The Scene of the Crime

by John Creasey

  Martin stood in the darkness of the garage for half a minute, his heart thumping with an unfamiliar kind of emotion. He felt as if he were choking. There was only a sliver of light from the garage doors, which had not been tightly closed and for that half minute he could make out nothing but the vague shape of the window, on his right. Then he began to pick out oddments; dark round shapes hanging on the pale coloured walls, for instance – some old tyres. He moved cautiously, and kicked against something which gave out a loud clang; it made him stop abruptly. No one seemed to have heard. He moved back towards the doors, where the light switch was likely to be, and longed for a torch; the frustrating thing was that Richard always carried one, but he seldom troubled to. He groped for the switch, found it, kept its position in mind, and then went to the doors and closed them more tightly. When the light was on, it wouldn’t be seen so easily from the street or from the house.

  He switched on the light.

  It was a small garage, smelly with oil, with only just room for a car, and the only surprising thing was a door at the back and a door at the side. He went towards these. The side door was unlocked, and when he opened it a few inches and peered through, he saw that there was a light on at the back of the house but none at the side. He closed the door quickly, then turned to the one in the end wall of the garage.

  This was locked.

  It seemed more solid than the side door, too, and made no noise when he pressed against it. There was no point in pushing for the sake of pushing, so he drew back, then put out the light, for there was a switch at this end. He crept out by the side door and saw the light still on at the back of the house. He had a strangely guilty feeling, as well as one of fear, as he crept towards the back door, where light shone through glass panels. He reached the window, and looked in cautiously. No one was in the kitchen, but another light was on in a passage leading off it. That was a relief; Fox and Payne must have gone to the front of the house. Probably they were sitting back and having a drink; Richard was almost certainly right.

  But at least he could look round here while he was about it, Martin decided.

  The kitchen light showed a section of the garage which had two high windows. It was about six feet long by ten feet or so, and in complete darkness. There were clouds tonight, so the sky was darker than usual, too. Scoopy tiptoed to try to see through the windows, but could not; the windows’ bottom sections were frosted, anyhow, but the top seemed clear. He jumped up once or twice but could not get high enough; then he stretched up, gripped the narrow window ledge, and began to haul himself up by his arms. With a little better purchase it would have been easy, because he was used to this kind of exercise in the gymnasium, but now he was hanging on by the tips of his fingers, and could not be sure he would make it. Gradually, muscles strained and neck feeling tight and constricted, he hauled himself up until his eyes were on a level with the top, and the plain glass of the window.

  He could not see a thing; it was pitch dark inside.

  “Oh, what’s the use!” he muttered in vexation, and prepared himself for the drop, then let go. He judged it well, his knees bent, and he leaned against the back of the shed for a few moments, wondering what to do next. He smelt something – rather like gas – but did not give that any thought. There were often smells about a garage or a workshop.

  He stood quite still, frowning, trying to think.

  Obviously, this was some kind of a workshop – a tool shed, perhaps. A lot of people were fussy about their tools, and he knew that old Mr. Montifiore, for instance, had a special padlock on the door of his tool-shed, but this was different; anyone could see in, because light was wanted for work at the bench inside the shed.

  Was there anything in this workshop or whatever-it-was to explain what Payne did for a living? Had the Yard man come in here, for instance, and looked round before going to the house itself?

  Had he really gone to the house?

  Years of listening to his father talking, hearing a hundred examples of detailed deductive reasoning, had taught Martin a great deal, and much of it he did not realise that he knew. Now he was asking himself the kind of questions which his father would ask. He was remembering how often his father had said that when one heard a thing, one seldom listened properly. There were often three or four sounds when a listener noticed only one or two. The power of observation was the most important single factor in detection, the second was to have a trained and retentive memory. Now, Scoopy found himself thinking back to the slamming of the door. What would that tell his father? A door might slam in the wind, but there was no wind tonight. So, it had either been pulled too sharply by accident, or slammed in a temper.

  There were the footsteps, too.

  Scoopy made himself stand quite still, and think back to the moment. First, the door had slammed – and there had been a little rattle of metal! – he had forgotten that. Oh, yes, and one of the men had spoken: it had just been a word or two, quite indistinguishable, but also quite definite; now Scoopy told himself that it was the kind of expletive which someone would use in anger.

  Why in anger, tonight?

  There had been the footsteps; four or five. Well, which was it? Four or five? He tried to remember vividly enough to count. One – two – three – four, all sharp footsteps, the kind made by steel heel protectors on hard ground, such as cement or stone, and then a softer one, the kind of sound that might come when one stepped on a stair – the back doorstep, of course! One – two – three – four – up on the ball of his foot! That was it. Now that he could recall everything so vividly, Scoopy was quite sure of one thing: there had only been one man.

  So, where was the Yard detective?

  There was only one possible place, Scoopy reasoned, and turned round and stared at the dark wall of the workshop: in there. His heart was hammering, his mind worked very quickly, going backwards and forwards over events remembering the scraping of the garage door, the silence, the fact that there had been no sound until that door had slammed. There was no doubt that the Yard man had gone into the garage but not come out. If he had come out of the side door on to that hard ground between the garage and the back door he, Martin, would have heard something; and Richard would have, for certain.

  How far away was he from a telephone, or from a police call box?

  Scoopy did not know this road well. He did know that in a few minutes he could be on his bicycle, within five he could make a call to 999, and have the police at this spot within ten minutes. That was the obvious thing to do, if he could be sure that there was any need for it. But supposing there was not? Supposing he had reasoned wrongly – even supposing he had been preoccupied, and not heard the Yard man moving from the garage to the house. He couldn’t be sure that there was any need for an emergency call, and what a fool he would look if he brought the police out here for no reason at all.

  Another thought slipped into his mind.

  There might be good reason for not bringing the police here. If Payne was being watched, for instance, even if he had been questioned tonight, there was a possibility that the Yard was not yet ready to act; that was another thing his father was very strong on: never being too hasty. “More good cases are spoilt by impetuous action than any other single factor; before an arrest is made a case must be foolproof.”

  Well, this wasn’t anywhere near foolproof.

  Scoopy pushed his fingers through his straight hair, and was surprised that his forehead was so wet with sweat. He moved a little way from the side of the shed or workshop, knowing that there was only one thing he could possibly do: make absolutely sure that there was something wrong. It was easy, really, he simply had to break that glass and look inside.

  If only he had a torch.

  There might be one in the garage!

  He hurried to the side door, warning himself to be very careful; at least his rubber soled shoes made no sound. He opened t
he door, stepped in and switched on the light, then looked about the window ledge and some old boxes where tools were standing; he saw no sign of a torch. When you came to think, there was hardly any need for one in the garage with a light switch at either end. He scowled in disappointment, then turned and studied the heavier door, touched the handle and pushed again, but there was no hope of getting inside. There was a Yale lock; Payne certainly made sure that no one could get in easily. Scoopy put his shoulder to the door and heaved, but apart from making a dull booming noise, which he did not want, there was no result. Despondently, he turned round again.

  Then he saw a box of matches.

  His heart leapt.

  It looked an old, often used box of the kind in which screws or washers might be kept, and his heart was in his mouth when he picked it up and shook it. The light rattling sound of matches rewarded him. He opened the box, and saw at least a dozen redheaded matches, the kind that would strike on any rough surface; he did not need the box! He slipped it into his pocket, then eyed one of the old wooden boxes.

  “Just what I want,” he said aloud.

  He took the tools off it, carefully, put them on the window ledge, and lifted the box; it was quite heavy and solid. He put out the light and, with extreme care, earned the box out, keeping the door open with his foot to make sure it didn’t bang. At last, the door was safely and silently closed, and he was close to the window with the wooden box. He pushed it a little nearer. He was breathing very hard, but excitement had quite overcome fear. He glanced round at the house, where the light was still streaming out from the kitchen, and for safety’s sake he stepped forward and made sure that the room was still empty.

  Then he placed the box near the wall, beneath the window. It was very simple. He climbed up, testing the strength of the box gradually, without putting too much weight on it at one go. Soon he was kneeling on it, close enough to look at the frosted glass in the lower section of the window. When he stood up to his full height, he was a little too high and had to crouch down so as to peer at the window. He could see nothing, of course. Supposing he lit a match now, would there be any chance of seeing in? He tried to remember what happened if one had a small light on the outside of a window, and told himself that it was pointless; he wouldn’t be able to see because the light and its reflection would dazzle him.

  He had to get a light inside that shed.

  So he had to break a window.

  He leaned against the shed, one hand fiddling with the box of matches. They rattled reassuringly. The big box creaked, too. He reasoned consciously now, as he believed his father would. In order to look inside, he had to break a window, but there would be very little time to spare. Once he broke the window, the noise might attract people—probably including Payne. There was a risk that Payne would return to the kitchen, and he would know at once where the noise had come from; so he, Martin, had to plan this thing so that he could take a look inside the shed, check whether there was any need for alarm – check if the Yard man were a prisoner, that was the main thing – and then jump off the box and rush out so fast that he could not be stopped by anyone until he was able to summon the police. If there was no one inside that shed after all, the quicker he got away the better. No one need know who had been there, and he wouldn’t make himself or his father a laughing stock.

  So, the thing was to break the window, and have the light ready almost at the same time.

  The best way would be to punch a hole in the window with his left hand; his thick cycling glove would give him plenty of protection, all he had to do was to make sure that he didn’t cut his wrist. As he broke the glass with his left fist, he must strike a match against the wooden wall of the shed with his ungloved right hand; he could use his right hand much more dexterously, strike the match as close to the actual window as possible, then thrust the light inside. He mustn’t thrust it too fast, or the wind of the movement would put it out, which would lose precious seconds. Actually, he ought to have his left hand free to shield the flame when it was first struck, so the best way would be to bend his elbow, smash the glass with that, then strike the match.

  He had a kind of rehearsal. Elbow bent, cracked against the glass, remember how tough glass could be, give it a good hearty wallop. The moment it was through, strike the match with his right hand, bring his left hand back to protect the light and get a steady flame, put both hands through the broken window even at the risk of a scratch or two, and make sure that the workshop was empty.

  Empty or full, he must then drop everything and run like mad towards his bicycle. He could be away in twenty seconds flat. Now that he had been over every move, and made as sure as possible that nothing could go wrong, he felt a fierce sense of excitement, and only wished that Richard were here. This was exactly the kind of daring thing Richard would revel in.

  Ready?

  He bent his elbow, held a match firmly, then decided that two matches held tightly together would break less easily. He took out another, placed the heads against the rough wood of the wall close to the window, and drew his left elbow back.

  Go!

  His elbow cracked against the glass. He felt it give. He struck the matches. He smelt the gas, but there was no time even for a moment of terror, because there was a blinding flash and a roar of sound, and he felt himself lifted off the box and hurled backwards.

  His head cracked sickeningly against the cement of the yard, and he lay still.

  The gas exploded in one blinding flash. The roar echoed about the backs of the little gardens and made many people wonder what it was. There was no fire, but inside, the gas hissed gently near Charley Fox’s face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Welcome Home

  Payne was still in the front of the house at the time of the explosion but the windows were closed, and the sound he heard was like a car backfiring. Being at the front, the windows did not rattle, and there was nothing to suggest that anything had happened on his premises. He was in his bedroom, looking at the gas fire. In his right hand was a glass, now nearly empty of whisky and soda. He put it to his lips again, sipped, and lowered his head, staring at the fire all the time.

  It was a large one.

  Gwen liked warmth, that was one of the reasons for the double bed. She was a chilly mortal. She had bought that fire herself, twelve years ago, when they had first come to live here, and it had been one of her few extravagances, but neither of them had ever regretted it. It was alight now, hissing gently, so as to have the bedroom warm for the early part of the night. He could picture her standing there taking off her clothes, satiny skin gleaming in the firelight. If he were in bed, or if he were sitting and watching her, she would take every garment off slowly; the trick with the brassiere was one she used often, and it never failed to tease him. He could almost see her, and he would see her tonight.

  Soon.

  There was good time, thanks to the ape from Scotland Yard, who had said that he had to report by midnight. Gwen and the children would be home soon after ten thirty. They would be lighthearted and full of talk about the film. Maurice would start yawning first, and probably go straight to bed, and Gwen would take him a glass of warm milk in bed – or he, the father, would. In the warm milk, tonight, there would be a little sleeping draught, as there had once been in chocolates.

  That was the safe course.

  Hilda would go up soon after making her own milk and malt drink. As she would be more tired than usual, she would be delighted if her father took it up to her.

  Then, Gwen.

  Gwen always revelled in the luxury of tea in bed, and she liked her tea sweet, so there would not be the slightest reason for her to suspect that there was any drug in it. Within half an hour of the lights going out, each of them would be fast asleep, as they had been when he had gone to kill Alice Murray.

  How long ago that seemed!

  He had almo
st forgotten what Alice looked like, and had to force his mind to recall all the details of her face and her body; the pale, rather thin, flat-breasted little creature. The thought and the vision of her faded, and he saw Gwen again. He would have to be very careful tonight, because Gwen was so sensitive about his moods; he had to make sure that for at least half an hour he could behave as if he were on top of the world. It wouldn’t be easy but it could be done. First, have some sandwiches and biscuits waiting for them – ah! They would want a snack tonight, he had forgotten that, so he must have sandwiches ready. They would probably have them and their drinks downstairs – and if they did it would be easier; the important thing was not to stay alone with Gwen too long, for fear she should suspect that there was something the matter.

  Oh, God; Gwen!

  But she mustn’t know. He could not face her if she knew what he had done, what an abject failure he was. He could not face any of them again. There was no doubt that he was planning the only possible thing. He was saving them from the honor and the distress of the discovery. Unless they were dead by midnight, the police would come, and would save them.

  The police would come anyhow, if the ape was right, but they would come for him, Payne. They would ask if he had seen Fox, he would deny it, and no one would have any idea what was happening upstairs. Fox would be dead by then, of course, he was probably dead now.

  Was midnight long enough?

  Couldn’t he telephone a report to the Yard, purporting to come from Fox, saying that he had been delayed? That would hold the Yard back for a few hours, perhaps all night. There was no telling – Fox might have lied to him, and have come alone tonight, hoping to collect all the glory for himself. The wise thing was to say nothing by telephone, just wait. After all, the Yard wasn’t likely to come on the stroke of twelve; if Fox reported late there would be some inquiries, probably nothing would be done for half an hour, possibly an hour or more. Even if it were, remember, all he had to say was that Fox had been to see him, and had gone away. There would be no reason for the police to come into the house or to look for Fox – they wouldn’t dream of the real truth.