Seven Days to Death

by John Creasey

  Wrexall’s “case” wasn’t exactly a waste of time.

  While some Superintendents at the Yard specialized, like King-Hadden, of Fingerprints, most of them tackled whatever job presented itself. In an odd way, however, certain types of jobs gravitated, as if of their own volition, toward one man. Wrexall’s knowledge of blackmail was the most exhaustive at Scotland Yard. He had that sense of “smell.” Now, he had picked out something which might be significant from a series of reports covering several months, from different divisions. Where another man might have read these reports a hundred times and seen nothing in them, Wrexall had picked out two things:

  A respected suburban solicitor had committed suicide six months ago, but his affairs were in order; the only surprise was that his estate had been much smaller than expected. Nothing at all was missing from clients’ funds. The police investigation, prior to the inquest at which the verdict had been suicide while temporarily insane, showed that he had changed his daily habits a great deal during the past two years, had frequently left his office in charge of a junior partner and, it was believed, had “gone racing”; that was the official explanation of the missing private fortune and the fact that he had left an elderly wife unprovided for.

  Two months later, in another London suburb, the manager of a large branch of one of the joint stock banks had been killed in an accident. The police had suspected suicide, but had not been able to establish it, and the verdict had at least been a comfort to his widow, and two children. They had little else to comfort them, for a personal estate, known at one time to have been worth nearly thirty thousand pounds, had vanished. There was no certainty about the way in which the loss had been made, but gambling was suspected.

  Wrexall, studying these, had seen the similarity of social position, suicide and suspected suicide, and a small fortune lost either unaccountably or in a way which was surprising when one considered the character of the dead man.

  “Just made me wonder whether everything was what it looked like, George,” Wrexall had said. He had a mane of iron-grey hair and a most impressive manner. “You know what I’m like, nose as long as a snorkel device. So I put young Chambers onto finding out who the solicitor had placed his bets with. Couldn’t find anyone, local or in the West End. In fact, I’m pretty sure he didn’t have an account with any bookie. Then I checked the racecourses, finding out the days that the chap had taken out big cash sums. Most of them coincided with race days near London, and I tried to find a bookie who’d taken big bets with the solicitor. Couldn’t. In fact there weren’t any big cash bets on any of those days. Funny, eh?” Gideon had agreed that it was funny. “Now if these two chaps were paying out money under pressure and didn’t want to show it, they’d fake a reason, wouldn’t they?” said Wrexall. “But I don’t like to think that anyone’s managed to drive chaps like them to suicide, as well as make things touch for their families. So I’ve been keeping my eyes open, and this morning there’s an interesting little report in from Guildford. Outside our ground, I know, but very interesting. Accountant, this time, tried to commit suicide. Inherited twenty-five thousand quid four years ago, lived a normal married life as far as we can see - and he’s almost on his beam ends. It’s no use me ringing up Guildford, or the Surrey boys, but if you’d have a word with the A.C. and persuade him that it might be worth looking at, he could lay it on with the Chief Constable of Surrey, and —”

  “You could have a few nice, cosy days in the country,” Gideon had grinned. “Okay, Tim, I’ll tell him it’s too good to miss. That worth the money you’ll pay for the lunch?”

  “Don’t know what I’d do without you,” Wrexall had said. “Glad to sit and watch you eat, anyway. I never could tell where you put it all.” -

  They went back to the Yard at a leisurely pace, Gideon still glowing from the smooth morning, and because so much had gone right; his regret about the way the Primrose Girl case was turning was almost forgotten. He was even philosophic about Syd’s continued absence; had the boy been killed, they would probably have found the body by now; he’d turn up. He had no suspicion of what kind of news would greet him until he opened the door and Lemaitre burst out: “George, Benson’s got his wife’s beau! Vitriol. Horrible job, hospital case. And Abbott caught some, too.”

  Gideon stood quite still, with the door open. He felt the old, crushing weight coming down on him again, and when he moved it was more slowly than usual. He closed the door, and the lock snapped. He stood with his back to it, massive and, in that mood, almost frightening.

  “How bad’s Small?”

  “Side of his face and one eye,” Lemaitre said.

  “Abbott?”

  “Left hand only as far as I can gather; he’s not a hospital case, anyhow - on his way here now.”

  “Benson?”

  “A kid did the job.”

  Gideon almost groaned. “Not young Syd.”

  “Dunno,” said Lemaitre.

  Wrexall’s suspicions, Cummings and his worry, the Rose family, the newspaper reports - all of these things vanished from Gideon’s mind. He walked to his desk, and it was as if he were walking through shadows, not through bright shafts of sunlight which struck and brightened the wall behind his desk. He sat down slowly’ loosened his collar and tie, and took out his pipe. He began to finger the roughened surface.

  Then, he made himself say; “Anything else in?”

  “Not much,” answered Lemaitre. “They caught a shoplifter at Marridge’s. He made a dash for it, and caused a bit of panic, then fell down the stairs and broke his leg. Two smash-and-grabs - one in Soho, one near Marble Arch, nothing much gone. Two —”

  “Sure Abbott’s not badly hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Benson know about this?”

  “Bound to. Happened just outside the shop.”

  Then, two telephones rang at the same moment. Lemaitre snatched his up; Gideon took his more slowly and raised it as slowly to his ear. “Gideon.” He heard Lemaitre say something in his laconic way, but wasn’t sure what it was. He could see Arthur Small as if he were in the office: earnest, faithful, well-preserved, well-groomed, with his pale, regular features, his horn-rimmed glasses.

  Glasses?

  “Detective Officer Abbott is in the building, sir, would you like to see him?”

  “Yes. Right away. Send him up.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gideon started to fill the bowl of his pipe, and to find that his mind began to thaw out. He was able to remind himself that this might be the most important but it wasn’t the only job on his plate, and he must not allow it to obsess him, even for a few minutes. Then, he realized that in fact it had obsessed him. The awful, hideous mask of failure - such failure that it was possible for a man whom they were “protecting” to be disfigured in this way - was one of the most bitter things he had ever had to face. It undid all the good of last night; of this morning. The Press, the Home Office, the Assistant Commissioner, every man and woman at Scotland Yard might make excuses; but he, Gideon, felt just one thing; it should never have happened and it was his fault that it had. He’d met young Abbott in the lift, formed a good opinion of him, and given him a job which should have been handled by a man with much more experience. The whole world would call that nonsense, but he, Gideon, knew the simple truth.

  It was a heavy weight, bearing hard upon him.

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Lemaitre was still talking, but glanced toward the door as it opened, and Abbott came in. He didn’t look very good, in spite of the tan, and Gideon knew that he was suffering from shock; he ought to stay away for a day or so. His right hand was bandaged, and there was a pitch of sticking plaster on his right cheek, about an inch from his eye. He kept himself erect with an obvious effort.

  What the hell was his Christian name?<
br />
  Ah: Michael.

  He looked as if he expected Gideon to breathe fire.

  “Hallo, Mike,” Gideon said quietly, “come and sit down.” He didn’t overdo it, but just waved to a chair, and then pushed a pack of cigarettes across the desk. “Glad to see you didn’t come out of it too badly.”

  Abbott just sat there, his shoulders less square, now, the dejection a physical as well as a mental thing. He didn’t take a cigarette. He didn’t look round. He managed to meet Gideon’s gaze, and that was all. Here was a man who could be broken for life; moments like this condemned men, like patient old Jefferson, to a life in which the highest possible ambition was a sergeant’s pension.

  “What time did it happen?” asked Gideon. If he could once start the man talking ...

  His telephone bell rang.

  “Blast the blurry thing,” he said, and picked it up more quickly than usual.

  “Matches?” He tossed a big box across the desk, and it slid off. Abbott had to bend down to pick it up and, with the matches in his hand, he seemed to lose some of the tension, and then picked up the cigarettes. “Gideon here,” said Gideon; “switch all calls through to Chief Inspector Lemaitre until ... what?”

  He listened so intently that Abbott, the cigarette now between his lips, looked at him almost eagerly. So did Lemaitre who got up and came across.

  Then: “Thank God for that,” breathed Gideon. “Eh ... Yes, he’s with me now ... Not badly hurt, seems to have done a good job ... Oh, fine. Fine. Thanks, sir.”

  He rang off and was smiling; not the broad, homely smile which made him so likable and attractive to many people, but a smile which had a kind of glow about it; in a woman, it would have been radiant. It was the last thing that either Lemaitre or Abbott had dreamed of seeing, and it must have done Abbott more good than anything else could have.

  “That was the A.C.,” he said. “Young Syd’s been found. He’s not hurt. Been hiding out with Charlie Mulliver, kind of blurry fool thing Charlie would do, harbour him when he knew we were on the lookout for him. Wouldn’t I like to put him inside! And Small won’t lose the sight of his right eye, after all; he’ll have a scar on the side of his face, up round the temple, that’s about all. Lem, ring the shop and tell Mrs. Benson, and if she’s not in, ring the Division and ask them to tell her - that’s if she doesn’t know already.” Gideon put his pipe to his lips. “Well, things aren’t always as black as they seem, Mike,” he said to Abbott. “Feel better?”

  Abbott gulped; when he spoke his voice was pitched higher than usual.

  “Can’t alter the fact that I ought to have stopped the Benson kid from getting away, and I ought to have stopped the other kid from throwing that acid, too. Didn’t dream of anything coming from him. He’s a half-wit near as dammit, I’ve often seen him hanging about. When I start thinking, I know that Benson must have found a way to get in touch with him, but at the time he was just a kid to be sorry for. You know.”

  “I know,” Gideon said: “Half-wit, is he?”

  “Well known round there, too,” said Abbott. Now his voice was more normal, as if his throat had been oiled, but he was speaking very quickly. “Named Simon, people call him Si, but whether that’s from Simple Simon I don’t know. It’s a crying shame, a boy like that ought to be in a home, but he even goes to school! He’s at the G5 Division now, there’s a doctor with him. They think we’ll frighten the wits out of him if we bring him here. But even if he knows who told him to do it, there’s no way we can-make sure that he tells us.”

  “We can try,” Gideon said. “Just what happened?”

  Abbott told him; and before the recital was finished, he was talking at normal speed and in his normal voice.

  Gideon sent him home.

  Gideon did not labour the obvious fact that Benson had managed to get in touch with the half-wit, and to give him instructions - almost certainly through a third party.

  Who?

  The dozens of friends and acquaintances with whom Benson might have got in touch would have- to be picked up now, and a full-scale interrogation begun. The movements of the hapless vitriol thrower had to be traced. Given the breaks, none of it should take long; but one fact stood out: Benson had headed for London for vengeance. His wife would be in greater terror than ever; so would his daughter. The one good thing was that young Syd was back.

  Was it so good?

  Gideon got his mind very clear on what had happened, and what he was going to ask the boy - and say to Mulliver.

  The man who had sheltered the boy ran a doss house near the docks; beds at a shilling a night, bring your own food, kill your own rats, find your own lice. It was a place that ought to be closed up on grounds of unsanitary conditions, yet by some miracle it managed to meet all the London County Council rules and regulations. Mulliver, a middle-aged wreck of a man, had a good reputation for helping lame dogs, and he got on well with the police. He wasn’t a squealer; as far as was known, he wasn’t a crook, either.

  Had he let young Syd stay with him out of the goodness of his heart, or under some kind of pressure?

  From Benson, for instance ...

  That was just a guess; but it was an accurate guess.

  Even if he soon became certain of its accuracy, there still lay upon Gideon the burden of proof.

  He cleared up everything on his desk and, about half past three, went to the G5 Division. First he wanted to see the half-wit, to find out what the Divisional people had done; then he wanted to talk to Charlie Mulliver; next, to young Syd.

  One thing was certain; as this news spread - and by now it would have reached every Division, every subdivision, every plainclothesman and every man on the beat in the whole of the London area - the whole of the Metropolitan Police would be geared to a pitch which it reached only now and again.

  Every man would feel it his personal responsibility to make sure that Benson was caught before he could harm his wife or her children.

  Gideon felt that the responsibility was all his.

  Mulliver swore that young Syd had come to him, pleading to be allowed to hide.

  “And where was the harm?” the doss-house keeper almost whined. “I couldn’t see any, Mr. Gideon, honest I couldn’t.”

  He didn’t change his story, but there was much he could have told.

  17. Father and Son

  There was just one thing about Charlie Mulliver which the police did not know, and which Syd Benson did.

  He was a murderer.

  He was not a natural killer, in the way that Benson was. In fact he still had a compassion for his fellow men which, in view of the people he mixed with over the years, was quite surprising. If a man really needed a bed and a cup of tea and a hunk of bread, and couldn’t pay for it he would get it at Charlie’s; a great many people went to his “hotel” in preference to the Salvation Army Hostel or the Y.M.C.A. or any of the other do-good places in the East. End of London.

  But Charlie Mulliver had killed his wife.

  That was five years ago, and the case had long since been left high on the archives of the Yard, not as unsolvable, but as unsolved or pending. Mulliver’s wife, in the common phrase, had been no better than she ought to be. At one time she had helped to run the doss house, looking after a women’s section, as well as assisting on the other side. She had bestowed her favours too liberally, and in a quarrel Charlie had killed her. At the time, he had been drunk; at the time he had meant only to disfigure her; but if he were ever caught for the job he would certainly be jailed for life.

  Syd Benson was the only man who knew who had killed her. Syd had helped to put the body in the Thames. And the police, knowing her habits, had not really been surprised when they had taken it out. They had questioned Mulliver, of course; and at one time the doss-house keeper had seemed the most likely suspect, but they had reckoned without the or
ganizing genius of Benson. Having set out to fool the police for Mulliver’s sake, Benson had succeeded brilliantly, by fixing an alibi at third hand and in a way which the police had never seriously questioned.

  Mulliver had been a widower for five years, and all that time had known that one day Benson would want something in return for his help and his silence. There was nothing that Mulliver wouldn’t do to drive away even the thought of paying for his wife’s murder.

  Benson was not only clever and shrewd, but was also a sound judge of human nature. He knew that Mulliver would do whatever he was told, no matter how serious a crime. Like nine criminals out of ten, Mulliver would feel that whatever he did, he would avoid being found out. All he had to do was pay his debt to Benson; after that, he would have nothing to worry about.

  If Mulliver refused to obey Benson however, Benson would make sure that police would know all about the murder of his wife.

  So Mulliver really had no choice.

  And his life had been spent in the worst part of the East End, rubbing shoulders with vice and crime, with all that was worst as well as some of the things that were best in human nature. No one could have remained a saint for long while surrounded by that atmosphere, and Charlie Mulliver had been soaked in it for forty-odd years; but, the murder apart, he was not a criminal. It was not so much that he disapproved of crime as that he liked to keep himself safe from its consequences. It worked, too; he was trusted by the crooks and tolerated by the police.

  Subconsciously, the gift of compassion in Charlie Mulliver was perhaps a form of self-defence. It paid off to have a heart. But he became so used to violence and crime at second hand that little shocked him. Among the hundreds of. down-and-outs, drunks, men wounded in fights, sailors, Negroes, lascars, half- breeds and white men of all nationalities who passed through the doss house, dozens were badly scarred by acid, knife or razor. Scars were commonplace. So when Charlie had been told to brief Simon called Si to throw vitriol into Arthur Small’s face, Charlie Mulliver had not revolted against the idea; he knew dozens of people whose faces and bodies were scarred by vitriol; and they’d lived through it. And above all other things, he had to ingratiate himself with Benson. He’d made a start when he had first learned that Benson was out, by telephoning his wife’s boyfriend.