Battle for Inspector West by John Creasey

blond Adonis won’t go blabbing among the others at the hotel. It only wants one or two more attacks like this to cause a panic in the hotel. I’m going to make a genuine sacrifice in the cause of justice,’ he added, standing in the bathroom door. ‘I’m going to call Fratton, instead of helping you bath!’
    Fratton was already at the bedroom door. He took the bullet, said that he hoped his man would find some trace of the man who had fired at them, heard about the young ‘Adonis’ and smiled rather grimly.
    â€˜I don’t think you need worry about that,’ he said, ‘I’ll have a word with him. But there’s another fellow at the hotel who might really make things difficult—a London reporter, named Fingleton, a big fellow with curly red hair. If he tackles you, I should just say as little as you can.’
    â€˜I’ll deal with him,’ Grant said, as if looking forward to it. Fratton gave his fatherly smile, and went to the door. As he opened it, a man exclaimed aloud.
    Standing with his hand outstretched, and looking foolish, was a powerful man with an untidy mop of curly red hair -the hair of the newspaper man, Fingleton. And Fingleton recovered quickly, and actually stepped inside. ‘Mr Grant, if you could spare me—’
    â€˜Not now, probably later,’ said Grant, civilly enough. ‘Just tell me this,’ begged Fingleton, not in the least put out. ‘May I say you’re packing everything, including your wife, and flying out of Carosi’s vengeful reach?’
    Grant looked at him thoughtfully, then moved to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
    â€˜Tivern 53, please,’ he said, and waited for at least two minutes, while the detective and the reporter looked at him. Then: ‘Hello,’ said Grant quickly. ‘Is that you Haydon? I want you to pack everything again and bring it to Uplands … Yes, the morning will do. Goodbye.’ He rang off. ‘That a good enough headline?’
    â€˜Hero on Honeymoon,’ Fingle said, and his eyes seemed to smile and approve as he hurried off.
    â€˜Wise to humour the Press, I always think,’ Fratton murmured approvingly. ‘I think you’re right to stay, Mr Grant, although I’d be the last to blame you if you preferred to leave. No point in ignoring facts. I wouldn’t like to be positive that the staff here can be trusted. You fixed up to come here ten days ago, and in those ten days they’ve had three staff changes. We are checking on the new people, all of whom come from London.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Grant, gruffly.
    â€˜Every bit of food you eat is going to be carefully prepared by our chaps,’ said Fratton. ‘We’ll take no chances which can be avoided, and I’m sure you’ll be equally careful. Don’t drink or take any wine or spirits except out of a bottle you know hasn’t been tampered with. All that kind of thing.’
    â€˜I hope your chaps can cook,’ Grant said dryly.
    Fratton said: ‘Well, I admire your courage, Mr Grant, I really do. And Mrs Grant’s. We’ll do all we can but—’
    They hadn’t been able to stop that shooting at Christine.
    Grant didn’t go into the bathroom at once. The two visitors had made him even edgier, and he wanted to calm down. Soon he realised that he could hear no splashing, but then, Christine would be out of the bath by now. He looked at her clothes, spread out on the bed.
    He called out: ‘Going to be long, Chris?’
    She didn’t answer.
    â€˜Chris!’ Grant strode across to the door, and turned the handle. She was teasing, of course, proving how …
    The door was locked.
    â€˜Chris!’ Grant called out, and there was an edge of alarm in his voice. ‘Chris, are you all right?’
    She still didn’t answer.
    â€˜ Chris! ’he shouted, and rattled the door-handle wildly. ‘Unlock the