Inspector West Alone

The man lit cigarettes for them both, handed one to Roger and sat back. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but he had pulled down the scarf, and the cigarette glow showed the pointed tip of his nose. They turned off this narrow road to the main road which ran through Helsham and then towards London. The car was powerful, and well sprung.

“Enjoying yourself?” asked the man next to Roger. His voice and manner didn’t go with his eyes.

“So-so.”

“I must say you take it well, policeman. I think we’ll be able to work with you.”

“Sooner or later you’ll be asking yourself whether I’ll work with you,” said Roger, “and that’ll be the question that matters.”

The man laughed, as if he had no thought of failure.

“Another question, just to set my mind at rest,” said Roger, making himself sound casual.

“Let’s hear it.”

“My wife?”

“Expecting you home, probably. Unless she’s telephoned Scotland Yard, to report you missing.”

There was no reason why he should believe the man, but he did. He felt much easier in his mind. Janet had been used as a decoy, and it wasn’t much good blaming Eddie Day for his mistake. They sped on, carving an avenue of light through the blustery darkness. They soon reached the Guildford by-pass and drove along the wide road between rows and rows of small houses. There was little traffic. The car in front, as large and powerful as this, was never more than twenty yards ahead of them, and so made sure that no one cut in. A car with a blue “Police” sign coasted along in the opposite direction, and the man by Roger’s side laid a hand gently on his knee.

“I always heard it said that if there was such a thing as a good policeman, it was Roger West,” he said.

“Thanks. But I’m just a beginner.”

“If you behave yourself, you’ll have a lot more time and promotion ahead of you. Care for a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“You’ll have one, just to please me,” said the man by his side. “It’ll taste all right—Scotch. You won’t notice anything wrong with it, and you’ll have a nice rest for a few hours. After that, we’ll talk business.”

“And what if I spit it out?”

“Then you’ll get the same treatment that the ox had back on the road.”

As he spoke, the man took a flask from his hip pocket. He unscrewed the cap and then switched on the roof light. He had a narrow, pale face, and those flashing eyes had long, dark lashes. His hand was as steady as the car would allow. Roger took the flask; it certainly smelt like whisky. The whisky warmed and encouraged him.

“That’ll do.” The man took the flask away and screwed the cap on. “If you stay as sensible as this, we’ll get along.”

Roger leaned back, comfortably, not yet drowsy. He didn’t know what road they were on now. Both cars sped through the night, and the rain came down in silvery streaks.

Gradually drowsiness came upon him.

*     *     *     *

Roger knew that he had slept a long time, because it was daylight when he woke. He lay in a comfortable bed, drowsy, unaware of any aches or pains, but his face felt stiff, and so did the back of his left hand. He felt no sense of alarm, even when he remembered what had happened in the car; he felt as if he were awake in a dream. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, opened them again and looked round the room. It was small but nicely furnished; more a woman’s than a man’s. On the dressing-table was a bowl of daffodils, heads drooping. Chintz curtains at the narrow window matched the flowered chintz on the bedspread, the eiderdown, and the two easy- chairs. The furniture, of light oak, was reproduction. There was a corner wash-hand basin.

All he could see out of the window from the bed, was the grey sky.

He knew that he ought to get up, but didn’t feel inclined to move. His mouth was dry—parched; the thing he would like most was tea. Weak, hot, sugarless tea, pints of it. Then he had a mental picture, of a battered head. That was his first bad moment since waking, he was really beginning to feel again. He pushed back the bed-clothes and sat up. His legs were stiff; he swung them over the side of the bed. His head began to ache. When he was steadier, he walked slowly to the window. He looked out on to a trim lawn, daffodil beds and, beyond a beech-hedge with massed brown leaves, trees. There were some dark firs and pines; but mostly they were leafless trees, spiky-looking beech and birch; silver birch. He heard nothing —absolutely nothing—but the tops of the trees were bent by the wind. So sound didn’t come into this room through the window. The window was a single pane of glass, and when he examined the frame, he saw that it was really a false one—this window wasn’t made to open. He pressed nearer and looked upwards, studying the glass. It had a yellow tint, a characteristic of toughened glass.

Roger went to the door.

It had a handle, but no lock—no keyhole. He tapped on it gently, and it didn’t sound like wood, it was more like steel. If he tapped louder, to make sure, he might attract attention. Well, why not? He turned from the door, and searched the room. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas with a broad blue-and-white stripe, and at the foot of the bed was a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, but no day clothes were in sight. He looked inside the wardrobe; there was nothing but clothes hangers.

He caught a glimpse of his face, and it surprised him because it was so normal. He went closer to the mirror, his face reflected above the daffodils. He could see the pink scratches and the shiny, greasy salve which had been rubbed into them after the blood had been cleaned off. His hand had been treated with the salve, too—that was why he felt little discomfort. He studied his face. By habit, he laughed when they called him “Handsome” at the Yard, but it wasn’t really a surprising soubriquet. His curly fair hair was ruffled, but undoubtedly it had been combed the night before.