John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

• Название: Inspector West Alone
• Автор: John Creasey
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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“We’ll have to look and may have to get inside.”

“Okay. Try upstairs first. Know what, don’t you?” Harry looked at him, with a hand on the switch.

“What?”

“There’s one certain way of getting the dicks to have a look round. Ring 999 and report a burglary.”

“That will come later.”

There were two more rooms before they reached the passage leading to the hall. All was in darkness, and only the faintest glow shone from the torch, but it was enough to show the staircase. The thick pile of the carpet became their ally. Harry took the case, shut now, and they went upstairs, Roger in the lead.

Harry whispered: “Who’s at home?”

“I’m not sure.”

“They haven’t any guards.” The words suggested that Harry was beginning to feel nervous; but that was probably due to the fact that the first, worst job was finished and he was suffering from reaction. Give him a safe to open and he would forget his nerves. They reached the door of the study. Harry put the case down softly and tried the handle; the door was locked. He examined it, partly in the dim light from his torch, partly by sense of touch. He nodded, and set to work at once with a picklock.

Harry pushed the door open, gently; there was no light inside. He nodded and stepped in, shining his torch brightly now, but careful to make sure that it didn’t shine on the window. Roger closed the door. It closed too sharply, and he heard Harry’s soft intake of breath. Nothing happened. Harry moved away from him, his cat’s eyes getting him past the furniture without difficulty. He reached the window, and his curiously soft and penetrating voice, even when lowered, came clearly:

“Curtains are drawn—okay.”

“Door,” said Roger.

“Not a chance.”

Roger groped for and switched on the light.

Only two wall-lamps came on; they spread a quiet, subdued light. The room was familiar. He looked at the door, and remembered that he had noticed, on his first visit, that it was specially protected at top, sides, and bottom, to make sure that it was sound-proof; that also made it light-proof when closed, and Harry had realized that. He now had a lot of respect for Harry. The curtains were heavy green velvet with a large, deep pelmet, and they were wide and dropped well below the window. There was little chance of light showing.

Harry said: “Where?”

“You’re the boss.”

Harry grinned, his confidence fully restored. He roamed about the room, moving this picture, that piece of furniture, scanning the walls with expert eye. Roger took one end of the room, Harry the other. Roger wasn’t surprised when he heard Harry whisper: “Okay.” He turned. Harry stood by a bookcase which he had eased away from the wall. Roger crossed the room and saw the wall-safe behind it. There were wall-safes and wall-safes, and it was impossible to judge the really good ones from the outside. All there was to see were round pieces of metal and a bright steel knob. Harry pushed the bookcase farther away; it moved at a touch. He pointed, and showed where it was fastened to a spring hook in the wall; at the first tug, it would seem too heavy for one man to shift, but Harry hadn’t been fooled. He pulled a lamp standard nearer and switched it on. Then he took a pair of thin asbestos gloves from the case, drew them on, and picked out a tiny piece of needle-fine wire. He held the point against the steel of the knob; nothing happened. He held it at one of the ridge circles. There was a tiny blue flash. He drew back and grinned.

“Difficult?” Roger asked.

He knew that the orthodox move was to switch off the current at the main. But Harry was teaching him much about the practice of cracking cribs.

“Could be. But if it’s electric it isn’t so bad. Could be infra-red.” Harry sniffed. “That means an alarm, too— wired up liked this, they always ring the alarm.”

“Main switch?”

“You and your main switch.” Harry grinned. “Stop the alarm where it rings, that’s the idea. Most likely place is somewhere outside this room. Maybe there are two, but if we find the control alarm and put it out of action, that will stop the other one. Staying inside?”

“I’ll come with you.”

They went out again. Harry looked sharply at Roger when he opened the door, but didn’t speak. They stood in darkness on the landing. Then Harry put down a light switch; subdued light came on. Nothing stirred, there was no sound. Harry began to roam about the landing, looking towards the ceiling. He didn’t have to look far. A box was fastened to the wall, near the ceiling, just beyond the doorway from which the woman had stared at Roger. He brought up a chair; it wasn’t high enough. He pointed to an oak chest, and they carried it to the wall and then placed the chair on top of it. Harry still wasn’t satisfied, took the chair away and brought a cloth from a large table. He spread the cloth over the chest; that wasn’t to prevent scratching; he took infinite pains to be silent.

He could reach the box comfortably, now. He opened it gently, and inside a large brass bell gleamed. He worked on it for five minutes; they were nerve-racking minutes. Then he turned and whispered:

“Hand me down!”

Roger gave him a hand.

“Okay now,” said Harry. “Let’s get back.”

They went across to the wall-safe, and Harry put a cold chisel between the wainscoting and the wall, and levered part of the wainscoting away. Wood groaned and splintered, but he went on until he had room to work behind it. He had laid bare the electric cable leading to the safe. He put on the asbestos gloves again and took a pair of wire cutters with insulated handles. He cut the cable quickly; the powerful jaws snapped through at one nip. There was a fierce blue flash and a hissing sound; that was all. Harry nodded with satisfaction, straightened up, and turned his attention to the wall-safe. He could have spent time trying to find the right combination; he didn’t but took out a compact-looking instrument like a blow-lamp. It was fastened to a small iron cylinder by a long rubber cable. He fiddled with the blow-lamp for a few minutes, and then pressed a lever; a tongue of white-hot flame spat out towards the circular handle.

“Glasses,” he said, and then growled: “Only one pair.  Look away.” He put on a pair of goggles and then turned his attention earnestly to the safe. Roger turned his back on him. Bluish white light filled the room with a garish brightness. He smelt something; molten metal? He was tempted to turn and watch, but knew that it would be crazy, he wouldn’t be able to see for an hour or more if he if looked at the flame with his eyes unprotected, so he stared at the door.

He saw the handle turn.

 

CHAPTER XX III

KENNEDY’S WIFE

 

THE flame hissed and glowed as Harry knelt by the safe, intent, unaware of the movement at the door.

The handle turned slowly.

Roger moved towards it. The door was locked, was light-proof and sound-proof. Why had anyone come ? Why was the handle being turned so cautiously? Had Kennedy returned, with suspicions at fever-pitch? Roger waited, watching the handle in that garish light. It didn’t fall back, and instead the door began to open.

It opened slowly and slightly, not wide enough for anyone to look into the room, but wide enough for them to see the light and know that burglars were here. It stayed open; the handle didn’t move again. He wanted to warn Harry, but a call, even a whisper, would warn whoever was outside. He stepped a pace nearer and glanced over his shoulder. Harry bent low over the safe. The flame dazzled Roger, and he averted his gaze quickly; that glance had been folly.

He closed his eyes to shut out the image of that fierce flame, opened them again cautiously. Door and handle were blurred, but he could see that the door was still open, and the handle hadn’t dropped back into position.

It began to move——

The door began to close.

He waited for ten pulsating seconds, then stepped towards it swiftly. Harry said something he didn’t catch. The hissing stopped, and only the subdued light of the lamps was on.

“What——” Began Harry.

Roger waved a hand to silence him, reached the door and turned the handle as stealthily as it had just been turned. He heard Harry grunt as he straightened up, glanced over his shoulder and saw the man approaching. He waved him back again. He opened the door an inch. A light was on in the passage, but no one stood outside the door.

“What is it?” hissed Harry.

“Someone outside. Quiet.” The whisper was agonizing, because it might be heard. He opened the door a little wider and looked round. He saw a bright light coming from a door which was closing—Kennedy’s wife’s door. He saw her shadow on the landing; then it was shut out. Harry was close behind him. “Who——”

“Hold it. Watch.” Roger went across the landing, heart thumping, touched the handle of the other door and pushed —she hadn’t locked it yet. He heard a ting !; a telephone being lifted. He thrust the door open. Kennedy’s wife, so small and exquisite, stood by the side of a bed in a luxury S room. The telephone was at her ear, her great eyes were staring towards the door. At sight of Roger, she drew herself up and terror flared in those eyes. But she didn’t take !; the telephone from her ear. Instead, she grabbed at something on the silken pillow—an automatic pistol. She didn’t speak.

She hadn’t had time to finish dialling. Harry said: “Strewth!” His heart was in the word. He stood behind Roger, who moved slowly towards the woman. This was a room of silver and gold, the right setting for beauty. She wore a flimsy, filmy dressing-gown which trailed on the floor, a pale-gold creation. She looked like something out of another, lovelier world—and the automatic was steady in her right hand. She put the ? receiver down slowly, and it clattered on the table; a faint burring sound came from it, she was connected with the exchange. She stretched out her hand and put a finger in one of the dialling holes, but she couldn’t judge which to turn while watching him, and she had to watch Roger.

He took a step nearer. Harry followed and closed the door. “Open it,” she said.

It was the first time he had heard her speak. Her voice was taut with fear, but she was full of courage. Harry didn’t respond. Roger took another step towards her. This was a long room, she seemed a vast distance away from him—ten or twelve yards.

“Don’t come nearer. Open the door.” Her voice was icy cold, now.

Roger said: “Put the gun down if you don’t want to get hurt, and come away from the telephone.” He whispered, although there was no danger of being heard outside the room. He went another step forward, and the gun was trained on his stomach, held so steadily that he knew she wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t watch both her eyes and her hand, and he had to watch her hand. He would see the sudden spasmodic movement if she were going to squeeze the trigger. So he watched her hand, not her eyes, and took another step forward. He felt prickly sweat over his face and neck, and he shivered.

He said: “I don’t want to hurt you. I——”

He jumped to one side as she fired. The bullet spat out with a bright flash. He felt it tear through his coat—and he heard Marry cry out. The bark of the report seemed like a thunderclap.

Roger leapt at her.

She was staring at Harry with horror in her eyes. That was for a split second. She jerked the gun up again as Roger sprang, but she had lost her composure; she fired again, but the bullet smacked into the floor. He reached her, hand thrust out, swung it and pushed her to one side. She struck the side of the bed and toppled on to it, still holding the gun. He grabbed her wrist, and twisted; the gun fell. He snatched it from the bed and backed away.

Harry gasped: “She—she got me.” His voice had a strained, wondering note in it.

Roger glanced at him. He was kneeling, with his right hand pressed into his side, and blood already seeped slowly through his fingers. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He had his mouth open, and gulped as if he were in pain.

Kennedy’s wife stood tiny and erect by the side of the bed, as if trying to defy Roger by her strength of will. The humming sound still came from the telephone, but he wasn’t worried about that, only about the door. Had the servants heard those shots? Only seconds had passed, but it seemed an age before he moved. She shrank back. He grabbed her shoulder and span her round, then reversed the gun in his hand. Her hair was short, a cluster of curls. He struck her at the back of the neck, and it was like striking a Dresden figure. She groaned and pitched forward.

She lay still, against the bed.

Roger put the telephone back on its cradle.

Harry said: “I’m—done for.”

There was no sound outside on the landing, but whoever came would come stealthily.

“Nonsense.” Roger stepped past him. Gun in hand, he I, opened the door cautiously, then drew back and switched off the lights. The landing light glowed faintly. He peered towards the stairs, saw no one and heard nothing except . . . the thunderous beating of his heart. He waited; there was no creaking of approach, no visible shadowy shape. Nothing.

The study door was ajar. He turned, passed Harry again and said: “You’ll be all right, Harry.” Harry still pressed his hand to his side, and the blood smeared the back of his hand, his face was ghastly. He reached the woman, lifted her and carried her across the landing to the study. She was as light as a child. He dropped her into an easy-chair, and turned and went back for Harry, who knelt in the same awkward position, and licked his lips.

“I’m going to take you into the other room. Take it easy. Just hold your side.”

Harry didn’t speak.

How did a lean man come to weigh so heavy?

Roger grunted with the strain as he lifted him and took him across the landing. He laid him on the floor, stretched out. He went back into the bedroom, dragged a sheet and two pillows off the bed, and hurried out, closing the door. He closed the study door firmly.

Neither Harry nor the woman moved. He pushed her chair away from a table, so that there was nothing she could pick up stealthily, while he was looking away from her; she would soon come round and might try to fox him.  Then he put a pillow under Harry’s head. I “Let me have a look.”

“I’m—done for,” gasped Harry.

“Not yet—not by a long way. A doctor——”

“Don’t you—send for one.” There was pain instead of fear in Harry’s eyes. “You finish the job.” He licked his lips again.

Roger said: “Let me have a look at you.” He forced Harry’s hand away, and the blood dripped on to the carpet. The wound seemed to be on the left side, not dead centre. He unfastened Harry’s waistcoat and trousers and pulled up the sodden shirt. Blood oozed out of a wound. He folded a handkerchief into a wad and pressed it on the wound to staunch the flow. “Hold it there, Harry.” He put Harry’s hand on the pad, and then turned to the sheet. He started a tear with his knife, then ripped off strips. With one, he made a second pad, with another he began to bind Harry’s waist. It wasn’t easy to pass the bandage beneath the man.