The Case of the Innocent Victims

by John Creasey

  Ledbetter was giving a toothy smile.

  “Crafty old so-and-so,” he said.

  “How about asking Mrs Harris if she’ll come in for a few minutes,” Roger suggested. “I’d like to know what she can tell us, she obviously knew more about Cartwright than the other neighbours. Will you fix it?”

  “Right away,” promised Ledbetter.

  Mrs Harris was a small, youngish woman, with a sense of mission. Every other sentence she used began with ‘It was only right’. It was only right that Cartwright should be told, it was only right that the newspapers should know the truth, it was only right that everyone with young babies should be protected. Roger came to the conclusion that she could not help at all. She was nearer Anne Kindle’s age than anyone else who lived nearby, and had toddlers of her own. Now and again Anne had confided in her about Cartwright, it seemed, and she knew his Christian name and the district he lived in, so she had found it easy to find his telephone number.

  “And it’s only right to say that she assured me there was nothing wrong; she wouldn’t allow anything like that. But I must say I could understand it if she had kicked over the traces. That husband of hers isn’t worth his own signature, that’s what I say. Here today, gone tomorrow, all the time; I’ll bet he’s never been faithful to her like she has to him. But he ought to be sent for, that’s what I say. It’s only right that a husband should stand by his wife in time of trouble.”

  “Did you see Mr Cartwright here tonight, Mrs Harris?”

  “Only the second time. I didn’t know about the first time until my husband told me he’d seen him. But it wouldn’t have made any difference, I would have telephoned him anyhow. It was only right …”

  When she had gone, Roger went upstairs to compare the notes which Gibson had made. The routine of the investigation was nearly done. One or two men stood about idly, one yawning, and Roger saw where they had used fingerprint powder to bring up prints for photographing them. He also saw the signs which showed that the windows had been examined closely and every square inch of floor and wall searched, both in the child’s room and in the passage leading to it, as well as on the staircase. Other rooms in the flat had been examined, but more cursorily. Roger sat against a table in the living-room, looking at the notes Gibson had made, and Ledbetter was squinting at them from one side.

  “The baby was about the same age, a boy, only child, sleeping alone in a room in a flat, and suffocated with its own pillow,” Roger said at last. “No other similarities as far as we can tell.”

  “That’s plenty,” observed Ledbetter dryly.

  “Could be.”

  “The two murders took place within ten minutes’ walk of each other,” Gibson pointed out.

  “Ah,” said Roger. “Point I’d overlooked.” He grinned at Ledbetter. “Nice job to have in your Division, I’ll bet you don’t get much sleep for a week. Know what I’d do, if I were you?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Check every household in the Division where there’s a child of this age, so that we know the exact tally. Tell all the chaps on the beat to keep a special eye on the places. I’ll arrange for the neighbouring Divisions to keep a lookout close to yours,” Roger went on. “We’ll get the whole thing planned as if we knew that the devil was going to strike again any night now. Okay?”

  “Yes. How about Cartwright? Going to let him go?”

  “Yes. Like us to have a man follow him, or will you do that?”

  “I’d like it to be one of your chaps, as he’s outside the Division,” Ledbetter said.

  He was really saying that he did not think he had a man reliable enough to do a good tailing job, Roger knew. The Divisions seemed to have good and bad patches in certain ways; AS lacked good tailers.

  “I’ll fix it,” he promised. “You got a note of Cartwright’s address, Gibby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’m going to question him again, but I won’t take him to the Yard yet. If he’s scared he might do something silly, such as try to run away. That would give us another angle. What time was this job done – can we be sure?”

  “No. But the baby was alive at eight and dead by a quarter to ten.”

  “What about the Shaw job?”

  “Same kind of timing.”

  “Hm. Let’s have Cartwright in again.”

  The man who was in love with Anne Kindle was now much more composed, and less disposed to be difficult; danger often had a quietening effect on the quick-tempered, in Roger’s experience. He answered the same questions quietly, giving the same answers, and hesitated only when Roger asked: “Can you tell me where you were last Friday evening, Mr Cartwright?”

  “Friday?” Cartwright frowned. “Er—well, nowhere special. I like to get off for the weekend if I’m going away, but last Friday I was home all the evening, I think. Why?”

  So he had no alibi for the Shaw murder.

  “Do you know a Mr and Mrs Shaw?”

  Cartwright frowned again.

  “No, I can’t say—” He caught his breath, and then added roughly: “That’s the name of the baby killed last week.”

  “Yes,” Roger said.

  “What a swinish thing to suggest,” Cartwright growled, and his self-control seemed near breaking point.

  “Mr Cartwright, we have a baby-killer to find,” Roger said coldly. “And we’ll find him.”

  Cartright said: “I was at home all the evening of last Friday. It was very wet, and there was a good television programme on.”

  “I see,” Roger said non-committally. “Thank you.”

  Cartwright went out, obviously very uneasy, and Ledbetter said: “He’s not too happy, anyhow.”

  “We’ll have his flat watched before he gets there,” Roger said, and glanced at the gold wristwatch which reflected the electric light just above his head. “Half-past ten – hm. Shouldn’t think there’s a lot we can find out about Cartwright tonight, but we’ll have to be after his employers, relations and friends tomorrow.” Unexpectedly, he stifled a yawn. “Looks as if I’m tired,” he remarked as if with surprise. “Gibson, you stay here until relief comes from the Yard. I’ll fix it all on the radio.”

  “Thanks,” said Gibson.

  “We’ll hold Cartwright until your chaps come,” promised Ledbetter. “Thanks, Handsome. Want to know something?”

  “You think we’ve got our man.”

  “I do. No sign of forced entry at doors or windows, so the killer had a key. I’ve checked that the street door was always kept locked, and so was the front door of the flat. It really means that someone had two keys. And he’s got no alibi for last week. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did that, too. It’s in the bag, Handsome. You can have a good night’s sleep.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said dryly.

  He went out the back way. Only the police were on duty there. Most of the lights had been put out, and there was much more darkness, while a wind had sprung up, and was blustering through some bushes in a garden next door. Roger, still brisk, walked alone back to his car. He liked spells when he was on his own, and when he could let his thoughts run freely. Ideas came to him more often in moments like these than when he was talking or arguing. He was by nature an individualist, and that had sometimes nearly wrecked his career at the Yard; in other ways, it had made it. For years he had been the youngest Chief Inspector, now he was the youngest Superintendent. There were those who called him a white-haired boy and a Home Office favourite; in fact they knew and he knew that he often acquired a kind of sixth sense about a case. Like this one, for instance.

  Everything had fitted neatly in place; click, click, click. The way the mother had looked at Cartwright, the way Cartwright had appeared to be putting on an act, the fact that he had been at the flat earlier and had quarrelled, the fact that he admitted thinking that the baby had come between him and his love. Motive, opportunity, passion: what a case for a jury of women!

  Roger reached his car, and as he did so a shadowy figure appeared from t
he porch of a house a few yards along. He was not easily scared, but the suddenness of the movement and the way the man came swinging towards him did cause a flash of alarm.

  Then Roger relaxed, grinning at his own jumpiness.

  This was Spendlove, of the Globe, probably here to woo an exclusive sentence or two. He stood out as the most competent, as well as the most likable, of the regular crime reporters on Fleet Street.

  “Hallo, Handsome,” he said amiably. “I knew you hadn’t arrived by the front door, so you had to be round here. Thanks for the story.”

  “You have to have one, so you might as well have the right one,” Roger said. He took out a packet of cigarettes and proffered it.

  “Thanks,” said Spendlove. They lit up, and Roger waited for the next question, which was bound to come; the reporter was probably deliberating on exactly how far he could go. The lighted cigarettes glowed very red for a moment, and then Spendlove said: “I’ve got something for you, in return.”

  He probably meant it, and Roger’s interest quickened, but all he said was: “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Spendlove. “You’d find it out sooner or later.” He grinned, but Roger felt sure that what he had to say wouldn’t be funny. “Cartwright and the man Shaw, father of the other murdered child, were in the same regiment together during national service,” he announced. “Odd, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Four

  Coincidence?

  Roger could picture young Cartwright’s face as the man had realised the significance of the question about last Friday. Had that been cleverly simulated? Had he been acting when he had looked at Anne Kindle? He recalled the great intensity and the strange expression in the brown eyes. He could picture the horror in the woman’s eyes, as if she knew, rather than suspected, that Cartwright had killed her child.

  Was that right? Or was he jumping to conclusions? If she had known, even if she had reasonable suspicion, would she have tried to conceal his name, and help him?

  “Not surprised?” asked Spendlove.

  “Very interested,” Roger admitted. “Where did you get the information?”

  “Cartwright.”

  “Eh?”

  Spendlove grinned in the poor light.

  “You won’t have to jump down Ledbetter’s throat for missing anything obvious, Handsome. I got it from Cartwright because I know him. I know Shaw, too. We’re all in the Territorials, and I act as the local P.R.O. I can’t go through all the square bashing and the training, my job being what it is, but I like to lend a hand, and I get down to the drill hall every other week. That’s why I covered the Shaw case last week, and why I covered this. I’m a local boy.”

  “Were they friends?” asked Roger.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Cartwright got any reason to dislike Shaw?”

  “Not that I know of,” Spendlove answered.

  Roger said: “I don’t know how useful it will come in, but thanks. And keep it to yourself for the time being, will you? That must make Cartwright older than he looks,” he went on.

  “He’s twenty-four.”

  “Could be taken for twenty-one,” Roger remarked. “How much more do you know about him?”

  Spendlove took his cigarette from his lips, hesitated, put it back and drew so that the light showed brightly, and then tossed it into the roadway, where it made a miniature pyrotechnic display.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said carefully. “I know all about the path of duty and assisting the police in the course of their work, but I can save you a lot of checking and double checking, and I know how you like to get a move on. If I tell all, do I get special consideration with news?

  Roger took a long time to answer, and then said: “No.”

  “You’re putting an awful strain on my conscience.”

  “I’ll trust your conscience, and you trust mine,” Roger said.

  Spendlove grinned more broadly, knowingly, and began briskly: “No barter, but if I happen to be in the right place at the right time, it won’t do me any harm. All right, Handsome. Roy Cartwright is a kind of apprentice in a family business. He’s an orphan, and has been for years, but his uncle on his mother’s side runs a business called Maddison Brothers. They’re carpet importers and exporters. It’s a big business, most reputable, and quite a dollar earner. Roy has been through most of the departments, and spent twelve months in the midlands, Kidderminster I think, studying carpet making at the factory. He’s been through the sales side, and now he’s going through the administrative side. Likely to be there for another year or two, as far as I can tell you. He’s worked from the London office in Mill Street, near the Bank, for many years. That’s how he got to know Anne Kindle. In his way, Cartwright’s quite a plum. Must be worth a few thousand in his own right, and he has a substantial share in the business. Yet Anne, as you were about to observe, turned him down and remained faithful to a chirpy merchant sailor who is seldom home.”

  “Know anything about Cartwright as a person?”

  “Not much. Nothing against him. He’s an amateur actor and once had ambitions for the stage, but I gather that the uncle discouraged him and he didn’t force the issue. Honest enough, but why shouldn’t he be? No side, but a bit conscious of the fact that he’s a cut above the average socially. A little bit of a snob in all but his love.”

  Spendlove’s pause was obviously to make Roger prompt him. Roger kept silent.

  “Have it your own way,” went on Spendlove good-humouredly. “He’s hot stuff at commando tactics, and that lean body of his is like steel.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said, and tossed his cigarette away and trod on it before the sparks really flew. “The thing I’m most interested in is whether he ever had any reason to dislike Shaw, and whether he knows Mrs Shaw and ever thought he was in love with her.”

  “Shouldn’t think so,” said Spendlove, “but I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger again, and asked: “Give you a lift anywhere?”

  “Thanks, but my chariot’s round the corner. How are those boys of yours?”

  Warmth leapt into Roger’s voice.

  “Couldn’t be better. One of them passed his General Certificate the other day, although we never thought he’d make it.”

  “That sounds like young Richard,” Spendlove remarked.

  “You know them as well as that,” marvelled Roger. “Your daughter walking again yet?”

  “Just beginning to. That kid has all the guts it takes,” answered Spendlove. “Well, okay, Handsome. Be seeing you.”

  The newspaper man turned and walked off, taking very long strides, as if he did not want to continue to talk about his daughter, who had been stricken with poliomyelitis a few months earlier. That was something that he, Roger, Spendlove, Gibson, the man Shaw and Mrs Kindle had in common: children, love of them and fear for them. Roger got into his car, feeling oddly uneasy, as if there was some kind of threat to his own boys which he could not anticipate. It was a form of nervous reaction, of course; he would not forget Mrs Kindle’s screams, or her attempt to throw herself out of the window, but he could not afford to dwell on that. He started the engine of his Humber Hawk, a fairly new car, and let in the clutch. There was no need to go back to the Yard. All he need do was check if anything big had come in, and if it hadn’t, go home and ponder all he had discovered, and all that Spendlove had told him. The fact that there was a kind of line which connected the two baby murders and Cartwright was the heaven-sent suspect who would make Ledbetter clap his hands with hearty satisfaction, making him feel certain that his early hunch was right.

  Roger flicked on the radio, heard a babble of voices, called the Yard and was answered immediately.

  “West here.” He gave orders for Cartwright’s flat to be watched, and for Gibson to be relieved, feeling quite sure that unless Cartwright realised that he was being followed, and set out deliberately to shake his
tailer off, all his movements would be reported. The best tailer in the world couldn’t hold the trail of a man who meant to elude him. “Is there anything in for me?”

  “Nothing at all, sir.”

  “Then I’m going home. Good-night.”

  “Good-night, sir,” the operator said.

  It was a clear night, and there was little traffic about. He put his foot down, and touched fifty; any ordinary citizen caught doing that would get a ten-pound fine. The reflection slowed him down. The truth was that he needed something to quieten fears which really amounted to a presentiment. He had known the mood often enough before and it had seldom been justified, but he would not be really easy in his mind until he reached his own home and made sure that everything was all right. He left the radio on, and the babble ebbed and flowed, but there was no call for him.

  Why should there be?

  Two babes in arms had been murdered, and the fact had got under his skin. This kind of crime always did. He knew exactly what Gibson meant, and shared his feelings: sane or mad, such a killer did not deserve to live; but society would protect him. There were times when it appeared to be a lunatic world.

  And there were times, like this, when he wondered if the killer would strike again; deep down, that was his basic fear. He would be relieved and almost exhilarated if Roy Cartwright was proved to be the murderer, and the case could be filed.

  He turned into Bell Street, Chelsea a little after twelve o’clock, caught himself out in a yawn, saw only one light on anywhere in sight, and remembered that it was the bedroom of a young married couple who were having bad nights with their firstborn. Last night that would have made him smile. He swung his wheel out, to turn into the gateway and his own small garage, glancing at the front door of his detached house as the headlights shone on it. There was only darkness; everything was all right, of course. He felt a momentary lift of spirit, and then the babble on his radio was interrupted, and a man said clearly: “Calling Superintendent West. Will Superintendent West come in, please.”