Battle for Inspector West by John Creasey Page A

the lines at his forehead and the mouth, of great cares and anxiety. His father walked heavily, too, with none of the once familiar buoyancy.
    â€˜Well, Michael,’ he said, very quietly.
    Grant said: ‘Hello, Dad,’ in an empty voice.
    â€˜I have told your son the position,’ said Carosi. ‘You will confirm it, please. Be brief.’
    â€˜Yes, all right,’ said Sir Mortimer. ‘Mike—I’m desperately sorry. The truth is that Carosi carries too many guns for me, For you, too. We must let him have his own way.’
    â€˜Just what has happened?’ asked Grant, and there was bitterness in his voice.
    â€˜Simply that I know I can’t fight any longer,’ said his father. ‘I’m too old to fight now. After the last affair, I thought all would be well. I didn’t know how strong a hold Carosi had. I have been taking his instructions for over a year.’
    â€˜I see,’ said Mike heavily.
    A year, and he hadn’t known; a year, and he had thought himself such a hero, so much smarter than the police, while Carosi had so frightened his father that this had been kept from him.
    â€˜You will have to do the same,’ said Sir Mortimer. ‘He is quite capable of doing anything to Christine.’
    â€˜I think that is enough,’ interrupted Carosi. ‘You will go, Sir Mortimer, please. And Grant, if I am caught before my work is finished, you will not see your wife again.’
    The tragedy for Grant was that his father turned and left the room as if he were a humble servant.
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    Grant had never hated a man as he hated Carosi.
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    â€˜You will go back to Uplands now,’ said Carosi. ‘Remember to tell the police that this has been a wild-goose chase—you found no one at the end of it. You will be taken to Croydon, from there you will return to Uplands as you wish. Good night’
    â€˜Good night,’ Grant made himself respond.
    He went out, feeling as old as his father.
    He crossed the empty sitting-room, hesitated by the door, and looked round as if expecting to find that this was a mirage.
    The door was unlocked. He went out on to the landing, and the thin-faced man who had driven him here stood at the foot of the stairs, beckoning. But it was impossible for Grant to hurry; the vision of his father, the numb helplessness in that voice, and the realization of the futility of his own actions, all combined to affect him. His legs seemed stiff, his feet leaden. He had gone storming into Carosi’s flat – and condemned his father to servility, damned Christine to – what?
    Was she in this house?
    He knew that even if she was, he dare not try to find her. Carosi had made sure of that.
    What evil genius sparked the man, to give him such ample power?
    â€˜Get a move on,’ the other man said, opening the front door. ‘Stopped raining, that’s one good thing. I—’
    He broke off, and something like a scream started in his throat. It did not come out. Grant saw a man’s dark figure dart forward from the side of the porch. Next moment, the driver was slithering down, silent, helpless. His feet kicked against Grant, who backed away. The light streamed out of the hall on to the rain-soaked drive, where puddles glistened.
    The man who had attacked the driver said almost conversationally: ‘Is Carosi here, Grant?’
    The voice was West’s, of Scotland Yard. But he was dark-haired and had a dark moustache and looked much older.
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    Three other men came out of the shadows, and stepped swiftly into the porch. Police. Two slipped past Grant as West took his arm and pushed him into the hall. That attack had been frightening in its silent speed.
    â€˜Is he here?’ demanded West again, and now Grant recognised his eyes.
    â€˜He—yes, but—’ Fear because of Carosi’s threats welled up in Grant, and stifled his words. If Carosi thought he had plotted this with the police