JOHN CREASEY
Inspector West Alone
Copyright Note
This e-book was created by papachanjo, with the purpose of providing a digitized format of the books written by John Creasey without the least intention of commercial gain of any sort. This e-book should hence be utilized for reading only and if you like it and can buy it, please do to support the publishers.
I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.
If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:
Scan the book in greyscale
Save as djvu - use the free DJVU SOLO software to compress the images
Send it to my e-maiclass="underline" papachanjo@rocketmail.com
I’ll do the rest and will add a note of credit in the finished document.
from back cover
It never occurred to Roger West that anything faked about the message. He just assumed that his wife had run into trouble and needed help. So he went along, and got a knock on his head. And when he came to, he found himself being charged with the murder of a woman he though was his wife.
Table of Contents
Copyright Note
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XX III
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER I
LONELY HOUSE
EVEN now, it didn’t occur to Roger West that there had been anything faked about the message. He was just afraid in case Janet had run into trouble.
You could spend your life walking into trouble with your eyes wide open and feel hardly a tremor. When you began to wonder whether your wife was in danger, you had a sick feeling of dread; assuming that you were in love with your wife, of course.
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.