The Scene of the Crime

by John Creasey

  After half an hour, they had finished.

  “You won’t keep us long making up your mind, will you?” asked Mrs. Montifiore. “We’ve had several offers already, and my husband and I are most anxious to get everything settled quickly. We have a cottage in Devon all ready for us, and we want to move there as soon as we can.”

  “What’s your lowest price?” asked Payne, brusquely.

  “The price we are asking is—”

  “I know, you’re asking seven and a half thousand,” Payne interrupted, and he noticed the way that Gwen stared, trying to stop him from speaking with such abruptness; but the old fool annoyed him. In a way, she reminded him of Jennie. “I want to know your lowest price.”

  Mrs. Montifiore said, tartly: “Seven thousand two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  Payne said: “I’ll buy it.”

  Gwen gasped. Hilda’s eyes looked as if a silver light shone from them, and clasped her hands together ecstatically. Even the little old grey parrot of a woman seemed shaken, and she asked as if doubtfully: “You mean, you are offering seven thousand two hundred and fifty pounds now?”

  “Yes,” said Payne, and took out his cheque book. “Here’s a cheque for the two hundred and fifty to settle the deal, and I’ll instruct my solicitors to get busy at once. That’s if it’s all right with you.”

  “Why, yes—yyes, of course,” stammered Mrs. Montifiore, and for the first time she looked really pleased. She gave a little laugh, and added: “I’ll be glad to give you a receipt, Mr. Payne. When—when would you want completion?”

  “Quick as possible,” Payne replied. “The quicker the better from our point of view, we would like to move in during the spring, too. A lot wants doing to the place, so we’ll need a month or so to work in. It’s a deal, then?”

  “Yes, of course,” declared Mrs. Montifiore. “Forgive me if I seemed a little confused, but I am not used to people who make up their minds so quickly.”

  “In my business, you have to,” Payne said. He took out a ball pen and wrote the cheque, as Mrs. Montifiore said: “Would you like to have a look round by yourselves, while I make a cup of tea? My husband will be back before long. He’s gone to see a football match, but he promised to be home by five or five fifteen, and it’s getting on for five o’clock now.” She behaved as if she were really fussed, and when Payne handed her the cheque, she swallowed hard, and went rather dazedly towards the kitchen.

  “You fool, if you’d stood out a bit you could have got it for five hundred less,” Gwen hissed, but there was no real reproach in her voice.

  Payne looked her up and down, telling himself that he had never seen her looking more beautiful. For that matter, Hilda took a lot of beating, too. He winked, made a thumbs up sign, and said: “I always promised you a big house and mink, honey, and Johnnie Payne always keeps his promises. Okay?”

  Gwen put her arms round him, Hilda put hers round them both, there was a funny little moment of excitement and confusion, in which Payne felt quite choky. He was sure that he had done the right thing; he would never regret giving Gwen what she wanted, and there was another thing to consider, too; living in a house like this would put Hilda’s marriage chances up, this was a higher income neighbourhood than where they were living now.

  It was working out perfectly.

  They looked down into the street from a front bedroom; several boys, on bicycles, were fooling about on the other side of the road. When they went downstairs and looked out of the front room there, the boys were still in sight but half hidden by the privet hedge. Gwen was studying the curtains, knowing that she could buy them at valuation, tugging them and making sure that they were in reasonable condition; there were certainly no flies on Gwen!

  Payne noticed that at every chance she got, Hilda looked out of the window towards the boys. They were a bit young for her, surely. He was in an expansive mood, however, and if he could give the kid five minutes pleasure, why not? And the boys weren’t too young to appreciate the finer points of Hilda as an eyeful.

  He suggested that they should look in the garden.

  “You and Hilda can,” Gwen said. “I want to see everything there is to see here while I’ve got the chance.”

  Payne opened the front door, and at once realised that the boys were deliberately fooling around on their machines in order to give the callers at Cornerways the once over. There were three, all in their late teens; one of them might be nearly twenty. He was very broad, had a clean cut look, and turned the front wheel of the cycle about as if he were the chief performer of a circus act.

  He kept glancing this way.

  Suddenly he stopped pretending that he wasn’t interested, and stared openly at Hilda. Hilda stared as openly back. Payne glanced at her, saw that she was beginning to smile, and found himself grinning. That was the way Gwen had caught him, with that come-hither look which had made her seem the most desirable creature in the world. Hilda had dressed for this occasion, so she was looking at her best. The way the gaze of the boy and girl met and challenged each other was quite remarkable. The boy gave a most attractive grin, and waved.

  Hilda waved back.

  “Think you’re going to like living here?” asked Payne.

  “I’m going to love it!” Hilda cried.

  Mrs. Montifiore called out that tea was ready. Almost at the same moment a small car pulled in at one of the entrance gates, and Mr. Montifiore got out of the car. His wife greeted him, calling out in a carrying voice: “Hurry up, George! Mr. Payne is going to buy the house.”

  “Hey, Scoop!” exclaimed Richard West, “did you hear that? Those people are going to buy the place. What a swizz! Mum will be really fed up when she hears about this.”

  Scoopy didn’t answer.

  “Scoop, why don’t you say something?” demanded Richard.

  “What about?” asked Scoopy. He was staring across at the house, seeing the front door close on the man and the girl; the girl went in last, and just before closing it, deliberately turned and looked round; there was no doubt that she meant it for him. He continued to look at the house, but switched his gaze towards the front room; a moment later the girl appeared at a window. The older woman was with her, and they pretended to be admiring the lawn and the almond blossom, but in fact the girl was eyeing Scoopy again.

  “Oh, stop trying to be a wolf!” Richard exclaimed, in disgust. “They’re going to buy the house, the clots. Mum is just about going to hit the roof when she hears.”

  “Going to buy—you mean they’re going to live here?” asked Scoopy, and seemed to wake to life. But he had none of the concern of his brother, none for his mother; he looked absolutely delighted. “Are you sure? I didn’t hear what they said.”

  “You would have if you hadn’t been making eyes at that dame,” said a boy from a neighbouring house. He was grinning. “I must say she had something.”

  “She had everything,” declared Scoopy.

  “If you ask me, she hasn’t got many manners at all,” said Richard, with a great show of virtue. “The way she ogled you was absolutely disgusting.”

  “Don’t talk out of the back of your neck, Fish,” Scoopy retorted.

  “Well, it was.”

  “ ‘Ogled’ is a jolly good word,” the other boy conceded, in mock admiration. “I agreed with Scoop, though, that doll has just about everything. How old would you think she was, Scoop?”

  “Oh, about seventeen, I suppose.”

  “I would say she’s at least twenty one—quite old,” said Richard, cuttingly.

  “You’ll be making out she’s a grandmother next,” said Scoopy, and won a sudden grin from his brother, who was seldom in a bad mood for long. Then a woman called out from along the street: “Eric! I want you to go to the shops for me.”

  “Here we go again,” said the other boy, and promptly cycled of
f, calling resignedly: “Coming, Mum.” His mother disappeared, while Scoopy and Richard sat on their bicycles, Scoopy still trying to catch a glimpse of the blonde. Although they could just see people moving about in the sitting room of Cornerways, none of them was near enough the window to be seen clearly.

  “Come on, Scoop,” Richard urged. “You can’t be here when they come out again, the girl will think that you can’t think of anything else but sex.”

  Scoopy chuckled, a moment later Richard grinned, and they turned their bicycles towards home. Although it was Saturday, their father was not back from the Yard, but they were used to him being at work on Saturdays and Sundays. Only now and again could they be sure of a full weekend together. They heard their mother playing the piano in the sitting room; it was the best piece of furniture they had, a wedding present from a close friend who had gone to live in the United States.

  They wheeled the bicycles round to the back, tiptoed through the house until they were back in the front garden; and looked through the window, listening and watching. Janet West played light and lively pieces from her own childhood. In a Monastery Garden, TipToe Through the Tulips, Tea for Two; then she paused, hesitated, and poised her hands above the piano, unconscious of how attractive she was. Suddenly her hands plunged downwards, and she began to play rock-and-roll, but she kept missing notes, laughing, missing more, and finally began a nonsense medley. The boys couldn’t keep their laughter back. She started, swivelled round on the stool and shook her fist at them. In a few minutes they were all together in the front rom, singing while Janet played. Old Man River, The Stein Song, Coal Black Mammy, and others which the boys had learnt from Janet. They were swinging along into Felix Keeps on Walking when Roger’s deep voice sounded in the doorway, joining in a kind of basso profundo. There was only a moment’s pause before they went on with the song until, pretending exhaustion, Janet stopped playing.

  “We’ll have complaints from the neighbours next,” she said. “How far along the road could you hear that, Roger?”

  “Oh, only just round the corner,” Roger said, airily. “Talking of neighbours, Mrs. Montifiore has just been saying goodbye to a family so fervently that I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t sold the house.”

  Janet’s face fell; “Oh, no!”

  After a pause, Richard said, with a brave attempt to sound as if it didn’t matter: “She has, Mum, as a matter of fact. Scoop and I heard her saying so. We happened to be passing the house just as she was talking to the man. Didn’t we, Scoop?”

  “Er—yes.”

  “Oh, hell!” exclaimed Janet, and all the merriment and the happiness was washed away; obviously she was really upset. “I’d set such store by having Cornerways. Only this morning Mrs. Montifiore said that she was sure that her husband would come down to six thousand five hundred and—” She broke off.

  “And you said you were sure you could needle your husband up to six thousand five,” said Roger, dryly.

  “Well, five hundred pounds spread over fifteen years—” Janet began, then dropped her hands by her sides, and went on glumly: “Well, if it’s sold, it’s sold.”

  “We’ll probably find one just as good,” Roger said.

  “Oh, you never really wanted Cornerways,” Janet said in vexation, and Roger smothered a grin. “You pretended to be interested because you knew how keen I was, but I knew you would never really agree to buying it. And we’ve lived in this—in this hutch for over twenty one years.”

  The boys were heading for the door.

  “Well, we ought to get washed for supper,” Richard said, virtuously.

  “Want anything from the shops, Mum?” inquired Scoopy.

  “No, I don’t, and you know perfectly well that I don’t,” Janet snapped; then quite suddenly she realised that Roger was trying not to grin at her, and that the boys were anxious to leave because, if they stayed, they would start laughing. “Fools!” she exclaimed. “It’s true, all the same. You were never keen on it.”

  “I’d be happier if we stopped at six thousand,” Roger admitted, “and you would be, too, really.”

  “You never know,” interpolated Richard, “these people might get fed up with the place, and sell again next year. Mum was saying that the winter is really the best time to buy, prices are always lower then, and we might actually get the house for six thousand.”

  “That’s enough of your blarney,” Janet said.

  “I say,” Scoopy put in, his eyes glowing, “there was an absolutely smashing girl with the people who’ve, bought Cornerways. Wasn’t she, Fish? Absolutely smashing. I haven’t seen a more beautiful girl in my life.”

  Janet gasped.

  Roger said. “You will.”

  “Scoop, you’re far too young—” Janet began, urgently.

  “Dammit, I can think about a girl, can’t I?” Scoopy demanded, warmly.

  After a moment, Janet said in a much milder voice: “Yes, Scoop, of course you can. The one thing I ask is that if you see a girl you like you’ll tell us—just as you’ve told us about this one. That’s all that really matters.”

  “What did you think of this paragon?” asked Roger of Richard, into a pause.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I thought she was a bit flamboyant,” Richard answered, earnestly. “She—er—she was a bit what you call Sabrinaish, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Roger said. “Off with the pair of you!” He grinned as they went out, but Janet was frowning. He went across to her and slid an arm round her waist. “Forget it,” he counselled. “It’s the growing-up process, and it’s no use trying to stop it or worrying about it.”

  Janet didn’t answer.

  “Come on, sweet,” Roger urged.

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” Janet said, quickly. “Not really worried, anyhow. I knew we would have to face up to this sooner or later, but it’s come so unexpectedly. When they went out at lunchtime, I thought they were two schoolboys with no thought for anything but games, sports and the pictures. Now—well, it’s a bit of a shock, darling.”

  “Bad day for shocks,” Roger said. “What with the news about the house, too. I suppose the boys are right.”

  “They usually are,” said Janet, and after a pause, went on: “I wonder who’s bought Cornerways.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Good Price

  Benoni looked at the collection of Regency jewellery, as well as several exquisite old French sets, through the black watchmaker’s glass which he invariably screwed into his left eye when examining jewels. He was a long time, sitting at a small bench in a room behind his shop, and turning each piece this way and that, as if he were making quite sure that there was not the slightest blemish. He was deliberately trying to agitate Payne, of course, but Payne knew his tactics well. The longer he looked, the more he pulled down his lips, the less he would offer, and the more likely the seller would be to accept a low price. It was his kind of bargaining.

  This Monday morning, however, Payne wasn’t in a mood to stand a lot of it; he wanted a quick sale, and cash in his pocket. Old Benoni always paid in cash, and that set Payne thinking.

  Where did he keep it? He couldn’t do a big trade every day, and yet he never failed to have enough for any particular deal available. Payne found himself looking about the little room, because he could not bear to stand and watch Benoni examine jewellery which could be identified as that taken from the Anderson strongroom. There was practically no likelihood of that, of course, but it could happen. It seemed to him that Benoni was taking much longer than usual, too. It was conceivable that he knew more about Anderson’s stock than anyone else in London.

  Why didn’t the old fool make up his mind?

  Benoni sniffed, pulled a face, and then put the last of the pieces down on his bench. He took the glass out of his eye, rubbed the eye w
hich began to water a little, and then moistened his lips.

  “How much do you want for this, Mr. Payne?” he inquired.

  Payne thought: He’s going to take it all right, he’ll take it. There were about ten thousand pounds worth of jewels on the bench in front of him, and Benoni had once talked of being able to give a better-than-average price through the American, Goldstein. He never made the first offer, so there was nothing at all unusual in his inquiry, but the first offer was important. Payne had to put a reasonable price on this, and not appear to be too eager.

  At last, he said: “Seven thousand.”

  Benoni didn’t answer.

  “It’s fair enough,” Payne urged, then warned himself not to be too eager to sell. “I’d get more if I went to the Yank myself.”

  “Yes, undoubtedly,” Benoni said. “But Mr. Goldstein only deals with individuals he knows well, he has to be sure that they are absolutely trustworthy.”

  Payne barked: “What do you mean by that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Benoni asked mildly. “Mr. Goldstein cannot buy from casual acquaintances, he has to take all of his purchases through Customs, and they are liable to be examined on both sides of the Atlantic. Seven thousand pounds is far too much.” He shook his head slowly, and looked up at Payne beneath his shaggy grey eyebrows. It was impossible to predict what he was going to offer, but he was a reasonable man who didn’t play around too much. There seemed to be something odd about him today, but perhaps that was because this was a bigger deal than he usually handled with Payne.

  “Come on, let’s hear from you,” Payne urged.

  Benoni said, very, very softly: “I will pay you three thousand pounds in cash for it, Mr. Payne.”

  Payne exclaimed: “Don’t be a bloody fool!”

  The old man did not change his expression, and kept looking at him through his pince-nez. Payne had not realised how clear and pale a blue his eyes were; in fact he could hardly see Benoni’s face, those eyes seemed to have a strange, compelling quality, as if he were trying to will Payne to accept the offer.