Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  He said: “Look, there’s no reason for us to quarrel. I’m sure there’s some mistake. What about a drink? Whisky, gin?”

  “Now you’re talking! Gin and orange, please. Not much orange.” She sat down again, and drew her skirt delicately above her knee. “I thought we should understand each other in time.”

  “I’m sure we shall,” said Cross. “Cheers!”

  “Mud in your eye!” The gin went down in one.

  “That’s better,” said Cross. “Have another?”

  “Coo, you going to try and get me tight? You’ve got a job on, I can tell you. Well, p’raps just a little one.”

  “Now,” said Cross, when they were comfortably settled, “just tell me where you think I was that night. Cards on the table.”

  “Blowed if I know,” said Doris. “But if you weren’t where you said you were, maybe there was something you were trying to hide. Of course, I’m not a detective – but after all, there was a murder done that night.”

  “You think I murdered my uncle?”

  “Ooh, I wouldn’t say that! That’s awful.” The impact of the idea seemed too much for Doris, but she made a swift recovery. “But I suppose you could’ve, couldn’t you? You must have been somewhere.”

  “Tell me, what did Cy think about it?”

  “Oh, he didn’t know about this – he’d gone back home before the paper came out. Demobbed.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Smith. He said there were a lot of Smiths in America, same as here. I guess there are, too. His first name was Cyrus – funny name, isn’t it?”

  “Very American.” Cross was trying to be casual. “Know where he lives?”

  “Oh, yes – Chicago. He hadn’t got a proper address – been in the army so long, he said – but he said he’d tell me his new address when he wrote.”

  “Do you think he’ll write?”

  “Of course he will,” said Doris. She caught Cross’s eye. “Well, and if he doesn’t, what of it? I should worry.” She stroked her nylons. “Plenty of fish in the sea, that’s my motto.”

  “You express yourself with admirable clarity,” said Cross. “Of course, you’re quite wrong in your suspicions of me. I was at the bombed house, in spite of what you say. I wouldn’t in the least mind your going to the police, or anyone else, except that I really don’t want the whole wretched business brought up again.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” said Doris sympathetically. “I’m sure you’d like to forget it. Anybody would.”

  “Exactly. Well, what about us forgetting it together? You know what I mean. Your boy friend’s gone to America, and I haven’t got a girl friend. Suppose you hitch up with me for a while. We could have a pretty good time together. I’ve got – er – well, enough money to give you a good time. ...”

  “I’ll say you have,” said Doris greedily. “I read all about it in the paper.”

  “I hardly imagined you’d have missed it,” said Cross. His fingers itched to strangle her. What a bitch!

  “You don’t have to be nasty. Fair’s fair. If you treat me properly, I’ll keep my mouth shut. But I can’t stand mean gentlemen. Would you like me to stay here tonight?”

  Cross looked at her – the shining hair, the kiss curls, the provocative breasts, the pink flesh above nylons, the crimson nails and the stilt-like shoes – and gave an inward shudder. In other circumstances, yes, but ...

  “I’m a bit tired tonight,” he said. “I think you’d better go home.”

  “Lumme,” said Doris, “you’re a funny one. Still, have it your own way. I expect you’ll be screaming for me before long. What time do I see you tomorrow, and where?”

  “If you like,” said Cross, “we’ll go out to dinner. I’ll drive you up to town and we’ll go to a nice quiet spot.”

  “Not so much of the quiet,” said Doris. “Sounds stuffy to me. Bit of dancing, I like, or a prize fight. I love prize fights. You’ll soon get to know my tastes.”

  “Anyway,” said Cross, “let’s make it a quiet place tomorrow, just for once. Get to know each other a bit, eh?” His tone was wheedling.

  “Okay, but I shan’t be free till about seven, because of the job.” She smiled. “Not that that matters so much now, does it?”

  He stood behind her and helped her on with her coat. He saw that her hair was full of dandruff. She pushed her bottom against him and giggled. He put his hands on her shoulders, his fingers moved towards her neck. Then he thought of the lighted stairs and the porter down below, and he went and poured himself another drink instead.

  “Greedy!” she said. “What about me? Just one for the road.”

  “A good long one?”

  “No, you jerk, gin.” She raised the glass. “Here’s to us, big boy. You and me are going to enjoy life from now on.” She pinched his cheek and he forced a smile.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven, at the roundabout,” he said. He let her out, and he heard the lift coming up for her.

  He went back inside and sank into a chair, his shoulders slumped. His luck had turned, all right.

  CHAPTER XII

  For hours that night Cross sat and wrestled with the new situation. The more he thought about it, the worse it seemed.

  It had been all very well to tell Doris that the police wouldn’t take her word – the word of a common little floozie – against the story of his own two reputable witnesses. But Doris had been damnably right when she had said the police would be interested. It might take them a long while to unravel the whole complicated and ingenious plot, but once they’d got a loose end in their teeth they’d never let go. Cross could just see the Inspector throwing himself into the case again. He could imagine only too well the interview between Doris and the Inspector, and the train of thought that it would start. James had been aching all along to get a wedge under a corner of that alibi. Doris would provide it. Taking Doris’s story as a starting point, the Inspector would certainly have new inquiries made of the two witnesses in Buenos Aires. He’d want to know, in the greatest detail, what was the positive evidence on which they based their view that they’d been at the bombed house. When they were really pressed, they’d have to admit that they’d never actually seen any part of the house, even the gate: that the car hadn’t even stopped outside it: that, in fact, they’d no evidence at all except Cross’s words and behaviour and, of course, the name-plate.

  The question was, would the Inspector ever be able to jump the big gap between knowing that the alibi had been faked, and knowing how it had been faked? Would it ever occur to him that the name-plate had been changed? The Inspector had plenty of imagination – what Cross had planned, he might well think of himself. Certainly, James could never prove anything. The evidence had been burned. There was no conceivable way in which he could demonstrate to a jury that Cross had changed the name-plate. He might suspect it, he might even outline possible methods. He might be astute enough to hit on the actual method that Cross had used. But he couldn’t prove it.

  There was another danger, though. Cross’s witnesses had been sure enough that they had been in Hamley Avenue. But if another witness appeared – even one of such dubious character as Doris – equally ready to swear that Cross had not been there – with a lot of very human reasons why she was so sure – might not his own witnesses waver? Particularly if the Inspector had put the idea of a faked alibi into their minds? They had been certain enough at the time, but the sharpness of their visual picture would fade. Even if it didn’t, and they stuck to their story, might not a jury argue that after all it had been foggy and anyone could make a mistake? Cross could just hear a skilful counsel examining his witnesses, and successfully introducing just a shadow of doubt into their story. And a shadow might be enough.

  All the other evidence would fit. The Inspector would produce his little bits of jigsaw – the pick-up at the roundabout, for the second time on a foggy Thursday; the five minutes away from the car, long enough to do the murder; the telephone call, so essential f
or a man with a faked alibi, and the disguised voice, so necessary for a man who might be encountered later as a member of the family; the placing of Geoffrey’s notes, which could have been done only by someone with inside knowledge; the blood on the coat and the hasty efforts to clean it up; the fact that something had been burned in the grate; the financial straits of the accused; the temptation of a fortune. By the time a good counsel, briefed by the Inspector, had put all those bits of the jigsaw in place, they would make a pretty damning pattern. What verdict would a jury bring in on that evidence? Cross simply didn’t know. All he knew was that many a man had been hanged on no more circumstantial evidence than that. He would certainly, unquestionably, be arrested; he would have to stand trial; it would take weeks, perhaps months. He would never get abroad. Even taking the most optimistic view of the prospects, Cross could see no future for himself in letting Doris go ahead and tell her story.

  So Doris must be silenced. That meant that he must either kill her quickly, before she had been seen around with him, or he must buy her off and go on buying her off.

  Cross knew a blackmailer’s strength. He would have made a good blackmailer himself. He would have drained his victim dry, without mercy. What would Doris be like at the game? There were risks – you had to know the ropes.

  He thought back to her visit. She had been astute enough to realize the value of her knowledge, which meant she wasn’t nearly as dumb as she looked. Her approach had been clever. Her ‘tastes’, as she called them, were probably not very expensive at the moment, but they would no doubt mature in a suitable atmosphere. She was unscrupulous, heartless and greedy. It was impossible to guess what her ultimate demands might be, but it was reasonable to suppose she would strip him pretty thoroughly before she’d finished with him.

  What was worse, she’d always be around – in the way. It would be no good his paying her a good sum and then skipping off to South America on his own – she’d tell her story to get her own back, and extradition on a murder charge would be simple enough to arrange. He might be able to change his name, disappear, go underground – but that wasn’t what he had killed Uncle Charles for.

  No, she’d always be a millstone round his neck. Could he bear that – as an alternative to discovery? He could hear her talking now – a grating recollection. He could hear her giggling. He remembered that swift change from sexy wheedling to raucous shouting, when it had looked as though he wasn’t going to play. She would drive him crazy. There would be no peace of mind, no fun, as long as she was alive.

  Then he must kill her. It would be a pleasure. But it wouldn’t be easy. In the case of his uncle, he had thought everything out carefully beforehand, made detailed preparations, covered himself against all – no, almost all! – contingencies. With Doris, he couldn’t do that. He would have to act swiftly – within the next forty-eight hours. Even so it would be risky. The porter might remember her as the woman who had come up to the flat when her picture appeared in the papers. Cross would have to have some explanation for that visit. If a connection were traced between them, the police would be on to him like lightning. Two murders within a week – and he mixed up in both of them! Cross didn’t like it at all – any part of it. He reflected grimly that army commanders must feel like this when their great offensives had not quite succeeded, and the relentless tide was beginning to run against them. Had he passed his peak? Would he be able to impose his will on events much longer?

  He was so tired, so depressed. He would try to sleep on the problem. He would be meeting Doris the next evening, and he could decide then what to do. Perhaps she’d prove more manageable than he dared to hope.

  Sharp at seven the next night he parked the Rover at the roundabout. He was glad it was dark – it was most unlikely that anyone would notice them. He knew the way that Doris would come, and kept a sharp look-out. At five past seven she came swinging along the pavement. He could see as she climbed in that she still wore the rabbit fur and that underneath she had a satiny mauve frock with a monstrous diamante brooch. In the closed car her perfume was stifling.

  “Well, big boy, I’ve given in my notice,” she announced, almost before she was seated. “I told that old bitch a thing or two. ‘If you think you can talk like that to me,’ I said, ‘you’ve got another think coming.’ I said, ‘Call yourself a lady,’ I said, ‘why, you wouldn’t know one if you saw one.’ You should’ve heard me. Coo, I could use a drink. What about stopping at the ‘Monkey Puzzle’, eh?”

  Cross slipped the car into gear. “I don’t think we ought to hang about here,” he said. “I reserved a table at the Moulin Vert for seven-thirty, and they might not keep it if we’re late.”

  “’Course they’ll keep it – for you. I bet you’re a good customer.” She gave him a nudge with her elbow.

  “As a matter of fact, it’s a new place to me – recommended by a friend. It won’t take us long to get there.”

  “I hope it’s good,” said Doris. “It had better be. I say, I’d like to see that old cow’s face if she knew I was going off like this with Mr. Arthur Cross, the paint manufacturer. Make her eyes pop, wouldn’t it? The things she said! – talk about rude. Do you know what I told her?” Doris giggled. “I told her I was going over to Paris for the weekend. That shook her. Mind you, I always say you can’t expect everyone to like you.”

  “Of course not. Did you actually tell her we were going out together?”

  “Not me! People ’ud think something was up if I started talking about you.”

  “Good girl. It wouldn’t help you much to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, would it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, what you said – if anyone got suspicious about me, I’d be no more good to you.”

  “Don’t worry – I know how to keep my mouth shut, when it pays. It’ll be different in Paris – no one’ll know you there.”

  “Paris?”

  “Sure. We’re going this weekend. I told you.”

  “My dear girl, we can’t go off to Paris like that. You need passports and things.”

  “Go on, you can fix it.”

  “I could have a try, I dare say.” Why should he argue? What did it matter what she thought she’d do in the weekend?

  “’Course you can, you poor fish. Why, Cy said he could get me over to the States right away, only there wasn’t a house ready. You don’t mind me talking about Cy, do you?”

  “It’s a pleasure,” said Cross.

  “He was such a nice boy. Knew his onions, too. You’re not exactly hot stuff, are you? Need some pep putting into you, if you ask me.”

  “These murders take it out of one,” said Cross.

  “So could I, big boy. Just give me a break. I say, did you reely do your uncle in?”

  “Of course I didn’t. I liked him – what would I want to do a thing like that for?”

  “Come off it! What about all that dough?” The car stopped. “Is this the place? Looks pretty dull, I must say. Why not the ‘Trocadero’?”

  “Next time,” said Cross. He led the way in, quietly gave the name in which he had booked a table, and followed Doris to the corner. He helped her to slip the rabbit off her shoulders and winced under the full impact of the mauve frock. “Sherry or gin?” he asked.

  Doris pondered. “I think I’ll have sherry tonight,” she said. She leaned over and whispered in Cross’s ear. She laughed. “That’s the one thing wrong with gin,” she said. She turned to the wine waiter. “Oh, and then champagne, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Cross. “The best you have, waiter.”

  “Believe it or not,” said Doris, “I haven’t had champagne since I went to Brighton with a Colonel just before Christmas. He was a real card – tried to get me plastered. But he didn’t manage it. I said to him, ‘Colonel,’ I said, ‘I don’t need that to warm me up,’ I said. And what d’you think he said next morning?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “He said, ‘I see what you mean, lit
tle girl.’”

  “Witty fellow,” said Cross. “Now what will you eat? Anything specially good, waiter?”

  “I’ll have lobster,” said Doris with an air of finality.

  “I’m sorry, madame – there’s no lobster tonight.”

  “Those people are having lobster over there,” said Doris in a loud voice.

  “They brought it themselves, madame.”

  “Oh yeah? Do you believe that, Arthur? Tell him to bring some lobster. Tell him to fetch the head waiter.”

  “I’ll call the head waiter, madame.”

  Cross controlled himself with an effort. “I’m sure they haven’t got any,” he said. “People do bring their own stuff here, you know.”

  “Then why didn’t we? You’re a fine sort to take a girl out.”

  “If you make a scene,” said Cross, “you’ll probably get our names in the papers and start a lot of trouble. What about some mushroom soup to start with? Or shall we see what the hors d’ceuvres looks like?”

  “I hate mushrooms. Filthy things. Lobster for me.”

  “Look, have some fresh salmon. Come on, Doris – after you’ve had a few glasses of champagne you won’t know the difference between that and lobster.”

  “Oh, no?” The head waiter was approaching. He bent over Doris, coldly impersonal.

  “Can I help you, madame?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing at all, thank you. We’ll have hors d’ceuvres and salmon.” She watched him walk away. “Dirty little Frenchman,” she said. She sat and sulked.

  “Here are the drinks, anyway,” said Cross. “Cheers.”

  “Bung-ho,” said Doris gloomily. “This is a lousy joint. You’ll have to do better than this. A lot better.”

  “Don’t hurry me,” said Cross. “I’ve all sorts of plans for the future – for you and me. How would you like a nice mink coat?”

  “Do you mean it? What, mink? Coo, that’ll cost you a fortune.” She had brightened up at once. “I’ll wear it at the shop the day I leave.” She gave her dreadful little giggle, that sounded so much like ‘er-er-er-er-er’. “When can we get it?”