Inspector West Regrets Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Inspector West Regrets

  First published in 1945

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1945-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755135830 9780755135837 Print

  0755139178 9780755139170 Kindle

  0755137515 9780755137510 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  Roger West in Ecstasy

  Chief Inspector Roger West of New Scotland Yard was talking to his wife on the telephone. He sat in his office, which he shared with four other detectives of equal rank. On his handsome face – he was so good looking that most of his friends called him ‘Handsome’ – was a fatuous smile. From time to time he burst out with an incredulous exclamation, such as: ‘No!’ or ‘You’d never believe it!’ or ‘Astonishing!’ and gave a little laugh. Over a period of three months his fellow inspectors had grown used to these remarkable manifestations of delight. Usually as soon as Janet West came through they made their way out of the office, leaving Roger to his ecstasy. Except Eddie Day; no one ever expected Eddie Day to show tact. Eddie was a man of medium height, running to fat, with prominent teeth and a weak chin. He was a specialist on forgery. There were marked deficiencies in his mental make-up, but in his particular sphere he was unchallenged.

  Eddie was examining some letters. If they were forgeries then the police would be able to prosecute a gentleman suspected of writing extremely clever begging letters. Eddie breathed heavily and noisily through his mouth as he concentrated.

  On the instant that the door opened, he shot one startled, nervous look towards Roger West, straightened up, and let a watch-glass fall from his eye. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up, saying in a loud voice: ‘Good morning, sir!’

  ‘’Morning, Day,’ said Sir Guy Chatworth, the Assistant Commissioner.

  ‘I haven’t got my report quite ready yet, sir,’ gabbled Eddie. ‘Another couple of hours should see me through, though.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Chatworth. ‘I came to see West.’

  Roger suddenly leaned forward, doubled up with laughter, and cried: ‘Never!’

  Chatworth moved forward, and stood just behind Roger, who had no idea of his presence.

  ‘Marvellous!’ he exclaimed. ‘And only four months! Oh, the other one won’t be long. They always come in pairs, I’m told.’

  ‘And we haven’t had any trouble,’ said his wife, and went on: ‘But darling, are you busy?’

  ‘Not the slightest bit,’ said Roger, ‘it’s the slackest morning I’ve had for months. Eddie Day has just scuttled out of the office. What was that?’

  As Janet went into further details about the subject under discussion, Roger’s elbow slipped off the desk. He saw Chatworth’s sand-coloured waistcoat across which stretched a black leather watch-strap. Both were vaguely familiar. He looked down, to see a pair of baggy plus fours and highly polished brown shoes. He looked up, to see a red neck, a round, red face and a fringe of curly grey hair around a pink, bald cranium.

  To his everlasting credit, he kept his voice steady.

  ‘That’s marvellous, darling, but I must go now, I think the AC wants to see me … What? … Yes, I certainly will tell him. Goodbye!’

  He replaced the receiver, straightened up, and looked at Chatworth with a tentative smile.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Inspector West,’ said Chatworth, his deep voice loaded with dangerous courtesy. ‘I must apologise for disturbing you. May I be so bold as to inquire what you will certainly tell me?’

  ‘Pass on my wife’s regards, sir. She asked me to tell you that your godson is doing splendidly.’

  For a fleeting moment the suspicion of a twinkle showed in Chatworth’s blue eyes.

  ‘I am very glad to hear it, but less pleased to hear that you have so little to do, Inspector.’

  ‘That was just to reassure Janet,’ said Roger, and added appealingly: ‘I only see the infant for half an hour in the mornings, sir. He’s just over twelve pounds, and so fat that he can hardly see out of his eyes! And happy! You—’ He stopped himself.

  ‘Whether I was wise to let myself in for being his godfather I don’t know,’ Chatworth said. ‘If he grows up anything like his father he will have the nerve of Old Harry! Without necessarily referring to the discussion you’ve just had, you are not overloaded with work, are you?’

  ‘I’m just clearing up the Galloway case,’ said Roger. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, I’ve been wondering if I can take a long weekend.’

  ‘In which to gambol with the infant prodigy,’ said Chatworth. ‘If nothing develops I don’t see why not.’ He put a letter which he was holding on to Roger’s desk. ‘I think we’ll have to see what we can find out about this.’

  ‘Another one, sir?’ exclaimed Roger, glancing at the letter.

  ‘We’ve now had five in five days. This fellow is being very persistent, and he might know what he’s talking about.’

  Roger took the letter and read it quickly. It was typewritten, had no address and no signature, and said:

  You’d better not wait much longer before you see what K. is up to. You’ll be sorry if you don’t take my tip.

  The ‘K’ in the letter referred to Mr Andrew Kelham. Kelham was a well-known financier whose activities had long been suspect, and the police had watched him closely, as w
ell as investigated many of his undertakings. He was a plausible, amiable and good looking man of middle-age who was busy financing private schemes for estate development in greater London and provincial towns. There was nothing wrong in that. The earlier letters, however, had declared that he was planning to evade regulations. There was great scope for such evasion in land values.

  Roger flicked the letter with his forefinger.

  ‘I hardly know where to start, sir.’

  ‘You’d better get the file out and go through it. It shouldn’t stop you from having your weekend. I’ll send the other letters along to you. I won’t expect miracles at first.’ He nodded, and went out, but as Roger glanced at the letter again, he opened the door and said: ‘Oh, West.’

  Roger looked up.

  ‘What come in pairs?’ asked Chatworth.

  ‘Pairs?’ echoed Roger, puzzled.

  ‘You said something on the telephone about “they always come in pairs”,’ said Chatworth. ‘I warn you, West, you’ll have to look elsewhere for a godfather if—’

  Roger hooted. ‘I meant teeth; he’s got one in the upper jaw. The incisors usually come in pairs, according to all the best books! When children come in pairs they’re usually known as twins.’

  ‘Are they indeed?’ Chatworth went out.

  Roger was grinning when Eddie Day came in, obviously having watched the door.

  ‘I tried to warn you, Handsome,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you before that you’ll get into trouble if you don’t take more notice of the AC. Did you get it hot and strong?’ He seemed hopeful.

  ‘He was quite amiable,’ said Roger.

  Eddie shook his head, sadly.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he admitted. ‘I just don’t know, Handsome. If he caught me wasting my time on the telephone like that I’d never hear the last of it. And I’ve got five.’

  ‘What, teeth?’

  ‘No, kids. What on earth made you say “teeth”?’

  A messenger from Chatworth came in with the other anonymous letters. Roger sent the same man to get the file on Andrew Kelham, and took the papers with him when he went to lunch. He spent the whole afternoon sifting through the various items of information, but could find nothing new. All there had been against Kelham were vague suspicions and the fact that he had been known to associate with convicted operators in land speculation – two of whom had received big payments against forged documents and land titles. It occurred to Roger to make a list of all the men who had been convicted of such offences and had been acquainted with Kelham: the total was seventeen.

  He telephoned Inspector Sloan, who on his recommendation had recently been promoted, and passed on this piece of information. Sloan spoke thoughtfully.

  ‘I suppose if you tried, you’d find other men with as many crooked contacts, and yet with their hands quite clean.’

  ‘I wonder if I would. It’s an impressive list. I don’t like the feeling that Kelham may be sitting back and laughing at us.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I can’t make up my mind,’ said Roger. ‘It’s no use bursting in on the man and plying him with questions, and I don’t fancy the idea of tackling his staff again.’

  ‘Did the AC say why he’d decided to take it seriously?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. Bill, will you come to Chelsea this evening? I’ll take the papers home with me. We may see something if we put our heads together.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to,’ Sloan said.

  ‘Good man,’ said Roger. ‘Make it seven o’clock, the infant will be in bed by then.’ He rang off, and after some minutes of contemplation, telephoned Janet. When she answered him Roger could hear in the background the cries of the infant Martin.

  ‘Would it be too great a strain if Bill Sloan and Mark Lessing come to supper?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No, I’ll manage,’ said Janet. ‘I must fly, darling, he’s yelling his head off.’

  Roger put through another call, this time to Mark Lessing, a close personal friend with an inquiring mind. Mark promised to be at Roger’s Chelsea house before half past seven. It was then six o’clock.

  Roger would have left immediately afterwards but for a troubled sergeant who wanted some information about the Galloway case, and it was a quarter to seven before he locked his desk and was ready to leave. All the others had gone. Outside, the evening was dull after a typical April day with heavy rain interspersed with bright sunshine, and the windows showed yellow squares of light against the gloom. He put on his raincoat and hat and went downstairs, but he was only halfway down the steps leading to the courtyard on the Embankment side when he was called: ‘Handsome!’

  He looked round, and saw a fellow inspector.

  ‘Aren’t you on the K business?’ called the inspector.

  ‘Yes, why?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Kelham’s son’s been murdered,’ the inspector said. ‘You’d better go, hadn’t you?’

  Chapter Two

  The Murder of Anthony Kelham

  It was nearly dark when Roger reached Kelham’s Park Lane flat with a sergeant and two detective officers. The block of luxury flats was glowing with subdued wall-lighting. A uniformed porter led the party to the second floor.

  Roger knew that Kelham’s son was a youth of twenty-one, who had been sent down from Oxford after a few months, for throwing parties described as ‘orgiastic’; his sexual morals had a farmyard complex, the police had discovered. At that time he was more than usually sensitive about fathers and sons and was quite prepared to be sympathetic with Andrew Kelham.

  A sleek, well-dressed man opened the door; Blair, Kelham’s private secretary.

  ‘Inspector West, isn’t it? I’m glad you’ve arrived so quickly. Mr Kelham is very much upset.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Roger.

  ‘I know you’ll excuse my indiscretion,’ Blair said, ‘but if you can go easy on questions, I’m sure he would be grateful.’

  ‘I won’t make it any worse than I must,’ Roger said.

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ said Blair.

  He was a curiously self-effacing individual. In the course of his earlier inquiries Roger had come across him several times, and always come away with the impression that he was a perfect secretary.

  ‘I’ll tell him you’ve arrived,’ he said.

  ‘Before you do that, tell me what happened,’ said Roger. His men put their cases down, and one began to stand a camera on a tripod. The large sitting-room into which they had been led was expensively and tastefully furnished. The flat was very quiet.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,’ said Blair. ‘Tony – that is, Anthony Kelham – was in his father’s library, sitting at the desk. Mr Kelham and I had been out for the afternoon. When we came back Tony was sitting at the desk. I think you will find that he had been shot in the back.’

  ‘Have you moved him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you touched anything in the room?’

  ‘Nothing at all has been disturbed,’ Blair said.

  ‘Had Anthony Kelham any right to be in the library?’

  ‘Every right. No part of the flat was locked against him.’ Blair hesitated. ‘Isn’t that rather a curious question, Inspector?’

  Roger ignored that.

  ‘What time did you get back?’

  ‘A little after half past six.’

  ‘It’s now twenty past seven,’ said Roger, and thought of the little gathering at Chelsea. ‘May we use your telephone?’

  ‘It’s in that corner,’ said Blair.

  ‘Thanks. Willis, telephone Mrs West for me, will you, and tell her that I have been delayed and probably won’t be home until late.’ He turned back to Blair. ‘What time did Anthony Kelham arrive?’

  ‘He was due here at five o’clock,’ said Blair.

  ‘What do the servants say?’

  ‘No one was on duty. There is only a woman and her daughter, both dailies. We have our meals in the restaurant.’ Blair
lit a cigarette. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be more precise about the time that Tony reached here, Inspector, and I assure you that Mr Kelham can’t.’

  ‘I see,’ said Roger, and turned to a sergeant. ‘Go downstairs and find out whether the commissionaire or anyone else saw Mr Anthony Kelham come in this evening.’ When the man had gone, he added to Blair: ‘I’m very glad you lost no time; that should be helpful. You’ve no theories, I suppose?’

  ‘I’ve never been so astonished,’ said Blair. ‘Hadn’t you better see Mr Kelham?’

  ‘Is he alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blair. ‘Mrs Kelham is away.’

  Roger nodded, and Blair went into the hall ahead of him and tapped at one of the five doors leading from it.

  A hoarse voice called ‘come in’. As Roger entered the room, Andrew Kelham was sitting at a bureau desk, reading something in front of him, and his attitude was one of utter dejection. Roger, remembering a man of immaculate attire, tall, well groomed and with admirable poise, had a fleeting impression that Kelham looked years older.

  ‘What is it, Blair?’ Kelham asked, without looking round.

  ‘Inspector West, of New Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Kelham.

  The impression of age was strengthened when he stood up and turned to face Roger. Usually he was smiling; now his expression was one of mute despair. He still held the letter. His collar was crumpled, his hair dishevelled; single hairs were on his collar and shoulders.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Inspector. Blair has told you what—what happened?’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear of it,’ said Roger. ‘I won’t worry you now more than I must, Mr Kelham.’

  Kelham said: ‘Worry me as much as you want to. Do you hear me?’ His voice was taut, and his hands clenched. ‘Catch the man who killed my son, that is all you need to worry about. Spare no one’s feelings, least of all mine.’