by John Creasey
The door opened, and Eddie Day came in.
“Watcher, Handsome!”
“Good afternoon, Mr Day,” Roger said with exaggerated politeness. “Since when have you been my office boy?”
“’Oo, me? Not on your Nelly! If you mean that Paris report, it blew off the desk, so I put it in Ma Beesley’s file for safety. It’s about her, ain’t it? Says they think she was with a gang of confidence tricksters working the French coast ten years ago, and was married to a Frenchie who died after taking on British nationality. How does that help?”
“It might, later.”
“It might!” Eddie was magnificently sarcastic. “And one day you might tell your pal Lessing that he didn’t ought to come straight into the building; he ought to send his name up, like everyone else. I’ve just seen him talking to Simister.”
“Mark is? I wonder what he’s after.”
“As if you didn’t know,” Eddie sniffed.
Roger didn’t, but word would soon come. He turned back to the Paris report.
Ma Beesley had been suspected of working with two men on confidence rackets in the less fashionable resorts on the Brittany coast. The Sûreté had prepared a lengthy dossier on her. After marrying a Frenchman, she had lived in France until 1946, when the whole family had come to England. The husband had become a naturalized Englishman, taking the name of Beesley. There were three children of the marriage, two boys and a girl.
Roger rang through to the shorthand-writers’ room, and dictated a telegram to the Sûreté Nationale:
PLEASE SUPPLY ALL AVAILABLE INFORMATION AND DESCRIPTION TWO MEN BELIEVED TO WORK WITH MRS BEESLEY, THE SUBJECT OF YOUR REPORT SIGNED BY PIERRE MANNET, INSPECTEUR, MATTER URGENT.
CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, NEW SCOTLAND YARD.
He was replacing the receiver when the door opened and Mark Lessing looked in.
“Spare a minute?” he asked, meekly.
“Just been hired to work here?” Roger inquired. It was wise not to be too affable, with Eddie Day ready to bristle.
“Don’t be difficult,” said Mark, dropping into an easy chair. “I’ve had a bright idea, Roger. I’ve just had a word with Pep Morgan who –”
“If you’re going to tell me what a private eye thinks about Paul Raeburn, I don’t want to hear it. Pep’s already told me. He once tagged a woman who was going about with Raeburn and whose husband was talking about divorce, but Pep was taken off all of a sudden, which meant that Raeburn probably gave the woman a mink coat and that the husband was paid for keeping quiet. Pep’s a good divorce chaser, that’s all.”
“He says that Raeburn was difficult.”
“Raeburn’s a vain type.”
“That’s not the point,” Mark insisted stubbornly. “Raeburn gave Pep the impression that he couldn’t stand interference with his love life, and that gave me the bright idea. He’s probably as jealous as can be, and if some handsome, distinguished chap named Lessing, say, made eyes at Eve Franklin, and Eve has a roving eye, Raeburn might get jealous. It might even make him do something foolish. I’m told he’s gone to Brighton with Eve,” Mark added, airily, “I could do with some sea breeze.”
“Well, well,” Roger said, slowly. “It could be an idea, too.” He paused before going on: “I can’t stop you going to Brighton if you want to, but don’t forget that Raeburn’s seen you.”
“Only for a few minutes at the Silver Kettle, when he was much more interested in Janet,” Mark argued. “He might fly off the handle if I had any luck with Eve. You want to make him lose his patience, don’t you? Or do you like being the victim of cartoons in the Evening Cry?”
“What’s that?” Eddie exclaimed.
Roger said: “Oh, lor’!”
“Haven’t you seen it?” Mark took an early edition of the Evening Cry out of his pocket. On the middle page was a cartoon showing three inset pictures of masked men breaking into a house, holding up a car, and at the door of a bank which was broken open. The main picture was of Roger, made to look like an effeminate young man, saying to a motorist: “It is a serious offence to drive when you’ve had a drink.”
“That’s ‘ot, that is,” Eddie said. “The AC will –”
“Never mind what the AC will do,” Roger said, more testily than he realised. “Mark, I don’t think you ought to dabble in this job. I probably can’t stop you. If you go down, make sure Turnbull knows that a Don Juan is about. I don’t want to be investigating the murder of Mark Lessing.”
“I’m very hard to kill,” Mark said.
Brown and Halliwell had probably thought they were hard to kill, too.
Roger found it difficult to concentrate and telephoned Brighton, but Turnbull wasn’t there. He left a message, telling him to look out for Mark. He wished he had taken more trouble to stop him from going down to Brighton, although he knew there was little he could do with Mark when he was determined.
If anything should happen to Mark . . .
No reply came from Paris and no other news came in. Mrs Brown’s movements were not at all suspicious, and there was no sign of Brown. It was like a case of suspended animation.
Roger wasn’t home that night until after seven. The family had supper together, and he was unusually quiet. The boys went up to their room to do homework, and soon there were sounds of thumping on the ceiling, laughter, and then a crash, as if something had been knocked down.
Roger jumped up, strode to the door, and shouted: “Boys!”
There was a moment’s pause, before Richard called: “Yes, Dad?”
“You went up there to work. Get on with it. If I hear any more larking about, I’ll come up to you.”
“Yes, Dad,” Richard said, meekly.
“You deaf, Martin?” Roger roared.
“No, Dad, I heard.” Scoopy was subdued, too. “Sorry!”
Roger went back to the living-room. Janet did not speak in protest, but he knew exactly what she was thinking: that the case was beginning to get him down. Well, it was, especially now that Mark was involved. It was almost a relief when, at half past ten, the telephone bell rang.
“Oh, let it ring,” Janet said. “You can’t go out again” tonight.”
Roger forced a grin as he lifted the receiver, and said: “West speaking.”
“Good evening, sir. This is Sergeant Mallen.”
“Yes, Mallen?”
“We’ve had a report from C Division that, after receiving a visit from a young woman, Mrs Brown left her Tooting flat in a taxi about 9.20 pm, sir. Our man lost the taxi at Hammersmith, but a report’s come in that she paid it off near Barnes Common. The driver was picked up on the way back.”
“Near the Common?” asked Roger, sharply.
“That’s all the driver’s told us yet, sir. He’s still being questioned.”
“I’ll come over at once. Send word to Barnes to have the Common watched; we don’t want her to slip through our fingers.”
“Right, sir!”
Roger put the receiver down, and spoke before Janet could get a word in. “Brown’s wife has probably gone to meet her missing William,” he said. “Sorry, sweet, I’ll have to go.”
Janet said, with great deliberation: “Roger, this case has gone all wrong. I hope you know that. It’s West versus Raeburn, not Raeburn versus the Yard. You’re taking it far too personally; you really ought to have a rest from it; perhaps you’d see it more clearly then.”
“You’re probably right,” Roger agreed, and squeezed her tightly. “I’ll try to ease off a bit, but –”
“You’ve got to go out just this once,” Janet said, and sounded really bitter. “I’ve heard it all before, remember.”
Roger said, quite sharply: “Do you really want me to fall down on the job?”
13: IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT
Katie brown paid off the driver, and watched the taxi move off. She stood close to the wall of a house, looking about her nervously. A wide, tree-lined street with few lights led to the Common, and the far end was in darkness. She heard footsteps,
and drew back into the shadows. A man and woman passed, talking in undertones, quarrelling. She waited until they had gone, then walked toward the Common. Her heart was beating so fast that it almost seemed to suffocate her.
Bill had sent word through an acquaintance, asking her to meet him near the bridge, over the railway on Barnes Common, at ten o’clock. It was now a quarter to ten. She was afraid that someone might have followed her, but no second car had drawn up. The police were not so hot, anyway.
She wished that she had driven in the taxi straight to the bridge; it would have saved her this walk across the dark Common, but she had not wanted to take any chances of leading the police to Bill.
She had put on a pair of rubber-soled shoes which made a soft padding sound. A heavy bag kept knocking against her leg. It was filled with sandwiches, two thermos flasks of coffee, a half bottle of whisky and some cigarettes, soap, and two towels. If Bill was going to be on the run for long he would need all these. She clutched the bag tightly.
She reached the end of the road and paused, peering into the darkness. The main road which ran across the Common was well lit, but it seemed to be a long way off. There was a rumbling sound, and a bus passed, its lights very bright in the darkness.
Should she take this short cut, or walk to the main road where there were the lights all the way? She decided on the short cut.
It might be a good thing for Bill to give himself up, and in any case she was determined to have things out with him and tell him all that West had said. She had spent a lot of time thinking it over, and West might be right. A few months in prison would do Bill little harm, and by the time he was out again the danger might be past.
She was walking on grass now, past clumps of bushes which loomed out of the darkness. Now that she knew that no one had followed her she was happier, although still on edge.
Then she heard voices.
She stopped and peered into the bushes, her heart racing. A man and a girl were talking in undertones, that was all.
She crossed a path, plunged over the next stretch of Common, and over the main road. Further along, the road sloped upward, toward the bridge which carried it over the railway track. The bridge and road were brightly lit, which made the darkness beside the bridge seem even more intense. She reached the spot where Bill had said he would be waiting. Standing close to the wall to make sure that she was not seen, she put down the bag and eased her cramped fingers.
After a while, she whispered: “Bill!”
There was no response.
The silence began to get on her nerves; perhaps Bill had not been able to come, after all; perhaps the police had caught him. Or – Raeburn. She wanted desperately to talk to him before he was arrested; he might listen to her. As she tried to pierce the darkness, her body was taut. Cars passed over the bridge, and the beams of their headlights shone within a yard or two of her. It might be wiser to move farther away from the road.
She picked up the bag, and took a few steps into the darkness.
“Bill!” she called again.
There was no answer.
She held her watch close to her eyes, but could only just make out the faint whiteness of the dial. It had been a quarter to ten when she had left the taxi, and couldn’t be much past ten now. Bill might easily be delayed; she was worrying about nothing; how could he possibly be sure of arriving on time?
She stepped forward, restlessly, then heard someone moving,
She stood stock still.
Yes, someone was moving not far away – she was sure of it; a man was coming. “Bill!” she called, cautiously. There was no answer, but the rustling sound seemed to draw nearer. Why didn’t Bill answer? Panic-stricken, she stared toward the sound, and moving forward, she stumbled over the bag.
Perhaps she had imagined those other sounds –
No, there they were.
It might be a dog or a cat. Not a cat, she hoped, she hated cats. It mustn’t be a cat! She clasped her hands together, her whole body rigid. Not a cat; no, not a cat!
“Bill!” Her voice was loud now.
The rustling sound was much nearer; it seemed to be all round her, but she could see nothing moving. A car went over the bridge, shedding a bright light above her; if only she had stayed nearer the road; if only –
A hand clutched her throat!
She screamed.
The cry was cut short as fingers pressed against her windpipe. An arm was flung round her, and she was pressed tightly against her assailant. She could not breathe; she began to struggle against that powerful grip, but when she tried to kick out she lost her balance, made the situation worse.
A great darkness was descending on her with that terrible pressure at her throat. They were going to kill her. She was being murdered.
No, no, no!
The pressure relaxed.
She was a shuddering mass of nerves, and would have fallen but for the support of her assailant. She gasped and panted as the air reached her lungs again. She wanted to scream for help, but little sound came.
A voice whispered close to her ear. She caught only the last two words: “Don’t worry.” She turned and, as she did so, a cloth was dropped over her head and shoulders; she could feel it on her cheeks and chin, piling terror upon terror. She tried to struggle, but it was drawn tightly about her neck. Then she was lifted clear of the ground, and carried off.
Her assailant carried her for what seemed a long distance. She was able to breathe inside the cloth, but swayed on her feet when at last the man set her down. He still held her, and this time she caught his words clearly.
“If you behave yourself, you’ll be all right. Don’t talk above a whisper.” He had a curiously expressionless voice.
“I won’t, I won’t,” she promised, but the cloth seemed to muffle the words.
The cord at her neck was loosened, and the cloth taken off. It was very dark. In the distance were the lights of the main road, just visible between the trees; so she was still on the Common.
“Go straight ahead,” the man said, pushing her forward. “Go on, they won’t hurt you.”
Something clutched at her clothes; she felt her stocking rip and a sharp pain in her leg. She was being pushed through a gap between some bushes. Then the twigs and thorns stopped tugging at her, and she stood free of them with darkness all round her – alone with the man who had nearly throttled her. If only she could scream!
The man said: “I sent that message, your husband didn’t. Get that clear. Now answer my questions, and keep your voice low. Understand?”
“Ye – yes.”
“You’d better.” A hand gripped her arm tightly enough to make her wince.
“Did the police come to see you today?”
“I –” she faltered.
“Did they?” The grip tightened, painfully.
“Yes.”
“What did they want?”
“They – wanted – to know where my husband was last night.”
“Did you tell them?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You needn’t come that with me! I’m not a rozzer. Did you tell them?”
“No.”
“He was on a job, wasn’t he?”
“I – I think so.”
The man said: “Now listen to me, Katie. I want straight answers. You’re here on the Common alone with me, see? I can do what I like with you. Ever read in the papers of a girl being strangled on a lonely bit of common? That’ll be you if you’re not careful, only you won’t read about it. Give it to me straight, or I’ll fix you. Your husband was out on a job, wasn’t he?”
“Y – yes.”
“Raeburn’s place?”
“I – I think so.”
“What did he want there?”
“He – he doesn’t like . . . Raeburn.”
“So he doesn’t like Raeburn,” mimicked the man. “That’s too bad. I’ll have to tell Mr Raeburn; it ought to keep him awake at night. Why doesn’t Mr Brown like Mr Raeburn?”
“He thinks –” Katie began.
Everything came out more lucidly than when she had told it to Roger. The man kept on prompting her, and she needed only a word here and there to keep her talking. The story showed clearly what her husband felt about Raeburn; how sure they both were that Raeburn had been responsible for Tony’s death; how clear it was to them that Eve could not have seen the ‘accident’ on Clapham Common.
Katie was calmer, but no less frightened. It was getting cold, and she kept shivering; now and again her teeth began to chatter, and she could not control them; the man did not try to force her to speak during those spells. He kept very close to her, holding her arm; and, whenever he spoke, she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks, but could not see his face properly; it was just a pale blur in the darkness.
Trees and bushes rustled in the rising wind; there was a frequent hum of traffic on the main road, but all sight of the roadway was cut off from her. There was only the fear and the cold, and this man with the flat, hateful voice.
At last she finished.
“And where’s your husband now?” he demanded.
“I don’t know!”
“You know as well as I do.” The man gripped her arm so roughly that she gasped aloud. He slapped her face with his free hand, and whispered: “Keep quiet!” She began to shiver, and could not stop her teeth from chattering. He slapped her again. “Where is he?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here!”
“Don’t give me that. Telling me is your one chance of getting away from here alive. Where is he?”
She felt the savage pressure of his fingers on her arm, his breath on her face. His free hand touched her coat, and began to unfasten the top buttons. His hands were against her warm skin. He put his fingers round her throat, and began to squeeze. This was different from his first attack; this was not just to keep her quiet.
He was going to strangle her; he meant to kill her.
His touch seemed like ice.
“Where is he?” he demanded, between clenched teeth.
“I don’t know, I just don’t know!”
He squeezed, making her choke, but a scream burst wildly from her lips. She struck out at him blindly, taking him by surprise, so that he loosened his grip. The scream came out, high-pitched, shivering on the night air, a blood-curdling sound. As it welled out, he clutched at her throat again, using both hands now; her cries stopped abruptly; she began to struggle and fight for breath.
