John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West
He squeezed, making her choke, but a scream burst wildly from her lips. She struck out at him blindly, taking him by surprise, so that he loosened his grip. The scream came out, high-pitched, shivering on the night air, a blood-curdling sound. As it welled out, he clutched at her throat again, using both hands now; her cries stopped abruptly; she began to struggle and fight for breath.
Roger pulled up behind a police car stationed on the main road which cut across the Common. A uniformed policeman and a man in plain clothes came up and recognised him, and the policeman drew back. The detective from the Barnes HQ tried to put a note of enthusiasm into i his voice.
“Very glad to have your help, Chief Inspector. I’m Detective Inspector Gray.”
“I don’t know that I can do any more than you,” Roger said. “Has anything turned up?”
“Nothing that helps at all,” replied the other. “The woman walked down Common Road toward the Common, as far as I can find out, but we haven’t found a trace of her since then. She was seen by a couple who passed the end of the road, but none of my men has seen her. We can’t search the Common thoroughly on a night like this.” He was on the defensive. “We can’t even be sure that she’s here.”
“It’s a good meeting place,” observed Roger. “Are all the roads covered?”
“Yes, but it’s easy enough for anyone to slip through,” Gray answered. “I don’t want to be pessimistic, but I don’t think you’ve got much chance of finding her—not tonight, anyhow. There are so many ways she can creep out.”
“She’s probably with her husband,” Roger reminded him. “Where does Common Road lead to?”
“This part of the Common only,” said Gray, “but once you’re off the road, you can turn in so many directions. If anyone had seen her start from here, it might have been easier. I’ve placed men by the road bridge, and others are searching on either side.”
Roger said: “Well, we’ve got to try.” He glanced along the road as a car slowed down. “Who’s this?”
“One of our men,” said the Barnes inspector. He waited until the driver of the other car came across the road, and Roger saw that he was carrying something in his hand. “Well, what is it, Watson?”
“This might be a lead, sir,” said the driver. He held up a string bag crammed full of packages. “I haven’t examined it closely, but it’s a food parcel. There’s a half bottle of whisky in it, too. We found it near the bridge over the railway.”
“Nice work!” Roger took the bag eagerly, and examined it in the light of the headlamps. The whisky bottle shone, and probably the bag had been packed hurriedly, or the bottle would have been wrapped up. There were two thermos flasks and packages which obviously contained sandwiches; just the kind of things Katie Brown might have brought for her husband.
“What do you make of it?” asked Watson eagerly.
The Barnes inspector said: “Someone might have dropped it during the day, or a couple of lovebirds might have walked off and forgotten it—”
“Forgotten it?” echoed Roger, and his voice was harsh. “With whisky in it? This is almost certainly the woman’s bag, too. It looks as if Katie Brown was to meet her husband by appointment, and they were for him. So she wouldn’t leave them behind by accident; certainly wouldn’t forget to give him the very things he needed. See what I’m getting at?”
Gray said, sharply: “You mean—”and broke off.
“I mean that she was probably waylaid, and might have been attacked. We’ll concentrate men on the bridge area—right or left of the road, Watson?”
“The left from here, sir.”
“I’ll get it laid on,” Gray said, at last touched by a sense of urgency.
A few minutes later, Roger pulled into the side of the road near the bridge. Several men were already there, and another car was standing on the bridge itself. More men were on the way. They gathered together by a lamp, and the Barnes inspector gave instructions. They were to take up their positions two hundred yards from the bridge, and then close in on a signal.
“One blast on a whistle will be enough,” said Gray.
“Think we ought to make too much noise?” asked Roger. “Let’s arrange for the car near the bridge to switch off its headlights, and then flash them three times in succession. How long will the men need to reach their stations?”
“About ten minutes.”
“In ten minutes, then.”
“Right,” Gray said.
The wind was blowing more keenly, and Roger moved about, stamping his feet. There was a silent spell, when no traffic passed, and the wind dropped momentarily. Roger took out his cigarettes, and was putting one to his lips when he heard a scream.
CHAPTER XIV
THE CORDON MOVES IN
THE SCREAM came from their left; it was impossible to judge the distance. It quivered on the night air, then stopped abruptly; as it stopped, the headlamps of the car on the bridge were switched on three times in succession, light slicing the darkness.
“My God, you were right,” Gray gasped.
“This way!” Watson urged.
They plunged in the direction from which the scream had come, their ears strained to catch another sound, but all they could hear was the padding of their own footsteps and the rustle of the grass. The silence was eerie, even sinister. Roger wanted to race ahead, but forced himself to keep pace with the others. They were about two yards apart, flashing their torches to and fro. Other torches were swinging in all directions.
Bushes loomed up in front of them, and Roger’s torchlight shone on a piece of waste paper. Staring toward it, he saw a gap between the bushes.
Watson called out: “Found anything, sir?”
“No. Our bird may be hiding among the bushes,” Roger answered.
“Right, sir.”
After they had made a few yards’ progress, Roger could see why Gray said it was practically impossible to search the Common by night. They would need a hundred men instead of a dozen, and to the Barnes man it must seem almost a waste of time.
Then a man bellowed: “This way! This way!”
A dozen torches swung toward the call. Roger saw one beam of light moving rapidly, and caught sight of a man running; he was crouching low, and holding one hand in front of his face.
Watson and the Barnes policeman raced after the fugitive; most of the others turned in the same direction. Roger snatched a moment to think, then hustled toward the spot where the policeman had shouted; he wanted to find Katie Brown. His torch shone through the leafless branches of thick brambles.
The sounds of the chase were growing fainter.
Roger’s torch slipped from his hand, hit the ground and went out. He picked it up, and when the light shone out again swung it round. The beam caught a thick clump of bushes ten yards away. He moved slowly toward that. He could see a gap in the bushes; there was room for a man to squeeze through. He stood in the gap, and shone the torch about.
Katie Brown was lying there, skirt rucked up, and still as death.
Roger shouted for help, then bent down over her. She was unconscious, but still alive.
The man who had attacked her got away.
Katie Brown was able to speak to Roger next morning. There were dark bruises on her neck, and she looked haggard from strain and shock, but she was eager to talk. She shivered when she recounted what had happened, and Roger helped her to make it as brief as possible. Before he left the hospital ward, she promised fervently that if she heard from her husband she would send for the police.
“I really will, this time, I mean that.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Roger, dryly.
“Have you—have you found the man?”
“Not yet.”
“If only I’d been able to see his face!”
“You heard his voice,” Roger said. “Whatever you do, don’t forget what it sounded like. One day you might hear it again, and you must be ready to recognise it.”
“I—I’ll never forget that voice.” She leaned forward, and touched his hand. “Mr. West—”
“Yes?”
“You haven’t got Bill, have you?”
“If we do pick him up before you leave here, I’ll bring him along to see you,” promised Roger. Suddenly his eyes gleamed, and he rose to go. “Don’t worry too much, he’ll be all right.” He patted her hand, and hurried out.
He drove much faster than usual to the Yard, and reached there just before twelve; with luck he would get Chatworth’s approval for a new approach to reach the evening papers. He left the car to be parked by a constable, strode up the steps, and made for the lift.
“Handsome looks more cheerful than he has for weeks,” a passing man remarked.
Chatworth was in his office, and was gruff.
“Now what’s on your mind?”
“A new line on this job, I think, sir.”
“I thought we were supposed to have tried everything.”
“All conventional methods, sir; this is offbeat,” Roger said. “Why not use newspapers to hit back at him? A lot of them hate his guts. We’ve plenty to go on, too, and a remark from Katie Brown put the idea into my head, and—”
“You might get some newspapers to run a campaign against anonymous criminals, but they’ll never risk libel against Raeburn,” Chatworth interrupted, “Still, let’s have it.”
“The first shot would be in tonight’s evening papers; just the full story of the attack on Katie Brown, and the fact that we want to question her husband in connection with the burglary at Raeburn’s flat,” Roger said. “That will bring Raeburn in smoothly enough.”
Chatworth nodded.
“Then tonight or tomorrow morning, we’ll produce an angle the press will jump at.” Roger felt absolutely sure of himself. “We’ll tell them that Katie Brown’s condition is serious, and she keeps asking for her husband. We can say that she’s terrified in case anything has happened to him, and stress the fact that it’s because of what happened to his brother. We can let the press do the rest; they’ll ram it home. As Tony Brown was engaged to Eve Franklin, that will bring Raeburn in again. One or more of the papers are certain to run a story about the mystery of the Browns—with a suggestion that they’re being persecuted. We’ve only got to indicate the general line, and they’ll jump at it.”
Chatworth conceded: “You may be right,” and ran a hand over his tanned, bald patch.
“We can’t lose anything, and at least we’ll make Raeburn uneasy,” Roger urged. “We may make him do something silly, and at the same time bring Bill Brown in. I’ve a feeling that when BroMi knows that his wife’s in the hospital he’ll give himself up, so that he can sec her. If the papers say she wants to see him—”
“All right,” interrupted Chatworth. “See who’s in the Press Room now.”
Roger was in a better mood at home that night; he had Janet, as well as the boys, laughing.
Not one paper, not even the Morning Cry, failed to give the story front-page headlines. Only the Cry mentioned that Mr. Paul Raeburn was in Brighton.
There was no word from Turnbull or from Mark, but Roger believed that the next move would be when Brown gave himself up.
Janet was sitting in the living-room that afternoon when the boys came in, unusually solemn. They were helping to get tea ready when Richard, a head shorter than his brother and much younger in some ways, stopped in front of Janet, his eyes looking enormous.
“Mum,” he said, earnestly, “you don’t think anyone would attack Dad, do you?”
“Of course I don’t,” Janet answered, firmly, but she caught her breath. “What on earth put that absurd idea into your head?”
“Oh, nothing,” Richard said, airily, but later, when they were alone, Scoopy whispered: “She is afraid of it, Fish.”
“Wouldn’t it be awful if anything happened to Dad?” Richard breathed.
About that time, Roger was fidgeting because there was no word from Brown, and hoping that Peel was watching Mark closely at Brighton.
The lounge of the Grand-Royal was the show place of a hotel which was a show place of the south coast. It was castlelike in its spaciousness. Deep armchairs and sofas, with down-filled cushions, were grouped about small tables which looked too beautiful to be used for glasses, cups, and tankards. Great chandeliers glistened with dozens of small lamps for it had been a dull, cloudy day, and outside it was already getting dark. A deep wine- coloured carpet, with a heavy pile, stretched from wall to wall. The furnishings were of dark blue, and burnished copper ornaments adorned the ledge which ran round the half-panelled room.
There were three huge fireplaces, and blazing logs sent flames leaping up the chimneys; the Grand-Royal boasted that it was the best and homiest hotel in England.
Only a few people were there at a quarter to five on that particular evening.
Mark Lessing had a table in a window, and was hidden from Raeburn and Eve by a massive ornamental pillar. By leaning forward, he could see them both. Raeburn’s handsome head was resting against the back of his chair; Eve sat on a pouf in front of the fire. The firelight danced on her face and arms and shone through her dark hair, and the mass of curls set off her slender neck and squared shoulders. She wore an exquisite cocktail dress of bottle green, cut daringly low.
Mark doubted whether they were really aware that anyone else was in the room, they were so absorbed in each other. A page boy came in with evening newspapers, and put three on Raeburn’s table, without being noticed. Mark beckoned, and bought the Evening Cry and the Star. He glanced at the headlines, shared between Raeburn and Mrs Brown’s fears, and his eyes lit up.
He read the story in both papers, looking from time to time at Raeburn, who had not yet opened his. Then he lit a cigarette, and grinned.
Eve leaned forward, and put a hand on Raeburn’s knee; he immediately covered hers with his. She spoke; he nodded, and Eve got up and walked to the door, knowing she was being watched. Raeburn stood until she was out of the room, studying her swaying hips. When he sat down, stretching out his legs and picking up one of the papers, he was sideways to Mark.
He started at the sight of the first story, then snatched the other papers.
“Not so good, is it, Paul?” Mark murmured.
Raeburn flung the papers aside, jumped up, looked round, and beckoned a page.
“When Miss Franklin comes back, ask her to wait here for me. I have to make a telephone call.”
“Yes, sir.”
Raeburn strode off, angry and aggressive. Mark put down his paper, and strolled after him. He reached the lift in time to see the doors closing on the financier. He glanced out of the front door, and saw that young Peel was there. He nodded to Peel, turned, and hurried up the stairs. Raeburn’s suite was on the second floor, and his door was closed when Mark reached it.
Mark tried the handle, but the door was locked. He heard Raeburn’s voice, and by straining his ears he was able to catch a few words; Raeburn was putting in a call to his Park Lane flat. The ting of the telephone sounded clearly when he replaced the receiver, and the sounds which followed suggested that Raeburn was pacing the room. Mark moved away, and tried the doors on either side of Raeburn’s suite, but both were locked.
