Inspector West Alone

Roger stood outside the back door.

It was locked, like the front door and like all the windows. It was a small, lonely house, and he hadn’t heard of the place until two hours ago. There was a rotting hurdle fence round the large garden, and the light was just good enough to show the distorted shapes of trees. Grass grew knee high on what had once been lawns. The gravel drive was covered with weeds.

There wasn’t a light anywhere.

A chilly wind blew on to his back, coming across the open moorland and hilly country of Surrey. Low clouds threatened rain.

Except for the wind, there was no sound.

The message had been clear enough, but he hadn’t taken it himself. Janet had telephoned Scotland Yard. Roger hadn’t been in his office, so Eddie Day had spoken to her. Eddie wasn’t a shining light, but a man who had been thirty years in the force and become a Chief Inspector; he didn’t get messages wrong.

“Bit of trouble for you, Handsome—Janet ‘phoned. All right, all right, you needn’t get worried, there’s nothing the matter with the kids! Janet’s gone to see a cousin of hers, Phyllis—the one that lives in Surrey. She says can you go straight there to-night? Copse Cottage, Helsham— not far from Guildford. Difficult place to find, she says. I’ve written the directions down.”

The note was in Roger’s pocket.

He’d followed the directions with ease; this was Copse Cottage. The big white stone at the corner, near the signpost, had been unmistakable. There’d been one odd thing about the old, rotting signpost; the pointing finger and the words Copse Cottage had been freshly painted, but the name-board, on the narrow wooden gate, hadn’t been painted for .years.

The house was as dark as the night.

He’d been startled on discovering that there was no light back or front; worried when there had been no response to his knocking.

Janet had a cousin named Phyllis, who lived somewhere in Surrey. Roger had never met her, and didn’t think Janet had heard from her more than twice in the past five years.

Be reasonable. Cousin Phyllis had probably been taken ill, Janet had hurried out here, taken things into her capable hands, decided to move Phyllis to a hospital, possibly even taken her to Chelsea. There was no reason to feel scared. He turned towards the front of the house. From here he could see the sidelights of his car, facing the main road and parked in the narrow, unmade lane. He would try once more at the front door, then go into the village—two miles away—and telephone home.

The lights of his car disappeared.

He stopped moving, and stared. Only one thing could blot those lights out—someone standing in front of them. They were still on; he could see a faint glow, and the vague silhouette of a—man ? Or Janet ?

No, it was a man. The lights appeared again. Yet he’d heard no footsteps, and any ordinary sound would have been clear. The vague figure was lost against the black outline of the car.

Then he heard a sound; of the car door, opening.

He shouted: “Here!” and broke into a run. The car door slammed and the engine hummed. He was ten yards from the open gate when the car began to move, and it was twenty yards along the road when he reached the gate.

“Here!”

The only answer was the snorting of the car.

Alarm sawed at Roger’s nerves. He ran, in desperate hope; the road was rough, the car couldn’t make much speed, and would have to slow down at the sharp corner. But the pot-holes and loose stones made running difficult. He turned his ankle, grabbed at a tree to save himself and lost precious seconds and still more precious yards. The red light glowed, then turned out of sight as the driver swung the wheels towards Helsham.

What was all this? How could it be explained rationally? There was a touch of fantasy about it, as well— let’s face it—as a touch of the sinister. Had Janet come here?

The sound of the engine faded into silence, and the wind was hushed, but his forehead felt icy cold. It was pitch dark now. He turned and stared towards the house, and could only just make out the outline against the lowering sky. Suddenly, gusty wind swept down upon him.

He could walk to the village and back to reason; or return and force his way into the house. He didn’t like to contemplate the possibilities of what he might find. He couldn’t give a name to his fears. The sensible thing was to go for assistance; he could get a car from the village and come here with the local policeman. It wasn’t easy to be sensible when fears for Janet crowded upon him.

Then a light went on in the house.

*     *     *     *

It wasn’t bright; just the dim yellow glow. It was on the first floor, above the front door; and it moved. Suddenly a shadow, large and shapeless, was thrown against a window. Someone was carrying the lamp from one room to another. It passed the window, and only a faint yellow glow remained; then it shone more brightly from another window, and became steady.

Janet?

She would have heard him call out, would have-shouted after him by now.

Roger walked quickly towards the house, staring at the lighted window, but he could no longer see a shadow. As he turned into the open gate, another gust of wind swept down on him—and as the howling died, he heard the scream. Wild, shrill, eerie, it played on his taut nerves like a saw on an iron bar; and he knew that it d woman’s scream.

*     *     *     *