Capital Crimes: London Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ‘And when the police came—did you remember to tell them about the chap who’d come out of the Turret Room; or did you have some special reason for keeping it dark?’

  ‘I—I’m afraid I rather lost my head. You see, I was planning exactly what I’d say when it occurred to me that nobody else had admitted going into that room at all, and I hadn’t an atom of proof that my story was true, and—it isn’t as if I knew who the man was…’

  ‘You know,’ said Crook, ‘it looks like I’ll be holding your baby when I’m through with Tom Merlin’s.’

  ‘I didn’t see I could do any good,’ protested Mr Smyth. ‘And then they arrested Mr Merlin and I couldn’t keep silent any longer. Because it seemed to me that though I couldn’t tell them the name of the murderer or even prove that Mr Merlin was innocent, a jury wouldn’t like to bring in a verdict of guilty when they heard what I had to say.’

  ‘Get this into your head,’ said Crook, sternly. ‘They won’t bring in a verdict of guilty in any circumstances. I’m lookin’ after Tom Merlin, so he won’t be for the high jump this time. But all the same, you and me have got to get together. Just where do you say you are?’

  ‘On the Embankment—in a call box.’

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with you coming along right now?’

  ‘In this fog?’

  ‘I thought you said the fog made it safer.’

  ‘Safer to telephone, because the box is quite near my flat.’ He broke suddenly into a queer convulsive giggle. ‘Though as a matter of fact I began to think the stars in their courses were against me, when I found I only had one penny. Luckily, there was one in my pocket—I keep one there for an evening paper…’

  ‘Keep that bit for your memoirs,’ Crook begged him. ‘Now all you’ve got to do is proceed along the Embankment.…’

  ‘The trams have stopped.’

  ‘Don’t blame ’em,’ said Crook.

  ‘And I don’t know about the trains, but I wouldn’t dare travel by Underground in this weather, and though I think there was one taxi a little while ago…’

  ‘Listen!’ said Crook. ‘You walk like I told you till you come to Charing Cross. You can’t fall off the Embankment and if there’s no traffic nothing can run you down. The tubes are all right, and from Charing Cross to Russell Square is no way at all. Change at Leicester Square. Got that? You can be in my office within twenty-five minutes. I’m only three doors from the station, and anyone will tell you my address. I’m better known after dark than any house in London, bar none.’

  ‘Wouldn’t to-morrow…?’ began Smyth, but Crook said, ‘Not it. You might have had another warning by to-morrow and this time it might be a bit more lethal than an anonymous telephone message. Now, don’t lose heart. It’s like going to the dentist. Once it’s done, it’s over for six months. So long as X. thinks you’re huggin’ your guilty secret to your own buzoom you’re a danger to him. Once you’ve spilt the beans you’re safe.’

  ‘It’s a long way to Charing Cross,’ quavered the poor little rabbit.

  ‘No way at all,’ Crook assured him. ‘And never mind about the trams and the taxicabs. You might be safer on your own feet at that.’

  Thus is many a true word spoken in jest.

  ‘And now,’ ruminated Mr Crook, laying the telephone aside and looking at the great potbellied watch he drew from his pocket, ‘First, how much of that story is true? And second, how much are the police going to believe? If he was a pal of Tom Merlin’s, that’s just the sort of story he would tell, and if it’s all my eye and Betty Martin, he couldn’t have thought of a better. It don’t prove Tom’s innocent, but as he says, it’s enough to shake the jury. Pity is, he didn’t tell it a bit sooner.’

  It was also, of course, the sort of story a criminal might tell, but in that case he’d have told it at once. Besides, even the optimistic Mr Crook couldn’t suspect Mr Smyth of the murder. He wasn’t the stuff of which murderers are made.

  ‘No personality,’ decided Crook. ‘Black tie, wing collar, umbrella and brief case, the 8.10 every weekday—Yes, Mr Brown. Certainly, Mr Jones. I will attend to that, Mr Robinson. Back on the 6.12 regular as clockwork, a newsreel or pottering with the window boxes on Saturday afternoons, long lie-in on Sunday”—that was his programme until the time came for his longest lie-in of all.

  And at that moment neither Mr Smyth nor Arthur Crook had any notion how near that was.

  Crook looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes before the balloon goes up,’ he observed. It went up like an actor taking his cue. At the end of five minutes the telephone rang again.

  ***

  As he made his snail’s pace of a way towards Charing Cross Mr Smyth was rehearsing feverishly the precise phrases he would use to Mr Crook. He was so terrified of the coming interview that only a still greater terror could have urged him forward. For there was nothing of the hero about him. The Services had declined to make use of him during the war, and it had never occurred to him to leave his safe employment and volunteer for anything in the nature of war work. Fire-watching was compulsory.

  ‘The fact is, I wasn’t born for greatness,’ he used to assure himself. ‘The daily round, the common task…I never wanted the limelight.’ But it looked as though that was precisely what he was going to get. For the hundredth time he found himself wishing he had never met Isobel Baldry, or, having met her, had never obeyed the mad impulse which made him look up the number she had given him and virtually invite himself to her party. The moment he arrived he knew she had never meant him to accept that invitation.

  ‘And oh, if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t,’ he moaned to himself.

  The darkness seemed full of eyes and ears. He stopped suddenly to see whether he could surprise stealthy footsteps coming after him, but he heard only the endless lapping of black water against the Embankment, the faint noise of the police launch going downstream, and above both these sounds, the frenzied beating of his own heart. He went on a little way, then found to his horror that he could not move. In front of him the darkness seemed impenetrable; behind him the atmosphere seemed to close up like a wall, barring his retreat. He was like someone coming down the side of a sheer cliff who suddenly finds himself paralysed, unable to move a step in either direction. He didn’t know what would have happened, but at that moment a car came through the fog travelling at what seemed to him dangerous speed. It was full of young men, the prototype of those he had met at Isobel Baldry’s ill-starred party. They were singing as they went. That gave him a fresh idea, and without moving he began to call ‘Taxi! Taxi!’ Someone in the car heard him and leaned out to shout, ‘No soap, old boy,’ but now panic had him in its grip. And it seemed as if then his luck changed. Another vehicle came more slowly through the darkness.

  ‘Taxi!’ he called, and to his relief he heard the car stop.

  Relief panted in his voice. ‘I want to go to Bloomsbury Street. No. 123. Do you know it?’

  ‘Another client for Mr Cautious Crook.’ The driver gave a huge chuckle. ‘Well, well.’

  ‘You—you mean you know him?’

  ‘All the men on the night shift know about Mr Crook. Must work on a night shift ’imself, the hours ’e keeps.’

  ‘You mean—his clients prefer to see him at night?’ He was startled.

  ‘Yerss. Not so likely to be reckernized by a rozzer, see? Oh, ’e gets a queer lot. Though this is the first time I’ve bin asked to go there in a fog like this.’ His voice sounded dubious. ‘Don’t see ’ow it can be done, guvnor.’

  ‘But you must. It’s most important. I mean, he’s expecting me.’

  ‘Sure? On a night like this? You should worry.’

  ‘But—I’ve only just telephoned him.’ Now it seemed of paramount importance that he should get there by hook or crook.

  ‘Just like that. Lumme, you must be in a ’urry.’

  ‘I am. I—I don’t mind maki
ng it worth your while…’ It occurred to him that to the driver this sort of conversation might be quite an ordinary occurrence. He hadn’t realized before the existence of a secret life dependent on the darkness.

  ‘Cost yer a quid,’ the driver said promptly.

  ‘A pound?’ He was shocked.

  ‘Mr Crook wouldn’t be flattered to think you didn’t think ’im worth a quid,’ observed the driver.

  Mr Smyth made up his mind. ‘All right.’

  ‘Sure you’ve got it on you?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I see.’ He saw that the man intended to have the pound before he started on the journey, and he fumbled for his shabby shiny notecase and pulled out the only pound it held and offered it to the driver. Even in the fog the driver didn’t miss it. He snapped on the light inside the car for an instant to allow Mr Smyth to get in, then put it off again, and his fare sank sprawling on the cushions, breathing as hard as a spent racer. The driver’s voice came to him faintly as he started up the engine.

  ‘After all, guvnor, a quid’s not much to save yer neck.’

  He started. His neck? His neck wasn’t in danger. No one thought he’d murdered Isobel Baldry. But the protest died even in his heart within a second. Not his neck but his life—that was what he was paying a pound to save. Now that the car was on its way he knew a pang of security. He was always nervous about journeys, thought he might miss the train, get into the wrong one, find there wasn’t a seat. Once the journey started he could relax. He thought about the coming interview; he was pinning all his faith on Arthur Crook. He wouldn’t be scared; the situation didn’t exist that could scare such a man. And perhaps, he reflected, lulling himself into a false security, Mr Crook would laugh at his visitor’s fears. That’s just what I wanted, he’d say. You’ve solved the whole case for me, provided the missing link. Justice should be grateful to you, Mr Smyth.…He lost himself in a maze of prefabricated dreams.

  Suddenly he realized that the cab, which had been crawling for some time, had now drawn to a complete standstill. The driver got down and opened the door.

  ‘Sorry, sir, this perishin’ fog. Can’t make it, after all.’

  ‘You mean, you can’t get there?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘It’s my neck as well as yours,’ the driver reminded him.

  ‘But—I must—I mean are you sure it’s impossible? If we go very slowl…’

  ‘If we go much slower we’ll be proceedin’ backwards. Sorry, guvnor, but there’s only one place we’ll make to-night if we go any farther and that’s Kensal Green. Even Mr Crook can’t ’elp you once you’re there.’

  ‘Then—where are we now?’

  ‘We ain’t a ’undred miles from Charing Cross,’ returned the driver cautiously. ‘More than that I wouldn’t like to say. But I’m not taking the cab no farther in this. If any mug likes to try pinchin’ it ’e’s welcome. Most likely wrap ’imself round a lamppost if he does!’

  Reluctantly, Mr Smyth crawled out into the bleak street; it was bitterly cold and he shivered.

  ‘I’ll ’ave to give you that quid back,’ said the driver, wistfully.

  ‘Well, you didn’t get me to Bloomsbury Street, did you?’ He supposed he’d have to give the fellow something for his trouble. He put out one hand to take the note and shoved the other into the pocket where he kept his change. Then it happened, with the same shocking suddenness as Isobel Baldry’s death. His fingers had just closed on the note when something struck him with appalling brutality. Automatically he grabbed harder, but it wasn’t any use; he couldn’t hold it. Besides, other blows followed the first. A very hail of blows in fact, accompanied by shock and sickening pain and a sense of the world ebbing away. He didn’t really appreciate what had happened; there was too little time. Only as he staggered and his feet slipped on the wet leaves of the gutter, so that he went down for good, he thought, the darkness closing on his mind forever, ‘I thought it was damned comfortable for a taxi.’

  ***

  It was shortly after this that Arthur Crook’s telephone rang for the second time, and a nervous voice said, ‘This is Mr Smyth speaking. Mr Crook, I’m sorry I can’t make it. I—this fog’s too thick. I’ll get lost. I’m going right back.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Crook heartily. ‘Don’t mind me. Don’t mind Tom Merlin. We don’t matter.’

  ‘If I get knocked down in the fog and killed it won’t help either of you,’ protested the voice.

  ‘Come to that, I dare say I won’t be any worse off if you are.’

  ‘But—you can’t do anything to-night.’

  ‘If I’m goin’ to wait for you I shan’t do anything till Kingdom Come.’

  ‘I—I’ll come to-morrow. It won’t make any difference really.’

  ‘We’ve had all this out before,’ said Crook. ‘I was brought up strict. Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day.’

  ‘But I can’t—that’s what I’m telling you. I’ll come—I’ll come at nine o’clock to-morrow.’

  ‘If he lets you,’ said Crook darkly.

  ‘He?’

  ‘He might be waiting for you on the doorstep. You never know. Where are you, by the way?’

  ‘In a call box.’

  ‘I know that. I heard the pennies drop. But where?’

  ‘On the Embankment.’

  ‘What’s the number?’

  ‘It’s a call box, I tell you.’

  ‘Even call boxes have numbers.’

  ‘I don’t see…’

  ‘Not trying to hide anything from me, Smyth, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s Fragonard 1511.’

  ‘That’s the new Temple exchange. You must have overshot your mark.’

  ‘Oh? Yes. I mean, have I?’

  ‘You were coming from Charing Cross. You’ve walked a station too far.’

  ‘It’s this fog. I thought—I thought it was Charing Cross just over the road.’

  ‘No bump of locality,’ suggested Crook kindly.

  ‘I can’t lose my way if I stick to the Embankment. I’m going straight back to Westminster and let myself into my flat, and I’ll be with you without fail at nine sharp to-morrow.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Crook pleasantly. ‘Happy dreams.’ He rang off. ‘Picture of a gentleman chatting to a murderer,’ he announced. ‘Must be a dog’s life, a murderer’s. So damned lonely. And dangerous. You can’t trust anyone, can’t confide in anyone, can’t even be sure of yourself. One slip and you’re finished. One admission of something only the murderer can know and it’s the little covered shed for you one of these cold mornings. Besides, you can’t guard from all directions at once, and how was the chap who’s just rung me to know that Smyth only had two coppers on him when he left his flat to-night, and so he couldn’t have put through a second call?’

  The inference was obvious. Someone wanted Mr Crook to believe that Smyth had gone yellow and that was why he hadn’t kept his date. Otherwise—who knew?—if the mouse wouldn’t come to Mahomet, Mahomet might go looking for the mouse. And later, when the fog had dispersed, some early workman or street cleaner, perhaps even a bobby, would stumble over a body on the Embankment, and he—Crook—would come forward with his story and it would be presumed that the chap had been bowled over in the dark—or even manhandled for the sake of any valuables he might carry. Crook remembered his earlier thought—work for the doctor, for the ambulance driver, for the mortician—and for Arthur Crook. Somewhere at this instant Smyth lay, deprived forever of the power of passing on information, rescuing an innocent man, helping to bring a guilty one to justice, somewhere between Temple Station and Westminster Bridge.

  ‘And my bet ’ud be Temple Station,’ Crook told himself.

  It was a fantastic situation. He considered for a moment ringing the police and telling them the story, but the police are only interested in crimes afte
r they’ve been committed, and a murder without a corpse just doesn’t make sense to them at all. So, decided Mr Crook, he’d do all their spadework for them, find the body and then sit back and see how they reacted to that. He locked his office, switched off the lights and came tumbling down the stairs like a sack of coals. It was his boast that he was like a cat and could see in the dark, but even he took his time getting to Temple Station. Purely as a precaution, he pulled open the door of the telephone booth nearby and checked the number. As he had supposed, it was Fragonard 1511.

  There was a chance, of course, that X. had heaved the body over the Embankment, but Crook was inclined to think not. To begin with, you couldn’t go dropping bodies into the Thames without making a splash of some sort, and you could never be sure that the Thames police wouldn’t be passing just then. Besides, even small bodies are heavy, and there might be blood. Better on all counts to give the impression of a street accident. Crook had known of cases where men had deliberately knocked out their victims and then ridden over them in cars. Taking his little sure-fire pencil torch from his pocket, Crook began his search. His main fear wasn’t that he wouldn’t find the body, but that some interfering constable would find him before that happened. And though he had stood up to bullets and blunt instruments in his time, he knew that no career can stand against ridicule. He was working slowly along the Embankment, wondering if the fog would ever lift, when the beam of his torch fell on something white a short distance above the ground. This proved to be a handkerchief tied to the arm of one of the Embankment benches. It was tied hard in a double knot, with the ends spread out, as though whoever put it there wanted to be sure of finding it again. He looked at it for a minute before its obvious significance occurred to him. Why did you tie a white cloth to something in the dark? Obviously to mark a place. If you didn’t, on such a night, you’d never find your way back. What he still didn’t know was why whoever had put out Smyth’s light should want to come back to the scene of the crime. For it was Smyth’s handkerchief. He realized that as soon as he had untied it and seen the sprawling letters ‘Smyth’ in one corner. There was something peculiarly grim about a murderer taking his victim’s handkerchief to mark the spot of the crime. After that it didn’t take him long to find the body. It lay in the gutter, the blood on the crushed forehead black in the bright torchlight, the face dreadful in its disfigurement and dread. Those who talked of the peace of death ought to see a face like that; it might quiet them a bit, thought Mr Crook grimly. He’d seen death so often you’d not have expected him to be squeamish, but he could wish that someone else had found Mr Smyth.