John Creasey - Send Superintendent West
It missed his eyes, yet still dazzled him. It came from a square hole on the other side of the room, not far away. Then a shadow darkened the light, and he made out the shape of a man’s head; another light came on, inside the room, bright enough but not dazzling. The shadow faded and the other light went out, as if it had been cut off, then the room light was doused. The footsteps receded, until only the brooding silence kept him company.
He had been hypnotized by the light from the square hole, had stared that way, without looking about him, but now the picture of the room formed slowly in his mind. He was in a corner, with his head near a wall. There were two armchairs, an upright chair and a small table — he could place them within inches. In the far corner was a hand-basin; he even remembered a glass standing on the shield above the basin.
He stood up cautiously and moved about, testing his mind-pictures and finding them correct. The room was no more than ten feet square, there was nothing on the walls, nothing he had noticed. He reached the door, and felt it with the palms of his hands, until he touched the edge of the square window through which the first light had come. He traced the outline of this window with his fingers, then spanned the side of the square between his thumb and little finger. It was about fifteen inches, base and side. He drew back, forcing all his thoughts on to it. There was a hole cut in the door; on the other side a panel had been removed or swung bade, admitting light from the room or passage beyond. That light was probably still on.
He turned away.
The room was uncomfortably warm, and he hadn’t realized that before — he had generated his own heat out of the tension. He felt dry, and groped his way to the hand-basin, feeling cautiously for the glass, then for a tap. He didn’t know whether it was hot or cold. He ran it for a few seconds, and it kept cold, so he pushed the glass under it Water spilled over his hand and splashed on to his coat. He had a drink, but not too much, waited, then drank again. That was much better. He turned back, heading for one of the easy chairs, his hands stretched out because he hadn’t all his bearings yet. He touched it — and a light split the darkness, swift and blinding, then went out
He snatched his hand away from the chair.
The darkness seemed worse now.
Had the light come on when he had touched the chair — or had it been coincidence? He tried again. Nothing happened. He sat down and tried to relax, but that blinding light had left him more uneasy and disturbed. He waited for it to come again, but nothing happened. For a few minutes he couldn’t bring himself to think clearly, but gradually the effect of the light faded.
What had happened after he had sat down for a nap?
He hardly needed to think. He had been drugged and brought away from the hotel, but he needed to exercise logic as a child repeated the ABC. He had been drugged. Someone had drugged him. Who?
Ed Pullinger?
He had smoked one of Pullinger’s cigarettes; and they had both had a drink sent up to them. His a whisky and soda, Pullinger’s a Bourbon on the rocks. Roger had watched the Bourbon pour out of the little glass and cascade down the three small lumps of ice in the long glass, just like Marino’s way of drinking. The dope might have been in the cigarette, then, or it might have been in the drink. Pullinger might have been doped, too.
He must keep a clear mind.
He laughed, and that didn’t do him any good. How would a clear mind help him? Where was he? Who —
Light flashed!
It seemed to scorch his eyes with white heat, was as blinding as the darkness, he sat with his hands clenched, every nerve taut. A swift succession of flashes, each as vicious as the last, went on and off, as if it would never stop; but it did stop.
He didn’t relax. Sweat fell slowly down his forehead to his cheeks. He was wet with sweat; lips, neck, cheeks and the darkness gave him no rest It was a long time before he settled back in his chair, and began to turn his head. He wasn’t sure where the light had come from — in front, above or behind him. It wasn’t here now, but it seemed to be, his eyes were alternately blinded with the glare and with blackness. Gradually, blackness won.
This was deliberate, of course, part of the process of breaking him down, but he didn’t know why he was being broken down. He felt in his pockets again, as if cigarettes and matches might have come back miraculously, but each pocket was empty. He stood up and began to move about, his clothes sticking to him. The darkness remained, so black that it was no hard to believe that anything could break it. Slowly, his nerves settled down, not to normal, but at least free from hurtful tension. He touched each chair, the table, the bed and the hand-basin, had another drink of water, and was putting the glass down when the searing light flashed again.
He dropped the glass, and heard it smash.
He gripped the side of the hand-basin so tightly that his fingers hurt.
The light went on, off, on, off, striking viciously each time, but after the first few seconds he felt steadier, was able to think consciously of fighting against the breaking-down process. This was only light, it offered no danger, was no threat in itself. It would stop in a few minutes, and darkness would come again, giving him rest. He waited for the flashing to stop, much longer than before. It stopped at last, but not in the same way. The light stayed on, so dazzling that he couldn’t see beyond his feet and his hand when he stretched his arm full length. He sat waiting for it to go out, but it didn’t. The only sound was a drumming in his ears, but he began to imagine others, without knowing what they were — only knowing that he had cause to fear them. Was it imagination? He strained his ears but kept his eyes tightly closed, as if that could keep out some of the light
Then he felt himself grabbed on either side. Hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet. He was thrust forward. He thought that he was going towards the door, but wasn’t sure, the light had blinded him. He turned right and left, as they pushed him. Their grip hurt, but that wasn’t important, only the blindness mattered; it was as if his eyes had suffered some permanent injury. His feet wouldn’t go where he wanted them to, he stumbled, would have fallen but for the grip of the invisible men. They dragged instead of pushed him, the toes of his shoes scraped along a hard surface. He could hear the sound — and could also hear the footsteps of the men. Neither of them spoke.
He was dragged up a flight of stairs.
They stopped.
He was pulled upright and then thrust forward, staggered helplessly and crashed down. A sound behind him might have been the slamming of a door; another, the turning of a key. He didn’t try to get up at once, but lay there, mouth wide open, gasping for breath. He still couldn’t see, but there were curious shapes twisting and turning in front of his eyes, like the filament of giant electric lamps. At last he sat up; then stood up. The whirling shapes were smaller, less clearly defined, and he could tell the difference between light and darkness now. It was only a question of waiting. His legs felt stiff and painful, and he could feel the bruises where the powerful fingers had gripped his arms. He moved his hands vaguely. Finding only space, he took a few steps forward and moved them again. This time he touched something. A chair. He moved round it cautiously until he could safely sit down.
What would happen next?
Not light and darkness, for there was light in the room; he was recovering, and could see the wall — pictures on the wall, too. Silly pictures — that elephant, for instance. Who on earth would have a picture of an elephant, trunk curled upwards, as decoration? There were several other blurred shapes near it He stood up slowly and concentrated on them, and they began to make sense — an inverted kind of sense. A giraffe, long neck stretched full length; a snarling lion, a tiger, a bear. The Zoo. This was crazy. Who would decorate walls with —
His thoughts seemed to be cut off.
After a moment of numbed horror he accepted the answer to that last question. Parents would decorate walls with animals — for their children. In their childhood Richard and Martin had woven wonderful stories about the animal faces stuck on the walls of their nursery.
These murals ran along the full length of one wall, and he looked round, turned his head — and then stopped short Tension as great as that he had felt beneath the flashing light came back to him.
In the corner behind him was a bed, and on the bed lay a child.
• • •
The child was pale, about Ricky Shawn’s size, with the same thin features. Was it Ricky Shawn? Who else would it be? The child was thinner than Roger remembered him from the photograph, but his eyes were enormous — rounded, terrified as he lay on the pillows. His arms were over the sheets; there was a steel bracelet round each wrist, and the bracelets were fastened by slender steel chains to the bed, so that the boy couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak, either. Adhesive plaster smothered his lips, a pink smear where the mouth ought to be. His nostrils were moving spasmodically as he breathed, his chest was heaving. The terror in his eyes was an ugly thing.
Roger moistened his lips, and tried to speak. He only croaked. He smiled, and knew that he must look grotesque, was frightening the boy still more. How could he offer reassurance? He took a step forward, and the child cringed back. He stopped and touched the chair, then slowly turned it to face the boy, and sat down. He swallowed the lump in his throat, waited until his mouth was moist, and then spoke.
“I — won’t — hurt — you.”
The terror didn’t fade, and there was no change in the boy’s expression. Roger tried again, with the same words. It was no good. He doubted if the child heard him. He stood up, slowly, and repeated:
“I won’t hurt you.”
He went towards the small bed, and again the boy cringed back, but this time Roger went on until he was at the side of the bed. He smiled down, and this time his lips didn’t curl into grotesque lines; this time it was a more natural smile. He had to reassure the child; it wasn’t a question of trying, he had to do it. He put his right hand out and touched the boy’s forehead, smoothed it gently and smiled again. He didn’t think it did any good. The small forehead was cold as marble. Cold — and the room was warm.
I’ll try to help you,” Roger said. He couldn’t make a promise, one never made a promise to a child unless it could be kept I’ll try. Do you feel all right?”
The rounded eyes peered into his, still with no easing of the terror, no relaxing. The little arms, bare nearly to the elbow, were pale but taut Roger moved away, pulled the chair up and sat near the bed. There was no indication that the boy heard him, nothing had yet penetrated that cruel shell of terror.
“Listen to me,” Roger said slowly. “Nod if you can hear me. Nod your head if you can hear me.” He paused. “Can you hear me?”
He waited, feeling a surge of helplessness, and then won a slight reward. The boy nodded slowly, twice. Was it imagination, or was there at last a slight easing of the intensity of his fear?
“That’s good,” said Roger. “Nod if you understand me. I am going to try to get you away from here. Do you understand?”
A pause; then another nod.
“And a lot of people are trying to find you. Your mother and father — a lot of other people, too. Do you understand?”
A nod.
Roger said: Have they hurt you, Ricky?” He wanted to pull off the plaster, but before he started, he had to win the boy’s confidence. Even if he started, would he be allowed to finish? “Have they hurt you, Ricky?”
The door opened, the boy’s gaze switched and the terror flared up again. Roger turned as a man said:
“We haven’t hurt him, yet. We haven’t hurt you, yet. Get up and come with me.”
16
QUESTIONS
HE was a short man with broad shoulders, stocky, alert.
His dark hair was brushed off a forehead which hadn’t a wrinkle. His features were small in a big face — his mouth a puppet’s mouth. He wore only trousers and a shirt, and a tie that was pulled away from his neck, and looked fresh and cool. He didn’t show a gun, and the bigger man behind him in the doorway had empty hands.
The stocky man gripped Roger’s arm, waking the bruises to protest, but he didn’t resist — resistance wouldn’t get him anywhere. Not yet He didn’t look round at the child again. He was pushed to the right at the passage, and still in that powerful grip, hustled to the end of it and then through an open door. The passage wasn’t long, and there was ample room for two men to walk side by side.
Beyond the door a flight of wooden steps led downwards. He went down between the two men, turned right into a kitchen which glistened with white tiles and steel fittings, crossed a small room which had an arched doorway but no door, and then found himself in a long, narrow room, subdued lights, easy chairs, and all the furniture of a pleasant lounge, making it look homely and comfortable.
Sitting in an armchair at the far end of the room, legs stretched out, head resting against the back of the chair, was Gissing. And Gissing smiled at him.
There wasn’t any possibility of a mistake.
Here were the dark eyes, with almost hairless brows, and short, stunted lashes, the long, pale face and narrow, pointed chin, the small hooked nose and the thin gash of a mouth. Gissing was relaxed, smiling as if amused. This time he wore cotton gloves, and not adhesive plaster; he wasn’t going to leave fingerprints anywhere.
“Come and sit down, West,” he said.
The big man pushed Roger forward. He steadied himself against the side of a table, watching Gissing. An easy chair with its back to a draped window stood across the room, and he went across to it and sat down. He didn’t look round, but was sure that the men who had brought him from the boy’s room were still in the doorway. Then he forgot them. Gissing’s voice, so much more pleasant than his looks, was calm and amiable — he seemed genial, as if he were a world removed from the blinding lights and the captive child.
“Bring Mr West a drink, Mac.”
Mac for McMahon, who had taken a boy aboard an aircraft?
The stocky man with the big face and small features came forward; Roger hadn’t visualized him at a cocktail cabinet.
“Whisky and soda,” Gissing said. “You haven’t been here long enough to acquire new tastes, have you?”
“I’ve exactly the same likes and dislikes as always,” Roger said. He hoped his smile wasn’t too sickly.
Gissing chuckled.
“And you don’t like me! There’s no need to get hot about it, but you’re not a man to blow your top, are you? The drink is all right this time, although the one at the Milton Hotel wasn’t.”
So he hadn’t been brought here to be offered the poisoned cup. Gissing wanted to talk, to question him. Roger took the whisky and soda, and sipped. He could have emptied the glass in a gulp, and called for more, but resisted the impulse. He put it on a small table by his side, where a box of cigarettes and a lighter stood. He took a cigarette, lit it, and looked at Gissing.
