by John Creasey
“I’ll just clear these things away,” she said about eleven o’clock. “Mrs Day will be in in the morning, she can—”
“We’ll wash up,” Roger said. “It won’t take five minutes.” He smoked as he dried the dishes, the knives and forks. It was not only good to be home, it was the one place to be. And Janet looked much less tired than she had the previous night; her eyes were brighter, her movements less sluggish.
“Would you like to put the electric fire on in the front room, and have the easy chair for a bit?” she asked.
Roger grinned.
“No,” he said.
“It’s more comfortable for us both.”
“No,” he insisted, and was still grinning.
“But, darling, why—” she began, and then broke off. “Oh, you fool!”
“Fool or not,” Roger said, “I know my rights.”
The street was very quiet.
Janet lay sleeping, on her left side, and with her back towards Roger. Their legs were touching, but at the shoulders there was a wide gap between them. Roger felt a cold streak down his back, and shifted the bedclothes a little, to try to get rid of it; he failed. It was much colder than it had been, and he could see the frostiness of the stars. He wondered what the weather forecast had been and, idly, whether they would get a white Christmas at last. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas … Where had he heard that recently? Young voices – oh, damn. Yes.
Janet made funny little puffing noises.
Roger was suddenly awake, the glorious afterglow of drowsiness all gone; and he knew that it would be some time before he dropped off. If he got up, he would probably disturb Janet, so he decided to stay there.
He found himself wondering whether Derek Bryant was alive or dead.
May Harrison dozed on and off during the night, aware of a great weariness, of a little pain and of a vagueness. She knew that she was alive, she knew that she lay in a bed, but that was all. Everything else was misty; everything else was forgotten.
Kath Bryant was more awake than she had been for a long time; much more alert than she wanted to be. She knew that Rosa or any one of several neighbours would have spent the night with her, but preferred to be on her own, in this room. One half of her mind warned her that in spite of the shock of what had happened, she hadn’t fully accepted the truth, yet: she didn’t really believe that Tom was dead. There was his place and his pillow; there were his slippers; there was the small Bible, with the tiny print, and with a piece of dry holly as a bookmark, showing what verses he had last read. How many times had he read the Bible through? Several, she believed; and she could also believe that he had known every verse off by heart.
The younger children were all in their proper beds; asleep.
She was looking through an old cardboard box with old letters and souvenirs: of days’ outings with this club or that, with the chapel, with some of the men at the Sorting Office. There were photographs; with Tom at Brighton, with Tom at Southend, with Tom, with Tom, with Tom. And with the children. As she looked at these pictures, quite dry eyed, she went over what she had told them. She believed that she had been right to be simple and truthful and direct.
Pam had cried and Bob had sniffed. Little Tim had done most harm, with his bright eyes and curly lashes and his piping: “Daddy gone dead?”
Well, they knew and wouldn’t have to be told again. She was glad that she had them in the house with her. She was facing it alone, as she would have to in the future.
Derek – where was Derek? She hated herself for the things that came to her mind.
And May.
Kath felt choky.
Well, there were the good things. The neighbours. The police – there was one at the front door and one at the back, now, and that would go on until they were sure that they had the murderer.
There was that plainclothes man, West. She couldn’t remember his rank, and it didn’t greatly matter. He’d looked in for ten minutes on his way home, and she remembered with a warm gratitude the way his wife had helped her, on that awful night. He hadn’t really asked questions, except the one which everyone wanted answered: why had anyone burgled this house? At most, there would be ten pounds in Tom’s cash box; anything over that he put into the Post Office, to take out at Christmas. He had this year. How – how on earth had he come by a hundred pounds? It was a fortune; as much as their life’s savings.
Then why had that brute come here and attacked May?
Where – where was Derek?
She had been through all the papers in the desk downstairs, and found nothing unusual, nothing to give her any idea of the motive.
Unless Tom had robbed –
No!
Why?
Then, picking up several old letters, the envelopes faded and the ink on the addresses turning brown, something heavy fell out of one. It was bright and shining – a key. All she could see at first was that it looked complicated; a Yale type, although larger than a door key. When she picked it up, it reflected the light and momentarily dazzled her, it was so fresh and new.
Aloud, she said: “What on earth did Tom put that there for?” And after a moment’s silence: “What key can it be?”
She hadn’t seen one like it before.
She put it back, but kept staring. Her heart began to beat faster. She picked it up again, and then brushed her hair back from her forehead.
Was this what they had been looking for?
Had Tom hidden it here?
She believed, at heart, that he had.
She put it back, and moved slowly to the bed and sat down; it was the first time she had sat down since she had come into the room. There was the photograph of Tom on the mantelpiece, showing his handsome face and his waving grey hair and the smile which had meant everything to her.
Why had he hidden it?
“Tom,” she said, in a husky voice, “what is it? Why did you bring it home?”
He was smiling at her.
“I—I don’t understand,” she said, in a strangled voice. “I don’t understand.”
But she began to understand her fears.
She got up, and started to walk about, talking as she did so, not loudly, but quite coherently. She ought to tell the police; that man West. Of course the key was the thing which the thief had wanted, what else could it be? But – why had Tom brought it home? What key was it? It looked like a safe key of some kind; certainly it fitted an important lock.
“Tom,” she said aloud, “I just don’t understand. You—you wouldn’t have anything to do with—with anything wrong. Would—oh, of course you wouldn’t!” She shouted that out. “I’m hateful even to think of it.”
“Tom.”
“What key is it?”
“Tom, why did you bring it home?”
In another part of London, in St John’s Wood, where Carmichael’s blonde had her flat, one man was talking to another. The speaker was the bigger of the two; the second man was younger and slimmer. He looked scared; he was scared. They had the evening newspapers in the room, with the banner headlines about the murders, and another about the attack on May Harrison. They had discarded the newspapers some time ago, and only the one voice had been heard since the last rustling.
“… if she didn’t see your face that’s okay, because no one else did. And it says in the Globe that she’s come round dopey so she can’t talk, anyway. You’re okay for a while. I’m not blaming you for not croaking her; I’m blaming you because you didn’t get that key, see. And I’ve got to get it. I went to a lot of trouble to get hold of that key, and—but we don’t have to waste words. I’ll bet the key’s at Bryant’s place.”
“I can’t break in there again!”
“No one suggested you should try,” the larger man said. “There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream. If you can’t get in, we’ve got to fix someone who can, and we’ve got to do it in a hurry. How about this kid brother, what’s his name?”
“Mick—Micky?” the youth
said.
“You ought to know. Well, what about Micky? What about persuading him into having a look for it, eh? You ought to be able to do a little thing like that.” He paused, and then suddenly let out a great bellow of laughter. “Why didn’t I think of that before, eh? That’s a hell of a good joke, that is, before I’ve finished I’ll have those ruddy cops chasing their own tails! That’s how good I am at thinking things up.” He laughed again.
The younger man didn’t speak; just looked uneasy. He left the house a little after six. A few lights were on at nearby windows, from early risers. His motorcycle was leaning against the wall of the house, and he wheeled it towards the street before starting the engine. It made a raucous din, which grew worse for a few seconds, then began to fade as he drove off into the dark morning.
Mrs Bryant was praying. “Oh, God, tell me what to do.”
Chapter Eleven
Morning
Roger West swung the car into Scotland Yard at half past eight next morning, and brought it to within a few inches of the wall, and only a foot from the next car to it. He got out, slammed the door, and walked briskly towards the steps. A Superintendent who was coming down grinned and said: “Nice judgment this morning.”
“I just leave it to the car.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” They stopped in the middle of the steps. “Not much in for you during the night, Handsome. That Bryant chap hasn’t been home yet, and we had his mother on the line twice.”
“Hm. Thanks.”
“Nothing happened at the Bryants’ place, nothing new in about the Wilson murder—haven’t heard of another glimpse of that man who went home with him.”
“Pity.”
“Well, get your teeth into it,” said the Superintendent breezily. “We want it all over by Christmas.” Roger said: “I’ve got a family, too.”
He went on. He felt better and in a much brighter mood than last night, and reminded himself as he went to the stairs, ignoring the lift, that he was a copper. His job was just catching criminals, from petty thieves to murderers, and there was no point in trying to carry everybody’s burden on his shoulders. He would do everything he could to help the Bryants but must not help them at the expense of the case.
He was still bright when he entered the office, where a man stood with his back to the door, looking out of the window, and didn’t hear him come in.
Roger said: “Hallo, Kilby, couldn’t you sleep?”
Kilby swung round.
He’d slept. His eyes were clear. He’d had a good clean shave and had rubbed powder into his face afterwards. He wasn’t a bad looking chap, in a rather unfinished kind of way. His nose was a bit short and his mouth not really a good shape.
“Oh, I slept,” he said; “you’ve never been more right; I was dog tired last night.”
“Weren’t we both?”
“Didn’t know you ever got tired,” said Kilby dryly. “Just after you’d left the pub last night, Turn—Mr Turnbull came in for a quick one.”
“I’ve known it happen before.”
“We had one together and then he ran me home,” Kilby said, “and we had a chat on the way.”
“Turnbull’s always worth listening to,” Roger said.
“You’re telling me! I—” Kilby broke off. “He asked me to pass on one or two things, sir; he’s got to go out to Paddington first thing in the morning; something’s turned up on that pawnbroker’s murder. He’s put in a written report, of course, but this elaborates it a bit. Er—he said you’d probably want to have his scalp, but—”
Roger was smiling.
“He’ll keep it. Go on.”
“He listed the priorities this way,” said Kilby, flushing a little. “First, what did the thief want at Bryant’s place, and why not dig deep among Bryant’s friends at the Post Office and his clubs and the chapel? Turnbull said—”
“That sometimes these sanctimonious Bible-thumping types are worse than anyone.”
“Well, he did suggest—”
“We’re checking,” Roger said. “What else?”
“He’d make Derek Bryant absolute priority.”
“And next?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, he suggested that it’s a good idea to have a go at Carmichael’s blonde.” Now, Kilby began to go pink. “We can only watch Carmichael, but the blonde may have a past, and if we could prove it, then she’d probably talk. Might be worth trying.”
“Social contact with the blonde, I gather,” Roger said dryly, “and you’re the man to do it.”
Now, Kilby turned deep red.
“I don’t see why not.”
Roger grinned. “Nor do I! She’ll spot you for a copper a mile off, but that won’t matter; it might scare her. Have a shot, but be careful—don’t go and fall for the blonde.”
Kilby said: “There’s no need to worry about that.” He was so harsh voiced, so grim faced, that Roger was startled into surprise. Kilby looked a little shamefaced. It was odd that big men on the force were so often naïve. This case had gone deeply into Kilby though, and might be the making of him.
‘Who’s worrying?” Roger said briskly. “Is there a late report on the woman?”
“Yes, Mr Turnbull did it before he left,” Kilby said. “It’s being typed out; should have copies soon.”
“Make sure I get one quickly, but first go through everything outstanding, and see if we’ve missed anything, will you?” Roger nodded dismissal and Kilby went off, leaving Roger to the mass of reports, clearing up his work on other jobs, and preparing the main summary on this one.
He had twenty minutes by himself, before other CIs came in, when there were the inevitable interruptions and one main subject – the Post Office case. The newspapers were full of speculation. One had listed every Post Office mail van robbery in the last five years and announced the fabulous total loot of nearly a million pounds. Some argued that this was all the work of a centrally directed gang; others that it was the work of a dozen or more different individuals. All had one point of agreement.
Each robbery was due to a leakage of information from the Post Office.
One of the CPs said: “Not hearing much from you, Handsome. Which side do you favour?”
“If this is one gang, we ought to start a chicken farm,” Roger said, and stood up and went to the window. There was a heavy, yellowish grey bank of cloud across the river, and it looked as if it was coming up from the south. “Snow before the night’s out,” he said; “that will make life hell for Mr Carmichael.”
He saw the door open.
Kilby came in with a typewritten report, gave a general ‘Good morning’ and made a beeline for Roger. “Here’s the stuff on Deirdre Ames,” he said.
“Nice name for a blonde,” remarked Roger.
“Have a look at her photograph,” Kilby said, and produced one from between the pages of the report.
Deirdre Ames was really something.
This was a studio portrait of the kind that one found outside less reputable nightclubs and third rate music halls.
Deirdre Ames had a great big smile and a great big cleft in a bosom only partly concealed by a great big feather fan. As a photograph, it was a work of art. The odd thing was that in spite of the tawdriness of her outfit, and the way her charms were emphasised, she did not look vulgar. Her eyes seemed not only beautiful but intelligent.
Roger put his head on one side as he looked up at Kilby.
“I told you before, you’d better look after your Boy Scout badges; she’ll be after them. But that was probably taken ten years ago when she was at her peak.”
“On the back, it says January this year,” Kilby pointed out. “About six months before she picked up with old Carmichael.”
Roger said: “Hmm,” and was as thoughtful as he sounded. If the girl was really like this now, what had she seen in the Chief Sorter? What would any young girl see, except money? There was as yet no evidence about the source of Carmichael’s income but this was an indication of
its size. The attraction certainly wasn’t personal magnetism.
Roger scanned the report.
Deirdre Ames had no record. She had been on the stage, mostly in the chorus, since she was sixteen, and she was now twenty three. In the past twelve months she had been a cabaret star in a respectable hotel, the Mitham, in a street off Piccadilly. She had shared a small flat with another girl, Muriel Paisley, until July of this year, when she had gone to the apartment which Carmichael paid for. Although Carmichael lived in a much humbler place, he spent a lot of time with his lady love; much of it by night.
Kilby began to fidget.
Roger looked up from the report.
“Syd,” he said in a quiet voice, “you’ll want to kick me, but I don’t think you’re the man to tackle Deirdre Ames. I don’t think it would be a good idea for her to know that a policeman’s after her—I think she ought to be tabbed by someone who isn’t likely to be suspected. But there’s a job you can do, probably better than anyone else.”
Kilby’s expression of disappointment was momentary; soon he said cheerfully: “Well, you’re the boss. What’s the other job?”
“You haven’t been to the River Way Sorting Office, have you?”
“No.”
“And you’ve only seen Derek Bryant, of the Post Office people,” Roger went on, “and that in the dark.”
“That’s right.”
“Syd, go along and get into an old suit, then take a job as a temporary postman at River Way. Try to make it an inside job, so that you’re on the spot all the time. The way they lug those parcels about suggests they could use someone with a good pair of shoulders; you’ll probably be the answer to Carmichael’s prayer. We won’t pull any strings. Take your Army discharge papers along, and pitch some story about why you’re out of work for the time being and want to make a bit for Christmas. Just keep your eyes wide open. Pick up as much as you can about the routine of the job, especially the registered parcels, and see what you can find out about valuable stuff that goes through the office—how easy it is for an outsider to pick that kind of thing up. Got it?”
