean anything; he always took the flowers into the scullery and left them in a pail.

Fratton put a call out to all police patrols and AA and RAC scouts.

By six o'clock, the florist was discovered, bound hand and foot in a quarry, and the van was found parked just off the road.

No one had seen the black car there.

Fratton left the telephone in the small room that had been set aside for the use of the police, and went into the entrance hall.

Roger West was talking to the porter, but broke off when Fratton arrived.

‘Finished?' he asked in a sharp voice.

‘As far as I can be,' growled Fratton.

‘Yes, it's a pretty poor show,' said Roger, bleakly. ‘I know the one about not crying over spilt milk, but this is enough to float a battleship.'

‘Don't rub it in,' Fratton growled. ‘They did a damned good job, too. Couple of strangers were near the gate, distracting my man there. He made the van stop, and actually looked in through the back windows. If there was anyone beside the driver, he must have crouched under the driver's seat. But clever or not, it's hell for us.'

Roger said more mildly: ‘No one will have your blood, anyhow. The
Monitor
will flay me and torture Grant, but it won't hold you up to ridicule. There's another thing to remember. Carosi's gang has specialized in girls. Most of them were empty-headed, little fools with pretty faces and busty figures, who asked for trouble but got a lot more than they bargained for, or deserved. If I were told that Carosi had sent a hundred out of the country, and that they're now living in Algiers, Buenos Aires or Montevideo, wishing they'd never been born, I wouldn't disbelieve it.'

Fratton drew in his breath.

‘That bad?'

‘That bad.'

‘Michael Grant know that?'

‘He knows it.'

‘Now I can understand the look in his eyes,' Fratton said.

‘So can I.' Roger glanced towards the passage and caught a glimpse of Grant, who withdrew his head quickly, and stood just out of sight. ‘We can take it that Carosi snatched Mrs Grant instead of having her killed, just to add to Grant's torment. But there's a credit item: she is alive.'

‘How can you be sure?'

Roger said, slowly, heavily: ‘I'm backing the obvious. They wouldn't have carried a corpse away, and it would have been easier to have killed her in the bath. I'm not sure that in the long run this won't help us,' he added, moodily.

‘Oh, nonsense!'

‘This thing's going into the Press in a big way,' Roger reminded Fratton. ‘It will shock the public conscience. There'll be more outcries against the vice laws as they stand, but it will also focus attention on Carosi, and will worry a lot of his small fry.'

‘I suppose it's possible—' Fratton began.

‘It's a hideous suggestion,' Grant rasped. He stepped out of a doorway; obviously he had been hiding. ‘Who the hell
are
you?' His glare at the kidnapper could not have been fiercer; and his eyes burned as if with tormenting fire.

‘This is Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard,' Fratton said hastily. ‘He—'

‘So the
Yard
allowed this to happen,' Grant said harshly. ‘I'll see you're slated all right, West. I'll use every bit of influence I have to push you back in the ranks.'

‘At the time Mr West was out in the grounds a long way—' Fratton began.

‘His job was to protect my wife,' Grant said in a quivering voice. ‘I don't care who suffers, provided I get my wife back. If I have to break you both to do so, I'll break you.'

 

The man was living in hell, Roger knew, and undoubtedly felt worse because he was blaming himself. It must be purgatory to know that he had been within yards of his wife when she had been kidnapped. But it was time to put the bridle on him, to pull him up. There was Fratton looking ten years older, and Fingleton about to set Fleet Street by the ears, and Carosi, laughing his head off.

‘So if you know what's good for you—' Grant went on.

‘Ever thought of blaming yourself?' Roger asked, so softly that the words seemed to catch up on Grant very slowly. ‘Ever asked yourself how many people have suffered from Carosi because you let him go free?'

Fratton stood open-mouthed.

Grant was shaken out of his fury.

‘You must be crazy! Why—'

‘I'm not crazy about this, Mr Grant. You raided Carosi's flat, you found records of his crimes, but you didn't do a thing about it for fear your father would pay for his past sins,' Roger said. ‘Now all you can think about is your wife. Well, I can think further. I can think of all of Carosi's victims, past, present and future. I can think of making him pay for what he's done already, and stopping him from ruining more men, breaking more homes, luring more girls abroad on phoney night-club deals. Like it straight? I'll do everything I can, every policeman in the country will do all he can to get your wife back. We'll do it because it's our job. We'll do it because we want to help both you and her, as well as all the other poor devils.'

Grant stood silent; stunned.

‘Nothing will stop you trying to find your wife on your own,' Roger went on, ‘but don't listen to ransom talk, or Carosi's promises. If you do, you may be cutting your wife's throat.'

‘What
makes you think he'll get in touch with me?' Grant made himself ask.

‘Because she's a bargaining weapon while she's alive,' Roger said; and then his voice and manner seemed touched with compassion. ‘I think we'll find her.'

But the dread in Grant's eyes told him that Grant had little hope.

 

 

It was dark.

Christine lay on something soft, a couch or a bed. Her eyes were painful and her head ached. She groped about the couch, and felt the edge, and the sheets and blankets. There was a quilt too, and she touched a hot-water bottle with her foot. So her captors were looking after her.

If only there were a glimmer of light …

One came.

It appeared in front of her eyes, just ahead of her – a faint outline of a door against pale light. It made her calmer. She dozed off, and kept waking at intervals. She realised that she was suffering from the effects of the drug, that before long she would wake up and not want to go to sleep again. But now, she felt no fear.

She woke from an uneasy sleep, and was aware of a different light. She looked towards it. There was a heavy curtain over the window, but some daylight forced its way through. It wasn't enough to show her the room clearly, and she stretched out her right hand towards a bedside lamp. She pressed the switch and the glare of the light made her close her eyes, but soon she opened them again.

It was a small room, luxuriously furnished, but very different from the room at Uplands. The ceiling was much higher. The divan bed on which she lay was exquisitely comfortable. The carpet, of pale blue and cream, was thick and rich. A dressing-table of wrought-iron, painted cream, had on it a small mirror with an iron frame, the most modern style.

She had on a sleeveless nightdress of pale-green silk, with lace at the neck and the shoulders. It wasn't hers. Slowly, she recalled the attack, and shivered at the recollection; then her mind began to work very quickly. Someone had put the nightdress on, put her to bed, taken great care of her.

Why?

Who had kidnapped her?

And why?

She remembered – Carosi.

And Michael.

He would be in torment, blaming himself, trying to tear down the world to find her. How little and yet how well she knew him!

There was that youth, with the savaged throat.

And the attempt to shoot her, at the pool.

She sat up, put out a leg, put a foot to the floor, then stood up. She swayed, helplessly. The effort of moving had made her head ache far worse, and slowly she lay down again. She wished that she hadn't moved, for her head thumped with pain. Her mouth was parched, and when she ran her tongue round it, seemed furry.

The door opened.

A girl came in, and closed it.

A girl?

A woman.

The woman looked at Christine with a frown, then saw that she was awake, and smiled.

It was a curious smile, in a face which was very white, and in eyes dark with mascara. Her lips were brightly painted, too. She walked rather mincingly across the room, and said: ‘Hallo, dearie, feeling a bit better?'

She had a coarse but quite friendly voice; no viciousness, no evil.

‘Yes, I'm all right,' Christine muttered. ‘I'm thirsty, that's all.'

‘That's okay then, we can let a bit of daylight in,' said the new-comer. She minced across the room and drew the curtains. The daylight reduced the bedside lamp to a dim yellow, and the woman came and switched it off.

‘Now, now,' she said, reprovingly, ‘you've been trying to get up, and you shouldn't, you know. Crikey, look! Your eyes are all bloodshot, you must have a splitting head. Like a cup o' tea?'

‘Oh, I would!'

‘Okay, then, I'll get one,' promised the other. ‘Won't be long. Don't do anything silly, dearie, it can't help you.'

She went out; and Christine heard the key turn in the lock.

It was a kind of prison, in spite of that unexpected ‘nurse'. How long would she be gone?

Footsteps soon came near again. A key grated in the lock, the door opened, and the woman returned, carrying a tray. She put it down on a chair near the door, slipped the key into a pocket in her dress, then brought the tray over to the bed and put it on the bedside table.

‘Let it draw a minute, dearie,' she said, sitting down. ‘It'll do you more good then. You're looking a bit better, I think; you'll soon be okay. Morphine makes you feel like that, but you were lucky—he looked after you. You're in one of the best bedrooms. I wish I had half your luck, you must have caught his eyes proper. Takes some pleasing, he does—I wouldn't do for him. Not me. He never liked bow legs, either!' She gave a little giggle. ‘What's your name?'

‘Christine Morely.' As soon as she had said ‘Morely', she realised that it was Grant.

‘Chrissie'll do for me,' said the other. ‘I'm Maisie, ducks. Been here quite a long time, and it's all right when you get used to it. I should think the tea's about right now,' she continued, and poured out the tea.

Christine let a mouthful cool slowly inside her mouth, and then let it move from cheek to cheek before swallowing it. She took increasingly large sips, until the cup was empty, while Maisie talked and drank, and ‘he' and ‘him' were always on her lips.

‘Who is this he you keep on talking about?' Christine made herself ask.

Maisie stared. ‘Who
is
he? Don't be daft, Chrissie.'

‘But I really want to know.'

‘Cor strike a light!' said Maisie, and drew back a little. ‘Sorry, dearie, but if you ain't been told, I'll leave the telling to him. I've been smacked down too often for speaking out o' me turn.'

‘Is he here?'

‘Not just yet, but he will be soon.'

‘Are we in London?'

‘You can ask him all the questions you like, but it's no use asking me,' said Maisie, quite firmly. ‘I'm here to do what I'm told, see. How about a wash and a bit of make-up on? Your nose is so shiny, I can see my old pan in it. Here, let me give you a hand.'

It was strange to sit in front of the mirror and to watch the reflection of Maisie actually brushing her hair – as if she liked the feel and the sight of the wavy tresses. At last she finished, took the tray, went out and locked the door.

Christine sat on the divan, her legs curled up beneath her. She felt better, her mouth was no longer parched, and her head hardly ached at all, but she was dizzy with bewilderment.

She hated to think, but she had to. Of Mike …

The door opened again, and she had plenty of warning, because the key turned in the lock. She expected to see Maisie, but it was the young waiter from Uplands. He was dressed in his white jacket, and with his oily mop of hair and his long, unsmiling face, he looked exactly the same as he had at the hotel.

He carried some newspapers, put them on the bed, then turned and went out.

Christine stared at the locked door for a long time before she touched the newspapers, then suddenly snatched them up.