by Roger Bax
“I’ll pop into a place I know during the week. You’ll look all right in mink.”
“I’ll say! I bet Cy wouldn’t ever of got me mink.” She watched the waiter pouring the champagne. “Here’s to you and me,” she said. “Hope it bucks you up a bit.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give you a good time. I know just the place you’ll like in Paris. A new hotel – built just before the war – overlooking the Champs Elysées. Lots of chromium and American bars and plenty of bell boys.”
She leaned over and gave his hand a playful tap with her fork. “Comfy beds?”
“Excellent beds – you’ll like them.”
“You’re not kidding! Better than that settee in Hamley Avenue, anyway. Coo, the springs were awful.”
“The salmon’s not too bad, is it?”
“Could be worse,” said Doris, pushing forward her glass to be filled. “Maybe you and me ’ull get along all right after all. What you need’s a shove now and again. What shall we do tomorrow? Spot of dancing? Of course, I reely need a new frock—”
“We’ll get you one,” said Cross.
“But what about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Cross smiled. “I’ll think up something really special for tomorrow. Let’s drink to it.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Ah! – it’s a secret. I’m giving a lot of thought to it. It’s something that’s never happened to you before, something that’ll never happen to you again, and something that you’ll never tell anybody about.”
Doris giggled. “It sounds rude.”
“No,” said Cross; “if it were you’d talk about it. It’s something that’ll knock you absolutely cold – something absolutely unique in your experience.”
Doris spluttered. “How you talk!” she said. “You’ll be the death of me!”
Of course, she was impossible! How could he ever have had a moment’s doubt about it?
He was back in the flat, lying in a steaming bath, thinking. He was meeting her tomorrow at the same time. And tomorrow he must kill her. He would pick her up in the car and drive out towards the country. She would probably make trouble about that, so he would have to kill her very soon after they had started. The sooner the better. He would throttle her – that would be nice and clean. Then he’d choose a quiet bit of road and drag the body into a wood and leave it there. In a day or two, no doubt, it would be found, but there’d be nothing to connect him with it. When they started going into her activities they’d probably conclude that one of her soldier boy friends had done it. It was quite usual for floozies to finish up that way. The whole thing would soon blow over, and he’d be as safe as he’d been before the girl knocked at his door.
Sharp at seven the next evening he was waiting at the old spot. He would be glad when the job was done. He no longer felt entirely confident – he couldn’t get it out of his mind that he was being pushed around by events. But he’d fight back all the way. Tonight he’d done something which he hadn’t felt to be necessary before. Just before leaving the flat he’d slipped into his coat pocket the revolver which he’d carried all through Poland and Germany. You never knew, carrying a body about. Something might go wrong. If it did he’d try to shoot his way out.
He’d also taken the spanner out of the tool-box again and put it in the pocket of the car beside him. Just in case.
It was the right weather for the job. No moon and a strong wind. It would be dark and noisy.
He didn’t see Doris until she was opening the car door. She slammed it behind her, angrily, and flopped into the seat. “I don’t see any fun riding round in a car this weather,” she said. “Let’s go to your place. I don’t feel so good.”
“What’s the matter – hangover?”
“That champagne was poison. Else it was the fish. Come on, what are we hanging about for?”
“You need a drink,” said Cross.
“You’re telling me.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Cross, “we’ll run out along the by-pass and have a couple of quick ones and then we’ll come back and make ourselves cosy at the flat.”
“You would choose a night when I don’t feel like being cosy. All right, have it your own way.” Cross let in the clutch. “But I still don’t see why we shouldn’t go straight to the flat.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake stop nattering,” said Cross.
“What did you say?”
“I said shut up,” said Cross savagely, turning into the by-pass and opening the throttle.
“Well, hark at him!” said Doris, leaning back against the door and trying to see his face in the light of the dashlamp. “Who do you think you’re talking to, I’d like to know? Aren’t you forgetting something? I thought I gave the orders in this outfit.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Cross. “I give them.”
She was suddenly frightened. “Take me back. Stop, do you hear?”
Cross lashed out viciously with the back of his hand and he felt his knuckles jar against her teeth. “I told you to be quiet.”
“Ooh, you damned swine!” she screamed at him. She began to yell at the top of her voice and pound with her fists at his head. The car rocked dangerously. He braked hard and brought it to a stop so quickly that she was thrown forward against the windscreen. He could see in the driving-mirror that there was nothing on the road behind. Ahead, a car was approaching but it was a good way away. Time enough! He tried to get hold of her but she fought back wildly, screaming all the time like someone crazed and tearing at his face with her sharp fingernails. He felt the sudden pain. If he couldn’t stop her screaming ... she was strong and desperate and he was an undersized man. He would never reach her throat. She was trying to get the door open. ... He grabbed the spanner and struck at her. Her arm broke the blow but he struck again and again, beating her down, and suddenly the screaming stopped and she was slumped on the seat, quiet. It was difficult to hit her hard enough because of the car roof. He took deliberate aim and cracked the spanner head down on her skull. That was better – that should have done the trick. He was shaking with excitement. Kneeling up on his own seat, he heaved and pushed at the body until little by little the sagging lump of flesh rolled over into the back of the car. He covered it with a rug.
Peace! – at last. He’d never hear that voice again, anyway. But it had been a near thing. He’d almost bungled it. What a vicious little cat! There were deep scores down his face and neck and he felt a trickle of blood. That would take a bit of explaining. He carefully shone his torch on to the seat beside him. There was no blood there, but there would be in the back. He would have to clean it up after he’d got rid of the body. There was no respite – things were piling up.
He sat still for a moment or too. The oncoming car had passed, and there was still nothing behind. He lowered his window and listened. There was a house close by, on the right-hand side of the road, but it was in darkness. The wind was blowing in great gusts. It looked as though Doris had screamed in vain.
He would just light a cigarette first. His hands were still shaking. Now all he had to do was to drive into the country, hide the body, and remove all traces. It shouldn’t take long. A simple job. He started the car. The sooner he got going, the sooner he’d be back. He drove fast. Every now and again a gust hit the side of the car and swung it off its course. He must be careful – the smallest accident would be disastrous. He tried not to think of what lay ahead – the search in the dark for the right spot, the heaving and the carrying, the risk of being seen. He kept on telling himself it was so simple he could put it out of his mind, and yet it weighed on him. He’d be bound to get blood on himself. ... It was like seeing a film round twice.
He remembered the road from the old days. About twenty miles farther on – perhaps a little more – he would come to the wild country around Hindhead. He had often picnicked there in his youth. Just before you reached the Devil’s Punch Bowl there were a lot of tracks leading off into thick woods. The trees wou
ld be bare now, of course, but if he could push the body down among the bushes it might lie there unnoticed for quite a time. He must have a look through Doris’s bag before he threw it away and make sure there was no reference to himself – no address. He would do that before he moved the body. He would have to be careful to park the car where the tyre marks wouldn’t show. And not to leave any footmarks. He could tie rags round his shoes, the way prisoners had wrapped up their feet in camp in cold weather.
He had to pull up at some traffic lights at Esher, and another car stopped close alongside. He had a moment of fear lest anyone should be able to see in, but there was no real danger. The body was well tucked up. Anyway, why should anybody be interested in the contents of his car? Still he felt nervous. A few nights ago there had been a routine police check-up on all cars leaving London – something to do with the crime wave. Suppose he were stopped on this road? With an effort of will he put the thought aside. They would hardly make another check so soon. But the feel of his gun was comforting.
The Rover was running like a clock, as it always had done. Just as well, with a corpse in the back. His eyes swept the instrument board, and suddenly he broke out into a sweat.
He had forgotten to fill her up! He had meant to, and then all this worry had put the thing out of his head. That showed he was slipping. Every time he had been out before on these errands he had checked the level. This time, when it was so vital, he had forgotten. According to the gauge, he had enough juice for ten more miles at most. Enough to get him into the country, but not enough to get him back. He dared not run it too fine – he’d be sunk completely if he ran out before he’d got rid of the body.
He slowed down and considered the situation. To stop or not to stop? Surely nobody would look in the back – and if they did there was damn all to see in the dark. He was still trying to decide when he saw a petrol station with three lighted pumps on the near side of the road. There was no other car there – it wouldn’t take a minute. It was a small garage. He pulled in.
A youth came out of the garage and walked round to his window. “How many, sir?”
“Five,” said Cross. He took some coupons out of his wallet and felt for some silver. He could only find a half-crown and some pennies. He would have to change a pound. He could hear the petrol running into the tank and the whirr of the pump. Hell, what a time it took! Cross leaned out. The youth was just putting the cap back on the tank.
“Twelve and eight, sir.” Cross handed over the coupons and the note. He would have liked to slip away now, but it would look pretty odd if he left all that change. He sat grim and silent, till he heard the lad’s step again. “Seven and four change, sir.”
He was just going to press the starter when there was a loud and unmistakable moan from the back of the car. Cross stiffened. The face of the youth was at the window, pale and startled.
“Someone ill, sir?” Again there was a groan and dreadful stertorous breathing. Cross sat still for a second, his mind blacked-out. The youth had his head right inside the car. “Why, mister ...!”
Cross reached for the spanner. Then he saw someone else coming out of the lighted garage. The youth gave a shout and ducked away. Cross rammed the car into bottom, let in the clutch with a snap and roared into the road.
The shouting died, but the moans went on.
Cross licked his dry lips, changed into top and pressed the accelerator to the boards. “God,” he thought, “I’m on the run!”
CHAPTER XIII
For a few moments Cross drove on without a plan. He couldn’t concentrate. That blackout had been a warning. He had been taxing himself too highly – the strain was beginning to tell.
The moaning, thank heaven, had ceased. Doris, unconscious again and evidently badly concussed, was snoring loudly. She had had her revenge, all right. If only he’d made sure of her ...! But what was the good of thinking about that now?
The hunt was up. All his schemes were in ruins. The time had gone by for blueprints and timetables and castles in Spanish America. There was no question of a fortune now. All he could hope to salvage was his life. Whether he survived or not depended on his speed, guts and ruthlessness.
At the first opportunity, with the instinct of a hunted animal, he doubled back on his tracks. He felt better after he had taken two right-hand turns and was driving back towards London. The immediate task was to throw off any close pursuit – and then to find a hiding-place, however temporary.
Those chaps at the garage would have phoned the police by now. The youth had seen more than enough to make him suspicious – and Cross had threatened him with the spanner. They would describe the car – they would know the make and would probably remember the colour. At this very moment, in all likelihood, the flying-squad was getting its instructions. In a quarter of an hour, half an hour at most, a cordon would begin to close round the district.
He had got to decide quickly what to do. He could see that the car was his greatest danger – he ought to abandon it. It was for the car, not for him, that the police would be looking. But if he abandoned it the police would certainly pick it up and identify him through the registration number. It might take them a little time – a few hours, perhaps – to knock the right people up and get at the records, but those hours could be invaluable. He could see now that he ought to have driven out into the country and hidden the car right away, but already he was back in the near-suburbs and there was no obvious safe hiding-place. He daren’t risk going back.
Whether or not they found the car, they would identify him by the petrol coupon. But they might not think of that at once. In any case it would take longer.
One thing was clear: by tomorrow morning he would be ‘wanted for murder’. They’d have got to work on the petrol coupon long before then. There’d be a description out, and every policeman in the country would be keeping his eyes skinned. They’d be watching at the airfields and the ports. He would be far worse off than a deserter – he would have no base, no plans, and no friends. He wouldn’t be able to get any money, except by violence. He wouldn’t be able to manage for long with nothing but a gun – not in England.
He was getting things sorted out a bit now. He must postpone identification as long as possible – that meant sticking to the car. By doing that he would have the night before him as a free man. Just the night – the hours of darkness. Twelve or fifteen hours to save himself – that was all.
He must get out of the country. He must get to Truant right away. He could hide the car there, and he could go off in the boat. It had come to the worst. There was no other hope at all. The chance was slim, but at least it was a chance.
He would be able to think about details when he got to Truant. He would have a breathing space there. He would tuck the car away behind the refuse destructor – nobody would be likely to come searching there in the dark.
He felt a bit better, now that he had decided what to do. But he had a long way to go. He must join the main road again. There were risks in that, but in the dark he would lose himself on these unfamiliar secondary roads. Again he swung to the right.
Surely he could cover these last miles without being stopped? The trouble was that these radio cars moved into action in a flash. A 999 call from the garage, a swift transmission of the message, and the whole mobile force would be looking for him. Right now, probably, they were on the watch. He remembered how smartly they had picked up the two men who had stolen his Vauxhall. What years ago that seemed!
The built-up areas would be the worst – people, cars, traffic lights. There was Doris ... she might attract attention. Was it worth stopping to finish her off? Perhaps he ought to. But he drove on.
He was driving as fast as his lights and the traffic would allow – faster than was safe. Once he nearly came to grief on a bend but he got out of the front-wheel skid just in time. He was approaching Esher and slowed to avoid attracting attention. There seemed a lot of people about, too many cars to be pleasant; too many street lamps. He got held up
behind a Green Line coach. He was keeping a sharp look-out to left and right. Suddenly, in the centre of the little town, he saw a police car, stationary on the near side. He had just passed the coach. As he accelerated a uniformed figure suddenly rushed out from the pavement and held up his hand. Cross changed down and roared by, switching off his lights to prevent his number being taken. He heard a long whistle and a shout, and in the driving-mirror he could see the flying-squad car shooting away from the kerb.
It was touch and go, now. They would be calling other cars – the ring was closing. And yet he hadn’t far to go – if he could throw them off just for a few miles he would be safe till morning.
The traffic lights ahead were just turning red. He opened the throttle. He was doing forty, fifty, fifty-five. No need to think, now. Sixty miles an hour and the red light was rushing towards him. Well, if he was unlucky it would be a quick death. He roared to the crossing, crouching over the wheel. He caught a glimpse of a bus towering, heard a screech of brakes, the shattering of glass. Chaos behind him! Something more to add to the account. The road was broad; he was touching sixty-five. Had the police car hit the bus? No, it was still there, not half a mile behind. Its great white beam, reflected in the windscreen, dazzled him. It was hanging on, gaining. Cross pushed the accelerator to the boards; the Rover was flat out now. The police had a bigger, faster car; they would catch him. He was coming into Kingston; at least he knew the roads well. At all costs he must avoid the centre; one check, one traffic block, would end the chase. They were close on his tail – hardly a quarter of a mile in it, now. Should he stop and shoot it out? They might not have guns. It seemed the only way.
No! He knew a better way. He braked hard, skidding round a curve. Ahead, the road forked. The left fork, little used, went straight to the river in a hundred yards and turned along the bank. Just before the fork he switched off all his lights and swung to the left. If the police hesitated at the junction, he might just do it! Cross slowed the Rover and opened the car door as it approached the river. It was tricky. He balanced on the running-board, the door right back against the coachwork. Five yards from the bank he stepped off and dived for a low wall. As he fell into wet grass, he heard the great splash of the Rover hitting the water and the police car roaring up with its lights blazing.
