“It would help to know what you want.”
Kennedy turned the full force of those shimmering eyes on him.
“I want you, West,” Kennedy said quietly. “The man and the policeman. Your knowledge of crime and of police methods. I want the expert on criminal investigation. The man who knows Scotland Yard as a doctor knows his patient—and better. I want inside knowledge of the C.I.D. All the tricks of the policeman’s trade. You can lay your finger on anything at Scotland Yard, and I want everything. I want you, not part of you. Mind, body, soul, if you’re fool enough to think you’ve got a soul. The rest steps out and I take possession.”
He meant every word.
His eyes were the true guide to his mind; he wasn’t sane, or he wouldn’t ask for the impossible.
He said: “No, I’m not mad, West.”
“What’s in your mind?” Roger asked roughly. “To send me back to the Yard, whitewashed?”
“Forget it. You’re wanted for murder. I’ve made the evidence too strong. If you ever left here alive and alone, you’d swing. Thinking about escape won’t help you. You can only escape to death.”
Be rational; use reason.
“It sounds wonderful. I work for you and forget my past.”
“You haven’t got a past.”
“Wife? Family?”
“They’re alive. They’re well. They’re not in danger. Forget them.”
“Every C.I.D. man in the country, every patrol man, every village copper, every journalist, and about thirty million people who’ll know what I look like when the Yard really releases this story, will be on the look-out for me.”
“They won’t find you. You won’t look yourself. You won’t be yourself.”
Roger swung round, to stare into the peaceful grounds, to convince himself that this was happening, to grope and gasp. Kennedy didn’t speak or move. A thrush flew down and drove a dozen sparrows away from crumbs which lay white on the lawn.
“Make up your mind,” Kennedy said.
“What do I get out of it? I’m to lose plenty.”
“You’ll be alive.”
“I suppose I’m to live on air.”
Kennedy threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but high-pitched and grating; it matched his eyes. He clapped his hands together, crossed the room and slapped Roger on the back. Roger stood rigid, although the touch was loathsome.
“You’re like the rest, Roger! High-minded while you’ve no temptation. What you mean is—what’s in it for you?”
“Well, what is in it for me?”
“A fortune. An easy life. Plenty of the right kind of company. Do what you’re told and put your best into it, and you can have the world.”
“But nothing out of my past?”
“Nothing,” said Kennedy.
Roger said: “You say you want the man as well as the policeman. Both have memories.”
“It’s easy to forget.” Kennedy’s voice was soft, now, almost a hiss. He turned away, as if to hide the glitter in those frightening eyes. “I know it’s easy, because I’ve forgotten.” He was haunted by memories at this moment, they crowded upon him and he fought them away savagely. “You won’t remember anything for long, not in a way that hurts. You’ll think of the others as dead. Going to play. West?”
There was more in it than this: the whole plan wasn’t unfolded, only a corner was turned up.
“I don’t want to die.”
“You don’t have to. Will you play?”
“It looks as if I’ll have to.”
“You’ll be given paper and pencil,” Kennedy said. “Write out a list of all the senior officers at Scotland Yard, and their special duties. Indicate the particular qualities of each man. Make a precis of the way the organization works. That’ll fill in your spare time for the rest of the day. Make sure it’s right in every detail.”
He went out abruptly.
* * * *
There was no great betrayal in this; few secrets; none Roger need give away. He wrote until his fingers and wrist ached. The male nurse came in with his evening meal, and took away all he had written.
Night came slowly, but he wasn’t tired. He had a watch, now, all the cigarettes and matches he needed, and whisky; the beginning of the “easy” life. His mind was alert, things were crystal clear. His first task was to convince Kennedy that he would really “play”. There’d be trick-tests and crafty traps, and he would have to be on his guard every waking moment, until Kennedy was finally convinced of his goodwill.
He began to think, dispassionately, of how he could send word to Janet and the Yard, and if he found a way, whether he should do it. Janet, when vexed and sharp-voiced if he’d worked too late, had a trick of gibing: “You’re a policeman first, man second.” There was truth in it; never more truth than now. The battle was on—a strange, tenuous, bitter battle.
* * * *
He was asleep when Marion came to him. For a moment, he thought it was Janet. He started up. Only the dim light was on, and she sat on the bed, looking fragile.
“What is it?”
She said : “I’m terribly frightened.”
“You’re frightened!”
“Yes.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
She asked: “Who are you?”
Beware the traps.
“Don’t you know?”
“I thought—you were Arthur King.”
“Aren’t I?”
“He called you by another name.”
“Who? The doctor?”
“No. Kennedy.”
“When?”
“I heard you talking in here to-night.”
She might have; much more likely she was in the plot and came as an agente provocatrice from Kennedy.
“Forget it,” he said roughly.
“Please! Don’t raise your voice. I want to help you, if you’re in trouble. I saw a photograph——”
“I’m ill. You know that.”
“But are you?” She gripped his hands tightly. She wore the woollen dressing-gown, and it parted at the neck; her nightdress was of pink silk. “I’ve been unhappy about you, you seemed so rational at first, not like the others. I thought——” She paused, and her fingers pressed hard enough to hurt.
“Well?”
“I thought it was because I—liked you.”
“That’s happened to me before.”
“Oh, please. Tell me the truth. If you’re someone else I can get a message sent for you. It would be a hideous crime to keep a sane man here. Perhaps I could tell your friends, or the police. I have time off to-morrow, and can go into the village—to London—anywhere. I want to help you.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Then let me get some sleep.”
She drew back, as if he had struck her, and her eyes seemed filled with pain. Could any woman act like that?
She went slowly towards the door; for the first time, her shoulders drooped as if the vitality had been drained out of her. She opened the door; there was still time to call her back.
He let her go.
* * * *
The safety razor felt unfamiliar in his hand, but he didn’t cut himself. When he looked into the mirror afterwards, he saw that the last traces of the scratches had all but gone.
The male nurse brought him a Daily Cry. There was a little paragraph about the nation-wide hunt, and more about him, with a larger photograph, and the words:
Reliable reports say that Inspector West was last seen on Monday evening, in the Guildford area. Anyone who saw him after six-fifteen that night should communicate at once with Scotland Yard or the nearest police-station.
* * * *
That was placed close to the murder story; so, slowly and reluctantly, the Yard was allowing him to be connected with that affair.