by John Creasey
Kebble, scribbling, nodded.
“Give Interpol everything we’ve got,” Roger said. “I’m going to see the Morrison girl.”
Hardy had in fact done him good. He felt fit and more confident as he ran down the Yard’s steps, and across to his car. The presentiment was forgotten. A CID woman was by Doreen’s bedside, and would take notes; he could drive himself. The sun warmed him. Blessedly, there was no interference from the Yard by radio. He found a parking space almost opposite the nursing home where the girl had been taken; it was one used a great deal by the Yard, and the atmosphere was conducive to interviews with witnesses. He wondered how much Doreen knew or would tell him, then realised belatedly that he would probably have to break the news of her sister’s death. He saw a man coming down the four steps which led from the front door.
It was Benjamin Limm, the first man to identify Denise Morrison. He was glowering, and did not recognise Roger at first.
“Good morning,” Roger said.
Limm started back, and recognition dawned. He stopped squarely in front of Roger, as if spoiling for a fight.
“You’ve no right to keep Miss Morrison here against her will.”
“How did you know where to find her?” Roger demanded.
“I asked The Globe. They gave me a hell of a lot of trouble. Bloody pommies,” Limm went on raspingly. “She wants to get out of this goddammed country, the quicker the better. And if you try to stop her I’ll see the High Commissioner. If necessary I’ll fly home and see the Prime Minister.”
“Take it easy,” Roger said. “No one wants to keep anyone here against his will. Have you seen her?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get in?”
“I said I was a relation, and they let me in. She looks awful. All she wants to do is get out of this country—”
“Yes, you said that before,” Roger interrupted. “It might have been as well if you and the others had not come in the first place, there’s no profit in the export of murder.” That stopped Limm in full flood. “I’m going to see her. If you’re in a better mood when I come out we might talk. Like to sit and wait in my car?”
Limm, still nonplussed, asked, “How long will you be?”
“Half an hour or so.”
“I’ll come back.”
“Limm,” Roger said, “did you know the ship’s carpenter on the Kookaburra, a man who called himself Marcus Jessup?”
Limm caught his breath. “What about him?”
“He may be after your life,” Roger said. “Keep your eye open for him.”
He left Limm standing. A man across the road raised a newspaper; he was the Yard man watching Limm, there was little danger. Roger went up to the front door. A young girl opened it, an elderly woman came to escort him up to Doreen Morrison’s room. Even halfway up the stairs the sound of shouting, with an unmistakable note of hysteria, was audible.
“She was very excitable soon after she woke,” the Sister said. “And the visit from her cousin made her much worse.”
“Does she know about her sister?” Roger asked.
“Yes – he told her.”
“Oh, did he,” Roger said heavily. “No wonder she was worse.”
The Sister opened the door of a room on the right. It was small and rather gloomy, with light coming only from one small window set high in the wall. A nurse was holding Doreen’s hands; the CID woman was standing in a corner, looking on. Her expression seemed to say, ‘Leave her to me, I’ll knock the nonsense out of her.’
Roger’s impression of the girl was very different from what he had expected. The hysteria had put glowing red into Doreen’s cheeks, and made her blue eyes spark and glitter. She looked quite lovely.
“I don’t want to stay here. I want to go back home. I don’t care what you say. I hate it here!”
She leaned forward and glared at Roger.
“Perhaps you can make them see sense!” she cried.
“Perhaps you’ll see some sense yourself when you know that this man saved your life last night – and saved it twice.” The CID woman looked and spoke like a severe headmistress. “Why he should risk his own to save yours God only knows. I don’t.”
Doreen Morrison stopped glaring, stopped trying to free herself from the nurse’s restraining hands. She sat quite upright, still very lovely even though the colour faded from her cheeks and the fire in her eyes slowly died.
Roger smiled gently.
“Hallo, Miss Morrison. I’m glad to see you looking better.” He moved forward and shook hands; and when he went on his voice was pitched very low. “And I am desperately sorry about your sister.
Doreen’s eyes filled with tears. She sat there, clutching Roger’s right hand, gulping, trying to fight back a gust of crying. But she could not. She leaned forward against Roger, sobbing desperately, piteously. No one seemed to move, although the paroxysm seemed to last for a long time.
At last, the tears slackened. Soon, she eased her body away from Roger’s, and looked round as if for a handkerchief. The nurse had a towel handy. Doreen dabbed her swollen, reddened eyes, sniffed, tried to speak, failed, and tried again.
“I do want to go home,” she said miserably. “I can’t stand it in England without Denise. I really can’t. Help me, please help me.”
Very quietly, Roger said, “When you’ve told us everything you can and given us the help we need, you can go home. That’s a promise.”
It took some time for the import of what he said to register. Then radiance lighted up those reddened eyes, before they filled with tears again.
Soon, she asked, “How long must I stay here?”
“Not very long.”
“A day? A week? A month?”
“Less than a week, if all goes well,” Roger said. “I’m going to ask you just one question, then I’ve work to do while you tell the detective sergeant here all you can.”
She nodded.
“What’s the question?” she asked.
“How well do you know Ben Limm?”
“Not—not really well. He was on the Kookaburra. Denise—Denise liked him a lot.”
“Did he like her?”
“I—I think so. I think he liked us both.”
“Have you met him since you left the ship?”
“We had lunch the first day ashore, that’s all,” Doreen answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Did your sister meet him in London?”
“Only at that lunch. She would have told me. I—” Doreen broke off and put her hands up in front of her face, as if to fend off some physical thing. “She might have met him after she went away. I don’t know. She was away so long.”
“Did you ever know a man named Brown – a friend of Denise?”
“No,” Doreen said. “No, I didn’t.”
There was new tension in her as she leaned forward again.
“Why—why did you ask me about Ben? He’s got nothing to do with this – he can’t have.”
That was the moment when Roger realised that the girl was in love with Benjamin Limm.
11
Girl in Anger
Benjamin Limm came striding along the pavement, a picture of restrained aggression, as Roger left the nursing home. The Yard man tailing the Australian was at the corner. Roger half expected to be greeted truculently, but instead Limm was surprisingly mild mannered.
“How is she?”
“No worse,” Roger said. “I want to talk to you. Get in my car.”
He went to the door and opened it. After a moment’s hesitation Limm got in. Roger sat next to him. Before starting the engine he flicked on the radio.
“This is Superintendent West,” he said to Information. “I
want enquiries made at The Globe to find out whether anyone on the paper told a Mr Benjamin Limm where to find Miss Doreen Morrison—”
“I can save you time,” Limm interpolated. “I saw the deputy news editor.”
“Try the deputy news editor first,” Roger went on.
Information said, “Right away, sir. Will you talk to Detective Sergeant Kebble?”
“Yes.”
“One moment, please.”
After at least a minute, Kebble came on the line. All the time Limm stared intently at Roger, without attempting to speak.
“I had a message from Lancelot Smith,” Kebble said without preamble. “He confirms that a supply of digitalis in capsule form was on the Kookaburra. It was for a passenger two trips earlier, and the surplus was never removed from the Medical Cupboard.”
“Another nail,” Roger said. “Anything else?”
“A man answering Marcus Barring alias Jessup’s description left London Airport on the 1015 flight to Dusseldorf and places east,” answered Kebble. “He had a ticket through to Sydney but said he wanted to break his journey at Dusseldorf and Hong Kong. He had one suitcase, and his ticket was booked under the name of Brown.”
“Brown!” ejaculated Roger. “The name Denise Morrison was registered under when she was found. What time does the plane leave Dusseldorf?”
“Twelve-ten,” answered Kebble. “I’ve asked the Superintendent on Interpol to find out if he left the aircraft at Dusseldorf.”
“Where’s the next stop?”
“Istanbul, at about six o’clock, then Teheran about ten. I’ve briefed the Superintendent.”
“Keep at it,” Roger said. “More?”
“Not yet!”
“Take these notes, I keep forgetting them,” Roger said. “Have a memo written to the department and the Division concerned. The switchboard operator on duty last night – the one who took the call from Doreen Morrison – was too excitable, but very quick. She wants to be calmed down a bit, nicely. The policeman who saved me from a lot of trouble at Notting Hill ought to get a commendation. And make a note for me to have a word with him some time.”
Almost at once, Kebble said, “His name was Harris, C. P. Harris. I’ll fix it, sir.”
“Good,” said Roger. “I should be back in half an hour and I may or may not have Benjamin Limm with me. I’ve promised Doreen Morrison I will take her statement personally, some time this evening.”
“Right.”
“That’s all,” Roger said.
“Don’t go, Super,” put in another man on the line, “I’ve had a word with the deputy editor of The Globe. He did give that address to Limm. One of The Globe reporters should have been waiting when Limm left, but he was sent on to a smash-and-grab in Oxford Street.”
“That’ll be a relief to one man, anyhow. Thanks.” Roger switched off and looked at Limm. “The Globe corroborated for you.”
“The only thing that surprises me is you were so quick.”
“We don’t lose more time than we have to,” Roger said. “Limm, do you know anything at all you haven’t told us? Anything at all unusual which took place on the Kookaburra, for instance.”
“No,” answered Limm quietly. “I didn’t see anyone – Denise or Doreen included – later than I told you. The last time was the lunch on the day we reached England. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“I mean is there anything more you can tell us of any kind about the voyage.”
“There was one thing,” Limm said reflectively. “Jessup, who killed himself in his cell, was an officer on board. He was caught in passengers’ cabins twice, and confined to his quarters on the last stage of the journey. I thought the shipping company would charge him with theft, but all they seem to have done was to fire him.”
“Did he steal anything?”
“He had old Sam Hackett’s wallet, crammed with currency, in his quarters. The old man was very decent about it. I happened to share a cabin with him and knew what was going on.”
“Did Hackett tell you where he was going?” Roger was now weaving his way through the West End traffic, yet seemed oblivious of its complexity.
“He said he was going to go everywhere and do everything.” Limm laughed. “He’s a high-stepping old boy, and he’s got no one to leave his money to. He didn’t care how much he spent. He didn’t go into any details, though.”
“If you think of any chance remark, anything which might give us a clue about where to find him, let us know at once,” Roger said.
“Think he’s on the list?” asked Limm heavily.
“He could be,” Roger said. “You could be, too. I’d have a lot more questions to ask any Kookaburra passenger who isn’t on the list. As far as you know could anything which happened on board explain what is happening now?”
Without hesitation, Limm answered, “Absolutely nothing.”
They were in St James’ Park now, nearing the Horse Guards Parade. Roger was silent for a minute or two, and Limm was about to speak when he said, “Why this sudden interest in Doreen Morrison?”
“It’s not all that sudden,” Limm answered gruffly. “I always had a soft spot for her, but there was no hope of prising her from Denise, and I didn’t try. Once I realised how she would feel over the murder, and what a mess she would be in, I had to try to help.”
Roger didn’t speak.
“That’s the simple truth,” Limm said awkwardly.
“I didn’t question it.”
“You question everything,” Limm retorted, half-angry, half-admiring. “What about Doreen? Can she go home?”
“I don’t see why not. With Paul Barring dead, we don’t need her evidence of his attempt on her life. If her statement is straightforward and she undertakes to swear further depositions in Australia if required, I think it can be arranged. Sure you want to take her back?”
“Absolutely.”
“Give me your London address and I’ll keep in touch,” said Roger. “But stay away from her until I give the word, will you?”
“Oh, all right,” Limm promised. “That right you’re going to take her statement yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Quite the ladies’ man, aren’t you?” Limm half-jeered.
When Roger reached the nursing home late that afternoon, Doreen was up and dressed, and looking much better. Curiously she had lost something of her attractiveness. A younger woman CID officer was with her, and she gave Roger the impression that she was very pleased with herself.
“Miss Morrison has made a statement voluntarily, sir.”
“Oh,” said Roger. He half-wished this hadn’t happened, he knew more than the officer was ever likely to know about a witness’ facial expressions when making a statement; but it was done now. “Let me see it.”
As he took it he smiled at Doreen. “Is there anything you’ve remembered since you made this?”
“No, nothing,” she answered.
Roger read the report, and within a few sentences his dissatisfaction with the CID woman vanished; she must have phrased this, and she hadn’t wasted a word. It read:
I, Doreen May Morrison, of Adelaide, South Australia, an Australian citizen lawfully holding Passport Number 851972, make this statement voluntarily and of my own free will.
On March 23rd of this year I reached Southampton on the SS Kookaburra after a journey from Australia which had lasted six weeks. I was with my sister, Denise. Our joint intention was to obtain work in England, to save sufficient money for a long tour of the continent, and to return to Australia after twelve or eighteen months. At Southampton we were told by Jessup that we could obtain work at a certain office in London. We knew that Jessup had been accused of theft on the ship, but he told us that this was unjustified, and that he had been in passengers’ cabins looking fo
r property of his own. He did not say what property. I did not want to accept any favour from Jessup, but Denise was impressed by the salaries he said we were being offered – £20 sterling a week each – and we decided to go with him.
Jessup took us to a house in Notting Hill Gate, London, where the police afterwards found me. From the beginning the arrangement was unsatisfactory but for some reason that I never understood, Denise accepted it. I had an impression that she was influenced by Jessup’s brother, Marcus, who had been one of the Kookaburra’s crew. We were told that the jobs had fallen through. I did some temporary work at garages in Hammersmith and Shepherd’s Bush, and Denise obtained a part-time job as an assistant in a dress shop, but her work did not last long. I had reason to believe she was having an affair with Marcus Jessup. The smaller brother, Paul, was extremely attentive to me, but I did not like him in spite of the fact that he (as well as his brother) appeared to have plenty of money. From time to time Paul Jessup asked me questions about how much I knew about him, and whether anyone on the ship had told us anything about him. I said no one had talked to me about him except after the thefts.
After two weeks, Denise left the rooms one morning, and did not come back. I did not see Marcus Jessup again after that, and believed they had gone off together. Paul told me that she would return. For a week I stayed at the rooms hoping she would. When I said that I would have to leave, Paul told me that I would never see Denise again unless I stayed there. Although he made frequent advances to me, he did not attempt to force himself on me. He promised me new clothes, jewellery, and anything I wanted if I would live with him. I refused. His questions about whether anyone had accused him of committing crimes became more and more insistent. I always told the truth, that no one had, but he did not appear to believe me.
One day (about five days before he made an attack on my life) I slept very heavily and when I came round I believed he had drugged me. From then on I was half dazed all the time. On one occasion I was awakened by a sharp pain in the arm, and saw Jessup holding a hypodermic syringe. I tried to get off the bed but he held me down until I lost consciousness. He kept telling me that if I didn’t tell him what I knew about him I would never see Denise again. I woke up one afternoon, and he was not in the room. I dressed, although very tired, and went out. It was the first time I had been out of doors for nearly a week. I saw a newspaper on a hallstand downstairs, and picked it up. Denise’s picture was on the front page. I knew something was badly wrong. I went to a telephone booth along the street and telephoned the number in the newspaper – Scotland Yard. I spoke to a man who said he was Superintendent West. He told me to stay where I was until he came to fetch me. Paul Jessup arrived first, however. I was frightened of him but tried to run away. He overpowered me, and forced me to go back to the rooms. Then he pinned me to the bed with his knee while he picked up a hypodermic syringe. He kept saying it was my own fault, he didn’t want to do it, but he had to. I believe he was going to kill me. Before he could give me the injection, however, another man arrived and stopped him. I was afterwards told that this man was Superintendent West. I remember nothing else until I woke up in a strange room. I was told that this was in a small nursing home, often used by the police. I know of nothing else relevant to this statement.
