Inspector West Takes Charge by John Creasey Page B

Roger turned the handle of the study door.
    He thrust it open, stood aside for a moment, then ducked and ran in. The others followed in a rush.
    The study window was open wide. The light was on. They saw the top of a man’s head above the window-sill, and a pair of hands clinging on to the sill. Harrington went forward with Roger at his heels, but before they could touch the hands the man had dropped from sight.
    ‘Got a torch?’ demanded Harrington.
    Roger, peering out and down, saw the figure of the man darting towards the big lawn, just visible in the yellow light. Roger climbed out, lowered himself gradually as the intruder had done. It was second nature to notice that the study had been ransacked. He saw a torch in Mark’s hand, and Harrington heading for the window. Then Roger hung from the windowsill. He didn’t know how far it was, but he dropped.
    Soft soil took his weight, and flower stems broke. His knees doubled but with little or no jar. He turned at once. The light was bright enough to show the man disappearing into a shrubbery perhaps thirty feet away.
    Roger plunged after him.
    He heard the rustling in the shrubbery, the cracking of twigs, the swish of shrubs. He reached the bushes, while the noises were still audible, but then his own progress made listening difficult, and muffled other sounds. Near the drive a torch light was shining; Lampard’s policeman?
    There was a patch of uneven meadowland between him and the road. Harrington caught him up, lighting their way with the torch which he had obtained. It was difficult going. Hollows and mounds made them stumble from side to side. Their progress was fairly quiet now, and occasionally they could hear the man in front.
    They heard him padding along the hard surface of the road. Roger realized that he was heading for the gate through which he and Janet had driven. Breathing heavily, he and Harrington turned left as they reached the road. Suddenly their quarry came into view, for a faint glow of light showed ahead of him.
    ‘Car,’ gasped Harrington.
    The car was coming along the road. Its headlights picked out the white-painted gates, and the running figure of a small man. Roger felt acutely disappointed because it was not Charlie Clay; Charlie could do a lot of things, but not make himself as small as that.
    There had been two men at Mark’s place last night.
    The car itself did not appear in view. Its engine was loud enough to deaden the sound of their footsteps as the fugitive reached the gates and ran across the road. The car engine revved and roared.
    ‘My God!’ cried Harrington. ‘Look out, look!’
    The car came into sight. Its radiator struck the running man, and sent him flying, not sideways but downwards on to the road. There was a sickening, crunching sound. The car lurched, and then went on. A scream, that echoed high and wide about them, drowned the whine of the engine as the car gathered speed.
    It was out of sight when Harrington and Roger reached the hideous remnants of what had been a man.
    Experiences of London in the blitz had hardened Roger; but the suddenness and the deliberate brutality of the crime sickened him. Harrington switched off the torch, and said in a shaky voice: ‘I’d like to get my hands on that driver.’
    ‘Will you go back to the house and telephone the police? The local Inspector is on the way, but you’ll find someone at headquarters.’ He gave the number. ‘You all right?’
    ‘If you’re worrying about me, don’t,’ Harrington said. ‘Your friend Lessing should be here in a moment.’
    The shock had made Roger forget Mark. Now he looked about him, but there was no sign of anyone. Roger borrowed Harrington’s torch, and began to examine the area. The smashed body was in the middle of the road. Nothing could pass.
    ‘I’ll have to move him,’ Roger said. ‘Shine your torch, and then keep it pointing down the road to stop anyone who comes along.’
    ‘We’ll hear them coming,’ Harrington