by John Creasey
“It happened,” said Paul, thinly, “and I can understand it.”
“What a beastly thing to say!” Julie exclaimed.
“It’s no use blinking at facts,” Paul said. “A lot of people still believe that murderers should be hanged.”
“Paul,” Julie said in a choking voice, “if you go on like this I shall … I shall—”
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” Paul Chayter interrupted. “Cecil’s spent twenty years in prison, his skin’s too thick to worry about a few home truths.”
“I told you—”
“Why the devil don’t you let him speak for himself?” demanded Paul. “If he’s anything of a man, he must have some kind of opinion.” He glared at His brother, ignoring the scorn in his wife’s eyes. He seemed to feel vicious, bitter and frustrated, his milder mood forgotten.
They sat at the breakfast-table at 21, Link Street. It was nearly ten o’clock on Saturday morning, and the sun shone brightly through the windows.
Paul turned towards his brother and said harshly: “Well? Have you got any opinion?” Cecil said very quietly: “Anything I say would be wasted on you this morning.”
There was a moment’s silence,
“Paul,” Cecil went on, “there’s only one thing I don’t understand; why you allowed me to come here in the first place. You know you hate me, and—”
“I hate what you did.”
“And you think I should have been hanged?”
“I didn’t say I thought so, only that a lot of people did.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” exclaimed Julie in a strangled voice.
Cecil turned from his brother with an odd little laugh. “It’s strange, when you think of it, that it was I who killed. The role of murderer suits you so much better.”
Before Julie could intervene, Paul leapt to his feet and struck out. Fending the blows off, Cecil knocked against the table, and a pot of jam went flying; the jam smashed close to Cecil’s foot, spreading a blood-red mess. Paul hit him savagely on the side of the face, and Cecil struck back, ineffectually. Paul leapt at him again, crashing his fist against his jaw.
“Stop it!” screamed Julie. “Stop it, both of you.”
Paul looked vicious enough to kill. Cecil, pinned back against the wall, tried to defend himself, but his brother now seemed to have lost all control. Julie kept on screaming:
“Stop it, stop it!”
Suddenly, two men appeared. One, moving very quickly, pulled Paul away from his brother; the other, going more slowly, turned towards Julie. She stared at him with terror in her eyes, as if at first she did not recognise him. Cecil leaned against the wall, blood welling up from his battered face. The man by Julie’s side put a hand on her shoulder, and said soothingly: “It’s all right, Mrs. Chayter. It’s all right.”
In a gasping voice, she said: “Super—Superintendent. I thought—I thought he would kill him.”
It was a long way from being all right, Roger realised as he looked at the two men. Paul Chayter was struggling in Kane’s grasp and Kane was proving how capable he was, holding the man loosely but making sure that he did no harm. Julie Chayter’s breath came in deep gasps.
“I thought—I thought he would kill him,” she said again.
“Thought who would kill who?” Roger asked.
“My—my husband went mad.”
“Who started this, anyhow?”
“He did!” Paul shouted.
“That’s not true, it was my husband,” Julie sobbed. “Ever since he saw the morning paper he’s been like a devil.”
“I should never have allowed that murdering swine in my house!”
Roger wondered, sickened, how low a man could sink. But the quarrel between the brothers was no business of his unless it could throw some light on the missing men and the murder of Leep. The only advantage of the situation was that all of these people were likely to talk more freely if he asked the right questions now. He looked at Cecil, who was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.
“Mr. Chayter, will you answer a few questions?”
Cecil Chayter moistened his lips.
“If I can.”
“Thanks. Have you received any more drawings or telephone calls?”
“No.”
“Have you received any request to meet any stranger?”
“No.”
“Or any acquaintance?”
“The only invitations I’ve had have been to hang myself,” Cecil said flatly.
“Do you understand why I’m asking these questions?”
“Presumably you wonder if anyone has tried to make me disappear too.”
“Yes. Have they?”
“Only my brother.”
“What?” snarled Paul.
“Exactly what do you mean?” demanded Roger.
“I simply mean that my brother has now made it obvious that he hates the sight of me and wishes I’d never come here,” Cecil said. “I do not mean that he’s tried to have me kidnapped, or shanghaied, or whatever the right phrase is.”
“Has anyone who has telephoned or met you suggested a meeting?”
“No.”
“If anyone does, make sure we know at once,” Roger said. Then after a pause he added: “What started the quarrel?”
Cecil answered with an effort: “My brother read about the hanging, and wished I’d been the victim.”
“He accused me of—of —” spluttered Paul.
“Of what, Mr. Chayter?” Roger demanded coldly.
“I didn’t accuse him of anything,” said Cecil, in a sharper voice, “I suddenly saw, and said, how strange it was that it was I who had killed, when the role of murderer fitted Paul so much better—” he broke off. “Oh, what the hell’s the use of trying to explain, the irony wouldn’t mean a thing to anyone outside the family.” He glared at Roger, still angry. “Now what is it you really want from me?”
“I want to be sure you haven’t heard from these people.”
“Meaning the people who spirit away released murderers.”
“Cecil, please—” Julie began.
Paul said savagely: “Get out of my house. Both of you. Get out. My God, talk about having a viper in—”
“Mr. Chayter,” Roger interrupted, “until this emergency is over I would like your brother to stay here, where he will be watched and protected.”
“Then if he’s staying, I’m not,” Paul said viciously. “I’ll pack my bags and stay at a hotel until my home is my own again.” He swung on his heel and stormed out of the room, and in a moment they heard him stamping up the stairs. There was a hopeless look on Julie Chayter’s face as she faced Cecil, who closed his eyes and said in a low-pitched voice: “You’d better see what you can do with him.”
“Cecil—”
“You’re the only one who might be able to do anything,” Cecil said flatly.
Julie turned and went out. When she had gone there was silence in the room; it was as if Roger had intruded on something so intensely personal that it was almost sacred. Kane cleared his throat; obviously feeling the same thing.
“Mr. West, it would be much better if I were to leave,” Cecil Chayter said.
“Once this case is over, you’ll be free to go where you like.”
“I suppose we can hold out for twenty-four hours,” Chayter said bitterly. “Oh, God, what a mess it is, what a bloody mess! If I’d dreamt what I was coming into, what I was going to do to her, I would never have stepped inside the house.” He was talking in a low-pitched voice, and seemed not to realise that he was confiding in men who were not only strangers, but policemen. “What am I going to do without her? What—”
He broke off, suddenly realising what he was saying.
Roger spoke quietly, gently.
“But it will get better.”
“The platitudes,” Chayter muttered.
“It will get better,” Roger repeated. Then an idea entered his mind, one which he had not thought of before and which was born out of a subc
onscious desire to help this man. “Mr. Chayter, you may be the most likely man to help us solve this case.”
Chayter said, “What on earth do you mean?”
“It is essential that we find out who these murderers are. They may well approach you, and if they do, you could string them along, and keep us informed.”
“You seriously think I will be approached?”
“Something happened to the others,” Roger said dryly. “And all the men who disappeared are men who had drawings reminding them of the crimes they had committed. The fact that you also were sent these drawings suggests you’re on the list. Will you help us?”
“To find the other poor devils?”
“Yes. I should warn you there is obvious danger involved,” Roger put in with calculated emphasis.
“Danger of being lured to some cellar where I can be hanged by the neck until I am dead. Famous not-quite-last words.” Chayter’s lips twisted, and he glanced up at the ceiling. “Yes. Yes. I’ll help you. And if they should find a way of doing this, don’t waste any tears—it will be a damned sight better for me, for her, and probably for a lot of other people, if I’m dead,”
“Chayter,” Roger said sharply,
“Yes?”
“If they catch you, you won’t be much help to us.”
“Keep your eye on the main chance,” Chayter said bitterly, “I will look after myself, don’t worry. The instinct for survival is very strong. Haven’t you found any of the others yet?”
“No. And other men who had their sentences commuted are very old, or else crippled or mentally ill. Apart from those who are missing, you are the only one who might be able to help.”
“What did I say about irony?” Chayter asked. “The good I can do is to save a dozen assorted reprieved murderers from someone’s crazy vengeance. West – the whole bloody business is crazy. Our society hasn’t even begun to understand what to do with people like me yet, people who—” he broke off, as footsteps sounded on the stairs again. “Oh, forget it!”
He moved to one side.
His brother came downstairs, carrying a suitcase and a small hold-all. He didn’t look into the room, but strode straight through the hall. The front door slammed.
There was no sign of Julie Chayter.
Roger said: “All understood, Mr. Chayter?”
Chayter forced himself to say: “The principle is clear but I’m vague as to the method.”
“If you’re approached by anyone to do anything, especially to make an appointment to meet them, telephone us,” Roger said. “You’ll be put through at once – Whitehall 1212, Extension 123. Whoever answers you will be au fait with the situation, you simply report whatever yon have to report.”
“That sounds easy,” Chayter said. “West—”
“Yes?”
“Are you really in the dark?”
“Yes.”
“What about Medlake?”
“No one is ruled out.”
“I should have known better than to ask.” Chayter forced a smile. “Thanks for accepting me as a human being.”
Roger said very precisely: “You know, Chayter, you’re the last man in the world who should be feeling sorry for himself, because you’re one who might have a chance to save nine men from being hanged. Don’t throw it away, will you?”
After a long pause, Chayter said wryly: “No, I won’t throw it away, I promise you.”
“The way you spoke to him, you almost had me thinking you expect all nine of the poor devils to be hanged,” Kane said.
“That is exactly what will happen to them if we don’t find out where they are,” Roger said tersely. “Now, the next man I want to see is Jeremiah Taylor.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jeremiah
“Come in, Superintendent, come in!” Jeremiah Taylor stood aside from the open door of his house in Ealing, his silvery beard blowing slightly in the draught, his blue eyes clear behind his pince-nez. His deep, resonant voice, the voice of an orator used to pulpit and platform, echoed in the confined space. A grey-haired woman appeared in a doorway at the end of the narrow hall, little more than a passage, with the carpeted stairs on one side, and two doors leading off on the other. “Bessie, my love, come and meet Superintendent West and his colleague.” He looked his question.
“Detective Officer Kane,” Roger said.
“And Detective Officer Kane,” Jeremiah repeated. “Gentlemen, here is my long-suffering wife.” Mrs. Taylor smiled brightly, and Roger noticed in the expression – perhaps that acquired by all wives of crusading husbands – a vague resemblance to Lady Medlake.
“How are you, gentlemen?”
“Ready for the cup that cheers, I’ve no doubt,” said Jeremiah. “Do come in, Superintendent. I’m very glad to see you.” He led the way into a room with a high ceiling, beautifully furnished in the best Victorian tradition. Roger had a swift impression of a button-back sofa in pale pink with grey buttons, a superbly carved over-mantel, a round table of deeply polished mahogany, and some rare pieces of Chelsea and Worcester china. Heavy, pink velvet curtains almost obscured the windows.
The room was divided from another by folding doors, now open, revealing the inner room, which made a remarkable contrast. There the walls were smothered with placards, and two tables were piled high with Abolitionist leaflets. It was like a homely version of Medlake’s campaign office.
“Do sit down,” said Jeremiah. “First, what can I do for you?”
“No doubt you’ve read the morning papers, sit. Now, can you tell us anything which might help us to find these missing men.”
“Yes, I’ve read them,” said Jeremiah, and for the first time his expression changed, the benign, almost peaceful glow in his eyes vanished, and they took on the hardness of tempered steel. “What happened to Michael Leep was a terrible thing, a dreadful thing,”
“Murder always is,” Roger said.
The blue eyes were like gimlets, boring into him. Almost hidden by the beard, Jeremiah Taylor’s lips set tightly. Then suddenly he relaxed, and gave a little laugh.
“I mustn’t try to impose my convictions on to you, or involve you in argument; I can see that I would probably get the worst of it. How many men are actually missing?”
“Nine.”
“May I have their names, please – the names of any not mentioned in the newspapers, I mean?”
Roger nodded to Kane, who opened a folder and handed Jeremiah Taylor a typewritten list.
“Thank you.” Jeremiah ran his eyes down the page. “And each received some of those iniquitous drawings.”
“How did you know that?”
“Superintendent,” said Jeremiah. “I am not involved in this matter out of a casual conviction. I am dedicated to the cause of the abolition of capital punishment. I was shocked when as a very young clerk in Holy Orders, I was present at a hanging. From that day onwards, I began my efforts. It was not long before I realised that as a clergyman I was regarded as a man who saw it as part of his daily work, so I withdrew from the Church and concentrated on this campaign. Happily, I am a rich man and I was able to spend what money I thought necessary. Apart from that it has been a long, hard, bitter struggle against prejudice, stubbornness, and let me admit it – even against men like Sir Solomon Medlake who are as sincere in their attitudes as I. It has meant great sacrifices for me and my wife, but every single one has been worthwhile, and ultimately we have been rewarded. I am convinced that the experimental law will soon become part of the fabric of our society.”
Jeremiah said all this in a quiet, controlled voice, but his sincerity and the depth of his feelings were clearly apparent. Roger felt that, wrong though his convictions might be, he had an inner strength far stronger than any possessed by Medlake.
“Thank God,” repeated Jeremiah, as if it were a prayer. Then he squared his shoulders, and added in a matter-of-fact voice: “In the course of this work I have had to use every conceivable method and I have watched my opponents very closely. I h
ave a great number of willing helpers, and one of our self-imposed tasks is that we go to see every released murderer. This assures him of a friend in need, help if he is in trouble, and enables us to see the situation from his point of view. There is one other thing, Superintendent. The streak of sadism in some human beings is quite remarkable. I don’t think a single man released after serving his sentence has ever been allowed to live in peace. Every one, without fail, receives some kind of vicious attack.”
“Like the drawings?” asked Roger.
“Drawings, or telephone calls, or being accosted in the street with a stream of abuse, sometimes in a voice so loud that dozens of people hear, sometimes in whispers which are like a snake spitting poison. Such people are inhuman, Superintendent.”
“Why haven’t you told us about this?”
“Do you seriously suggest that you don’t know what happens?”
‘We know it’s tough at times, but we seldom have a complaint.”
“No,” admitted Jeremiah, bitterly. “These men do not find it easy to believe that the police will take any notice of their troubles. That is why I visit them whenever I can, and help if they need help – as many do.”
“You should know we’re interested in any form of crime,” Roger said sharply.
Jeremiah moved back a step or two, and as he did so, cups rattled just outside the door. He put a hand to his beard, gave it a little tug, then said with great earnestness: “Superintendent West, do you really believe that you would take serious notice of this kind of persecution? It isn’t crime. It isn’t a form of blackmail. Between you and me I have known some police officers who have simply shrugged their shoulders. Be honest with yourself, sir, and admit that the police are the last people from whom these men can expect help.”
There was a lot of justice in what he said, Roger admitted to himself.
“Here we are,” said Mrs. Taylor brightly, coming in at the crucial moment. “I’ve made tea and coffee. Would you like me to pour out, dear, or will you? … Very well, I’ll leave it to you … I do hope you find those missing people, Superintendent.”
She drifted away, closing the door behind her.
