by John Creasey
“Did you notice anything?”
“Well, yes,” the girl said hesitantly. “I saw that there was some light at Alice Murray’s door, it wasn’t properly closed. I—but would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Nice of you,” Roger said. “Yes, thanks.”
“I’ve just made it, and I put an extra spoonful in, in case,” the girl said. “I thought you might have been on duty since the early hours.” She poured out, obviously doing all this to cover her nervousness, as most people were nervous when talking to the police. “Sugar?” she asked.
“Thanks.”
“I hope it’s as you like it,” Jennifer Ling went on. “The truth is, I’ve seen the door like that once or twice. I don’t think it closes properly unless you slam it, and there are times when you don’t want to slam it. I—I get in very late sometimes, as late as two and three o’clock, if I go dancing.”
“Have you ever seen a man in the room with Miss Murray?” asked Roger. This was probably what she wanted to tell him, but wanted to be led.
“Well, I did once.” Jennifer spread her hands. “Actually I’d come in late, and thought I heard something so I looked downstairs, and a man was leaving her flat.”
“Was that the only time you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“And the only man you’ve seen leaving or entering her flat?”
“Yes, although sometimes Julian Anderson brings her home,” Jennifer reported. “He’s the son of the man she works for, and he’s always hanging around. The trouble with Alice,” went on the girl, jumping up and walking about the room on her toes, “is that she was too kindhearted. She just couldn’t tell him where to get off.”
“And he needed telling?”
“He needed telling all right!” Now, Jennifer moved to the window and stood looking at Roger, slender, black-clad legs close together and rising on her toes, rather like a silhouette of a dancer seen on a coloured screen. “But he wasn’t the man I saw leaving Alice’s room, I—oh, I feel an utter beast talking about her like this.”
“You needn’t,” Roger said. “You might get us to the killer before he can kill someone else.”
“You mean—”
“I mean what I say,” Roger assured her; there was no better way of making sure that the girl would hold nothing back. “What was this second man like?”
“I’m honestly not sure,” the girl answered, “but there was something about him which suggested he wasn’t young—not a boy, anyhow. He was rather tall, and wearing a trilby hat. I heard him whisper good night to Alice, and then he went downstairs. He didn’t hurry, but walked rather stealthily. Do you know what I mean?”
“I wish all witnesses were half as good,” Roger praised. “And I hope you’ve something else for me.”
“I have and I haven’t,” said Jennifer Ling, “but I think I saw Alice with a man a few weeks ago. He was middle-aged, rather handsome as a matter of fact, and very well dressed. They were going into a cinema together, and I was passing. Alice saw me but didn’t wave or anything, so I assumed that she didn’t want me to take any notice.”
“Was it the man you saw here?”
“I couldn’t swear to it, but I think so. I only caught a glimpse of him here, you know, looking down on him.”
“Yes, of course. How long ago was it you saw Alice and this man together?”
“About a month, I suppose,” replied Jennifer. “I couldn’t honestly be sure, but I think I could make sure, if it were important, because it was when Ted—that’s my fiancé” – was in bed with flu, and I’d been to see him straight from the office.”
“I’ll let you know if it would help to be sure of the date,” Roger said. “Did Alice ever speak of an affaire?”
“Well, yes and no – she didn’t put anything into words, but I think she was in love at last,” the girl answered, quietly.
“Can you be sure?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have said so a few months ago, but since I—since I met my fiancé, I know the signs! Alice was always absurdly shy and timid, I used to get vexed with her sometimes. We were very good friends, really, although she didn’t ever talk much about herself. She didn’t have boy friends, didn’t really like dancing, and I used to tell her that she wasn’t giving herself a chance to live. Suddenly, everything changed. I was out most evenings, so I didn’t know much about what she was doing—we’ve hardly had a chance to gossip lately, because I’ve spent every minute I could with Ted! But you could tell from the way she laughed, even the light in her eyes—I suppose that sounds absurd.”
“Not a bit absurd,” Roger assured her, and realised how much he liked this girl. “It’s a good thing to see. Didn’t she tell you anything about this man?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Jennifer assured him. “As a matter of fact, I wondered if that could be because he was married. I mean, I wanted to tell the world when I fell in love!”
“I can imagine,” Roger said, and grinned. “Miss Ling, I’m going to get you to think about this statement, add anything that you recall, and dictate it to a shorthand writer who will come and see you later in the day. Are you going to be in?”
“I’m seeing Ted at half past one, he’s calling for me.”
“Perhaps he can help you remember,” Roger said. “Will two o’clock be all right?”
“We were going out for a spin,” Jennifer told him, “but I’m sure Ted wouldn’t mind.”
“Did he know Miss Murray?”
“Only slightly,” the girl answered. “She did come in for coffee with us one night, but that was before she started going out a lot.”
“Did you notice anything at all last night?”
“Nothing,” Jennifer said firmly. “Nothing at all. I—well, shall we say that I was rather preoccupied?”
Roger laughed …
When he left her, he saw Fox, who was nearly finished in the bedroom, and had another word with the Divisional man in charge of the questioning in the street. Only two pieces of information had come in about the previous night; one man, arriving home late from his work as a waiter in a hotel, had noticed a man come along on a bicycle. This man had left his machine round the corner from Manville Street, along a stretch of Bell Street which was set aside for official parking. Another man had noticed an old car standing outside Number 24. Roger made mental notes of both of these and, a little after ten o’clock, went home.
Janet wasn’t in the kitchen, and he felt a momentary pang of disappointment. Then he saw a note stuck on to a dish which held two sausages, two rashers of bacon and two eggs.
Sorry, dear, but if I don’t do the shopping early all the vegetables will have been picked over. I’ll be back about eleven. P.S. The boys have gone to the baths.
Roger shrugged off his disappointment, went to the larder and took out two cold sausages and a loaf of sliced bread, had a snack, washed it down with half a pint of milk, and went into the front room and telephoned the Yard. Nothing fresh had come in, but there was a message from Gill, at Anderson’s shop; old Anderson was confined to his room with bronchitis and his son, Julian, was somewhere in the country, believed to be viewing some jewellery and silver plate at a mansion where the goods were to go under the hammer early next week.
“So Julian isn’t handy,” Roger mused, and then asked: “Do you know when he’s coming back?”
“Mr. Gill didn’t leave any message, sir.”
“Right. Tell him I’m going to see old Mr. Anderson first,” Roger said. “Ask him to find out when the son is expected back at the shop.”
“Very good, sir.”
Roger went out, took the car out of the garage, and drove across town towards High Street, Kensington, thinking mostly about what the girl Ling had told him. Two men were already in the case, and he wished he could trace the middle-aged man, the lover-b
oy. His thoughts ranged over several possibilities; a jealous lover, for instance, or a married man who might be under some kind of pressure, who might possibly have been blackmailed. The quicker he had a look at the dead girl’s bank balance, the better. Jennifer Ling was probably right in thinking the other girl being in love, but Alice Murray might also have been very pleased with herself if she were getting a handsome payoff for not telling a wife about a husband’s peccadillo. Roger called in at the Kensington branch of the MidPro Bank, the one named on her cheque books, and found it busy because it was Saturday morning; but the manager was eager to help the police.
When he heard of the murder, he looked really upset.
“I’m terribly sorry, terribly,” he said. “I knew Miss Murray quite well, she used to come and bank money for Anderson’s as well as herself. A most trustworthy and efficient young lady, I would have said. What a pity, what a pity! Her own account—well, she kept a balance of about two hundred pounds, and had nearly a thousand pounds in national savings certificates. As far as I know, she had no other securities, and certainly she hasn’t been paying in any more money than usual—just her monthly cheque for a little over sixty pounds.”
Certainly nothing here suggested that Alice Murray had been banking extra money; as certainly there was no obvious reason for thinking that a thief had killed her.
He went to the shop, where Gill, a tall and very thin man with a mournful expression, met him outside, and told him briefly what he could about the staff. There were four salesgirls, two salesmen, and a so-called ‘manager’, an elderly man named Parsons. The shop was double-fronted, one side filled with modern jewellery, the other with secondhand pieces, including some magnificent diamond rings.
“No sign of trouble here?” asked Roger.
“No, Handsome,” Gill said, as if this was exactly the lack of results he had expected. “I checked the safes and the strongroom, and they’re okay. There’s a stock list in the little office at the back of the shop, where the girl worked, and old Anderson keeps another up in his flat. Nothing seems to be missing.”
“Any word about son Julian?”
“Should be back this morning some time,” Gill answered. “He had a crush on the girl all right—all the staff knew it.”
“She respond at all?”
“The story is that she was too soft with him, she should have told him where to get off,” answered Gill. “One of the girls says that she thinks that the real trouble was fear of losing a good job—she let Julian pet her a bit because of that.”
“Julian a universal pawer?”
“Can’t say the other girls have complained,” answered Gill.
“What about the old man?”
“Very upset, I’d say,” Gill answered. “Er—there is one thing I don’t think you’ll be very pleased about, Handsome. Would have prevented it if I could—” He broke off, obviously ill-at-ease.
“Let’s have it,” said Roger.
“Well, there are some newspaper chaps about, of course, and one of them overheard me saying that I wanted to talk to Julian, and when was he expected back. You know how these things get exaggerated in the press.”
“Can’t see that it will do any harm,” Roger said, thoughtfully. “Who’s with Anderson now?”
“An old housekeeper, who looks after both father and son,” replied Gill.
Roger went upstairs to the flat, on his own. The elderly housekeeper was Scottish, tired-looking, and very harassed this morning, and she seemed worried about her employer. Roger heard the old man call out in a wheezy voice, and a minute later he stepped into the large bedroom, with its heavy, shiny mahogany furniture, figured tapestry curtains at the window, a little table at the foot of die bed with a typewriter on it, and the large double bed. Anderson was sitting up, a thin, bony-faced man with heavy-lidded eyes. He looked as if he were not just distressed, but grief-stricken; after the first few questions, he leaned back on high pillows, and said hoarsely: “I simply can’t imagine what my son will feel. He was so much in love with her. She was an obsession, a positive obsession.”
“Was his love returned?” as if casually.
“No,” answered Anderson quite frankly. “No, she had very little regard for him. She was a very kind person, but she had very little regard for him, although she wouldn’t hurt his feelings for the world. There was a time when I thought there might be some hope for him, but lately—”
He broke off.
“What happened lately?” asked Roger, less casually.
The old man said in that hoarse voice while air bubbled in his chest: “I am a great believer in telling the truth to the police, Mr. West. I believe that you will find it out, whatever might be done to try to hide it, and I also believe that the truth cannot harm my son. Recently, Alice obviously fell in love with another man. Quite obviously so. Julian—Julian was terribly distressed by it, and he will be even more distressed by this awful news.”
Even if he did it himself, Roger thought. He asked aloud: “Do you know the name of the man Miss Murray fell in love with, Mr. Anderson?”
“I do not, but my son might,” answered the old man. “And if he can do anything to help you find this wicked murderer, I am sure he will.”
Roger thought: I wonder if you’re more cunning than honest. He didn’t speak, just watched the man, whose blue-veined, scraggy hands were still on the white sheet, who looked as if he might die before this winter was out. He was old and shrewd and he was probably very, very clever. He might have talked of being honest and of making a statement which could implicate his son, simply to fasten attention on to Alice Murray’s mysterious lover.
Then the housekeeper called out: “Mr. Julian!” and there was a flurry of footsteps, followed by heavier steps outside the door, which was thrust open.
Julian Anderson stepped inside.
Chapter Seven
Man To Dislike
It would be easy to take a dislike to Julian Anderson on sight.
Roger studied the man, aware of the danger of prejudice and trying to push it away. It wasn’t easy. Julian was in his early forties, nearly bald, with an unusually shiny, almost polished pate. Fleshiness disguised the fact that he was very like his father in features. He had a curiously powdered look, very smooth cheeks, a little chin framed by a roll of fat. Curiously, he was not really fat in the body, only plump. He wore a flowered waistcoat, beautifully coloured and smoothed down over his stomach, and a well-cut suit of a pale beige-coloured worsted, or some smooth material. A diamond ring flashed on his right hand; and his hands were plump and as pale as his face. Because of the fleshy face his eyes looked very small, but they were alert and intelligent, and much darker than his father’s.
“What is happening?” he demanded. “What are all the men doing in the shop? Has there been a robbery?”
Roger glanced at the old man and saw how anxiously he was looking at him, Roger, not at his son.
“Father, tell me—” Julian began, and moved forward, hands spreading; and then he stopped, frowned, stared at Roger, and exclaimed: “You are Superintendent West!”
“Yes,” Roger said.
“I thought so. I saw you in court on one occasion. But—only a very serious crime would bring you here. What is it?” He had a curiously mannered way of speaking, almost as if English were not his native tongue.
“My boy—” old Anderson began, and then broke off as if he could not bring himself to break the news.
“But what is it?” cried Julian.
Roger said: “Miss Alice Murray was cold-bloodedly murdered in her bed last night.”
When his voice faded, there was silence except for the bubbly breathing of the old man; even that seemed subdued, as if he were trying to hold his breath. Roger kept reminding himself that he must not be prejudiced, that he must study this case with absolute detachme
nt. Yet undoubtedly Julian looked as if he were putting on an act. He did it extremely well; perhaps too well. He stared at Roger, his eyes screwed up at first, his lips parted. Then his eyes opened wider, and he began to open his mouth slowly. He drew in a long, deep breath. The expression in his eyes changed, as one might expect it to change from shock. He began to raise his hands, which were clenched very tightly.
“No,” he breathed. “No.”
“My boy—” Anderson began again.
“No!” gasped Julian. “It isn’t true, it can’t be true. Not Alice, not—”
Roger said harshly: “A man with a key broke into her room, and strangled her while she lay in bed.”
“Oh, God,” gasped Julian. His right hand went to his collar, and he tugged at it as if it were choking him. He moved away from the door towards a chair, but did not sit down. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “I can’t believe—”
“Do you have a key to the flat?” demanded Roger.
Julian drew in a hissing breath.
“Please—” the old man began.
“Answer me. Do you have a key to Miss Murray’s flat?”
Julian muttered: “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” His face began to wrinkle, and he looked as if he were going to cry; if he did, it would be nauseating. Yet he also gave Roger the impression that he was really fighting hard for self-control. He lowered himself slowly on to the chair, putting one hand against a table, and pulled at his tie again.
“Do you or do you not have a key?” Roger rasped.
Julian stared at his father.
He said, still muttering: “Yes. Yes, I have a key. Oh, God, Alice! Who did this thing to you? Who did this awful thing?”
“Where is the key, Mr. Anderson?” Roger demanded icily.
