Battle for Inspector West (7 page)

 

Christine's own face stared up at her from the front page of the
Monitor.
Her wedding photograph. It was like reading about someone else.

Fingleton had described vividly what the police imagined had happened, and had managed to get a photograph of the bathroom, showing her swimsuit and the crumpled towel on the floor. Another picture caught her eye, of the remarkably handsome man she had seen at Uplands. The caption read:

 

‘Chief Inspector Roger West of the Yard, who has been summoned to Uplands by the local police. Accompanying him is Detective-Sergeant Gill.'

 

Christine looked through the inside pages of the newspaper, and was aghast to find an article about Carosi and Mike. There, in garbled form, was the story of the encounter between Grant and Carosi. There were lurid details of Carosi's reputation, of the fact that he was suspected of so many different crimes.

After she had first looked through all the papers, she noticed that some paragraphs were faintly marked with pencil. One mentioned that Carosi was suspected of white slavery; another emphasized the fact that he trafficked in drugs; a third, that he was suspected of being one of an international vice ring.

Each of these hints heightened her fears.

She put the papers down at last and closed her eyes. Her nerves were quivery. If Carosi came into the room now, she would scream – she wouldn't be able to help herself. She knew so much more about him now.

There was a faint sound, and she opened her eyes.

Carosi stood at the end of the divan.

 

Christine hadn't heard him come in, hadn't heard a sound; but there he was. The man of the car; the man whose picture had hung in the wardrobe. Chin-chin Chinaman. He stood there like a statue, without speaking, without grinning.

She seemed frozen. She could not move, could only stare at him.

Why didn't he move? Speak? Do something,
anything –
instead of just standing there, within a foot of the divan. He seemed to be staring through her – no, to be stripping her with his eyes. She felt as if she were in the presence of something unclean.

The door behind him closed.

Just when she thought that she could not stand it any longer, when she felt a scream forming in her throat, his lips moved.

He spoke in a peculiar voice, as if he had a severe cold.

‘So, Mrs Grant,' he said.

Three simple words; and yet he managed to put evil into them, to touch each one with horror. There was a sneer and a malice in them. ‘So, Mrs Grant.' Just that, and it seemed to emphasize her helplessness, to remind her that she was completely in his power, that there was nothing he could not and would not do.

‘You are comfortable?'

Three more sneering words. ‘You are comfortable, but you will not be for long,' he might have said. ‘You must not be stubborn,' he said aloud, and moved nearer.

Her scream came out, high, shrill.

Carosi did not change his expression as he looked intently into her eyes, and he did not stop moving. He drew near to the side of the divan and then put out his arm and pressed her gently at the breast. Gently. Gently, but with such a threat of what he could do.

‘You are comfortable?' he said again.

‘Yes—yes!' she gasped. ‘Thank you, I—thank you.'

‘You will remain comfortable if you are not difficult,' he said, as if speaking hurt his throat. ‘I do not want you here alone for long; I wish your husband to join you. You will do exactly what you are told. You understand?'

‘Yes!'

‘I hope that you do,' said Carosi, very precisely, ‘because if you do not, you will not be comfortable.'

Now, he eased the terror a little, perhaps because he made it seem that he meant just what he said. She could not think of Michael, only of her terror.

‘You have read the newspapers?' he asked.

‘Yes—yes, of course!'

‘I bring you something else to read,' said Carosi.

He took a slim volume from beneath his coat. The title meant nothing to her:
Records.
She stretched out for the book because he seemed to expect it, and he appeared to be going to let her take it, then snatched it away and tapped her across the head with it. A corner caught her in the eye, which began to sting and to water, and involuntarily she closed the other eye. She couldn't see him, couldn't see what he was going to do. She pressed one hand against the stinging eye and made herself open the other. She could only see through a mist of tears, couldn't see clearly, still couldn't see him.

And then she could see.

He had gone, without a sound.

She lay in a daze for a long time, and then began to realise the significance of what he had said, of the awful danger for Mike. She didn't want to think about it. She clenched her hands, and her fingers touched the book which he had left beside her.

Records.

She opened it at random, to do anything but think.

There were two photographs, each taking up a full page. On the left-hand side was a young girl dressed in a swimsuit. She looked no more than twenty, and promised all the gaiety that one would expect in a young girl. On the opposite page was another photograph of a woman, dressed in a cloak which reached the ground. Her face looked old and careworn. She was smiling, and that made the expression worse, there was only misery in her; it was as if someone had ordered her to smile and she had tried, but the camera had seen through the twist of the lips to the unhappiness beyond.

Beneath this photograph was a date: 1949. And beneath the other another date: 1943.

Then suddenly she realised the truth; this was the same girl – photograph taken six years after the other.

Unsteadily, Christine turned to other pages. On every left-hand side were pictures of young girls; on the other side hags.

She turned to the front of the book, and saw only the two words:
Buenos Aires.

 

When she had been in the room alone for another hour, the quiet outside was disturbed by an unfamiliar sound, one she had not heard since she had been here. It was the barking of a dog. Yet it was hardly a bark, but a deep-throated roar such as might come from the throat of an Alsatian, like the one which had killed Derek Allen.

There was no real comfort here; only horror.

 

The day which followed the kidnapping of Christine Grant was a bad one for Scotland Yard. The newspaper accounts were exasperating, but the real trouble was that everyone felt that the Yard had let itself down. A cartoon in a newspaper showing Christine Grant barely covered in a towel being led past several policemen who were peering into some bushes, was the worst gibe.

No one pilloried Roger West: it was as if police and pressmen knew he was bitterly angry with himself. But the real cause of the depression was the fact that no one had any idea where Carosi was, and everyone known to have worked for him had gone to ground.

London was searched as it had seldom been, and none of Carosi's men was found.

Flats and apartments had been left completely empty. Men and women who normally could have been picked up in restaurants, clubs and pubs had vanished.

The disappearances created a strange, unfamiliar uneasiness throughout the Yard.

Roger West had spent the day with Fratton, Lane and others, covering the Dorset end. A pathologist from the Home Office arrived to examine Derek Allen's body, and a prominent veterinary surgeon had also been consulted. The fact that the dog was an Alsatian was established.

The atmosphere of tension and uncertainty at Uplands remained, heightened now that everyone knew who Roger was, because of newspaper photographs. But Detective-Sergeant Gill, although on the premises, was not known as a policeman, except by Fingleton, who did not talk.

Gill was now a ‘waiter'.

Roger went to the room which had been set aside for the police, and pressed the bell.

Gill, looking large and awkward in his white jacket and black trousers, was a fresh-faced, fair-haired man with broad features, and a nice sense of humour.

‘You rang, sir?' he asked, with a straight face.

‘That's right, waiter,' said Roger. ‘Sit down a minute, and tell me if you've got anything.'

‘There's one curious thing,' said Gill, obeying. ‘One of the waiters, a youngster named Luigi, was off in the early afternoon yesterday, came back on duty at tea-time, and worked late. He was due for duty again this afternoon, but hasn't turned up. He's only been here about a week.'

‘What have you done about it?'

‘As you were out, I telephoned the Yard.'

‘Good. What's this Luigi like?'

‘Looks about eighteen, is tall, slim, with a long face and dark hair,' said Gill. ‘Never had much to say for himself; I haven't had as much as a word with him. Derek Allen's friend, Grayson, has been poking in and out of the kitchen asking a lot of silly questions.'

‘I shouldn't stop him,' said Roger, ‘it'll ease his mind, if nothing else. Right, go back and wait!'

Gill went off, grinning, and Roger immediately put in a call to the Yard. He was put straight through to Chatworth, who asked abruptly: ‘Anything new?'

‘Not to call new, sir,' Roger said. ‘We're after a missing waiter—'

‘Named Luigi. I know that.'

‘I'd like a long talk with him,' Roger said grimly, ‘and I'd also like a word with Mrs Grant's father.'

‘Why?'

‘Grant tells me that Carosi tried to upset him on the telephone by talking of Morely and his past, and on her wedding morning Mrs Grant was sent a snapshot of her father. A characteristic Carosi trick. We've no evidence that Carosi is actually using Morely, but he might be.'

‘If he is, then Morely's probably disappeared with all the others,' growled Chatworth.

‘We could find out, sir.'

‘I'll arrange it,' promised Chatworth. ‘Is there anything else?'

‘I don't think so, thanks.'

‘Well, I've something for
you
,'
said Chatworth. ‘Sir Mortimer Grant is using all his influence to make things really unpleasant, so don't be surprised if you get a very bad press tomorrow.'

He rang off.

Roger replaced the receiver, lit a cigarette, faced the task of re-reading all the reports, and felt gloomy and on edge. It wasn't pleasant to have to sit back and wait for Carosi to act, and it almost amounted to that.

There was another angle which he liked even less. It wasn't nice to think of Christine Grant in Carosi's hands. He could turn her into a dopey in a few days, or make this ‘honeymoon' a thing of horror and revulsion. The fact that Fratton had been nominally in charge didn't absolve him, Roger. If they didn't get her back soon, he was going to have a long-lived burden on his conscience.

Carosi had taken her as bait for Grant, of course, and Grant was being closely watched. If he made a move …

Just before seven o'clock, there was a tap at the door, and the Yard man named Lane came hurrying in, and said: ‘I thought you ought to know this at once, sir. Grant had a telephone call five minutes ago, and he's getting his car out of the garage.'

 

 

The man who spoke to Grant on the telephone had a stilted voice, and sounded as if he were not used to speaking English. He did not say much, but every word hammered itself into Grant's mind. Mrs Grant was ‘safe'.

She would not be hurt if Grant did exactly what he was told. The first order was vital: he must not tell the police about this call.

He must leave Uplands immediately.

He must drive to Salisbury.

If he were followed, he must go to the Castle Hotel, have a drink, and then return to Uplands. If he were not followed, or could shake off any pursuer, he was to go to Salisbury Railway Station and enter the buffet on the down platform from London.

He would meet someone there whom he would recognise, and from whom he would get further instructions.

Grant had been standing by the side of the bed when the call had come through, and he stayed there for a few tense seconds, staring out into the gathering dusk.

He turned away suddenly, went out, passed two or three of the guests without looking at them, and went outside. It was cool: almost chilly. He did not look round, but went to his car and backed it out of the garage. A policeman on duty at the gates glanced at him, but did not attempt to stop or speak to him.

Grant turned left, towards the main Salisbury–Shaftesbury road, and trod hard on the pedal.

For the first time he looked behind him, and saw the sidelights of a car moving down the drive. So the police were following. The road ahead was straight although narrow, and his speedometer needle quivered until it reached the eighty mark. The half-light made it a strain to drive, but he didn't put on his lights. He could still see those of the car which he imagined West was in, but it seemed farther away. He reached the main road, and three miles from Salisbury he turned off. Now he had to have his lights on.

He knew the district well, and made no false turnings. Forty minutes after he had left Uplands, he approached Salisbury along the Amesbury road, feeling quite sure that the police would not expect him to enter the town from the north.

He reached the railway station, and pulled up halfway along the station approach. This was a parking place, and he switched off the lights and got out. He walked towards the booking-office, and stood looking towards his car. A policeman was standing not far away, but took no notice of him.

After five minutes, Grant went into the booking-hall.

It was dimly lit. No trains were due, for the platform wasn't crowded. He got a platform ticket from a slot machine, then went on to the arrival platform from London.

The light in the buffet was better than on the platform, but he saw no one whom he recognised. He ordered a bitter, and stood by the bar, drinking.

The door opened, and a mild-looking, little man appeared. Grant hardly spared him a second glance.

The little man went to a table near the window, and sat down. When he looked up, Grant saw him full-face. Mild grey eyes were turned towards him without any sign of recognition, but there could be no doubt that this was the man Grant had come to meet.

It was Arthur Morely; Christine's father.

 

Grant went to the table and sat down. Morely greeted him with a faint smile, and continued to sip his tea. The muscles on Grant's cheeks tautened, and he was clenching his fists. Morely took out a paper packet of cheap cigarettes: there were only two inside. He put one to his lips and then patted his pockets, stopped, looked disappointed, and said: ‘Excuse me, sir—
have
you a match?'

‘Match?' Grant hesitated, then took out his lighter and thumbed it. Morely lit his cigarette.

‘Thank you. It's a cool evening, isn't it?'

‘You're cool,' Grant growled. ‘What do you want?'

‘Please,' protested Morely, ‘
please.
We must be careful. I have a message for you, of course, but we must be careful.' He sat back in his chair and smiled at the tea-girl, while Grant toyed with his glass.

Morely said with soft precision: ‘I do not want to cause delay, but I must be careful. I have been told exactly what to do, and I must obey, Mr Grant. So must you. My daughter's life may depend on it.'

Grant said nothing.

‘And I am waiting to hear from a friend,' said Morely. ‘He or she will tell me whether the police have followed you here. If they have, then you will have to return to Uplands and wait for another message.'

Words seemed to be forced out of Grant.

‘Do you know where she is?'

‘No, Mr Grant, they have not confided in me; they are doubtless afraid that if I knew, I would inform the police at once. As indeed I should. I am terrified of these people. The very thought of crime distresses me, and this one is so much worse because it affects my own daughter.'

‘You may have to be here, but you don't have to be a nauseating hypocrite,' Grant growled.

‘Hypocrite?' echoed Morely, softly. ‘Don't judge me too harshly, Mr Grant. I spent so many years in prison, terrible years of bitter self-reproach, while expiating a terrible crime. Today I might have been judged insane. A psychiatrist might even have prevented it. There was one gleam of light in the dark misery of my prison life. My daughter, now your wife. I dreamed of her being happily married, the only dream I had. When I came out of prison and found that there was every prospect of this becoming true, I knew the promise of happiness again.'

There was no easing in Grant's expression.

‘You may find it hard to believe, but it is the solemn truth,' Morely assured him. ‘I was determined to see her on her wedding day. I was outside the church, but did nothing to attract her attention, to mar her radiance. When I saw her, I felt that I could go away in peace.'

A train approached, rumbling loudly; someone shouted; the train whistle shrieked as it hurtled through the station. Morely did not speak again until the roar had faded.

‘And then I heard from Carosi,' he said.

Grant caught his breath.

‘I had heard of him before,' went on Morely, still softly. ‘You would be astonished if you knew how many things are talked about in prison. Some of this evil man's associates were in the same jail as I.'

Morely stubbed out his cigarette. Two or three more people came into the buffet, there was a clatter of glasses and cups.

‘Perhaps you can imagine how shocked I was to hear from such a man,' Morely went on, and there seemed the shadow of horror on his face. ‘I am not a criminal, but of course I am branded for life. Carosi knows this well. I was told to come here and talk to you, and warned that if I did anything to upset the plans, Christine would suffer. As I had read the newspapers, I knew what had happened to Christine. Could I do anything but obey?'

His voice was gently pleading.

Grant said: ‘If it's—' He broke off, and a word came explosively, ‘money—'

‘No. Thank you,' said Morely, simply. ‘I do this for fear; not gain.'

A middle-aged woman came bustling in, carrying a furled umbrella, wearing an old-fashioned straw hat and a dark-blue coat. In her right hand was a wicker-basket. She went to the counter, ordered tea, and brought it back to the table.

Morely looked at her as though he were mildly interested.

Grant asked gruffly: ‘How long shall we have to wait?'

‘No longer; that is the messenger,' declared Morely. ‘It
is
all clear now; I may give you the message. You are to take the next London train, which leaves at 8.15. At Waterloo you must go to the escalator which leads to the Underground railway, and wait on the near side of the bookstall downstairs. Is that quite clear?'

Grant didn't speak.

The red-faced woman sipped her tea noisily.

‘
Do
you understand?' demanded Morely urgently. ‘The train won't be long, and you have to get your ticket. And you are not to communicate with the police, and I beg you not to, because you are being watched. All the time you are being watched.'

‘I understand,' Grant said, and added abruptly: ‘If you ever get a chance, will you take a risk to help your daughter?'

‘I would lay down my life for her,' Morely said.

 

Telephone message from Chief Inspector West, from Salisbury to Scotland Yard:

 

Don't pick up Morely he is being followed stop. Using facial disguise am personally following Grant from Salisbury in Waterloo direction stop. Advise Grant being trailed taking extreme precautions not to be observed stop.

 

A surge of people passed Grant as he waited near a bookstall at Waterloo, which was closed, and pretended to read an evening paper. A boy pushed past him.

Grant looked down on a bare, cropped head, and saw the lad's knowing grin. Then he was startled to see a slip of paper held in grimy fingers.

‘Cost yer 'arf a quid, guv'nor.'

‘What is it?'

‘Expecting a message, aincha?'

Not until a ten shilling note was in the boy's hand was Grant allowed to take the paper. The boy slipped off among the crowd. Grant raised his newspaper, and unfolded the note inside it. One sentence was scrawled in pencil:
Go to Victoria Station, under the clock.

 

There were two clocks at Victoria.

Grant stood statue-like beneath one for five minutes, before he remembered the other. He walked swiftly across to the second, but when he reached it, hesitated and began to walk back.
The
clock – the fools, why hadn't they specified which?

A woman approached him, flouncing along, raddled face heavily painted. She muttered something under her breath, and Grant said harshly: ‘No, go away.' She grinned into his face, and rested her hand on his arm. He pushed her away, but she held his hand. He felt something hard in it. When she had minced on, he looked down at a railway ticket which she had pressed into his hand.

It was a first-class single to East Croydon.

Grant wiped the back of his neck as he moved away from the clock. He went towards the nearest ticket barrier, and asked a porter where the Croydon trains started.

 

Telephone message to Scotland Yard from Chief Inspector West:

 

Grant at Victoria Station, accosted by small boy and a street walker. Heard to ask for Croydon. Request urgent instructions all Surrey, Sussex, Kent police to watch all roads and to use radio patrol-cars where possible. Request radio car await me at each of the three Croydon railway stations.

 

Grant reached East Croydon just after eleven-forty-five.

Under the lights the platform looked deserted as the train drew in, but a crowd of passengers alighted, and he found himself caught up among them. Having no orders to wait, he passed through the barrier. Two or three taxis were standing in the Yard, and a driver said: ‘Taxi, sir?'

‘No,' said Grant. There was a light over the exit, but otherwise the station approach was gloomy. Most of the passengers had gone now, only a few who had come from the end of the train hurried by.

All the taxis were driven off.

At the far end of the station approach stood a car. Its rear light seemed very bright. No one came from it. Another, bigger car, turned into the approach, and the headlights shone on Grant. The car headed straight for him, and he put up his hand to shield his eyes. The lights slewed round as the car made a half-circle and pulled up opposite him.

A chauffeur beckoned him.

Grant went forward, with long strides. The chauffeur put his hand back to open the door, taxi-driver fashion. Grant got inside and nearly fell over a foot.

‘It's all right,' a girl said. ‘Sit down.'

He could just see her, in the corner.

The car started off, and he just saved himself from falling into the girl's lap. She had a youthful face, classical, oddly immobile. He caught another glimpse of her as they passed beneath street lamps in the main road, but the car soon turned off into an unlit road.

 

Radio message from Chief Inspector West to all police patrol-cars for general use Surrey, Sussex, Kent:

 

Grant in chauffeur-driven Armstrong–Siddeley, black or dark blue heading south from Croydon. Report progress stage by stage but do not follow closely.