The Scene of the Crime

by John Creasey

  As for Julian—

  He had always thought him a stinker! It wouldn’t do him any harm to stand trial. The police were bound to find themselves up against it eventually, he reasoned, when it really came to a trial they wouldn’t be able to prove that an innocent man had committed the murder. So Julian wasn’t really in danger. In any case, the question of proof would come much later. It wouldn’t do the fat slug any harm to kick his heels in a remand cell, might even do him good.

  Payne overcame his halfhearted scruples without much difficulty, and chuckled.

  Maurice called: “Tea’s made, Dad. You going to take it up, or am I?”

  “I’ll take it,” Payne said, and hurried to the kitchen. “And here’s the Echo.” He tossed the boy the newspaper. “They charged Julian Anderson with Alice Murray’s murder,” he called out, so that everyone in the house could hear. “I never had much time for that nasty piece of work, but I’d have thought he’d stop at murder.”

  It would be the main topic of conversation for the next ten minutes, but after that there were likely to be only passing references. From this moment on, he could really begin to live. He’d show Gwen whether he could buy her mink and a new house! She would have to admit that he had not been bragging, he had just been waiting his opportunity.

  He took it for granted that breaking into the shop and the strongroom would be easy; after all the care and thought he had given it, he could hardly go wrong. All his life, a facile optimism and overconfidence in himself had led him to failure, but he had never learned from his mistakes, had never learned how shallow his planning and his reasoning were. Now, excitement dulled any fear of failure, he was almost exhilarated as he watched Gwen while she read the report. She showed only a passing interest, and then turned the paper over in her hands.

  “Let’s start looking for somewhere better to live, pet,” Payne suggested. “I’ve got a feeling in my bones that we’ll be able to manage it soon. Any idea where you want to go?”

  Hilda, coming along the passage, called: “Wouldn’t it be lovely in the country, say out at Sunningdale, or—”

  “I want to be within a three-penny bus ride of Piccadilly Circus,” Gwen declared, flatly. “No one’s going to get me to move out of this house to go any farther away. I feel buried even out here, and I can be in the West End in half an hour!”

  “Better be near the West End for business, too,” Payne agreed.

  “I used to think that St. John’s Wood would be a good place,” Gwen went on, looking down the pictures of house advertisements, “but I’ve rather changed my mind. I think we ought to stay this side of London. Chelsea, say—I’ve always liked Chelsea.” She wasn’t looking at Payne, and did not see the way his lips tightened. “Somewhere between the river and King’s Road, handy for the buses and nice for the evenings,” Gwen went on. “It wouldn’t be too far for Hilda, and Maurice’s technical school would be within walking distance. Don’t you think Chelsea would be the ideal place, Jack?”

  She looked at him.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  The moment he agreed he knew that it was a mistake; he should have been noncommittal, or even found some quick reason for preferring some other part of London. The truth was, there was none better for his business, or for the children. Anyhow, Chelsea was a large borough, and he would soon forget how often he had been to Manville Street. The real reason for that spontaneous ‘yes’ was his fear of an argument with Gwen; he was frightened of her wanting to know why he cared so much, of being questioned about dislike of Chelsea. There was probably nothing suitable for them in Chelsea, anyway. It was like Gwen to start thinking where, already. She could never sit back and think about a thing, but had to be up and doing all the time. Well, why not let her? It would give her something to do, and houses were so difficult to find that it would probably take months before she came across anything suitable. In a month or so, he would almost have forgotten, wouldn’t he?

  And in a month or so, Julian Anderson would be up for trial.

  Payne’s almost ecstatic delight that someone else had been charged so that there was not the slightest risk of danger for him, became tinged with anxiety. If the police had not picked on Julian, the case would soon have died out of the newspapers; murders always did. Now there would be the police court hearing, then the trial, possibly a long one, and an appeal; it would be freshened in everyone’s mind over a period of months, instead of dying quickly.

  There was nothing he could do about it.

  “You don’t seem very interested, after all,” Gwen said.

  Payne laughed.

  “I wasn’t thinking of going out and getting a house tomorrow! I’ve these deals to put through, and they’ll take a lot of negotiating before it’s over. By the middle of March, say, we might start thinking seriously.”

  “You’d better be,” Gwen said, and raised her voice. “Hilda! You can get the breakfast this morning, and bring mine up, I feel lovely and lazy. If Maurice wants any fried potatoes he can use up that mash we had the night before last, and mix in those sprouts. Tell him to use the pork dripping, that’ll be tastier.” She stopped shouting, and looked at Payne with the seductive smile which hadn’t changed since they had first met. “Going to have your bath, or are you coming in with me?” she asked, wickedly.

  Julian Anderson was formally charged with the murder of Alice Murray at a special Sunday morning court, held at half past ten. Roger and Fox gave evidence of arrest, Roger asked for a remand in custody, and a brisk, youthful looking solicitor who had been summoned after the arrest said that he had no questions to ask but wished to state that his client had a complete answer to the charge and, of course, pleaded not guilty. Julian Anderson seemed to be in a daze. The old man, out of his sick room for the first time for three weeks, looked as if he had not the strength to go back to it.

  “I’ll bet a fiver that Julian A. wishes to God he’d never done it, probably hates himself for it,” Fox said. “I don’t know how you feel, but I don’t dislike the chap as much as I did. Something a bit pathetic about him.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Roger.

  He went from the West London Police Court to the Yard, and looked through reports, including a long list of articles found at the dead girl’s flat on which there were fingerprints other than hers. There were cigarettes, some boxes of chocolates, books, magazines, some shiny books of matches. All of these had been taken to the Yard, and would be in Fingerprints now.

  No one yet knew whose bicycle had been parked nearby last night, but Jennifer Ling had signed her statement and her boy friend, Ted-for-Edward Hardy, had added one of his own; he had heard and noticed nothing unusual.

  Roger went up to Fingerprints, where a junior was on duty. There was the list of articles from the flat, with photographs of the prints found on them. Only one print found on each of two boxes of chocolates had not been identified as tradesman or neighbour.

  “Same print on each box—a man’s, larger than average,” the trainee said.

  “Hm, yes,” grunted Roger. These might be taken as evidence that someone had bought the girl chocolates, but they might have been bought from a shop anywhere in the district, or farther afield. “No sign of this print on anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about prints from the shop?”

  “We’ve got specimens of all the staff’s and old Mr. Anderson, sir. And the accused, of course.”

  “Any at the flat?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger.

  He saw the meticulous way in which each print had been photographed and registered, ready for the file; the Yard was nothing if not good at records.

  He was back home in Chelsea in good time for the midday meal. The boys were out, Janet was in the kitchen, the pressure cooker was on. It was a surprisingly mild day for t
he middle of January, and the sun was shining on the misty film which covered the grass in the back garden, the three apple trees, and the few bushes which had been pruned close to the ground. Beyond the garden was another one like it, and beyond that a house which was let in three flats, and which badly needed a coat of paint.

  “I’m really beginning to hate it here,” Janet said, looking round from the pastry board, and then she made herself laugh. “Is that ungrateful, darling?”

  “Ungrateful, what?” Roger had been thinking about Fox’s change of feeling over the younger Anderson.

  “After all, we have had some wonderful times here, even if you’ve forgotten,” Janet said, half protestingly. “And the two boys were born here.”

  “Good lord!” Roger exclaimed. “So they were!” He leaned forward, pulled a small piece of uncooked pastry from a strip waiting to be placed across an apple pie crust, chewed it, and said: “We’ll keep the children wherever we go, I’m all in favour of that. Sure you want to move?”

  Janet turned to face him, a little flushed from the oven, a little wrinkled at the eyes and the corner of the mouth, but her eyes as bright and grey as ever. She wore an absurdly small, frilly apron, pouched rather high at the breast – a Christmas present from the boys.

  “I am quite certain. Now don’t start hedging.”

  “I was wondering whether you’d prefer to have this place really redecorated, top to bottom, and a lot of new furniture,” Roger said, seriously. “All the front room and our bedroom for a start, and—”

  “No,” Janet answered, emphatically. “Twenty one years in the same place is long enough, if we stay any longer we’ll never want to go. What we need is a house large enough to turn into two flats when the children leave home, so that we can let one and add a bit to your pension.”

  “I don’t get a pension for another fifteen years,” Roger reminded her. “How are you going to support me before then?” He realised that flippancy was not suited to her mood, and went on hastily: “You’re absolutely right, sweet. We’ll start looking soon. But there’s one condition.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Roger, do you really mean it.”

  “I really mean it.”

  “I don’t care what the condition is!”

  “You probably will. Not a penny more than six thousand pounds, and not more than twenty minutes’ drive away from the Yard.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to change the district,” Janet declared. Her eyes were glowing. “And if we can’t get what we want for six thousand, we’ll put up with what we’ve got. I know exactly what I want,” she added, and although he was grinning at her she took no notice; but she had made him realise how deep was her longing to move from this house.

  At five minutes to one, hot and flushed from a cycle ride, the boys came in. At five past, after a superficial wash, Richard’s dark hair flattened with much water and brushing, and Scoopy’s flat at the front but sticking up in a dozen ducks’ tails at the back, they slid into their places at the table. Roger started to carve a leg of lamb. The boys were still flushed and eager, and it was Richard who said: “I say, Mum, you know that house on the corner, where die people with that funny name live, Monty something.”

  “Montifiore,” Scoopy supplied. “Can I help, Mum?”

  “You can pull your table napkin up higher, I don’t want to wash another shirt after it’s been worn for five minutes. What about the house, Richard?”

  “It’s going to be sold,” announced Richard, taking a plate from Roger. “Thanks, Dad.” He began to help himself to roast potatoes, quite oblivious of the way his mother was staring at him. “Micky Roberts told me, he lives next door, and his mother’s always popping in and out of the Montforeys.”

  “Mon—ti—fi—or—e.” Scoopy corrected, solemnly.

  “For goodness sake let him say what he has to say,” said Janet. “Go on, Fish.”

  “Well, apparently the Mon—tee—fee—or—ees are getting a bit old, she’s over sixty five apparently, and he’s nearly seventy and they’re going to retire and move down to the south coast, or Devon or somewhere, so the house will be for sale. Mrs. Roberts seems to think they’ll have a difficult job selling it, though; they’re going to ask some ridiculous sum, like eight or nine thousand pounds.”

  “Good lord!” gasped Scoopy. “He actually got it right!”

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Janet said, and her eyes were sparkling even more brightly. “They’ll never get a penny more than six thousand five hundred. It’s just—”

  “Barefaced robbery,” Roger put in quickly.

  Scoopy’s eyes widened, he stared first at Roger and then at Janet, and asked swiftly: “Here, what’s on? We’re not thinking of moving, are we? Why, the Montifiore’s house must be the best in the district! Mum! Dad!”

  “Could we, possibly?” pleaded Richard. They were both young again, children and not teenagers, with swift enthusiasm and glorious hopes.

  “Well—” began Janet.

  “We’d better tell them what we’re thinking,” Roger said, and thus began the longest lunchtime session they had had for months. Given their heads, the boys would have called on Mrs. Montifiore that very day. At last the telephone interrupted the excited discussion, and Roger got up to go into the front room, reflecting ruefully that the kitchen extension would never get done now. The boys began to help clear the table without prompting. Roger sat on the arm of an easy chair, feeling almost sure that this would be the Yard.

  “West speaking.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.” It was Fox, and his tone was subdued, immediately suggesting cause for alarm. “Sorry to worry you, but there’s a bit of news that I think you ought to know right away.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “Old Mr. Anderson collapsed just before lunch, and died before they got the doctor,” Fox reported. “Poor show, isn’t it?”

  Roger said, slowly and heavily: “Very. Thanks for calling.” He hesitated, and then went on: “Does Julian Anderson know?”

  “No, sir.” Fox’s voice quickened. “That’s a job for Keston, his solicitor surely.”

  “Is it?” asked Roger. “I think I’ll go along to Brixton.” It wasn’t going to be a pleasant task, or one he would be proud of, but if he gave Julian this news the man would surely be in the very depths of despair, and might possibly be shocked into telling the truth.

  Julian Anderson sat very still on the wooden chair in the remand cell. He had not moved since Roger had come in. He had not flinched when he had been told about his father, and yet Roger had the impression that the news struck deep. The silence lasted for a long time, before Julian said, in his slow, hurt voice: “Thank you for coming, Mr. West. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, it would have been easy to leave it to someone else. But Mr. West—this is two lives the murderer is responsible for. He really killed my father.” The little porcine eyes were strangely steady as he went on: “You won’t mind me saying that I like you, Mr. West. That may sound peculiar, but although we’re on different sides you’ve always been very considerate. You’ve got your job to do, and if I’m the innocent victim of circumstances I can’t blame you. I can see exactly how your mind works and how black it looks against me. But as true as I’m standing here, I did not murder Alice. I did go into the hall, I lied to you about that because I was frightened, but I was not in her room on Friday night. I left, and went for a long drive, I was so miserable, and speed helps me a little. But I did not kill Alice. Someone else committed that crime, and the same person is responsible for the death of my father. It may sound rather sentimental to you, Mr. West, but they were the only two people for whom I really cared. That is the simple truth. If I were outside, free to do what I liked, I would dedicate my life to finding the murderer. I mean that in deadly earnest—I would dedicate my life to the task.” He paused again, as if he realised
just how telling this quiet statement of his case was; how cunningly he was putting doubt into Roger’s mind. “If the law does find me guilty, Mr. West, it will be a mistake. I understand that I cannot be hanged, as the law now stands, but I can lose my liberty for life. I want you to believe me when I say that I would sacrifice that, readily, if I could only make sure of finding the murderer.

  “Whether I am found guilty or innocent, Mr. West, I would like to feel that you were still looking for the killer. Win you do that?”

  Was he almost fiendishly clever; or was there the simplicity of truth in what he said?

  Roger was uneasily preoccupied by this question as he drove back to Chelsea, and glad that the boys had gone out with some friends. Janet was content with the Sunday afternoon television and her dreams, and Roger was able to sit back and let everything about the Murray girl’s murder pass through his mind. As if they realised that he was pondering over the case, the boys were in a quiet mood when they got back, and Janet did not harass him with questions until they were getting ready for bed. Then she asked shrewdly: “Aren’t you sure about Julian Anderson?”

  “I’m going to spend tomorrow combing every bit of evidence with Gill and Fox, and then take the case to Hardy,” Roger said. Hardy was the then Assistant Commissioner for Crime. “If I’ve slipped up on this, the quicker it’s put right the better.”

  Next morning, he was still uneasy, almost to a point of being worried; Anderson’s earnest simplicity seemed to haunt him. He found Fox and his own chief aide, Detective Inspector Cope, huddled together over his desk. Cope was a big, burly man who had broken an ankle some months before and was just getting about again; he still needed a stick. Fox looked as if he had just come out of the forests.

  “What have we got?” demanded Roger.

  “The last nail for Anderson’s coffin,” Fox said, without jubilation. “We’ve got everything, now. Remember that Jennifer Ling’s fiancé said he saw a Jaguar pass in Bell Street?”