Inspector West Alone - John Creasey

It was a waste of time trying to guess how and why Sloan had so quickly connected Kyle, Marion, and Kennedy with him. He could see the build-up in Sloan’s mind; add to that Sloan’s tenacity, and in this case his burning desire to get at the truth, and it was all the explanation needed. By far the most important factor was the fact that Sloan had reason to suspect Kennedy.

Roger got up, took the money and the diamond out of the drawer and locked it in the small safe. Sloan had forced the pace. He himself had played cautiously for as long as he dared, and Kennedy was half-way to trusting him. He had never done a thing, since Kyle’s visit, to cause distrust. He was no longer followed everywhere, but in spite of that, he hadn’t put a foot wrong.

The first task was to find Kennedy’s home address.

As he was turning away, the telephone bell rang. It was Kennedy, who said:

“Well?”

“I must see you.” That rasping note should shake the man’s composure.

“I’ll come——”

“You won’t, you’re to keep away from here. Get that into your head. Where are you?”

“I’ll meet you——”

“Listen,” said Roger, “I’m not a stooge any longer, I’m a partner. We take the same risks, by relying on each other. I’m not going on with hole-in-corner business. Where are you?”

Kennedy said: “Percy will pick you up in half an hour’s time, outside the Burlington Arcade. He’ll bring you to me.”

*     *     *     *

Roger went into the kitchen, tore some paper into squares, and, with steady hands, shook a little flour out of a tin into each square. Then he screwed the pieces of paper up; he had a dozen little screws when he’d finished. He wiped all trace of the flour away, and put the bags, wrapped in a large handkerchief, into his pocket.

*     *     *     *

Percy was at the wheel of the Daimler, and didn’t get out. Roger climbed in. The car moved off swiftly, and the blinds fell, with the familiar whirring. Roger opened the side ventilation window, and waited until the car had turned two corners, then tossed one of the small screws of flour out. He waited for three more turns, and tossed another.

The journey took fifteen minutes, and he didn’t think they had gone farther than five minutes away from the Arcade; Percy had been driving over the same ground. As they slowed down, he dropped out another paper-bag.

Percy opened the door without letting up the blinds, Roger glanced up and down the dark street. Except that it was one of London’s squares, he couldn’t identify it. He glanced down at the pavement; the little white bag had burst ten yards or so away, the flour showed pale blue beneath a lamp.

He followed Percy to the house and saw that the number painted on a round pillar was twenty-seven. A manservant opened the door; so Kennedy lived in style. Percy came in and, without a word, took him upstairs. It was luxurious: carpets, tapestries on the walls, good furniture and soft lighting—the home you would expect of a millionaire. Percy led the way to a room on the right, tapped and opened it at a call.

It was a study; book-lined, with a magnificent carved-oak desk; a film set of a room falling just short of opulence. Kennedy stood by a white Adam mantelpiece, with a brandy glass in his hand and his eyes only slightly open. He tipped his head back to look at Roger.

“All right, Percy,” he said.

He was in a dinner-jacket. A cigar, half-smoked, lay on an ash-tray on the mantelpiece. On another, at the side of a chair, was a half-smoked cigarette; it was red-tipped, so a woman had been here to dinner.

The door closed with a click.

“What’s the cause for alarm, West?”

The slip. West instead of Rayner, betrayed Kennedy’s state of nerves. If Kennedy realized what he had done, he had the wit not to correct himself.

Roger said: “Why didn’t you tell me you were wanted by the police?”

Kennedy said softly: “But I’m not, and you know I’m not. You had a previous visit from Sloan, and he slung the name Kennedy into the conversation.”

“He’s after you,” Roger said abruptly. “What’s more he’s connected you with Kyle, Marion, and—with me. Don’t ask me how.”

Kennedy turned, took the cigar and drew at it, took it from his mouth and looked at the faint red glow beneath the pale-grey ash. He was quite steady.

“I  should like to hear more about it.”

“You can listen to your dictaphone recording in the morning,” Roger said. “I thought I was the big risk in this outfit. Now I know that you are. Have the police got anything on you?”

“They’ve a name, that’s all. You know me as Kennedy. A few other people do. I’m not known here as Kennedy. That isn’t my name. I’m careful, Rayner.” He slipped back into the use of Rayner easily. “They don’t know anything against Kennedy. They might suspect him of a few minor crimes, that’s all. There’s no need to fly into a panic.”

“Call it what you like. This is dangerous. Sloan came to warn me that I was playing with bad men when I played with Kennedy.”

Kennedy said: “Perhaps he thinks you’re honest!” He didn’t seem to be amused. “I’ve always been worried by the man Sloan, he got on to Kyle too quickly. He was after the men behind Kyle, of course, that’s——”

“How the police get half of their results. They pick up a man on one thing, and find he’s connected with another. They’re much better than you’ve ever given them credit for.”

Kennedy said: “Maybe. Would Sloan have a dossier on you, this Kennedy, and anything else to do with the case?”

“He’d keep a record, probably in his desk—more likely there than at his home. Few policemen keep everything in their heads. They never know what they’ll forget—and they never know when they might run into trouble, so they leave their testimony behind them. Sloan usually kept his note-book in his desk.”

“Would he talk to anyone about this?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t any close friends at the Yard. He’s young— young for his rank, too. He and I were usually together on a job. He’d confide in me. And on this job, he’s more likely than usual to keep it to himself, because I’m at the bottom of it. He’d feel that the others were laughing at him for thinking I’d been framed—most of them have probably assumed that I killed the girl at Copse Cottage.”

Kennedy drew at the cigar again.

“I see. Have a drink, Rayner? I can recommend the brandy, or——”

“I wouldn’t mind a whisky.”

“Please yourself.” Kennedy poured out. “Do you know of anyone at the Yard you could bribe?”

The question wasn’t a surprise, was no more than Roger had to expect. He took the glass and didn’t answer.

“Do you?” The other’s voice was thin and harsh.

He had to win Kennedy’s confidence; there was no drawing back.

“I wouldn’t like to say. There are one or two I didn’t trust, but I doubt if they’d sell anything that mattered.

We had our black sheep, though. There’s one——” he broke off and gulped down his whisky. “No, you’re crazy! The Brixton job was bad enough. Corrupting a Yard man——”

“You wouldn’t have to do it. The man who’d tackle the job would be prepared for trouble. He’d be safe enough from our side. But it might take him six months to find the right prospect. This is just another way you can help me, Rayner—and help yourself.”

Roger shrugged. “I  can’t guarantee anything.”

“Who is the man you’ve got in mind?”

“Well—Detective Sergeant——”

“Small fry,” sneered Kennedy. “Do better.”

“He’s your best bet. You can’t get at the high rankers —I’ll stake my life on any one of them. This man, Sergeant Banister, is an old chap. He has a damning habit of antagonizing his seniors, especially Assistant Commissioners, and he’s failed at most of his exams. He’s good, but he can’t get promotion and the accompanying pay increase, and he has a rough time at home. His wife’s on the sick list—a chronic invalid. I don’t know how far he would go, but he’s your most likely prospect. What do you want?”

“Sloan’s desk note-book.”

“What else?”

“Anything about the Copse Cottage murder, you, Kyle, Kennedy, and Marion—dossiers on them all. They’re easy enough to get for a man inside, aren’t they?”

Roger said: “They should be. They might be out— that means with the Assistant Commissioner, the Home Office, or one of the Superintendents. That wouldn’t be for long, but if Banister played ball, he might not be able to get everything for a few days. But there’s a snag.”

“What is it?”

“Once the dossiers were missed, the Yard would make a grand slam against the people covered by them. You’d be surprised what happens when those experts really put their heads together. They know all the tricks, all the answers.”

“I wouldn’t want the papers for long; just long enough for them to be photolithoed.”

Roger said: “Well, try Banister. Don’t say I haven’t warned you.”

“I won’t.” Kennedy laughed—that curious laugh with his head back. “Beginning to see what a tower of strength you are to me? I’ve often wondered how much they’ve got on certain friends of mine. This will help me to find out.”

Roger said: “No violence—with Sloan or anyone else.”

“I know where to stop,” said Kennedy. He looked earnest—until Roger glanced round at him from the door, five minutes later. Kennedy was grinning; at the thought of what was going to happen to Bill Sloan. This was like playing with T.N.T. The footman closed the door. Roger crossed the landing, and another door opened. A woman, small, chic, beautiful, looked straight at him. She wore a dinner-gown of black with lace half-revealing her shoulders and the gentle swell of her breast; she wore a tulle scarf, which wisped up at the back of her head. Her hair was corn-coloured. She didn’t smile, but withdrew and closed the door.

Percy was waiting outside in the street.

“Where do you want dropping?” he asked.

“The same place will do.”

Roger got in. A small car parked farther along the road moved after them. He didn’t see it, once he was inside, because the blinds were down, but it was still behind them when he was dropped in Piccadilly. He walked slowly towards the Circus. It was a fine, starry night, with no wind. The lights of London were on again, and the Circus looked gay with the moving advertisements.

A man followed him.

He made no attempt to avoid the man, but walked to his flat. He went upstairs and switched on the light, then went cautiously down again. The man was lounging in a doorway, opposite. So Kennedy—whose name wasn’t really Kennedy—had told Percy that the red light was on: Kennedy was making quite sure that Roger didn’t try any tricks. The telephone was tapped, of course. If he’d made a mistake it was in telling Kennedy that he knew of the dictaphones; but Kennedy had probably already realized that he knew. The risk, the great almost unforgivable risk, was with Sloan.

Sloan was marked down for murder as surely as Lucille had been.

To-night? Possibly to-night, but not if he stayed indoors; this would be another accident, not open murder. Roger stood in front of the telephone, undecided. He could switch off the dictaphone, but a different contraption might be fitted to the telephone itself. He suspected that the other offices in the building were owned by Kennedy, but wasn’t sure. He mustn’t take a risk with that telephone.

How long would the guard remain outside?

He went back upstairs, sorted through a small tool-box in the kitchen, selected several, including a key that would serve as a pick-lock, and then remembered Harry; Harry was usually in by eleven o’clock on his nights off; it was now nearly ten, and an hour wasn’t enough for what Roger wanted to do. He would take a chance by waiting until Harry came back. Roger picked up a book and began to read, but couldn’t concentrate. He switched on the radio; there was hymn singing. He read the Cry article again.

He didn’t like it; he didn’t like seeing the names of Janet, Scoopy, and Richard in print.

Then he heard Harry’s key in the lock.

Harry walked in, smiling sombrely, asked if there were anything Roger wanted, and went to bed; he had a small room which wasn’t included in the main rooms of the flat. Roger waited until the man had had time to undress and get into bed, then went into his own room, adjacent. He hummed to himself as he ran water from the tap, did everything as if he were going to retire. He switched on a small radio; there was dance music. He took fifty pound notes from the safe, then put on a pair of shoes with rubber soles and heels, wrapped up the tools and dropped them into his pocket, switched off the radio, and crept out.

At the front door he paused, to look towards Harry’s door. A line of light showed underneath, but he heard no sound of movement. As an afterthought, he went into the living-room, tore a piece of gummed paper off the wrapping of Mrs. Delaney’s package, and marked it with a pencil. He stuck this at the foot of his door, sealing door to frame. If Harry looked in to see if he were there, the paper would be broken and he would be warned.

He crept downstairs.

Harry hadn’t replaced the guard; the man was still huddled in the doorway.

Roger turned to the ground-floor office of the building and worked on the door with his tools. The lock wasn’t difficult, a policeman could crack a crib with any man if the need were great enough. He fiddled for five minutes before the lock clicked back. There were tell-tale signs at the door, marks of the tools, but they probably wouldn’t be noticed if nothing were stolen. He crept across a large office to the window which overlooked the yard—as did his office upstairs. The window was latched. He unfastened it and pushed the window up, climbed out into the concrete yard and then closed the window. He went to a narrow service alley which led to the next street, walked past the end of Lyme Street and saw the guard, and then averted his eyes quickly, for Percy swung round the corner in the Daimler.

The Daimler pulled up in front of the watcher, who hurried to it and climbed in. The Daimler moved off and was lost in the streets near Co vent Garden. That was reasonable proof that Kennedy relied on Harry to keep a watch on Roger at the flat; and with luck, Harry thought he was in bed. He needed luck. But he had never done anything to arouse Harry’s suspicions and had made no attempt at independent action until to-night. He had to do a lot to-night.

The tools were heavy in his pocket as he went along the Strand, then into a side street where he knew there were telephone booths.

He dialled Sloan’s private number.

He felt shivery as he did so, and as the brrr-brrr sounded. Was Sloan out? The ringing tone seemed unending. If Sloan were out, then he might run into trouble. Brrr-brrr. Sloan must be out, and it was too early for him to be in bed. Brrr-kk.

“Hallo?”

Roger schooled his voice. Sloan might guess it was Rayner, but he couldn’t be sure.