Battle for Inspector West (9 page)

 

Morely sat on a seat overlooking the English Channel, smoking a cigarette and sunning himself. He looked much healthier than he had at Salisbury, and more prosperous too. There was a gentle smile on his face, as if he were dreaming of pleasant things.

Roger passed him twice, then went and sat down beside him. Morely glanced round, and murmured that it was a nice day.

‘Very,' said Roger. He wore a pair of baggy flannels, one knee of which was patched, a pullover and an old sports coat. His hair was dyed again, and he had put on a heavy moustache, but it would deceive no one by day. It was intended to look like a disguise, not to be one.

Three navvies, working at a hole in the road, fifty yards along, were Yard men: if Carosi was up to form, he would know that, and would assume that the police were hoping to make a capture. He would not dream that Roger was offering himself as a kind of sacrifice.

Give Carosi's men half a chance, and they would kidnap him.

Morely showed no sign of recognition, but seemed to doze, then kept glancing at an old gun metal watch which he had on a steel chain. It was nearly half past eleven. At half past exactly, he stood up and sauntered along the promenade. There were low cliffs here, and at intervals, shallow steps which led down to the beach. Not far along was a boating station, with a dozen rowing-boats, one or two small yachts, pedal boats, canoes and motor-boats for hire. It was early in the season, and few people were about.

Roger followed Morely.

Christine Grant's father might just be out for a stroll, but Roger could not bring himself to believe it; there must be more significance in it than that.

The browny yellow sand was very fine. A few small children played in it. A girl with a wide sun hat and wearing a sleeveless white dress which seemed to show every curve of her body came walking along with a great Alsatian dog behind her; it was now sniffing, now loping.

Roger's heart began to thump with physical fear.

A dog like this had savaged and killed young Derek Allen. A dog like this could leap at him and catch him by the throat.

The policemen navvies had knocked off for their tea-break, because he had left the seat; but they were some distance away.

The girl was a beauty, and the dog was a beauty, too.

Then Michael Grant came striding from the other direction. He was in grey flannels and blue reefer jacket, head bare, eyes scanning first the distant sea and then the girl and Roger. It wasn't an accident that they had met close to the little jetties, where motor-boats were moored. The girl had not even looked at Roger, but was smiling at Grant, as if with warm welcome. The dog came bounding up, and Roger instinctively put a hand up towards his throat, had to force himself not to back away.

‘You won't get hurt, West,' said Grant, ‘if you'll come for a boat trip with us.'

‘What on earth do you mean?' Roger gasped. ‘My name is Simpson; I—'

‘Don't try it on,' Grant said flatly. ‘If you do, this lovely will give a signal to the dog, and all those shovel-plying coppers on the promenade won't be able to help you. Just go and get into that boat called
New Day,
the newly varnished one.'

The girl was smiling, a soft and gentle smile; she looked far too sweet and pure to be evil. But she held a hand towards the dog, as if a command; and the dog was looking up at Roger, great head on one side.

Morely was some way off, still walking steadily away.

‘Listen, West,' Grant said almost desperately, ‘I mean what I say. Carosi wants to see you, and nothing will stop him. If you've got any sense you'll come with us now. If you don't, the next thing you'll know he'll be after your wife or the children.'

‘He
loves
children,' cooed the girl, with another sugary smile. ‘Do come with us. Mr West, I'm sure a boat trip will do you a world of good. And a friend of yours would like to see you, too—a Mr Fingleton, of the
Monitor.
He
is
a friend of yours, isn't he? He tried to harass Mr Carosi, and it didn't work out quite as he expected it.'

‘West—' Grant began.

There was a sudden squeal of brakes on the road above.

Roger swung round. A car was swinging off the road and mounting the pavement. One of the policemen was on the ground, and the other two were pinned against the railings. The timing was perfect; even if he had wanted help he would not have had a chance.

‘Come on,' Grant rasped. ‘Get moving.'

The dog growled.

‘If you kill a policeman,' Roger began, as if he were fighting back naked fear, ‘every man in the force will be after you, and—'

‘I'm sure that will frighten Mr Carosi ever so much,' the girl said.

 

They were well out to sea. It was calm, and it could have been pleasant. The dog lay in the thwarts, and the girl dangled one arm gracefully over the side so that the water rippled through her fingers. Not far off, a motor cruiser of some fifty or sixty tons was hove to, and they were heading for it. The gangway was already down.

Was he going to see Carosi now? Was this how the man kept away from the police, by cruising outside territorial waters?

They drew alongside. A sailor in snow-white clothes was standing by to help them aboard.

‘You first,' the girl said, and smiled at him, and Roger climbed on to the bottom step with his back to the land and to all he held dear; he went up. The cruiser seemed much larger now, and spick and span. Two more men in white were at the top of the gangway, and one gave him a hand.

He didn't need help. He just wanted to see Carosi.

 

He did not see Carosi at once, he saw Fingleton.

The reporter looked like a man who had been through an ordeal beyond words. It showed in his eyes, at his lips, in the bruises on his face. He seemed hardly to recognise Roger as he sat in a small, dark cabin, until Roger schooled himself to ask: ‘What happened to you, Fingleton?'

‘The great newspaper man,' Fingleton said bitterly. ‘The Fleet Street ace who was going to out-Yard the Yard, and out-glamour West. I thought I was on to something. I traced a line between Carosi and Lord Raffety. I went to see Raffety—and when I came away, I walked into a reception party. Mr Carosi wanted me to tell him exactly how I found the line to Raffety. I wouldn't. But I think I will, West. That man is—'

He broke off, and there was fear in his eyes.

The door was locked, but before long a man came in with a tray and some food, and Fingleton fell upon the food as if he hadn't eaten for days.

Roger made himself eat a little.

Within twenty minutes he realised that had been a mistake, for he began to feel overwhelmingly drowsy.

The food had been drugged, of course, and only one question burned in his mind.

Was it enough to kill?

When he came round, someone not far off was laughing. It was gusty laughter, as of a man doubled up with mirth, and yet with a different note in it – as if the laugh
hurt
the man. Wherever he looked, there was only darkness, but a light showed under the door, and peal after peal of tortured merriment came, as if the man could not help himself.

 

Roger got up from a chair. He swayed, and his head hammered, while that awful, hysterical laughter grated in his mind, killing all desire to think.

He reached the door.

By then he was bathed in sweat, his legs felt weak, and he was afraid that he was going to fall. But he groped for the handle, and found it.

The door opened when he pushed. He waited for a few seconds, to get used to the light, then thrust the door wider open, and stepped into the room beyond.

It was empty.

Another peal of laughter rang out from another room beyond. He went towards it. This one was in a house – a sitting-room. So he was ashore again. He looked back into the room from which he had come, and saw a bed.

The laughter died away into a giggling sound – strange, frightening giggling. Roger went forward to the next door, and opened it on another wild burst of laughter.

Fingleton was spread-eagled on a single bed in the corner of a small room. He was naked, except for his small trunks. Every bruise showed. Sitting on a stool at the foot was a girl, casually tickling Fingleton's feet with a long feather. The girl of the beach and the floppy hat, and the dog. She wasn't smiling, but looked bored; that made it more horrible. She didn't seem to realise that Roger had entered the room. She stopped tickling, and Fingleton gave a little convulsive shudder and stopped laughing. But he didn't lie still. His chest heaved, he gasped for breath, Roger could hear it whistling through his mouth and nose. He was running with sweat – down his face, his forehead, his chest, his legs and arms. Now that he wasn't laughing, he looked as if he were writhing in agony; in fact he was.

The girl moved the feather and touched the sole of Fingleton's right foot, just as the reporter had seemed to get a little repose.

Fingleton heaved.

Roger went forward, snatched the feather from her, crumpled it up in his hand, and flung it away.

The girl wasn't really surprised, but she looked round at him blankly, reproachfully.

‘You mustn't do that,' she protested. ‘Mr Carosi will be cross.'

She sounded almost simple, and did not speak or protest when Roger went to the bed, feeling in his hip pocket for his knife – but it wasn't there. His keys were, as well as some odd silver. Fingleton looked up at him without recognition. His eyes were bloodshot and pain-racked. His tongue showed as he muttered a word:
water.
There was no water in the room, no taps, no hand-basin. There might be a hand-basin in the other bedroom, though. The girl hadn't got the feather now.

‘Don't touch him again,' he growled, and turned and went into the sitting-room, then across to the bedroom. There was a hand-basin, with a tooth-glass on the rack above it; there was a sponge too. He ran cold water on to the sponge, squeezed it nearly dry, soaked it again, and then filled the glass and turned round.

Fingleton began to laugh again!

‘Stop it!' shouted Roger. ‘Stop it!' He rushed into the sitting-room, seeing the girl sitting in exactly the same position, with another long quill in her hand. He reached the door, but she slammed it in his face.

Water spilled over the edge of the glass as he tried to open it, while Fingleton went on laughing, those maniacal sounds which seemed so horrible.

Roger turned to put the glass down, to hurl his weight against the wood.

‘You seem very concerned about your friend,' said Carosi, from the door behind him.

Roger lowered the glass and the sponge, as Fingleton's laughter died away. He turned round, slowly. Carosi backed to a chair in the sitting-room. He was smiling what Christine Grant had called a Chinaman's smile.

‘Fingleton will not laugh again, if you tell me the truth,' Carosi said in that voice which sounded as if he was recovering from a cold. ‘Put those things down, West, and sit down opposite me.'

Silence came from the room beyond.

Roger carried the glass and sponge to a small table, put them down and dropped into the chair and looked at Carosi. He tried to tell himself that he was not afraid, but he was.

‘I have seen you like this before,' Carosi said, evenly, ‘although you perhaps did not realise it. The disguise—' He raised his hands, and Roger saw that he held an automatic. ‘It would serve once, perhaps, if a man were not able to see beyond it. Very simple. You are a simple man, West. You have simple rules. One thing is right, another is wrong. You are always on the side of the right. But life is not as simple as that. You are a victim of a false culture and a false civilization. You are kind. Nature is cruel. Man is natural. I want a thing. I take it. A man opposes me. I make him suffer. A man refuses to tell me the truth. He is tortured until he does. Simple also in its own way, perhaps—but natural.'

Roger didn't speak; was glad even of this slight respite.

‘And you have the faults of this veneer of civilization,' went on Carosi. ‘You suffer because another man is in agony. That is bad. I do not suffer. I hardly notice it. I train others not to notice it. I always find that the strongest weapon to use is that which plays on another's emotions and affections. Grant, and his wife. You, and your wife and family perhaps—and Fingleton. But you carry it too far; Fingleton does not matter to you. What do you think of me, Chief Inspector West?'

Roger didn't answer, because he could not: there was nothing to say. Then Carosi gave a short sharp whistle, and almost at once
Fingleton began to laugh!

Roger started up. ‘You told me—'

‘I keep my promises,' said Carosi. ‘You will learn that. You refused to answer my question. What do you think of me? Will you answer now?'

Fingleton's laughter died away.

‘Yes,' said Roger, hoarsely. ‘I'll answer you, I think—'

He paused.

‘Be quite frank,' urged Carosi. ‘You will find that we have things in common, West. For instance, I like the truth.'

Roger said: ‘I don't think I know what I think. I did know. This has altered my opinion.'

‘For better or worse?'

‘Worse.'

‘That is the truth. Good,' said Carosi. ‘What did you think about me before, West? I was just an important criminal—as you would say. Yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘Let me know, please, exactly what you thought of my methods, my activities—everything,' said Carosi. ‘You will understand that I seldom have the chance to discuss this with a police officer.' This was a game he wanted to play: so why not humour him? It should be easy, but – there was that steady gaze from the narrowed eyes, giving Roger a feeling, almost a fear that if he lied, Carosi would know.

‘It isn't easy to sum up what I thought,' he said. ‘Are you clever? Up to a point. Clever enough to get what you want, to make people faithful to you, to make a lot of money, even clever enough to leave the country when things got too hot. But not really clever enough. I was sure you would come back. Whenever a man becomes as powerful as you, he can't keep away from the source of his power. If you were really clever, you wouldn't have come back.'