Inspector West Alone

Kennedy was in the lounge downstairs when Roger went in. He put down a newspaper and raised a hand.

“Hallo, West. Are you as well as you look?”

“I’m all right.”

“Good. After a spell like you’ve had, you want to get back into civilization slowly. I’m going to let you take Marion around a bit. You’ll both be closely watched, but I don’t think you’ll try any funny stuff.”

“I’m tired of doing nothing.”

“I’ve plenty of work for you—when I’m ready. For a start, here are the newspapers for the past ten days. Get yourself up to date with the news. Then you can take Marion to the flicks. Dance around a bit, afterwards, start living.”

He went out.

Roger read newspapers until he could take in nothing more.

The Copse Cottage murder had gradually faded from the Daily Cry, and the story of his disappearance replaced it. The disappearance of Roger West was—or had been, it was deep in the past already—a nine-days wonder. But there had been no official connection between that and the murder, all the statements were guarded. Only one thing hurt: a photograph of Janet. An obsession began to take hold of him: he must get word to his wife. If she received even a hint that he was alive, then he could rely on her faith to help her over the agony she was suffering now.

Marion? Could he trust her?

*     *     *     *

A weak sun pierced the clouds, birds chattered, the air was fresh, crisp, exhilarating. Roger, dressed in well-made new clothes, stood beside Marion, by a small car, outside the front of the house. Beyond were dripping trees and hedges, and great fields, where a few cattle grazed. He could see no other sign of habitation.

“Get in,” he said.

Marion climbed in.

She wore a red plastic raincoat over a blue dress. Her eyes sparkled, her freshness seemed to match the day, fears were gone, and she was set fair for enjoyment: being with him. They settled down, and their chauffeur, the male nurse, let in the clutch. This winding road led for miles between trees, and then they came upon a main road. There were telegraph poles, wires, cars, lorries, the half-forgotten things. They passed through a village where a constable stood leaning on his bicycle, talking to two old men.

They came to a town.

It was bustling and pleasant, had a friendly atmosphere. The streets and wide market-place were thronged with people, cars, single-decker buses, a few horses and traps. The nurse took them to a car park, near a huge Odeon Cinema.

“Do you want to see a film at once?” he asked Marion

“We’re to go to tea at the Royal, first.”

He was mingling with ordinary people again, and felt numbed with the strangeness. There were several policemen here; none showed any interest in him, yet each would have scored a rousing triumph had he guessed.

Marion held tightly on to his arm.

No one appeared to follow them, but he was sure that they were being watched wherever they went; that sixth sense which came from years of experience hadn’t died. They came upon a large hotel, where a sign outside read : Tea Dance, Daily, 3s. 6d.

“Where are we?” Roger asked.

“Worcester.”

He recalled it, now. The old town cheek by jowl with the new. They went in. The atmosphere was friendly, a good band was playing, but only three couples were dancing, half a dozen others sitting round a large room. The waiter came up promptly.

They danced; Marion was as light as a feather.

“If we could go on like this,” she said.

He nodded, but made no comment. Her presence hurt because she reminded him of Janet in her complete contentment at being with him. He danced mechanically a quick-step with a gay lilt and quickening rhythm.

Then he saw a couple enter; and he froze.

Marion said: “Don’t look like that!” He turned away, but looked at the new-comers out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t fancy. His blood ran hot, he missed a step again. Marion asked urgently:

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer, but led her towards their table, feeling physically sick and racked with pain. The new- comers looked around—man and woman.

Man—and JANET.

*     *     *     *

The man was Mark Lessing, Roger’s one close friend.

*     *     *     *