Inspector West Alone

It was large, pleasant, sunlit—a drawing-room, furnished with the same taste as his bedroom. In one corner, near the window, was a grand piano, and on it a huge bowl of daffodils and early tulips. Freshness seemed to come from them. There were several sofas and easy-chairs, the carpet was pale green and yellow, on the cream-papered walls were water-colours—good ones. She led him to a chair and waited for him to sit down, pulled up a small table on which was a box of cigarettes and a table lighter. She offered him a cigarette.

“Thanks.”

“Just sit here for a while. I’ll see you again soon.”

She left him with the lighter—the beginning of trust. The door closed softly behind her. He fought back a temptation to jump up and follow her, and as he began to sit down, saw the newspapers.

The sight had a curious physical effect. He stared at them—at this first contact with the real world in four days. The papers were in a rack, near the piano, with several magazines. He went across and picked them up. Before he did so, he thought: “It’s a trick.” They would be old newspapers, of no real interest.

They weren’t; there were four, each a Daily Cry. The first dated March 14, the day he had left the Yard. He looked at the others; March 15, 16, and 17. He looked at the second, and the headline leapt up at him:

GIRL MURDERED IN LONELY COTTAGE.

The body of an unknown girl, her face savagely mutilated, was found by the police in Copse Cottage, Helsham, one of the loneliest parts of Surrey. The killer had smashed a window in order to force entry, and broken down the door of the girl’s room with an axe.

There was a great deal more, but nothing about Roger or the hold-up. He dropped the paper and picked up the next.

GANG RESCUES KILLER—

POLICEMAN SAVAGELY ATTACKED

There was the whole story; much more than there had been in the first paper. He scanned it swiftly, for names. The man who had been charged was “believed to be Arthur King, with an address at Kingston-on-Thames”; there was nothing about Roger West. He glanced through the rest of the paper quickly, seeking only headlines, and found what he wanted on an inside page—a short paragraph with a small heading: Yard Man Missing.

Chief Inspector Roger “Handsome” West, youngest C.I. at Scotland Yard, left his office late on Monday afternoon, and has not been seen or heard of since. The Yard authorities believe that West, who has been working at high pressure for several months, may be suffering from loss of memory or some other illness.

POLICE HUNT MURDER GANG

There was much more behind that; he could see the wary hand of the Yard, requesting the newspapers to play down the fact that he was missing. There was no photograph, nothing to suggest a hue and cry, nothing to hint that his disappearance might be in any way connected with the murder. He picked up the fourth paper—that morning’s.

Everywhere in Great Britain the police are seeking the gang which rescued a killer from a police guard near Helsham, Surrey, late on Monday night. It is believed that an arrest will shortly be made. The rescue, described fully in yesterday’s Cry, was the most daring in police annals.

The dead girl has not yet been identified. There was nothing at the house where she was found to suggest that she lived there, and the house has been empty for several months, the owner, Mrs. Ethel Malloy, being abroad. The police theory is that the murderer made an appointment with the unknown girl who discovered his evil intentions too late and locked herself in. Her face was so badly mutilated that photographs cannot help with identification.

Sir Harry Gregg, chief pathologist at Scotland Yard, says that the girl was probably in the early twenties, but there were no distinguishing marks on the body. The police are anxious to have details of any young woman who has been missing from her home since Monday last, and who answers the following general description: Height: 5 ft. 6 in.; medium to dark hair; blue eyes; well-developed; Weight: 10 stone 4 lb. At the time of her death, the victim was wearing a pleated black-serge skirt, white-silk blouse with four mother-of-pearl buttons the size of two-shilling pieces, a three-quarter-length coat to match the skirt, nylon stockings size 9½ (French make), black suede shoes, rayon underwear (peach colour). The names of the suppliers and manufacturers of all these articles of clothing had been removed.

*     *     *     *

Roger groped for another cigarette and lit it without thinking of that token of trust—he was left with a lighter. There was plenty to go on; absence of name tags shouldn’t prevent the police from tracing the clothes. The “French make” introduced a difficulty; was it possible that the girl had come from France? No more than an outside possibility.

He was thinking almost as if he were at his office. He turned the pages, and again found what he wanted— another reference to himself, this time with a small photograph; and a poor one.

YARD MAN STILL MISSING

Chief Inspector West (photo side) still missing from the Yard and from his home in Bell Street, Chelsea. There has been no trace of his movements since he left the Yard late on Monday afternoon to keep an appointment with his wife. The police theory that he is suffering from loss of memory is supported by his wife, who says that the pressure of work for the past few years has affected his health.

Nonsense! Janet knew better. Janet had been visited by the pundits, had been told what to say to the Press—and the pundits were still influencing the Press. There was not a hint that he was even remotely connected with the Copse Cottage murder. Janet, by now, would be in agony of mind.

*     *     *     *

So mystery was piled upon mystery. The dead girl was unknown, which meant that the Yard wasn’t getting far in its inquiries. That was trivial, compared with the greater mystery—what did these people think they were going to do with him? Why had they brought him here, why had they identified him with Arthur King, and then talked so plainly during the rescue that the police must realize that he was in fact West? Why had they treated him like this, as if trying to convince him that he was ill, in need of treatment—that his mind was unbalanced ?

What good was he to anyone if the Yard had reason to believe him to be a killer? He lit another cigarette.

He stood up and went to the window, looking into the garden, and then saw that this window was exactly the same as the one upstairs—of toughened glass, and without a movable frame.

He turned from the window and picked up the newspapers again—and then he heard a sound behind him. It made him swing round. A shutter was falling over the window from the outside, a shutter like a Venetian blind, blotting out the sun from the top half of the window, then descending over the bottom half. When the shutter was nearly down he rushed to the window and touched the glass, but there was nothing he could do. All he could see was a little of the lawn and the heads of a few daffodils; they disappeared when the shutter fell right into position, and he was left in absolute darkness. Only the glowing tip of his cigarette relieved it, and that faded when he stopped drawing at it.

He heard no sound, now—just stood with his back to the window, staring into darkness.

He heard a whirring noise, which came suddenly, and turned his head to the right. Then he saw light—a beam, as from a powerful torch, shining on the opposite wall. There, the wall was bare. The light hit the wall, much like that from a cine-camera and about the same shape; it made an oblong of light, two yards across, a yard and a half down. Yes, it was from a small projector, and the whirring was explained, they were going to put on a film. He forced himself to walk slowly to a chair facing the walname = "note" he could just pick it out, among the other furniture. He sat down and crossed his legs.

A picture appeared.

A girl was walking along a narrow street—that was all. He didn’t recognize the street, but there were things in it which told him that it wasn’t in England; more likely, France. The terraced houses were tall, and the windows had shutters fastened back against the walls. There were several little balconies at the higher windows. The street was empty, except for the girl, who appeared to be walking towards him. She looked tall. She walked quickly. She was smartly dressed and seemed thoughtful. In a way, she wasn’t unlike Marion; but he might also say that she wasn’t unlike Janet. She kept on walking—was the street as long as that, or was it a trick of the camera ?

She turned into another street where there were more people, into yet a third. This was a wide busy thorough-fare. He caught a glimpse of a single-decker bus with a crowd of people standing on the platform at the back— peculiar to Paris.

The dead girl had worn French nylons.

He had forgotten that sharp nervous fear of the sudden darkness, was absorbed in the pictures.

The girl was lost among the crowds; no, not quite lost, she appeared occasionally, once stood and looked into a shop window—at handbags. Then she walked on—and there was a cut in the film.

Another picture came, this time of a small cafe, with a big striped awning over a dozen or so small tables, a waiter standing in white jacket by the open door, one couple drinking out of long glasses. Then the girl appeared and sat down as far as she could get from the couple. The waiter approached her; she shook her head, said something, indicated that she was waiting for a companion. The waiter took up his position in the doorway. The girl lit a cigarette, adjusted her long skirt, looked up and down the street. Twice she glanced at her wrist-watch. She began to frown.

She opened her handbag, and took something out—a letter? She studied it closely. Yet her eyes didn’t move from side to side, as they would have done had she been reading. She put the thing down, and he saw that it was a photograph; he thought it was of a man, but couldn’t be sure. The girl finished her cigarette, and began to tap her foot on the ground.

Then a shadow appeared over her.

She glanced up—and although the frown disappeared, she didn’t smile, but looked anxious. She said something, and Roger wished this weren’t a silent film, then scoffed at himself for the inanity of the thought.

The shadow grew into a man, who had his back to the camera. He pulled up a chair and sat down. The waiter reappeared. The man with the girl leaned forward and hid most of her from Roger. The man was hatless; he had fair wavy hair which needed cutting. There was something familiar about him; Roger couldn’t place it. Then the man turned, as the waiter approached, and Roger caught a glimpse of the profile—and sat up, a chill shiver running up and down his spine, a physical thing which he couldn’t prevent.

It was his profile.

He had never seen that girl in his life before, but he was sitting there as if in the flesh and talking to her.

The picture faded.

But the whirring continued, it hadn’t finished yet. The light seemed bright. The sweat on Roger’s forehead was cold; this was getting on his nerves, he could sense unnamed terrors hidden from him.

Another picture flashed on-

Of the girl—without a face, or with a face that was unrecognizable. She was just as he had seen her at Copse Cottage.

And then a man spoke from a corner of the room.

“Why did you do it, West? Why?”

 

CHAPTER VIII

CONVERSATION

ROGER hadn’t heard him come in; hadn’t dreamt that anyone was there. He started violently, and peered towards the corner. He could see a vague shape, which faded as the light from the projector died away.

“Why did you do it, West? Why?”

There was nothing sinister about the voice; it was just a man’s, earnest, rather grim. He’d heard it before, in the car driving down the hill near Helsham.

The man moved; Roger heard the sound, but it was too dark to see anything.

“Why don’t you tell me? Why did you do it?”

The man moved again.

Light came on, not bright, just a single wall-lamp near the door; everything in this affair seemed to be played out in semi-darkness. The man was little more than a shape, but his eyes were like silver fire.

“Why did you do it?”

“I don’t get this. I didn’t do it.” The denial sounded weak, even to Roger; he wasn’t really on top of himself.

“Who do you think will believe you?” the man demanded.

“Anyone with sense.”

“Anyone who sees that film, and knows the rest, will believe that you killed her, West.”

Roger turned and sat down. The cigarette-box was on its side, and the cigarettes were spread over the table. He took one and lit it; it was a relief to smoke. The man stood staring at him.

“What do you want?” Roger asked, heavily.

“I want you to get some facts straight. Don’t you remember going to Paris? Don’t you remember going to the cottage?”

“I  haven’t been to Paris for over a year.”

“You could have seen her then.”

“I didn’t see her. I’ve never seen her before.”

The man drew nearer.

“West, you don’t seem to realize your position. You went to Paris and saw that girl—the camera doesn’t lie, the film is here, a copy of it can be sent to Scotland Yard. You went to Copse Cottage, you were alone there when the girl was killed. You appeared to be someone other than yourself—to fool the police. You were rescued by friends, who nearly killed a police-constable. Your colleagues at the Yard think you killed the girl. The evidence is so strong. That film, proving that you knew her before and had an affaire with her, gives you a motive. You met her by assignation in a lonely country cottage. You arranged that someone should telephone the Yard with a faked message, pretending to come from your wife, but you didn’t realize that your wife would deny having sent such a message. You thought you’d get safely home and no one would suspect you, didn’t you? But you didn’t have the

Roger said: “One of us is crazy.”

“No one at Scotland Yard would believe that you’re crazy. You’re too well known, too clever. This has all the hall-marks of a crafty crime—the kind of crime that a man who knows the law might commit. You’re a policeman.” The voice maintained its monotonous level, there was no sneer, no hint of a gloating smile, it was just factual. “You know how the police build up their cases, you’ve often collected the evidence to send a man to the gallows. You’ve briefed the prosecuting counsel a hundred times. Imagine him being briefed with all this evidence! That you once went to Paris; that this girl is French; that you saw her there; that she came to England and threatened to break up your home life; that you planned to meet her and to kill her, to save your domestic life from collapse. Don’t just tell me that you didn’t do it. West, tell me what you think a prosecuting counsel would make of it.”

Roger said: “In every trial, there’s a defending counsel, too.”

“I’ll leave you to think it over,” said the man abruptly. He put his hand to his pocket, pulled out an envelope and tossed it into Roger’s lap. He turned towards the door, and as he went out of the room the shutter began to fold up, and sunlight came in through the window again.

Roger fingered the large envelope, which seemed to have several folded papers inside. He groped for another cigarette. His hand was unsteady when he took the contents from the envelope. There were three smaller envelopes, each of them stamped with a French stamp; each with a Paris postmark, each with a blue sticker reading Par Avion, each addressed to Arthur King, at 18 Sedgley Road, Kingston-on-Thames. The writing was large and feminine, the ink bright blue. He took out the first letter, and the words which flew up at him were: “My darling Arthur—”

The writing was the same as on the envelope. The address was simply: Paris, with the date. He scanned the first. It was a love letter, as from a woman pouring out her heart. It was a good letter, written in fair English with a few odd turns of phrase, and an occasional word or expression in French; the signature was “Lucille.” There was a postcript: “Soon, I must see you, when can you come?”

He opened the second letter, dated two weeks afterwards, and the first words were the same, and then it went on with a fierce directness which shook him badly. “I am coming to see you. Yes! I am able to come to London, very soon. I am delirious with the delight of it. Cheri . . .”

The third letter was very brief; she would be in England on Saturday, March 12, and he was to write to her at the Oxford Palace Hotel, London, to say when and where he could meet her.

*     *     *     *

He could tear the letters up and be no better off. They would have anticipated that, would have photostat copies, and there would be other letters, too, not just these three. Letters addressed to Arthur King, and passionately written. Put these into the hands of the prosecuting counsel together with everything else, and no jury in the country would acquit him. The film was faked. It wasn’t hard for experts to fake a film, and it might be possible to get other experts to testify that it had been faked, that one had been placed upon another—but by itself that wouldn’t be a defence. He had been superimposed on the picture; that was all—a simple technical problem. Someone had photographed him, taken away the background—or it needn’t be a faked film! Make-up could create features like his for the purposes of a film.

He went back to his chair and read the letters through again and felt something of the passion in them and knew one thing; Lucille had been in love with the man to whom she had written. They weren’t faked; they had a quality which reflected sincerity. So Lucille had had a lover, and had come to London to see him.

Who was the lover?

The man with the fiery eyes?

*     *     *     *

The man came in again.

*     *     *     *

Roger really saw him, this time. Apart from his eyes there was nothing remarkable about him. He had a thin face, not ugly, not handsome—a vague kind of face. His lips were unusually well-shaped and red. He had brown hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead, with a wide centre parting. He was dressed well in dark grey, but apart from those eyes, he was just an ordinary man. He walked easily, smiled, and sat down.

“Have you read them?”

“Yes.”

“Have you asked yourself what a prosecuting counsel would say?”

“The defence would want proof that the letters were addressed to me.”

“Oh, they’d have proof. Admirable proof. From two or three blameless people who would swear that you often went to 18 Sedgley Road to collect these letters—irreproachable witnesses. West. Do you like it?”

Roger said: “Not much. When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”

The man laughed—as lightly as if this were a normal conversation, and Roger had made some casual quip.

“Now you’re being sensible,” he said. “You’re half-way towards doing a deal. Before you’ve finished you’ll have to come all the way, because it’s the only thing that will save your neck from being stretched. I’ll tell you, later, possibly to-morrow. I’ve one or two other items of information for you. This house is a private asylum. You’re not the only borderline case they’ve had here. The doctor, like those witnesses, is irreproachable. The staff is thoroughly trained. Some time ago, a Mr. King was brought here by his friends, because he was a psychopathic case and given to moods of violence. He received treatment for a few days and was released. He came back once, before this week. He came when you were away from the Yard on special jobs, and you would have great difficulty in proving you had been somewhere else. He was a fair-haired man, who might be mistaken for you. The only two members of the staff who really saw him at close quarters and could be sure it wasn’t you, were the male nurse who shaves you and the doctor. Your own nurse never saw him—nice girl, isn’t she? She’s very sorry for you. She thinks that you’ve committed some violent crime and are under the proper treatment. The doctor who is prescribing for you will swear that Arthur King and you are one and the same. The theory will be, of course, that as Roger West you knew something was going wrong with your mind, you called yourself King and submitted to treatment. Now the defending counsel might make something of that, but—think what the prosecutor would say.”

Roger said harshly: “Do my thinking for me.”

“Very well. The prosecutor would say that this was all carefully planned, so that if you were caught, you would be able to offer evidence that you were a mental case. The resident doctor here would swear to it, but others would say—truthfully—that if a man wants to pretend that he’s over the border he can do so, and fool almost anyone. You’ve simply fooled this resident doctor.”