He drew back, pulling the door to but not quite closing it for fear of waking whoever was inside; he had no choice at all, had to send for a man before searching; probably should not search at all.
Sensing rather than hearing movement, he half-turned, caught sight of the dark, shiny hair of a man bent low behind him. Then he felt hands thump against his shoulders and went hurtling forward, banging his forehead against the door. It swung open, and he fell headlong into the room. His head smacked against the floor, nearly stunning him, but he was aware of hands gripping his wrists and lifting his legs up. then pushing him to one side. The next moment he was kicked savagely in the ribs, then the door slammed and the light was shut out. He was here, alone, in darkness, gasping for breath.
Gasping.
He was aware of many things: mostly, fears.
What in heaven’s name had made him come alone? He could imagine the ridicule if this story reached the newspapers! It would not only be personally damaging, it would seriously affect the Yard. Coppell. How could he have taken such a chance? A rookie would have known better!
He heard a sound; of creaking.
He was not breathing so heavily now, and when he concentrated he was aware of someone else breathing.
The woman of course; the woman whose clothes were on the chair.
Was she getting out of bed?
Why didn’t she call out? Surely she would if she was frightened.
It was almost as if she had expected—nonsense!
A light flashed above his head. He was starting to get up, one hand on the carpeted floor, but the light dazzled him and he dropped flat again, keeping his head up so that his chin wouldn’t bang against the floor. Slowly he looked up from under his eyebrows.
“You!” he gasped.
A woman was sitting up in bed. She wore a flimsy nightdress with a deep V which did little to conceal her large, pale bosom. She was blonde. Her lips were still bright with yesterday’s lipstick—crimson red, which he had seen at the magistrate’s court when she had given evidence.
For this was Maisie Dunster, and she was covering him with a small pistol, a pistol which, if loaded, could kill.
She sat rigidly, mouth set in a rounded “Oh”. The gun was steady in her right hand. Her left was behind her, and she was using it to support herself against the pillows. Her eyes, though heavy from sleep, were almost as rounded as her lips.
Very slowly, Roger began to get up. The humiliation itself wasn’t very important, the ache in his side wasn’t either; drawing up first one knee, then the other, he supported himself with one hand on the floor. He was perhaps six feet away from the side of the bed, the door immediately behind him.
Maisie licked her lips, then said in a husky voice, “Don’t come any nearer.”
He began to get up.
“Sit on the floor, she ordered.
If he obeyed, then he would not only be helpless but she would have the upper hand morally, as well as with the threat of the gun. There were some things one did almost instinctively, and he did one now.
He stood up.
He knew, with half of his mind, that she might shoot him, but he was driven by a compulsion which made him take the chance. He felt giddy once he was on his feet, and his knees bent. He lurched towards the bed, and Maisie thrust the pistol out farther. Lurching backwards, quite unavoidably, he struck the front edge of a chair with the back of his knees, and dropped into it, helplessly. It was heavy and padded and although it swayed to and fro a few inches it didn’t topple backwards and he didn’t fall.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “It is you!”
He gulped.
“West,” he admitted. “Superintendent West. I have—” He broke off. He had been about to add that he had a search warrant, but in these circumstances it would sound absurd.
Maisie Dunster shifted her position, hitching the pillow up behind her, and adjusting the neck of her nightdress.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked gustily.
West hesitated. Whatever else, she showed no venom and no malice, and the simple truth should be as good an answer as any. He shifted his position to ease the ache in his back, and answered, “I came to search the room.”
“Why?”
“It’s occupied by—” He stopped abruptly, then forced a grin. “I thought it was occupied by a Mr. Patrick Fogarty.”
“Well,” she said, “he pays the rent.”
Roger was feeling much more composed, even grateful to the girl for not giving him the run around when it would have been so easy to have made him feel still more of a fool than he looked.
“And you accept his hospitality on occasions,” he remarked.
Her eyes gleamed with a hint of humour, but he didn’t expect the retort she gave.
“On those nights when I’m not one of four in a bed,” she said. “Funny you should guess about the foursome, Mr. West.”
“Very funny,” said West dryly, “if there was a foursome on that particular night.”
Maisie leant forward, still gripping the gun.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. West: nothing is going to make me say I wasn’t with Mario last night. Or the night before last, whenever it was. And if I like to spend one night with one boy friend and the next with another and then have a free-for-all, it’s nothing to do with you or the Police Force, the Bishop of Canterbury or God, for that matter. I’m myself, you understand. I do what I like with myself, and I go with anyone I like.” Then, she broke off, frowning. “What do you want at Fogarty’s, anyhow?”
“He killed a man last night,” stated Roger.
She was so shocked that he thought he had a chance to throw himself forward and disarm her, and but for the pain in his ribs he might have tried. But even when he shifted forward, it shot up to his shoulder and down to his knee.
“You bloody liar !” she burst out. “Pat wouldn’t hurt—!”
“He ran the man down on a zebra crossing,” explained Roger. “He didn’t run away and there’s a possibility that he was drunk.” Her face began to clear as if she were prepared to accept that as a possibility, but he brought a frown back almost instantly by going on, “His victim was one of the two witnesses against Mario Rapelli. Isn’t that a remarkable coincidence?”
The effect of his words was so great that she leant back against the pillow, almost dropping the gun. He felt quite sure that it would be safe to get up and cross to her— but as he began, putting most of his weight on the left leg, which hadn’t been hurt, there was a sharp tap at the door.
Chapter Seven
DISASTER ?
The girl started, and slowly raised her gun again. Roger looked towards the door, and his heart began to thump. Who was the caller? It was bad enough already, but if someone else saw him in here there would be two witnesses. He put his left hand on the arm of the chair, to hoist himself up.
“Who’s there?” Maisie called out.
“It’s no one you know,” a man replied. “Is West still there?”
She hesitated, and then asked, “Who’s West?”
“Don’t play tricks, Maisie. Is he there?”
She pursed her lips but didn’t answer and it was almost possible to guess what she was thinking: which would be the greatest fun, to admit that he was still here, or to pretend that he had gone.
“Maisie,” the man said in a harsh voice, “you could get hurt—or you could be richer by a hundred pounds.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she said, “That’s money.”
“You’re right, it’s money. Cash money.”