Seven Days to Death

by John Creasey

  He’d been gone for twenty minutes.

  Benson had opened the kitchen drawer and now stared at the knives, forks, and spoons inside. His gaze was mostly concentrated on the knives. There was one, a poultry knife which had worn thin in the middle. It was very sharp. There was also a green felt sheath for a bread knife, to stop it from getting tarnished. He kept searching until he found a knife sharpener, took this to a tap and ran cold water on it, and then began to sharpen the poultry knife. Every now and again he paused, so that the grating hiss of steel on steel stopped,-and he listened for the sound of Freddy’s approach.

  He heard nothing.

  Freddy was to tap at the back door, three times.

  Benson finished sharpening the knife, and drew the blade along his thumb; he just broke the surface of the epidermis. Then he slid the knife into the green felt sheath, tied it near the handle of the knife, and slid it all down the front of his trousers. He fastened the top of the sheath onto a trousers button, so that it would not work down, and then walked about, shifting the knife until it was in the most convenient position.

  Now he was smiling.

  He stopped smiling, for it was five past seven; Freddy had been gone a long time. He moved to the door, hesitated, put the light out, and then opened the door an inch. He could see the pale night, reflecting the snow. Some way off there were a few yellow lights, but not enough to worry him. He heard nothing.

  Cold air swept in.

  He closed the door and began to shiver, only partly from the cold.

  Three things were possible.

  One, that Freddy had been delayed, but would soon arrive with some food. With food.

  Two, that he had deliberately run out on his partner.

  Three, that he had been caught.

  Benson didn’t seriously consider the second possibility, but he had to consider the last. It made him sweat, in spite of the fit of shivering. He felt the gnawing at his stomach as if it were a sharp pain. Fear made it worse. He knew Freddy Tisdale only through prison life; he couldn’t be sure that Freddy wouldn’t break down and give a partner away. And the snow, which muffled all sound of approach, could muffle all sound of the police also, if they were coming.

  Benson went upstairs, crept into an icy cold bedroom and, still shivering, moved to the window. He couldn’t possibly be seen, yet he kept to one side, as if the night had eyes. He peered into the street, the white pavements and the banks of packed snow, the three neglected snowmen, the little houses with lights at the windows and at fanlights, all the front • doors closed tightly against the bitter March wind.

  He went back to the kitchen; and as he reached the door which led from the passage”, he heard a dull sound. He stopped absolutely still, until it was repeated, and this time there was no mistake. Bump, bump, bump. This was Freddy; it must be. Yet, as he moved forward, Benson felt his heart almost choking him. Freddy might have been caught and might have given that signal away; he might open the door to a copper.

  And Freddy might have returned - empty-handed.

  Benson stood to one side, took the knife out and slid it into his trousers pocket, and then, left hand stretched out, he turned the key in the lock. Freddy could hear that. Then he opened the door a fraction of an inch.

  “That you, Freddy?”

  “Who the hell do you think it is?” Freddy demanded hoarsely. “Let me in, I’m frozen ruddy stiff.”

  Benson opened the door wider and Freddy came in, so cold that his teeth were chattering and his body shaking. His eyes looked sharply veined and glittery, his nose and his cheeks were blue, but he carried a cardboard carton, and the pockets of his stolen coat bulged.

  Food!

  Benson closed the door without a sound and switched on the light. He was breathing harshly, now. Freddy moved toward the kitchen table, dumped the box down, and then emptied his pockets; he didn’t stop shivering.

  “Flicking customers,” he said, “there was a couple of women, standing there gassing; the shopkeeper and his perishing wife wouldn’t let them go. I stood in a wind that cut like a flicking knife. Here, you dish up, I’ve got to go and get myself warm.”

  Benson didn’t speak.

  Steaming hot soup, ham, cheese, tinned potatoes, tinned peas, and some rye bread in a packet made a meal which might almost have come from the Savoy Grill. Benson and Tisdale hadn’t eaten food like it for three years. They ate slowly and steadily for twenty minutes, until Freddy began to wilt. They had hardly uttered a word since his return.

  Suddenly Benson said: “All we could do with is some beer. You got any beer?” He gave a tight-lipped grin.

  “Like me to go and get some?” asked Freddy, also grinning. His face now had a much more amiable expression.

  Benson said, “You’re okay, Freddy, you’ve got what it takes. What are you going to do after we leave here? Stringing along with me or playing solo?”

  “You any idea?” Freddy asked.

  “We could play it both ways,” Benson said. “I’m going south, but let me tell you something. I’ve got a card index in my head, the best card index there is in the country. I know the name and address of every man and woman they think I might try to get in touch with, and I know the names of some people they won’t even think about. I’m going to get in touch with some of those, and they’ll do what I want them to do. They’ll stake me, and they’ll let me lie undercover. I don’t need very long. I’ve got some dough put away, and I’m going to get out of this country just as soon as I’ve finished one little job.”

  “What’s the job?”

  Benson said, “Know who put me inside, Freddy?”

  “No.”

  “My wife.”

  Freddy said, “Like hell she did! ‘Nother guy?”

  “I don’t think she had one then, but that’s one of the things I’m going to find out,” said Benson. “There are a lot of things I’m going to find out.” He fell silent for a moment, looking at Freddy through his eyelashes, those fine, dark, curly lashes which were reproduced in his son. “You know where you’re going?”

  “Syd,” said Freddy Tisdale, in a quiet voice, “all I cared about was getting out of that place, and all I care about now is keeping out. I’d kill anyone who tried to stop me, and I mean it. And before I let them take me back, I’d kill myself. That’s the way I feel about it.”

  “That’s the way we feel about it,” Benson said. “This is what we do. We keep together while we go down south; two can do that better than one, see. And I’ll send you to a skirt who’ll see you all right for as long as you need to lie low. When the heat’s off, okay, we can get out of the country. We go it together until we get to London; that okay with you?”

  “It’s a privilege,” Freddy said.

  “That’s what I like to hear. Now listen,” Benson went on. “I don’t want to play the luck too hard. We could stay here for three or four days, and then run right into trouble. I reckon we ought to leave here just before dawn in the morning so no one can see us, and then ...”

  Freddy said, “Syd, that would make me nervous. It’ll be so cold then, and it’s the wrong time of day anyway. Anyone who did see us would notice us, wouldn’t they?”

  Benson grinned.

  “It’s okay,” he said, “you know the answers. Freddy, is there a big car park near here?”

  “There’s the one at the market.”

  “Market open tomorrow?”

  “And every day.”

  “Could we get there around twelve o’clock, say, when the park’ll be full, knock off a car, and get going?” .

  “We got to try something,” Freddy said. “Why not . that? If we leave here around half past eleven, anyone who sees us will think we’ve been looking over the house. That okay?”

  “That’s fine,” said Benson. “Freddy!”

>   “Yeh?”

  “You mean what you said about killing anyone who tried to get in your way?”

  “I meant it.”

  “Okay,” said Syd Benson. “So did I.”

  Next morning, Gideon woke up about seven o’clock, and lay for a few minutes looking at the sun shining in at a corner of the window. He heard no noises about the house; the only slight sound was of his wife’s breathing, as she lay in the other bed. None of the children was about, then; the older they got, the later they were getting up in the morning. He eased himself up on his elbows; there was no break in his wife’s even breathing. He got out of bed, shrugged on a dressing gown which made him look huge, pushed his feet into slippers, and went to the door. He’d bring her a cup of tea, as he often did. He glanced back at her from the door, and found himself smiling. She didn’t look at her best, but she was all right; and when she was at her best she was really something. She wouldn’t like the way her hairnet was half on and half off, but that didn’t matter, either.

  Gideon went out, and down the stairs.

  This house at Hurlingham was not far from the Thames and the polo ground. The houses were in long terraces, each with two stories and an attic, and he had taken particular pride in his. Years ago, he had turned it from two flats into one house, and now the attic was set aside for the boys, including their sleeping cubicles; the girls, Gideon, and Kate slept on the floor below. Gideon had done much of the converting himself and still kept the house decorated; if he had a hobby,- it was woodwork and anything to do with painting and decorating. He liked to keep the value of his property up.

  He had a good night.

  Kate had been waiting for him, too, and he wasn’t quite used to that. After the death of their son, seven years and more ago, they had gone through a very bad period, gradually growing apart and aloof from each other. At one time, Gideon had seriously wondered whether they would see their marriage through. Then, without quite knowing what had happened, things had changed.

  There was no demonstration, but they began to understand each other again, and to enjoy each other’s company. Gideon soon found this new atmosphere much, much better than he had ever hoped. It brought a sense of excitement even at home. It helped him to get more fun out of his children, too - their children now, rather than hers or his. The change was still sufficiently fresh for him to wonder at it; and to wonder, also, whether anything would happen to spoil it.

  The truth was that he looked forward to coming ~home, and got home whenever he could. At one time, he had taken any excuse to stay at the office.

  He made the tea, just for himself, and ate; it was a rule that the children could have “tea if they cared to make it for themselves - except on Sundays, when the girls were given a treat.

  He thought he heard a tap running upstairs, and then reached the landing and heard a door open.

  Pru stood there in her peach-coloured nightdress.

  It was a funny thing, thought Gideon, but you saw your own daughter, day in and day out, from the time she was a toddler to the time when she was nearly twenty, and it took a moment like this to make you realize that she was a young woman. Mary Rose hadn’t a thing that his Prudence lacked. He hadn’t realized that she had quite such a figure, her mother probably made her flatten herself a bit in her day clothes. Trust Kate.

  Prudence looked young, fresh, pretty - and anxious.

  “Dad,” she said in a whisper, “what do you honestly think about Will Rose’s chances?”

  “If he didn’t kill the girl, Pru, he’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “And you didn’t mind Mary going to see you?”

  “No, of course not.” Gideon hesitated for a moment, and then looked at her very intently, suspecting something that she hadn’t told him. “What’s on your mind, Pru?”

  “You really didn’t mind?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Well, thank goodness,” Pru said, “because there’s something I didn’t tell you. Yesterday morning, Mary rang me up, she was ever so upset, and she asked me if I’d have a word with you. I said it would be much better if she went to see you herself, and - well, you know what happened, don’t you? I don’t think she would have thought of coming to Scotland Yard if it hadn’t been for me, and afterward I wondered if I’d rather let you down.”

  Gideon said, “You didn’t let me down at all, Pru. Always fight for anything you believe in, and above all fight for your friends. Was she really a close friend?”

  “Well, no. We did just know each other, but she’s two years older than I, you see.”

  “You didn’t know her well, then?”

  “Not really.”

  “Like her?”

  “Yes, everyone did.”

  “What kind of reputation did she have?”

  “Dad,” said Prudence, wisely, “I wish I knew what you were asking me all these questions for. What do you want to know?”

  “Whether Mary Rose is a liar, Pru.”

  Pru didn’t speak.

  “Did she have a reputation as a liar?”

  “No, everyone liked her.”

  “All right,” said Gideon, “if she’s telling the truth about what she and her brother did on Thursday, she’ll be all right and so will he. If she’s lying - well, it will do her more harm than good, and it certainly won’t do him any good. Now you go and put a dressing gown on. I left a kettle on a low gas, if you want a cup of tea.”

  “Oh, thanks,” said Prudence. “Thanks a lot, Dad.”

  Kate was awake, beginning to sit up, with the hairnet off and her hair unruly in an orderly fashion; she had pushed it together with her long, thin fingers. It wasn’t really surprising that her daughters had good figures! Her eyes were bright, and she had something of Pru’s freshness.

  “Hear all that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Kate said. “I only hope Mary Rose isn’t lying.”

  Gideon got into the Wolseley a little after half past eight. Prudence wasn’t going out until the afternoon, but would spend the morning practicing interminably on her fiddle. Penelope, their youngest girl, was still going to school and had to go in the other direction. Priscilla, now sixteen, had just left school and had a job in a Chelsea office. Gideon dropped her off at the nearest corner office and watched her as she hurried, quite the young woman in her high heels and her nylons. She turned and waved, then disappeared. He grinned to himself, but there was a hint of a sigh as he started off again. Prudence first and now Priscilla had made him feel old. But that mood soon passed; and from then on until he reached the office, he was mulling over everything that had happened the previous day. The report was being prepared, as usual, and he grinned at the thought.

  He wondered if any more of the escaped prisoners had been caught during the night.

  None had.

  There was only one change in the scene since yesterday; the quiet spell had ended, and in the Metropolitan area alone there had been forty-nine burglaries during the night, seven arrests had already been made. Fingerprints both at the Yard and at the Divisions were working to their limit.

  There would be no time to spare today.

  Lemaitre and Jefferson were in Gideon’s office, and for twenty minutes they all went through the daily reports and made comments.

  The three men from the Bond Street smash-and-grab raid would be up for the first magistrate’s court hearing; in all, there were nineteen cases of major felonies up - most of them likely to be dealt with summarily, three likely to be sent for trial.

  Lefty Bligh, the safe-breaker, had got himself a job as a messenger to a small firm of office consultants; and, by a strange coincidence, the office was on the same floor as a bookmaker’s, where usually large sums in cash were kept in an ultramodern safe.

  �
�Lefty will have a crack at that, soon,” Gideon said. “Have two men always on the premises, to catch him red- handed.”

  “Right,” said Lemaitre.

  Next, Gideon glanced through the newspapers, which had difficulty in choosing between the Primrose Girl murder and the prison break. They solved their problems by sharing the space equally. There were photographs of six of the fugitive prisoners, including Benson; and there was a photograph of William Rose.

  Before he started the usual briefing, Gideon looked through two medical reports which had been made about the accused boy. One was emphatic; he was perfectly sane and showed no indication of mental unbalance. The other, from a man whose name Gideon didn’t know, suggested that there were indications of mental instability and recommended that the boy’s medical history be carefully checked.

  Gideon telephoned. Smedd, who would have a copy of these.

  “Yes, I’m getting a report from the boy’s family doctor and his school doctor,” Smedd said at once. “Should have them in today. I’ll send you copies.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Gideon. “Mind if I make a suggestion?”

  “Very glad to hear it.”

  “Thanks. If there’s a weakness in the case, it’s the knife that was used. The boy could have lost it. Will you try to check, with family, friends, people at his place of work, and make sure he didn’t tell anyone else he’d lost it?”

  “I’ll see to that,” said Smedd.

  “Fine. Just as well to seal up all the holes,” Gideon said, and felt that he’d done his duty by Prudence.

  Next, he glanced through reports which were coming in fast from the Midlands and the North, saying that one or another of the escaped prisoners had been “seen.” Such statements came from places hundreds of miles from Millways jail, and not one looked likely to stand up to scrutiny. Most of the provincial police H.Q.’s would be bombarded with these for days; and each would have to be checked. London’s turn would come only too soon.