by John Creasey
But there could be plenty of reasons for the woman’s nerves.
They went into the red and cream room. It had a startlingly fresh look, made vivid because the sun shone into the top of the big window at one end. The room stretched right across the little house, with a French window opening on to the back garden, the big lawn, and the copse beyond, a long, wide window overlooking the front garden with its small lawns, roses, and beds of flowers. The plants were still small and green; one bed of stalky wallflowers waited to be cleared.
“Won’t you—won’t you sit down?”
“No, thanks,” said West, “I’ve just driven from London, and don’t mind standing for a bit. When did you see Mr. Reedon, do you say?”
She still spoke too quickly.
“About ten days ago. When was it? A week ago last Thursday! Michael, I mean my husband, was home that Thursday, we went up to Tony’s for a drink, it was such a lovely evening. We walked. He ran us back. I’m sure it was Thursday, I was so pleased that Michael was home a day earlier than usual.”
“Isn’t he home every night?” asked West.
He sensed Wortleberry’s disapproval at the question; for the local Superintendent had already told him that Michael Mallow was a commercial traveller, on the road four or five nights a week, and a bit of a gay spark; in fact, Wortleberry had told West a great deal. Wortleberry’s trouble was that he might be tempted to let this girl, and perhaps other witnesses, suspect how much he knew.
“Why, no, he’s a travelling representative,” Daphne Mallow said swiftly. “He’s with Mildmay’s, you know, stationery and office equipment.” She paused for a split second, and West sensed a quickening tension, picked out the slight change in her tone. “He’s gone up to Scotland on a special job, hasn’t been home all the weekend. I don’t know what the job is, but he seemed to think it would mean promotion.”
“Hmm,” thought West. “So he’s gone away.”
Wortleberry was a snuffler; it wasn’t a pronounced snuffle, really a kind of heavy breathing or wakeful snoring. West didn’t know him well enough to guess whether the series of peculiar sounds then indicated scepticism.
“What’s the matter, why are you interested in Tony?” Daphne asked.
Her tone was back to normal again. It was impossible ever to be sure, West knew, but he thought that this new change meant that whatever was on her mind, it didn’t concern Anthony Reedon.
“We can’t find out where Mr. Reedon’s been lately,” West said.
“You can’t find—” She broke off, and then said sharply: “What do you mean? Has he gone away?”
“We hoped you’d be able to give us some information,” West added easily. “Do you know where he is?”
“Why, no.” She was much more natural and not at all worried about this subject, just a comely, smart young woman. “As a matter of fact I cycled up there this morning, but couldn’t get an answer.”
“Do you often go there during the day?”
Daphne stared, and Roger West saw her cheeks flush suddenly; she was reading an innuendo which he’d put in deliberately. But her answer was calm enough, if a little stiff.
“On nice days I sometimes cycle up for coffee, or a cup of tea. Mr. Reedon is an old friend of ours.”
“Did you know he was going away?”
“I’d no idea.”
“Did your husband?”
“If he did, he didn’t tell me,” Daphne said firmly.
Wortleberry was making those heavy breathing noises, undoubtedly thinking that West had thrown away the advantage. The young woman was much more collected, West could imagine him thinking; so you could never tell with these Yard men, in spite of their reputations.
West gave his most warming smile. That made him an arrestingly handsome man, with his fair complexion, corn coloured hair which curled a little; it looked crisp but wasn’t wiry, like Michael Mallow’s.
“Does your husband tell you everything, Mrs. Mallow?” he asked.
She flashed: “Of course he does!”
Roger passed that over smoothly, as if it really didn’t matter.
“About Mr. Reedon, do you know if he has any other close friends in Hoole, or near by?”
“Well, I suppose he hasn’t,” the woman said. She poked a strand of hair. “He has a lot of acquaintances, but I don’t think you’d say that many of them are close friends.”
“Relatives?”
“I don’t think he has any—certainly no close ones.”
“Do you know what he does for a living?”
“Well—yes.” She hesitated. “He’s a kind of journalist, what do they call them? Free lance, that’s it. He writes for the newspapers sometimes, and magazines.”
“Is that all?”
“I’ve never known him do anything else,” Daphne said. “I think—it’s no business of mine, but I think he was left some money a few years ago, and threw up his job.”
“Do you know what the job was?”
“No. In—in some office, I think.”
“Do you know who left him the money?”
Daphne hesitated, then said: “No.”
Wortleberry was almost silent, the snuffling stilled. Many men were silenced when they first heard West questioning a witness. The odd thing was that he gained his effect without raising his voice, without phrasing questions in any particular way. It was a kind of decisiveness, almost as if he were saying, “Now we’ve got to get on with this, let’s have the truth quickly, please,” and allied to it was a kind of natural charm. Getting to know West, one realised that his greatest single asset was his ability to win the trust of the most unlikely people.
His manner relaxed.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Mallow. If you should hear from him, I’ll be grateful if you’ll let the Superintendent know.” He smiled at Wortleberry. “You’ll leave Mrs. Mallow your card, won’t you?”
“Eh? Oh, h’m, yes.”
Wortleberry searched inside the pocket of his loose fitting blue serge suit. He took out a card and handed it over.
West opened a cigarette case, fumbled, and dropped a cigarette. He bent down for it, while Wortleberry was handing the woman his card.
As well as the cigarette, West picked up a screw of paper, which was in his pocket before he stood up.
“Thank you,” Daphne said to Wortleberry, and added formally: “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
“Are you?” demanded West, and somehow made the question sound as if he believed that she was lying.
It puzzled but didn’t worry her, and she answered with complete simplicity.
“Well, yes, why shouldn’t he?”
“I hope you’re right,” West said, and let his doubts sink in. “Mrs. Mallow, have you any reason to think that Mr. Reedon has enemies? Anyone who wishes him ill?” He hardly paused. “Had he ever talked to you about being alarmed, frightened, worried?” There was the briefest of pauses then, just to let her digest those questions; and next: “Did he take any special precautions against theft, or burglary, or physical injury?”
She must have felt as if she were standing outside on a blustery day.
“Why, no. I don’t—I don’t understand you. Why should he?”
West didn’t answer.
Wortleberry rumbled deep in his throat.
West saw the surprise, almost bewilderment, in the girl’s eyes as he flung out suggestion after suggestion, hinting at all manner of troubles. It confused her, and he saw the way she tried to keep up with him, as he flashed from one innuendo to another. After he’d said “physical injury” he cut his words off and closed his mouth sharply, lips compressed, eyes almost fiercely aggressive.
And after a moment’s pause, all her colour ebbed, fear put a feverish glitter in her eyes, and she ejaculated: “Oh, so!”
Wortleberry shuffled his feet, and raised his hands slightly, as if he thought this was the moment they had been waiting for; the moment to pounce.
West said very softly: “When
did you last see Mr. Reedon?”
“I—I’ve told you! Last week, no, the week before, it was—”
“When?”
“I’ve told you!”
“Were you at the cottage on Friday night?”
“On Friday? No!” she cried.
“Sure?” He was aggressive now, and frightening.
“Of course I am.”
“Was your husband?”
“He—he couldn’t have been, he wasn’t home, he had to go to Scotland.”
“Then how do you account for the fact that the tracks of your bicycle were found near Mr. Reedon’s cottage today—tracks which must have been made Friday night or early Saturday morning?”
The question was as bewildering as it was frightening. Daphne didn’t answer, just stood in silence, knowing that these men now felt sure that she was lying.
Chapter Four
Facts About Hoole
Daphne stood absolutely still, her face colourless and her eyes still feverishly bright. She began to breathe heavily. Obviously she wanted to look away from West, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. The tension in the long, bright room was brittle.
“Well, how do you explain those tracks?” West was still aggressive.
“I—I—I can’t.”
“Were you up at the cottage?”
“No!”
“Was your husband?”
“I tell you he wasn’t home!” she cried. That was the one thing she had to make them believe. All the anxiety about Tony was unimportant compared with that.
Then something made her ask: “How—how do you know that my bicycle was—was there?”
“The tracks, as I told you,” said West briefly. “They must have been made just after the rain on Friday—they’re quite distinct. The ground was dry by Saturday midday, in the hot sun.”
“Oh,” Daphne said weakly. “Well—I—I don’t know. Someone—someone must have borrowed the bike.”
“Did you lend it to anyone?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you think someone borrowed it?”
“How else could it have got up there?” she demanded.
There was a long, tense pause; and in it, Daphne kept telling herself that above all things she must not let them know that Michael had been home on Friday night.
What had happened at the cottage?
Had Michael been—?
Suddenly, West smiled.
“Thank you for being so patient, Mrs. Mallow,” he said. “If you should hear from Mr. Reedon, you’ll let the Superintendent know, won’t you?”
He turned away, as if quite satisfied after all.
Wortleberry seemed first startled, then surprised, and finally disapproving. He reached the door seconds after West, and watched the girl closely. Then he shrugged his big, sloping shoulders, and went after West, who had the front door open. Both detectives stepped on to the porch. The sun struck warm, and made the roses vivid, turned the grass to brilliant green. Not far off, the garden of another house was a mass of flowers almost hurtfully colourful. The beech and birch trees in the grounds of both houses and in the plots of land which carried Building Plots For Sale notices were all saplings. A few silver birch looked as if one had only to lean against them to break them in two. The leaves were light and bright, not yet grown to full size.
West smiled back at Daphne Mallow.
“Thank you again. Goodbye.”
He put on his hat and turned and strode towards the car, reaching it well ahead of Wortleberry, who lumbered after him. The local Superintendent probably weighed three stone more than West’s fourteen, but his height and breadth disguised the fact that he was nearly fifty inches round the waist; huge and truly ungainly.
Suddenly, West turned and hurried back, as if on the spur of the moment. Wortleberry saw the new anxiety in Daphne Mallow’s face.
West might be pretty good, after all—
“Oh, Mrs. Mallow.” West was brisk. “I hope it won’t inconvenience you, but we shall have to take your bicycle. A man will be here for it, soon. We won’t keep it longer than we must.”
“All—all right,” she said.
“Will it inconvenience you?”
“No. I—I can manage.”
“May I see it now?”
“Yes—yes, of course.”
It was near the garage; and seemed quite normal. West seemed to think so, too. So did Wortleberry, who had joined them. Soon, West beckoned a policeman who was out of sight of the house, said “Thanks,” to Mrs. Mallow, and gave the policeman instructions to guard the bicycle until someone came for it from Hoole. Then West went back to the car and took the wheel. Wortleberry squeezed in beside him. Daphne Mallow stood at the open door, watching; she was thirty or forty yards away, and it was impossible to judge her expression.
The policeman was going round to the back; and the bicycle.
The small white house, its slate roof etched sharply against the background of trees, was built in stern, almost harsh lines; it was as out of place here as Reedon’s cottage would have been out of place in a modern city. Yet the attractive, graceful garden took away from the starkness; creeper was starting to grow up the walls, and already saved the small garage from being such a blot.
“Nice looking woman,” West said solemnly.
“Hm? Oh, yes. Beauty. Why didn’t you—ah?” Wortleberry broke off, almost confused.
He was a throw back, West judged, and one of the better throw backs. Undoubtedly he stood a little in awe of the Yard, would behave with the greatest circumspection, and do exactly what he was asked – but beg leave to differ whenever he felt it important. He would always hesitate to question West’s methods, although he’d been about to.
West was negotiating the bumpy, gravel road. Unmade roads abounded on the outskirts of Hoole, and this one was worse than most, with some big holes still half filled with water, although it hadn’t rained for three days.
“Why didn’t I try harder to make her crack?” West suggested.
“Well, hm, yes. Eh?”
“I think she’s worried,” West mused. “The idea of Reedon being hurt shook her badly. But her defences were up pretty quickly. Didn’t you see that? I’d like to know a bit more before we have another talk with her—if one becomes necessary. Did you notice that money?” he added casually.
“What money?”
“I think you were ringing the front door bell,” West told him. “When we arrived, she had a bundle of green one pound notes in her hand and was standing as if she didn’t know what to do with them.” He slid his hand to his pocket and drew it out again. “Care to unscrew that?”
It was a piece of thickish, manila type paper. Wortleberry took it from the palm of West’s hand, and unfolded it with great care. His movements were surprisingly quick and efficient, and his hands small and pale. He held the paper by the corners, as he would anything which might need to be tested for finger prints; and the way he did this told West that Wortleberry would be exhaustively thorough.
“Envelope,” he announced. “Addressed to Mrs. Mallow. Postmark London E.C. 3. Block lettering, lead pencil.” He added almost to himself: “Shiny surface, good quality manilla envelope. Mildmay manufacture?”
“I believe they specialise in that kind of envelope,” West said, “but it’s interesting, anyway. Just about the right size for a bundle of notes. It was in her hand when we drew up, she screwed it up and dropped it as she hurried out of the room. And the money was in her hand.” He didn’t draw any conclusions. “What did you think of her?”
“It’s early to say. Eh?”
Yes, Wortleberry would be ultra cautious, too. He might become exasperating, but thoroughness was one of the major police virtues. And his men were good; like the chap, just a uniformed man, who had recognised the cycle tyre tracks as being similar to those made by Mrs. Mallow’s bicycle.
“Going to see the body next?” he asked. He was lean
ing over to the back of the car, and fiddling; his huge chest pressed against West’s shoulder. A moment later, he turned round and settled into his seat; he was then holding a newspaper and, with great care, he wrapped the crumpled envelope up in it. “Or the cottage? If you’d rather see the cottage, we ought to phone the office about Mallow being gone.”
“We’ll phone,” West said. “I take it you know his car number.”
“The local chap will,” said Wortleberry.
There was a telephone kiosk not far along the road. Wortleberry squeezed in, and put through a call to his office. A general call was to go out for Mallow’s car, a Vauxhall; and Mildmay’s London office was to be telephoned, to check whether Mallow had been sent to Scotland.
“Ask the Yard to do that,” ordered Wortleberry. “Just ask if they can contact him, don’t raise any scare.”
He nodded, a moment later; then rang off. He didn’t speak until they were back in the car. Then: “Wonder why she did go to Reedon’s cottage today.”
“Aren’t they genuine family friends?”
“Oh, yes, and she does go up there sometimes on her own. Nothing in it, though. Rumour’d get around if there were.” Wortleberry was oracular. “Was she worried because she hasn’t heard from Reedon, I wonder?”
“I didn’t get the impression that she was worried about Reedon until the last moment, when she realised that he might have been hurt,” West said. “Let’s go to the cottage first, by the time we get back they ought to have finished the autopsy.”
“Right ho,” said Wortleberry. “Turn first right, then left, then second right. Only country lanes, you know, not made up. The cliff road’s all right, though, when you get to it.” The car was bumping over the uneven gravel surface and splashed through a pot hole. “They reckon it would put half a crown on the rates to make these roads up. Aren’t enough people living out here yet to make road charges fair or worth while, either, so we’ll have ’em like this for a few years longer. Nice view over Hoole, though, when we’re up on the cliff.”
“I don’t know the town,” Roger West said. “It looks pleasant, at first sight.”
Wortleberry said smugly: “It’s the nicest little sea coast town in the South of England. That’s Hoole. Lived here all my life, and nothing’s ever going to take me away.” He fell silent and then asked, almost guiltily: “But talking of Reedon, he doesn’t seem to have friends or relatives, does he? Mrs. Mallow said the same as I told you—lonely type of chap. Who’d want to kill him?”
