Free Battle for Inspector West by John Creasey Page B

beneath the other another date: 1943.
    Then suddenly she realised the truth; this was the same girl – photograph taken six years after the other.
    Unsteadily, Christine turned to other pages. On every left-hand side were pictures of young girls; on the other side hags.
    She turned to the front of the book, and saw only the two words: Buenos Aires.
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    When she had been in the room alone for another hour, the quiet outside was disturbed by an unfamiliar sound, one she had not heard since she had been here. It was the barking of a dog. Yet it was hardly a bark, but a deep-throated roar such as might come from the throat of an Alsatian, like the one which had killed Derek Allen.
    There was no real comfort here; only horror.
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    The day which followed the kidnapping of Christine Grant was a bad one for Scotland Yard. The newspaper accounts were exasperating, but the real trouble was that everyone felt that the Yard had let itself down. A cartoon in a newspaper showing Christine Grant barely covered in a towel being led past several policemen who were peering into some bushes, was the worst gibe.
    No one pilloried Roger West: it was as if police and pressmen knew he was bitterly angry with himself. But the real cause of the depression was the fact that no one had any idea where Carosi was, and everyone known to have worked for him had gone to ground.
    London was searched as it had seldom been, and none of Carosi’s men was found.
    Flats and apartments had been left completely empty. Men and women who normally could have been picked up in restaurants, clubs and pubs had vanished.
    The disappearances created a strange, unfamiliar uneasiness throughout the Yard.
    Roger West had spent the day with Fratton, Lane and others, covering the Dorset end. A pathologist from the Home Office arrived to examine Derek Allen’s body, and a prominent veterinary surgeon had also been consulted. The fact that the dog was an Alsatian was established.
    The atmosphere of tension and uncertainty at Uplands remained, heightened now that everyone knew who Roger was, because of newspaper photographs. But Detective-Sergeant Gill, although on the premises, was not known as a policeman, except by Fingleton, who did not talk.
    Gill was now a ‘waiter’.
    Roger went to the room which had been set aside for the police, and pressed the bell.
    Gill, looking large and awkward in his white jacket and black trousers, was a fresh-faced, fair-haired man with broad features, and a nice sense of humour.
    â€˜You rang, sir?’ he asked, with a straight face.
    â€˜That’s right, waiter,’ said Roger. ‘Sit down a minute, and tell me if you’ve got anything.’
    â€˜There’s one curious thing,’ said Gill, obeying. ‘One of the waiters, a youngster named Luigi, was off in the early afternoon yesterday, came back on duty at tea-time, and worked late. He was due for duty again this afternoon, but hasn’t turned up. He’s only been here about a week.’
    â€˜What have you done about it?’
    â€˜As you were out, I telephoned the Yard.’
    â€˜Good. What’s this Luigi like?’
    â€˜Looks about eighteen, is tall, slim, with a long face and dark hair,’ said Gill. ‘Never had much to say for himself; I haven’t had as much as a word with him. Derek Allen’s friend, Grayson, has been poking in and out of the kitchen asking a lot of silly questions.’
    â€˜I shouldn’t stop him,’ said Roger, ‘it’ll ease his mind, if nothing else. Right, go back and wait!’
    Gill went off, grinning, and Roger immediately put in a call to the Yard. He was put straight through to Chatworth, who asked abruptly: ‘Anything new?’
    â€˜Not to call new, sir,’ Roger said. ‘We’re after a missing waiter—’
    â€˜Named Luigi. I know that.’
    â€˜I’d like a long talk with him,’ Roger said grimly, ‘and I’d also