The Scene of the Crime

by John Creasey

  “It is, Mum,” Scoopy said. “Nearly half past seven.”

  “There must be something you want very badly, or you wouldn’t be up, washed, hair brushed and the tea made,” Janet said, sitting upright at last. “What is it, Tyke?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Scoopy said airily. “Only at seven o’clock, that girl called again.”

  “That girl?” asked Roger.

  “The one who called last night.”

  “You know,” Richard contributed from the door. He came sauntering in, red striped pyjama jacket wide open, hair very wet, eyes a little heavy from catarrh. “The one we left the note about.”

  “I don’t get this,” Roger said.

  “Surely—” Janet began, and added in exasperation: “You boys are absolutely impossible! Why don’t you ever think what you’re doing? I told you to write a note and tell your father about Miss Ling, and you must have forgotten.”

  “But I didn’t!” exclaimed Scoopy. “I wrote it.”

  “And I put it under the bottles on the table,” Richard said hotly.

  “Good lord!” exclaimed Roger. “I didn’t have any beer, and put the bottles straight back in the frig. This must have stuck to the bottom. But what—’’

  “It couldn’t have been bigger than a postage stamp, then,” Janet said, tartly.

  “Well, the paper was a bit small,” Scoopy admitted. “But—”

  “What’s it all about, anyhow?” asked Roger eagerly. “Miss Ling. Jennifer Ling?” His voice rose.

  “Yes, that’s right. She lives at 24, Manville Street. Apparently you interviewed her about that other girl’s murder,” Janet told him. “She wants to talk to you some time before eight o’clock this morning. She’s going to Paris, modelling for a photographer, and—”

  “Get me my clothes!” Roger said, urgently. “Scoop, run round to Miss Ling’s flat and tell her I’m on my way. Don’t let her leave.” He thrust his feet out of bed, Scoopy darted to one side, and Roger hurried to the bathroom. Nine minutes level from the time he had heard about the Ling girl’s call he was putting down an empty tea cup, and saying to Janet: “I’D be back in half an hour.” It was ten minutes to eight when he reached 24, Manville Street. Outside it was Ted’s antiquated M.G., with a suitcase in the back, and Scoopy standing as if on guard.

  “She obviously hasn’t left yet, so I didn’t go in,” he said.

  “Nice work,” said Roger. “Thanks, old chap.” He hurried into the house, the front door of which was ajar, and up the stairs. The appetising smell of frying bacon teased him again; this girl certainly liked her food. The door of the flatlet was ajar, too, and Ted was looking out. As soon as he caught sight of Roger he called out to the girl, who was not in sight.

  Ted opened the door wider saying: “Come in, sir. Jenny’s got some hot news for you.” He looked only about Scoopy’s age as he grinned, and the girl, dressed this morning in a vivid blue coat and skirt, wearing a dashing little hat, looking slim, lovely and provocative with a small apron tied round her waist, appeared from the kitchen.

  “Thank goodness you’ve come,” she welcomed. “I was going to try to pass on the message through Ted, but he never gets messages straight.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Well, you don’t. Mr. West, I’ve seen the man who was in Alice Murray’s room. I saw him last night,” Jennifer Ling announced.

  Roger thought: Well, well, here’s the big break at last. Aloud, he asked eagerly: “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I saw him from the same kind of angle again.” She spoke with absolute certainty. “I was on top of a bus, coming home from the West End, and he was walking along the street. He’d just come out of a shop in King’s Road, not far from the Chelsea Town Hall. I nearly fell off the bus to catch up with him, but he turned down a street just past the Town Hall, and I think I saw him getting into a car as the bus passed the end of the street. Anyhow, I lost him.”

  “Too bad,” said Roger, and groaned at the lost time and the lost chance. “What was he wearing?”

  “Oh, just a suit,” Jennifer answered, “and he was carrying a hat. It was something about the way he walked which made me so certain. He had rather nice hair, turning to grey a little, and with some waves at the side. I did just catch a glimpse of his profile, and it was that which made me positive. It was—well, how do you describe a kind of angle profile? Ted!” She stepped across to her fiancé, put her fingers up to his chin, and said: “Turn your head a little that way.” Ted obliged. “A bit more,” Jennifer ordered, and when Ted was standing to her satisfaction, she went on to Roger: “If you stand where I am now, you’ll see what I mean. I could just make out his cheekbone, and his forehead, and the tip of his nose.”

  That meant she had seen enough for her evidence to be valuable.

  “How long are you going to be away for?” Roger asked.

  “Oh, only four days—it’s my first professional trip abroad, I’m wildly excited. Ted, what’s the time?”

  It was five past eight.

  There were about thirty shops in the parade near the Town Hall, and Jennifer Ling could not be sure which one the man had come out of. Roger pulled up outside a bank, on a corner, and left his car. As he reached the other side of the road, Fox and two other Yard sergeants arrived in a car which pulled up just round the corner. Roger had briefed them from home, but had a word with them before they began to question the shopkeepers.

  “He’s six feet two, greying hair, sometimes carries his hat, a trilby, wears well-cut clothes, aged probably in the middle forties. He was in one of these shops at about five o’clock yesterday afternoon, started to walk from them towards the Town Hall, and had his car parked round the first corner beyond the Town Hall.” Roger saw two more big men hurrying up, both from the Division. “Give them the details, Charley,” he ordered. “The Division ought to have a look for that car.” He had a word with the two Divisional men, and then went to the end shop on the parade; a tobacconist and confectioner. He drew a blank from a man who seemed to know what he was talking about. A men’s outfitters and a greengrocer’s yielded nothing at all, but they might if they were questioned more closely. He saw Fox go into an estate agent’s, the one whose board was still up at Cornerways, with a great red sold nailed across it. He went into a butcher’s shop, and came out immediately; the shop had closed at midday on the Monday, so the man hadn’t gone in there. Then he saw Fox dart out of the agent’s, obviously looking for him, and as excited as a monkey who had found an unexpected source of bananas.

  “Skipper!” he called, and made several people glance round. He drew up. “We’ve scored a bull! There was a chap in here at a quarter to five last night, he’s just bought a house and paid some money down on it—a couple of thousand, in cash. He fits that Ling girl’s description perfectly, and we’ve got his name, address, the lot. A Mr. John Payne.”

  “John Payne,” gasped old Clayton. “Why, a John Payne, he was usually called Jack, used to work here. He left about five years ago.”

  “Now we’re really on the move,” Fox said with deep satisfaction. “This one is too perfect to be wrong, isn’t it, Skipper? Payne’s a working jeweller, runs his own little business, buys and sells all over the south of England, even has his own workshop, with a lathe and a little smelting furnace. What are you going to do? Have a talk with him first, or find out what you can about him before interviewing him?”

  “We want all the information we can get before we do anything,” Roger answered. “He’s been pretty smart, and he may have an alibi for the murders. Let’s find him, have him watched, and try to find out where he was on the two nights that matter before we talk to him. Like to handle that yourself?”

  “Just give me a chance!”

  “You’ve got your chance,” Roger said. “Keep me posted with every development, no matter how small it is. If you�
�d like me to be sententious, make a note of this: two heads are better than one and four eyes are better than two.”

  “Many hands make light work,” grinned Fox, “and then there’s that one about too many cooks! What we could really do with is a peek into Payne’s workshop.”

  “Only with a search warrant.”

  “Of course, I’m an officer of the law,” said Fox, virtuously. “I’ll settle for some fingerprints. Damned queer thing they’re planning to buy a house in Bell Street, isn’t it? Now that is a coincidence for you.”

  “Yes,” Roger said, expressionlessly.

  He arranged for Fox to have two detective officers to help him, and then went on to the Yard. It was beginning to look as if there would soon be a break in the case, but there was another angle of it which he did not like at all. He looked in at his Bell Street house twice that day, and each time Scoopy or Richard made some comment about the Payne girl. Janet was now finding it amusing. Roger checked during the day, found out what time Hilda Payne left her work, and then checked with Janet, who told him that the Payne family were due to visit Cornerways again at half past six that evening. Roger made a point of being home by twenty past six.

  Janet was out, probably with a neighbour. The boys were doing their cycling circus act farther down the street, and it was no coincidence that they were outside Cornerways. Roger stayed in the front room, watching the street, and saw Payne’s old Austin pass the window. He went out into the garden. It was still quite light, although electric lamps would soon be needed indoors. He had left his car outside, deliberately, now he put up the bonnet and pretended to tinker with the plugs, but he watched the people getting out of the Austin. The woman came first, and she was as striking as Mrs. Montifiore had said, in a bold, rather flamboyant way. There was a natural gaiety about her, too. Roger had a sense not only of physical wellbeing and attractiveness, but of vitality. The girl climbed out next. Scoopy was watching her very closely, and the first thing she did was to look across the road and wave; Scoopy waved back.

  Then Payne got out.

  He fitted the Ling girl’s description perfectly, and tire moment he moved, carrying his hat, Roger realised exactly why the girl had been so sure.

  The family went into Cornerways.

  They left a little after half past seven, followed by Charley Fox, who would work night and day if he thought it would bring results. Roger was in the kitchen by then, Janet was home, and the boys were helping to lay supper and at the same time watching television. At supper, it was easy to turn the subject to Cornerways; Janet seemed to have lost her resentment.

  “Mrs. Montifiore says that she doesn’t like Payne much,” Scoopy volunteered, “but she thinks Mrs. Payne and the girl—er, her name’s Hilda, Dad—are very nice. She says Payne talks too big, and he rather looks as if he would, Dad, doesn’t he?”

  “Does he?”

  “I saw you watching him,” Scoopy declared knowingly.

  “You’ll have to leave school and become a policeman,” Roger chaffed. “Think Payne looks too bigheaded, Fish?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” answered Richard, with great concentration. “I don’t exactly like any of them.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Janet said, absently. “You don’t know them, and you can’t like or dislike people you don’t know. Mrs. Monty says that they seem an absolutely devoted family, that’s one good thing. There’s a boy, named Maurice, about Scoop’s age.”

  “I say!” exclaimed Scoopy. “We’ll soon get an excuse to meet them, then. Fish and I can always scrape up an acquaintance with another chap.” His eyes glowed. “I wonder what Payne does for a living.”

  “He can’t be much,” declared Richard, scornfully. “Otherwise he wouldn’t go about in that old Austin. You should hear the engine knocking, Dad.”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  Quite out of the blue, Scoopy looked across at him, glanced down at some bread and butter on which he was spreading raspberry jam, and asked quietly: “Dad, was it an accident, do you think, or did you know that one of your Scotland Yard chaps came into the street just after the Paynes, and followed them when they left? I couldn’t help noticing. I wouldn’t have known, but I saw the man one day last winter, when you had someone show us round the Yard.”

  Richard’s eyes were glowing.

  Roger said: “If it wasn’t a coincidence, I’ll soon find out about it, but I don’t know everything that goes on at the Yard, you know.”

  “You know most things,” Richard remarked confidently. “I say, Dad, he’s not a crook is he?”

  “Richard!” exclaimed Janet.

  Roger said reasoningly: “Now this is the kind of loose talk which mustn’t go any farther, chaps. You can talk like it round the table and among the family, but keep it absolutely dark with anyone else. That clear, Fish?”

  “Yes, Dad. Absolutely. Black as pitch.” Scoopy was sitting very still, and staring down at the bread and butter; the jam was spread thinly, but he had not put any into his mouth. He had become very straight-faced, all hint of a smile gone. Janet watched him, and Roger shook his head at her. Slowly, Scoopy began to eat, but it was some time before he joined in the conversation.

  “Is there something funny about the Paynes?” Janet asked, when the boys had gone out to a special evening at their youth club, which had a well equipped gymnasium; Scoopy especially was keen on physical training, and was a boxer of exceptional promise.

  “Yes,” answered Roger, “but I’m not sure how funny, yet. What time will the boys be back?”

  “About eleven,” Janet said. “Why?”

  “Just wondered,” responded Roger, airily.

  Janet laughed …

  She would have been far less contented and compliant had she known that the boys had not gone to the club …

  They were cycling fast up Putney High Street towards Richmond Hill Road. There was little traffic about, their three-speed gears were working well, and the hill called for no special effort. Once in Richmond Hill Road they were able to cycle two abreast for a few minutes, and Richard said eagerly: “If there’s a Yard man watching, then there’s not much doubt, is there?”

  “Shouldn’t think so,” agreed Scoopy. “I hope to heaven there isn’t. I’d hate to think that girl—”

  He didn’t finish, and Richard did not taunt him. Obviously he understood that some deep compulsion drove his brother into trying to find out the truth about the Paynes. They felt nearly sure of the truth, a little later, for they saw Fox’s car parked on the small driveway of an empty house – not quite opposite the Payne’s house. This drive way was heaven-sent to Fox, for there were a lot of thick shrubs bordering it, and plenty of places to hide while watching Payne’s place.

  In his heart, Charley Fox felt quite sure how ‘funny’ Payne was, and he had only one urgent desire: to look in the workshop at the back of the man’s garage. He had built-up a complete dossier on the man, he knew about his visits to old Benoni, who had long been suspected of acting as a fence. He knew that Benoni had recently made a big sale to an American buyer, named Aaron Goldstein, and that Goldstein had an unblemished reputation. A request for a close inspection of jewellery he had with him en route for New York was on its way to Police Headquarters. Fox was drawing up a case which looked to him – and to Roger – almost unassailable.

  They now knew, for instance, that Payne had been out on the night of Alice Murray’s murder, and that he had used his son’s bicycle. A policeman on his beat had noticed him with the bicycle, and thought idly that his car must be laid up. The same policeman was able to say that Payne had been out in his car on the night of the murder of Jennie Campbell. But Fox wanted more than this, and believed that he could get it at the workshop without much difficulty. This workshop was behind Payne’s garage, and practically an extension to it. There was a side door, near the house. Fox
made it his job to watch the little house in Richmond Hill Road, with one other man. They kept a complete timetable of Payne’s movements, as well as those of the family. It was remarkable that for the first four days there was no time of the day or night when the house was really empty; either the boy, the girl, or one or the other of the parents was there all the time. Fox saw a lot of Gwen Payne, and got exactly the same impression of her as Roger had.

  It was Friday evening, just after dark, when all four of them left the house together in the Austin. Fox was on duty, watching from along the road. He heard them laughing and talking gaily, and told himself that there was no need to think that Payne suspected he was being watched; the longer that state of ignorance lasted, the better. Fox waited for ten minutes, and then went across the road. He could not be sure that the family was out for the evening, but thought it likely. He stepped into the garage, the front of which had been left open. The door which led to the side of the house was ajar, but another, presumably leading to the workshop, was closed and locked. Fox stepped towards the house, and in the back garden saw the workshop at close quarters for the first time. There was frosted glass in the lower panes of the windows, to make sure that no one could look in. They were small windows, too. He tried the workshop door again, and longed to force it. He went to the front of the garage, closed the doors, and used his torch to try to find something which he could take away, and on which there might be fingerprints.

  He found exactly what he wanted, and his heart began to beat fast, for this was a box of chocolates, of the same brand as those found in Alice Murray’s flat. He shone the torch on the shiny surface, and saw fingerprints, but they were not clear enough for him even to guess at the pattern after a close scrutiny with the naked eye. He wrapped the box carefully in a sheet of plastic, slid it into his pocket, and turned towards the garage doors. The street lighting was so dark that he did not think there was any serious risk of being seen or recognised. He pushed one of the double doors open, so as to leave them exactly as he had found them, and it scraped against the cement of the driveway. He had to push hard.