The Scene of the Crime

by John Creasey

  “Three thousand pounds,” he repeated.

  “But they’re worth nine thousand at least! Even at my figure you’re getting them cheap.”

  “Am I?” asked Benoni, and after a long pause, he went on: “What about the risk?”

  Payne raised his hands, the palms outwards, as if to fend off an attack. He had been half prepared, and yet the shock was very great. He had to fight it away, had to behave as if he didn’t know what the old man was talking about. Just a second or two too late, he said: “Risk? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Payne,” said Benoni, without a change of tone, “I will give you three thousand pounds for these jewels, not one penny more. I will pay you another three thousand, cash, if you can supply me with an equivalent quantity of the same value. I shall not be able to sell them all at once, you know that as well as I do.”

  “It’s barefaced robbery!” Payne said. He found himself trembling and on the point of shouting, but a little hope was dawning in his mind. Six thousand pounds was a lot of money, quite enough to put plenty down on the house that Gwen had set her heart on, and to buy what new furniture they needed; and he had some cash by him, the usual profit on turnover. Moreover, he would still have some of the jewels from Anderson’s shop, sets which he would release over a long period. He realised that he had made a tactical mistake in offering too much to old Benoni at one time, but he didn’t give that much thought. After all, the important thing was to find a quick market.

  On the other hand, there were others who dealt with this Goldstein.

  “You can walk out of here with the money,” Benoni told him, temptingly.

  Payne barked: “No. I’ll take six thousand for this lot, not a penny less. It’s worth more, and I can get more if I sell it in smaller quantities.” When Benoni did not respond, he went on: “You know that as well as I do.”

  “Yes,” Benoni said. “You are quite right, Mr. Payne, you can get more for it if you sell it in smaller quantities and if you are prepared to take the risk.”

  “There isn’t any risk! It’s stuff I bought from an old cove out at Watford, he wanted a quick turnover.”

  “I see,” said Benoni, and shrugged. “Well, then, I am sorry that we cannot do business, Mr. Payne.”

  “You’re throwing money away.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Look here, let’s settle for five thousand,” Payne suggested, almost desperately. “That’s enough to pay you for any risk you think you’re taking. There isn’t any risk really, I just happen to have taken on a number of responsibilities and I need a good lump sum. Five thousand, on the nail, and it’s a deal.”

  “My original offer stands,” Benoni said. “However, Mr. Goldstein is staying at the Dorchester Hotel. If you care to go and see him yourself, he will doubtless be glad to see you. But when he is dealing with someone for the first time, he wants references and absolute assurance that he is buying clean goods. He would wish to see the invoices and the receipts for these jewels, and—but you know how these people work,” Benoni went on. “Thank you for giving me the first offer, Mr. Payne.”

  Payne thought: He’s got the money handy, somewhere. The mean devil. And he knows where these came from.

  Half an hour ago, Benoni had been his ready market for everything he had, the open sesame to his future; now the old man was a deadly danger. He knew the truth all right, and that was the last thing Payne had allowed for. He wasn’t really surprised that Benoni was a receiver, but it meant that the police might suspect that. If the police came and questioned him about the Anderson jewels, he might give them a hint, and that would bring them to Richmond Hill Road; everything would be finished, then. The scraggy hands moved gently over the jewels, as if he were fond of them for what they were as well as for what they were worth.

  Payne could see a pile of bank notes in his mind’s eye, at least three thousand of them, as much as he could carry comfortably in the case in which he had brought the jewels. It would still be the biggest deal he had ever made, would mean a net profit greater than he usually made in two years, but that wasn’t the point. These jewels were worth three times as much, and Benoni would get a big sum from Goldstein. Benoni would take practically no risk, and make as much profit as the man who had taken all the risks.

  Let him rot!

  “If you change your mind,” Payne said, “you know where to find me.”

  “And if you change yours, I am ready to buy at my price any time this week,” Benoni returned courteously. “After that I would have to hold the goods for a longer period, so I would not be able to make the same margin of profit. Thank you again, Mr. Payne.” He rolled everything round in a great wad of cotton wool, and put it in the empty case. Payne watched him close the case with slow, deliberate movements.

  Payne lifted it off the counter, with an effort.

  “Thanks,” he said and swung round and went out of the shop. Almost opposite him was the café where he usually had a cup of coffee and a doughnut after a deal with Benoni, but he wanted to get out of the old man’s sight. He felt a vicious hatred towards him, felt as if all he wanted to do was get the scraggy neck between his hands and squeeze the life out of him. That would teach the greedy buzzard. Three thousand pounds for all this!

  How could he be so sure of himself!

  It couldn’t be guesswork, but it might be because he knew that Payne had worked at Anderson’s shop for a while. Payne felt as if he had been kicked when that thought struck him, for everyone else in the trade would know the same thing, and the moment they thought of Anderson’s, they would think of the theft and the murder. He should have kept these goods in hiding for a much longer period, and he would have done if Gwen had not fallen so heavily for that house. He walked towards the Old Bailey, without realising where he was going, weighed down by the case. His car was parked in one of the bombed site car parks in the shadow of St. Paul’s.

  What the hell was he doing? He ought to get a taxi.

  He put the case down and stared along the road; buses, lorries, trucks and cars came along, but no taxis. This was the worst place in London for them. He kept pushing his fingers through his hair. The train of thought which had been interrupted by a realisation of the fact that he was carrying the case, returned. He had to have that house. He was to see the solicitors and the agent tomorrow. He would have to make an additional payment to cover a total of ten per cent of the purchase price – another five hundred and seventy five pounds. He could do that and still have a few hundred to spare, but he had urged completion quickly, and it was likely to be within three weeks; so at the most he had three weeks to find more money.

  How much mortgage could he get on Cornerways?

  That wasn’t the real question. He had told Gwen and the estate agent that he would put down a total of forty per cent, so he needed – God, he needed three thousand almost at once! He had been so sure that he would get six or seven that he had not given a serious thought to the difficulty of finding three.

  He couldn’t let Gwen down, and he couldn’t fool her. She would be present at all the interviews about this, and she was already planning to spend money on the furniture and decorating. If he failed her now, he would never recover from it. After all the years of scraping and saving he had justified himself in her eyes, he simply couldn’t disappoint her again. He couldn’t fail Hilda, either, or Maurice. He had seen the glow of delight in their eyes so vividly, his ‘success’ had made too deep an impression on them. To disappoint them, to let them down, was unthinkable.

  He could get six thousand pounds for everything he had stolen from Anderson’s, and—

  God!

  Old Benoni must know that there was as much to come as he had already been shown. So, he had a good idea how much had been at Anderson’s shop. Or had the police found out what had been stolen, and circulated a list? There must have be
en a copy he had known nothing about. Julian Anderson had probably put one aside, damn him.

  An empty taxi slowed down, the driver saw Payne staring blankly ahead of him, and passed by.

  “He has that list,” Payne said to himself, moving his lips with the words, “and that means everyone else in the trade has it. It’s no use going to Goldstein direct, he will have been told to be extra careful. That old swine knows he’s got me.

  Payne pictured Gwen, examining the curtains and the carpets, which could be bought at valuation. He pictured Hilda, so delighted with this obvious move up the social scale. He pictured Maurice, and seemed to hear him saying: “I knew you’d hit the jackpot one day, Dad.” He turned round slowly and walked back to Benoni’s shop. He hated the thought of admitting that he was wrong, and of knuckling down to Benoni, but he had to have that money in the bank. He hesitated outside the shop. He saw Benoni inside, peering at him. He clenched his hands and his fists, and wished again that he could choke the life out of the old swine, but that was impossible, yet. The day might come when he could come here and collect what was owing to him—

  That was it!

  One day, in a few months or a few years, it didn’t matter, he would come and take what was owing. He would find out where Benoni kept his ready cash, would study the place as closely as he had studied Anderson’s, so that he could repeat the dose. That was it! His eyes began to glisten. He could bring other goods to Benoni from time to time, become the old man’s favourite customer, and then one day—

  Benoni came to the door, rubbing the palms of his hands together.

  “I shouldn’t stand there too long, Mr. Payne,” he said, his grey eyes narrowed and half hidden by the lids. “I will make my offer in guineas, instead of pounds.”

  “You’re a hell of a tough customer to deal with,” Payne said, “but it’s a deal.”

  He took the money away with him, in used one pound and five pound notes. They weighed heavier than the goods he had sold. He was right on top of the world again now, feeling only occasional, momentary twinges of resentment; after all it was simply a matter of getting the full value later. Benoni had almost purred while finishing the deal, there was no doubt that he believed he had got his own way without any trouble. He’d find out!

  The second lot of goods was to be delivered tomorrow.

  There was still time to catch the bank and deposit the money, Payne realised, but he began to wonder whether it would be wise to put too much cash into the bank at once; the manager would be surprised that he made such a big deposit. He shifted the case from his right hand to his left, twisting round in the hope of seeing a taxi, and, as one came up, realised what he must do. Deposit a thousand, say, and pay a couple of thousand to the house agent against the purchase price of the house. He could wave the receipt in Gwen’s face. His heart thumped with the excitement of this prospect, his eyes glowed at the thought of her delight. He settled back in the taxi. He would keep the odd money in his pocket, of course, it would be useful to have a bit of ready cash.

  “I’ve a little surprise for you, sweetie-pie,” Payne said. “Guess what it is?”

  Gwen stood by the larder, looking round at him. He had never loved her so much. The way she twisted her body round, the way her bosom thrust against her jumper, the gleam in her eyes – God, it was wonderful! And both Maurice and Hilda were out, and would be for the rest of the evening.

  “You tell me,” she invited.

  “A little matter of a receipt,” Payne explained, airily. He made a great show of taking the receipt out of his pocket, opening it, and spreading it out before her eyes. As she read, he slid round to her side and put his hand about her. He felt the thumping of her heart, and knew that it was affecting her just as it had him. She turned round, her eyes afire, and thrust herself against him with a passion which carried him back over the years.

  About that time, six o’clock on the Monday afternoon, Roger West was sitting at his desk in the little office overlooking the Thames. The crowds streaming over Westminster Bridge were thinning out, but were still in constant movement, and brightened up by the evening sun. The day had been unseasonably warm, the window was down, and he had his coat off and his collar and tie undone. Cope had gone home. Most of the regular daytime staff had, too, but several men were busy finishing off jobs which wouldn’t keep. Roger had had a good day. There were no big jobs outstanding, but on his desk was a summary of the Public Prosecutor’s case against Julian Anderson, built on all the evidence which he, Roger, had obtained. The longer he studied it, the more it seemed foolproof; if a man were not guilty after such a circumstantial case as this, one could almost give up believing in circumstantial evidence.

  He wondered why Julian got under his skin.

  He took out his own notes on the case, including oddments of conversation he had had with Gill – who was now out of London on a job – and Fox. There was nothing new, and, but for the murder of Jennie Campbell, he doubted whether he would have thought twice about Julian’s guilt. He knew that Fox had stretched every piece of evidence as far as it could go so as to show that there might be a connection between the two murders, but so far there was absolutely nothing.

  He did up his collar and tie, put on his coat, and lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of one side of his mouth. He locked all the papers away, and went out; Big Ben was striking the half hour. It would be seven o’clock before he was home, even if he went straight there. He didn’t go straight on, for he saw the door of Fox’s little room ajar, and a light shining out. He went in, closing the door quietly behind him. Fox was squinting at some photographs, his thick lips stretched taut over his teeth; it was a pity he had such a simian appearance, it could still hold him back from the final promotion although he had proved that he was a first-class man.

  “Hallo, Charley,” Roger said. “What’ve you got?”

  “As a matter of fact, Skipper, I think I might have got plenty,” Fox said. He put the photographs down, then selected one and handed it to Roger. “What would you say that is?”

  Roger studied something which looked like a piece of stone, very bright and shiny on one side; or it might be the broken point of a pin or a needle, magnified several hundred times. It might be a life size piece of quartz. It might be a small stone, magnified half a dozen times.

  Fox couldn’t wait.

  “It’s a piece of iron or steel filing, magnified a hundred times,” he reported. “I’ve just had the analyst’s report. They took a hell of a time getting it because the fragment was so small, had to send round to some steel manufacturers, but it’s worked. That piece is absolutely identical with the filing found on the carpet in Alice Murray’s room! Same tensile strength steel, same manufacturer, almost certainly from the same whatever they call it of steel.”

  “Casting,” Roger said. “Or is it forging?”

  “Dunno,” said Fox, almost shrilly. “Guess where it came from?”

  “The rain spots on the floor of the cellar at the Anderson place.”

  “That’s it,” squeaked Fox. “That’s exactly where it came from. You scraped the dust up from the floor, remember, and said that the rain spots dripping off the coat might have carried something with them. They did, too. This. I’ve been all over that floor, and there wasn’t another speck of the stuff—but by the rain-spots, there were five different specks. Whoever opened that safe with a key had been working on steel, turning it, while wearing the shoes and the clothes he wore at the safe. You can tell me I’m jumping to conclusions, but it looks to me as if some of the filings were on his shoes or his clothes when he killed Alice Murray, and some lodged on his coat. The rain washed them out when he went to kill Jennie Campbell. Skipper, we’ve got a hell of a job on our hands.”

  Roger grunted.

  “Tell you another thing,” Fox said. “Julian Anderson’s hair’s falling out. I’ve checked closer and strands wer
e found all over the place. We’d better not use that in evidence. We’ve got a job on all right,” he added, and seemed not to know whether to look pleased or sorry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pointers

  It was half past eleven when Roger got home. There was a light on in the bedroom and one in the hall but no sound anywhere. He went quietly along to the kitchen, and found a piece of pork pie, some cheese and biscuits and two bottles of beer on the table. He put the beer back in the refrigerator, made himself some tea, finished every crumb of food, and went as quietly upstairs. Janet was lying up on the pillows, as if she had tried to keep awake for him but hadn’t been able to. He crept about the room, and not until he got into bed beside her did she stir slightly, and make a little grunting noise.

  He had been through every possible aspect of the inquiries with Fox, arguing, putting up one argument only to knock it down with another. The whole case was still buzzing through his mind. There had been another man that night at Alice Murray’s: the cyclist. There had been the other boy friend; the middle-aged man. He still hadn’t been found, and he must have been extraordinarily careful, because no one except Jennifer Ling seemed to have set eyes on him – and she could not add anything to what she had already said.

  There was nothing at all to work on where Jennie Campbell was concerned.

  Roger dropped off thinking about the mystery, and woke with a start in broad daylight, with Scoopy standing by the side of the bed with a tea tray in his hands and Janet stirring by his side. Richard was somewhere upstairs, whistling.

  “It’s nearly half past seven so I thought you ought to be up,” Scoopy said. “I hope you weren’t in very late last night, Dad.”

  “Not really late,” Roger mumbled. “My, that tea looks good!” He hitched himself up, as Scoopy put the tray on the bedside table, and Janet murmured. “It can’t be morning already.”